Rosemary Rowe - The Chariots of Calyx

‘I am a Celt, like yourself,’ I said, speaking in my native tongue. ‘And they are telling you the truth, Eppaticus. The man is dead. They are even now preparing him for his funeral.’

He put down the doorkeeper, and stared consideringly at me. As he turned his head I saw with surprise that he wore his hair in an old-fashioned Celtic pigtail at the back, although his forehead was not shaved as it would have been in my own tribe, and he lacked the long waxed moustache that would have suggested noble descent. His dress, too, was a mixture of traditions. He wore a Roman-style tunic, rather than trousers, under his Celtic plaid.

He was gazing at me with suspicion, but he replied in the same language. ‘You are not from these parts, citizen? Your dialect is strange to me.’

‘As yours to me,’ I said. It was true. It was almost as difficult for me to comprehend his barbarous Celtic accent as to follow his fractured Latin. Nevertheless, the discovery that I was a fellow countryman had some effect. It had stopped the furious bull in his stampede and I hoped it forged a kind of fragile bond between us, though he was obviously still extremely wary of me. The tribes of Britain have often nurtured worse enmities between themselves than were ever felt for our conquerors.

I said to reassure him, ‘I am from the farthest south-west corner of Britannia.’ That, I hoped, was safe. Tribal tension is always greatest between immediate neighbours.

Eppaticus nodded his huge head slowly. ‘And I am Trinovantine.’

I had heard of them. One of the most warlike and quarrelsome tribes in the country: at one time, they had even joined forces with the Iceni to revolt against Roman rule. Of course, that was more than a century ago, and old scores had been officially forgotten — at least in public — but men still spoke in whispers of the terrible revenge which the Romans had inflicted on the warrior queen Boudicca and her daughters, and the razing of the cities (including Londinium) which had supported the rebels. I imagine that the Trinovantes have little love for a toga.

No surprise, then, to find Eppaticus clinging to Celtic ways — in fact it was more surprising to see the extent of his Romanisation. And he could hardly welcome an emissary from the governor. Indeed, he was staring suspiciously at me.

‘Ah, yes! A Trinovantine. The barley ear,’ I said, to cover my frantic thoughts.

I meant nothing particular by that — any trader in the island might have said the same. The original coinage of the Trinovantes was marked with an ear of barley, and therefore everyone in the province associated the name with the symbol, but the effect on Eppaticus was startling.

He let out a roar that rattled the wall-hangings. ‘What has Caius Monnius been telling you? It was an arrangement — he was as much to blame as I was. It was a private matter, between ourselves, and now he tries to incriminate me! I’ll kill him!’

I looked around the corridor. The slaves were watching the exchange with expressions which ranged from horrified amusement to blank incomprehension.

‘Eppaticus,’ I said, ‘be careful what you say. Many of the servants here speak Celtic.’

He gave a snort of contempt. ‘I care not which hears me,’ he bellowed in Latin. ‘He betrays me to the governor. I said before and I say again, I kill him. I throttle him. I wring his dirty Roman neck!’

‘Eppaticus,’ I said gently, ‘you are too late. I told you. Caius Monnius is dead. Someone has throttled him already. That is why the governor has sent me here.’

He seemed to understand the message for the first time. He stared at me a moment. ‘Murdered?’

Then, surprisingly swiftly for a man of his stature, he pushed the slaves savagely aside, and — still roaring like a bull — before anyone could stop him he fled headlong from the house.

As soon as they had picked themselves up and pulled themselves together, two of the house-slaves ran out after him. I followed, a little more slowly, as my age required.

But as I arrived at the front entrance they returned, panting.

‘It is no good, citizen, he had a horse outside, being held by a beggar. He was on to it and away in no time. We almost caught him, but he was too quick for us.’

I frowned. ‘Who is he? Apart from being called Eppaticus?’

They looked at each other, shrugging. ‘I do not know, citizen. He is not a man we’ve ever seen before.’

‘Not as a dinner guest? Not among your master’s clientes ?’

They shook their heads in unison.

I found myself in a quandary now. I was here to investigate the death of Caius Monnius, and Eppaticus had apparently not known about that, so I had no reason to detain him. Yet his behaviour throughout had been so extraordinary — barging into the house uninvited, and barging just as abruptly out of it again — that I was reluctant just to let him go.

I turned to Junio, who had followed — like a good slave — at my heels. ‘Fetch me Superbus,’ I said, with sudden determination. ‘He can go and ask a few questions for me. I want to know more about that Trinovantine.’

‘Superbus, master?’ Junio sounded stricken. ‘Are you sure that he will ask the right question-’

I interrupted him. ‘Send me Superbus,’ I said firmly. ‘You cannot be everywhere at once, and there are more immediate matters here which I want you to help with.’

‘As you wish, master,’ Junio said, and did as he was bidden, although with an expression which suggested that he still had the gravest doubts about the wisdom of my decision.

‘And be quick about it!’ I shouted after him, largely for the benefit of the assembled servants, who had been watching this unslavelike exchange with fascination.

‘Well,’ I said, rounding on the others briskly. ‘Have you no work to do? Back to your stations at once, and report this intrusion to your mistress. You!’ I elected one of them at random. ‘Escort me to the lady Fulvia. If she is well enough I think I should hear her account of what happened last night.’

‘Yes, citizen,’ he murmured dutifully, as the others shuffled off to their posts. ‘If you would follow me. .’

He led me back towards the master’s quarters. Only just in time. As I turned away, I could already hear Annia’s voice raised in outrage. ‘You worm! You offspring of a circus trainer’s pimp! How dare you not inform me of this sooner!’ While Lydia wailed plaintively, ‘Another intruder! Great Mercury defend us. We shall all be murdered in our beds.’

My attendant shot me an embarrassed smile and led the way back to the painted passage where I had been before. The smoke was thicker now, and more pungent, but we passed the master’s room and the slave tapped timidly at the second door.

‘Enter!’ said Fulvia’s voice, and we went in.

It was a luxurious room, beautifully decorated with roundels of painted flowers on the wall. Fine bed, fine cushions, fine rugs upon the floor: a great bound chest near the door for clothes and ornaments: another at the foot of the bed: an elegant footstool: a little brazier and a dozen lamps: an exquisite small shrine upon a stand, and a small shelf built into the wall where there was such an assortment of phials and pots, boxes, mirrors, combs and bowls that you might have thought the lady was going into the cosmetics business herself, and had made a collection for the purpose.

As in every other part of the house, no expense had been spared, but here there was evidence of a discerning eye. The garments that an elderly maidservant was folding fussily into the storage chest, too, were not only of finest wool and linen, but in the subtlest colours to be had in the Empire — mossy greens, soft blues and amethyst — each one a tribute to the dyer’s art. And to the depth of the buyer’s purse, I thought.