The Legatus Mystery Read online

  I hesitated. The temple is not something I truly understand. I attend the public rituals at the Capitoline shrine, like any citizen (absence from these things is likely to be noticed), but these are not really my gods, and Marcus knew it. This doesn’t make me altogether a hypocrite, or so I told myself. I worship the power of the universe: it probably does not matter to the sun spirit, for instance, whether you call him ‘Apollo’ or ‘Cunomaglus’ – and many local Celtic gods have now got Roman names. So I have always treated the Olympian deities, if not with reverence, at least with a certain respect.

  But this disappearing body had not manifested itself at the shrine of Jupiter. It had happened in front of the Imperial altar, and whereas I was prepared to concede the potential power of Jove, I was extremely sceptical about Commodus’s ability to offer miracles. However, he was my emperor, and it was very important not to say anything dismissive.

  ‘You think it was a vision, Excellence? That ring was real enough,’ I said at last.

  Marcus nodded. ‘Exactly, and that’s what worries me. Page!’ He turned to his servant. ‘You may wait outside.’ He waited until the boy had gone, then smiled at me triumphantly. ‘You see that I have heeded your advice, Libertus. I know that you are always warning me that slaves have ears.’

  I gulped. This was even more serious than I’d thought. Usually Marcus was inclined to speak as freely in the presence of his servants as if they were not there, as Optimus had done with Gwellia. Like any other Roman, he seemed to believe that slaves – being mere possessions – were as incapable of independent thought as any other piece of furniture. But I had been a slave myself. I knew how easy it was for the blank-faced attendant in the corner to be following the conversation and, worse, how eagerly he will repeat it to his fellows afterwards. In a large household there is always gossip, and there is often someone, anxious to save his slave-price and be free, who might be tempted to betray his master to his enemies for the promise of a few denarii.

  So I was not sorry that Marcus had dismissed his slave. What worried me was that he’d thought of it. Whatever my patron wanted to confide, it was evidently very sensitive indeed.

  ‘What did you wish to tell me, Excellence?’

  He looked at me and his hand went out to take another fig. It was a particularly large and sickly-looking one, but he bit it absently in half as though he were almost unaware of it. ‘The question is, Libertus . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘Do you suppose the Emperor has sent another ambassador to Glevum, secretly? Ahead of Fabius Marcellus, perhaps, and that is the ambassador who got himself killed today? I dismissed the idea previously, but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Another legate in Britannia? Without your knowledge?’ I shook my head. ‘I am sure that is unlikely, Excellence. And – forgive me – what would be the point?’

  He gulped down the fig. ‘Perhaps he did send someone here, to spy on us? You know what the Emperor is like, all victory and honour be to his divine name. He suspects everyone. If he intends to honour the city, it would be very likely, don’t you think, that he would send a spy to sniff us out beforehand? You see, that would explain everything. If someone had been lurking in the city, in disguise . . .?’

  The idea had not occurred to me, but now that he had raised the question, I could see the force of it. But there was a flaw in Marcus’s reasoning. I tried to point it out as delicately as I could.

  ‘But surely, Excellence, even if Commodus sent a spy – as I agree he very likely would – he would not have chosen an official legate for the job. An imperial ambassador causes such a stir – you said yourself that you would have heard if one had landed anywhere in the province. I’m certain, if the Emperor posted spies to Glevum, he would send them in some less conspicuous guise. A travelling merchant perhaps, come to the market-place with goods from Rome? Even a well-placed slave or two?’ I meant that there were almost certainly a dozen imperial informers in the town already, if not actually here in Marcus’s house.

  It seemed my patron was aware of that. ‘Of course, I would have expected all of that. And naturally, I’m being very careful. You notice that I sent my slave away! Only that doesn’t solve the problem. It wasn’t a visiting merchant who was found dead this morning at the Imperial shrine. I would be less worried if it were. That corpse was an imperial ambassador – or at least the apparition of one.’

  Something stirred in the recesses of my brain. I sat up sharply. ‘I suppose we can be sure of that? The corpse was wearing “rich civilian clothing”, the sevir said.’

  Marcus stared at me a moment, then said thoughtfully, ‘By Mithras, Libertus, I believe you’re right. Meritus only concluded it was an ambassador because of the documents and seal. I don’t suppose, for all his wealth, he’s ever seen an actual ambassador before. After all, he was only slave-manager on a remote estate. And we have only his interpretation to go on.’

  ‘Exactly, Excellence. A fine tunic, cloak and an imperial warrant don’t make a legate, necessarily.’ The more I thought of it, the more likely this all seemed. ‘Supposing this was just a messenger? Part of the legate’s retinue, perhaps, sent on ahead to make arrangements here?’

  Marcus paused in the act of biting into the last remaining fig. He brightened. ‘I suppose that is a possibility. A man may send an agent on ahead, and give him a document and ring to confirm his authority.’ For a moment his face cleared, and then he frowned again. ‘But it still does not explain how he got here unobserved, still less where in Dis the body’s got to now.’

  I was still thinking. ‘Suppose that he was acting on instructions. He turns up at the temple – by appointment, do you think? Perhaps he did not put on his ring or show anyone his warrant until he got there,’ I said slowly. ‘Those may even have been his orders. It would make sense, if there was secrecy. An ordinary merchant, with a bag, would attract no more attention than any other wealthy traveller.’

  Marcus leaned forward on his cushions. ‘So . . . he took his documents and ring this morning, in particular, and presented himself at the temple? Why there, do you suppose? Perhaps to give a message to one of the priests? It seems an obvious conclusion.’ He smiled at the cleverness of his own deduction. ‘Thank you, Libertus, I knew that I could rely on you to make sense of the mystery.’

  Of course, I had done nothing of the kind. And even if this was the truth, it was not a comforting explanation. Certainly, the death of the legate’s representative (if that was indeed what had happened here) was much less of a civic catastrophe than the murder of the ambassador himself, but it was no trifle, all the same. The man had still been carrying an imperial warrant, and any affront to that was a capital offence.

  With some diffidence, I pointed this out to Marcus.

  I had spoiled his moment of relief and he was impatient. ‘So someone will have to pay for it. And quickly too. I’ll leave that to you, Libertus. Obviously someone with access to the temple. Find out a little bit about the priests. And discover who knew Fabius Marcellus – since this was apparently to be a private meeting. I’ll send to the ambassador again, and find out who it was he sent and why – he won’t be best pleased, I’m afraid.’ Marcus had seized on this interpretation, I noticed, and was now ignoring the uncomfortable possibility that the dead man was really someone of consequence, or a direct emissary from Rome.

  I tried again. ‘But Excellence, suppose the Emperor had sent an informer here—’

  He cut me off. ‘Libertus, you have never travelled here from Rome. I have. If Commodus had despatched a spy the minute after he sent that letter, the man could never have reached us in this time. The imperial post has fresh horses every few miles, and fresh riders when the others tire. And this murdered man certainly was not the messenger who brought the letter to me earlier. For one thing that rider was hardly more than a boy – I saw him myself: a great horseman, but no one would ever have taken him for a legate – and for another thing he stayed here overnight. I have just despatched him, with my messenger, back to Fabius
Marcellus. So it wasn’t him.’

  ‘But did you ask . . .?’

  ‘If the legatus had sent another messenger? Of course I did. You’re not the only one with intelligence, Libertus. I questioned him most carefully. But he knew nothing about it.’

  I hoped that ‘careful questioning’ did not include the whip. Probably not. One cannot casually mistreat a legate’s messenger. Which brought us back to that mysterious corpse. I frowned. ‘But in that case . . .’

  ‘You think Commodus might have sent a spy before he wrote to me? I suppose that’s so. But why should the man wait till this moment to reveal himself?’ My patron shook his head. ‘Much more likely that the dead man was some secret messenger that Fabius sent. I’ll write to him again, and see what he says. But, whoever it turns out to be, the same thing still applies, Libertus my old friend. You will have to make enquiries at the temple and see if you can find out why he went there today, and who it was that he was hoping to see.’

  How in the name of Cunomaglus was I to do that, I wondered? ‘But Excellence, this is a priestly matter. I can hardly become involved . . .’

  ‘My dear citizen pavement-maker, you are involved already. It was only because of you that Fabius Marcellus was coming here at all. If it had not been for your discovery of that plot against the Emperor, His Divinity Commodus would never had deigned to honour Glevum with an ambassadorial visit. You can hardly back out of the consequences now.’

  This was a view of such sublime injustice that it took my breath away. However, Marcus was quite right in one respect. I could not escape. Marcus Aurelius Septimus had demanded my services, and he was my patron and benefactor. Also, he was not a man to cross. And when he said he wanted me, he meant it: this time he’d been seriously alarmed.

  I sighed. ‘As you command, Excellence. But it will be difficult for me to interrogate the priests. I have not your social dignity.’

  Even flattery did not soften him. ‘Then I must rely on you to think of something else.’ He was brisk.

  I racked my brains, and inspiration dawned. Two pigeons with a single stone again. ‘I have received a possible commission in the town. A certain Gaius Honorius Optimus – perhaps you know the man? He wants me to repair a pavement for him. It seems that he knew Fabius Marcellus in the army. And his house is very near the temple. I have been to it before. Almost opposite the high priest’s house, in fact. With your permission, I could take the job . . .’

  Marcus’s severe expression melted like a wax mask in the sun. He positively beamed. ‘Of course, my dear Libertus. That will be excellent. Accept his commission, and find out what you can. And see if you can discover what happened to that body.’ He stretched, suddenly indolent now that his previous panic was over. ‘Always supposing that it wasn’t just a vision, after all.’

  It had become ‘just a vision’ now, I noticed. I said nothing.

  Marcus darted a sidelong look at me. ‘I promised my wife I’d make special propitiatory sacrifices, just in case.’ Marcus had recently married a beautiful young widow, and she was now carrying his child. He was rumoured to spend a very un-Roman amount of time with her, and her word was becoming law in his household. I thought of Gwellia, and smiled.

  Marcus took it for acquiescence. He stood up, and I scrambled to my feet too.

  ‘Very well, Libertus, report to me tomorrow.’ He clapped his hands, and his slave, who must have been just outside the door, came in at once. ‘Fetch this citizen his cloak and slave, and escort him to the door.’ His eye fell on the empty plate, and he frowned suddenly. ‘And when he comes again, make sure he has more figs another time. It seems the citizen has an appetite for them. They always seem a little sweet to me.’

  He nodded in my direction and went out, accompanied by the slave.

  As I waited for Junio, I could not resist a smile. Marcus, as usual, saw what he chose to see. But really it was no smiling matter.

  There were so many unanswered questions, that was part of the problem. That dreadful wailing, for example. None of our deliberations had suggested any explanation for that. I did not like it. Who was this ‘legate’? Where had he come from? Who had sent him here and why? Who had killed him? And above all, what had happened to the body? Legate or no legate, he could not simply disappear. Somebody must know, but nobody was telling.

  I sighed. This was not going to be easy. Since my patron insisted, I would have to investigate, but I ran the risk of angering some very important people – the priests, the imperial ambassador, and possibly the Emperor himself. To say nothing of the gods.

  When Junio arrived, he helped me with my cloak, and we walked out into the street together. Outside the warmth of the apartment, the late afternoon had turned chill, misty and disagreeable, but I decided not to go the shortest way home. I wanted time to collect my thoughts, and also I could cast an eye over that pavement repair at the house of Optimus. If I contracted now to do the work, by setting a date to start and agreeing the fee which Gwellia had so skilfully negotiated, the contract would be binding under Roman law, and Optimus could not change his mind if Fabius did not come.

  We skirted past the temple once again, and took the street which ran behind it, past the high priest’s house. There was Optimus’s dwelling opposite. Typical of the man and his constant preoccupation with walking a mile to save a quadrans, he had bought a mansion of the second rank. There it was, a spacious residence, but squashed between a barber and a pot-shop, with a door that fronted directly on the street. Unlike the pontifex’s great house opposite, with its impressive gate and entranceway and glimpses of a formal court beyond, this building was closed in upon itself. Only a few small windows on the upper floor, and the iron grille through which the doorkeeper could peer, relieved the blankness of the wall which faced the street – except where someone had scrawled ‘Vote for Linneus’ in bold black painted letters on the stone.

  I threaded my way through the waiting clients at the barber’s shop – the vogue for beards had never really caught on in the province, and shops like these were always filled to bursting with townsmen who had come to have their faces scraped, their nose-hairs clipped, their baldness treated, and their ears emptied of wax and then filled with the latest rumours in the town. There is nowhere quite like a barber’s shop for catching up on the latest gossip. That might be very useful to me later.

  I noticed the situation of this one, with approval, before I moved to Optimus’s door and unhooked the iron rod to strike the bell.

  Chapter Nine

  Once we had got past the doorkeeper we were shown into the receiving room, a small antechamber off the atrium where visitors could sit uncomfortably on a bench and wait. There was a plate of rather ancient apples and a jug of very watered wine, of which we were vaguely invited to partake, but the prospect did not appeal. Optimus – with typical regard for money – clearly did not provide any other refreshment for his callers, unless they were very important, and there was nothing else to do but sit and look around.

  My mosaic in the dining room still looked good, I thought, glimpsing it through the inner arch, but otherwise the house betrayed its master’s thrift. It had been built in the old-fashioned Roman style and the centre of the atrium was partly open to the sky. The gutters dripped into a sunken pool beneath, making the room disagreeably cold and damp. (Such pools were falling out of fashion in Britannia: one could see why on such a dismal day.) Under the shelter of the partial roof a fine carved table held a good bronze vase, but the wall decorations had been cheaply done – repetitious patterns in a poor paint which was already flaking.

  A few damp pot-plants fringed the atrium pool, but by craning round the doorpost it was possible to glimpse the inner court and the more extensive formal garden there. Even that wasn’t a great deal more decorative, if I remembered rightly. The master had been frugal here as well. I’d noticed on my previous visits that the box shrubs which formed the borders were thin-planted, and what should have been handsome flowerbeds were full of straggling
turnips, leeks and other strictly practical additions to the kitchen. I leaned forward on my bench to see more clearly.

  It was raining slightly, but someone seemed to have been tending to the garden, for as I idly glanced I sensed a movement. A figure clad in some long bluish garment darted swiftly into the shadow of the colonnade and disappeared into the rear apartments of the house. Some garden slave, most probably, caught in the rain and scuttling out of sight of visitors. Otherwise the garden was much as I remembered. I watched for several minutes but the figure did not re-emerge.

  Then someone finally appeared to greet us. It was not Optimus himself, as I had half expected. It was the Phrygian steward who came hurrying out, all unctuous excuses and eagerness at the sight of a visiting toga. I stood up. The shock on his face when he recognised me would have been comic if it were not insulting. Of course, he had never seen me dressed in anything but a tunic.

  ‘Why, thitithen! Libertuth! – it ith the pavement-maker, ithn’t it?’ The Phrygian, apart from his disdainful air, also adopted an affected lisp which made conversation with him doubly difficult. (‘Lithputh’ Junio and I had christened him between ourselves.) ‘What bringth you to my mathter’th humble houth?’ His words were those of conventional greeting, but there was nothing humble about either the ‘houth’ or the steward’s manner, now that he had identified me.

  ‘Greetings to your master Optimus. The Citizen Libertus presents his compliments.’ I chose the formal responses purposely, keeping my tone deliberately brisk. ‘I have come to see about a commission he was offering. Repairs to that faulty pavement in the entranceway. A hundred sesterces, I think it was agreed.’