Rosemary Rowe - The Chariots of Calyx

‘I never entertained Fortunatus when my husband was in the house, citizen. I have some notion of duty. I used the sleeping potion for myself — when Monnius had been to my bed I sometimes found it difficult to sleep.’

‘And yet,’ I said, struck by a sudden thought, ‘you did not take it last night?’

The playful smile vanished and she frowned. ‘But I did, citizen. I always do. Dear Jupiter, I had not thought of that. The death of Monnius drove it from my mind. I took the potion, yet I did not sleep. You think. .?’

‘That someone used your sleeping draught to drug the servants? It seems a likely explanation. Could Monnius have drunk any of it?’

‘I don’t think so. Why would he drink the watered dregs left out for the servants?’

‘There would not be sufficient in your draught, surely, to drug a whole container full of that?’

She shook her head. ‘There might well be, citizen. It is only days since I took possession of a whole large jar of sleeping potion. I have Lydia make a large amount, once a month when Annia is not in the house, and I refill my little phial every night. But how would anyone find it? I keep it carefully hidden.’ She clapped her hands, and the two lads sprang instantly to life. ‘In the large chest there, under the clothing, you will find the container. Show it to the citizen, boy.’

One of the pages scurried over and was already opening the great carved box for me, removing the garments which Prisca had so neatly stacked there. There it was: a glazed jar, about the size of a small water pitcher, neatly stoppered with a wooden insert. It was wedged firmly into place with folded underlinen, and a small drinking vessel had been packed beside it.

I motioned to the boy and he removed the jar from the chest. From the way he handled it and carried it carefully to me, I could see that it was heavy. I took it from him, and with difficulty removed the stopper. The jug was almost full.

I dipped an exploratory finger into the liquid, and sniffed. I could detect nothing. The faintest smell of herbs perhaps, but that was all.

I turned to Fulvia, who was frowning at me, perplexed. ‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that someone has refilled the flask with water. If you drank only this, it would explain why you did not sleep last night.’ I handed the container back to the page, and had him pour me some. I was about to take a very cautious sip — not without a certain trepidation — when Fulvia forestalled me.

‘Drink that potion for him, boy. It may not be as harmless as he thinks.’

This was a brutally Roman way of resolving uncertainty. I had no time to protest, however. By the time I had exclaimed ‘No, wait!’ the page, with the dreadful resigned obedience of slave-boys everywhere, had already raised the drinking cup and emptied most of it down his throat.

I gave a heavy sigh. I have never become accustomed to watching a poison-taster at work. There was nothing to do now but wait to see if the draught had killed him.

To my relief — and certainly to his — whatever the pageboy had swallowed appeared to have done him no harm. After a few moments Fulvia gestured to him and, the colour returning slowly to his cheeks, he set down the cup again and returned to his station by the window.

Fulvia said, uneasily, ‘It seems you were right, citizen. No wonder my slumbers were not very deep last night. Luckily the liquid was not poisoned. Perhaps I should be careful what I eat and drink — if someone tampered in the kitchens once, they might do it again. I must use a servant as taster. Although it seems our unknown visitor did me an unwitting service — if I had been as soundly drugged as my slaves last night, perhaps I would have suffered far more than a gashed arm.’

I nodded. ‘So whoever did this must have known you had the sleeping draught. He steals it from your room, pours it into the servants’ wine, and replaces the liquid with water from — where?’

She shrugged. ‘There is always water in the kitchens, citizen. Barrels of it. We bought this house because it was convenient for the corn office but it is not connected to the city water supply. Monnius is. . was. . always talking of it. He made many other alterations, like building the annexe, but he decided it would be too expensive to bring water on to the property. I think Fortunatus put him off. He has bought himself a large house in the city for when he retires and is having it rebuilt, but the price of joining it to the town supply has been enormous. He has even had to delay the building work while they lift the pavement and extend the pipes. Monnius could not live with such disruption. It is very little problem for the slaves to fetch water for us, and somehow it has never seemed worth the cost of laying the channels and paying the water charges.’

‘Do you have a private well?’

‘Of course. It fails sometimes, but even so we are close to the Wall Brook and the public cistern. There is even a rain barrel in the garden to catch the water off the roof gutter. Monnius used to say that if a property has piped water, it also has to have a drain, and that would cost us, too. We are a large household and he had arranged quite a lucrative contract with the local toga-weavers for the contents of the chamber pots.’

I understood that. Fine wool and leather is often softened and bleached by being soaked in urine — it improves the texture and the colour of the finished garment — and owners of the workshops often leave hopeful pots in public places on market day, or contract for collection of the commodity from private and communal sources. There is a tannery right next door to my little workshop in Glevum, and I have a similar arrangement with them — though it has never occurred to me to ask for money for my services.

‘So,’ I said, ‘replacing the sleeping draught with water would present no difficulty at all — provided of course that our intruder was sure that the kitchen would be empty, and that you were not in your room?’

She flushed like a child. ‘You are quite right, of course, citizen. I had not thought of that. It does rather suggest a knowledge of the household — or a close surveillance of our movements, at least.’ She shifted on her pillows, making her long robes rustle. ‘Though perhaps it might not have been so difficult, last night. Monnius held a banquet. Most of the servants were occupied with that, and for much of the time I was with him, playing the cithara and singing for the guests. My father’s education again, you see. It would have been easy for anyone to slip into my room, open the chest and substitute one flagon for another.’

There seemed to me to be some objections to that, but I did not express them to Fulvia.

She noted my silence. ‘You look thoughtful, citizen.’

I smiled. ‘I was wondering why, in that case, this intruder did not steal your silver chain at the same time? I presume you do keep it in this room?’

Fulvia sat herself a little more upright and gestured to the page again. ‘Bring me my casket, here.’

He took down a small gilded box from the shelf and gave it to Fulvia. She opened the clasp and passed it to me wordlessly. Inside were a number of fine jewelled pins and necklaces, including a triple-stranded silver chain exactly like the one I was carrying in the roll of cloth hidden in my belt.

‘This casket was not locked?’

‘No. There is a key, but it is cumbersome, and I do not often use it.’

‘And yet your intruder did not steal your chain. I wonder why?’ I said again.

‘Simple, citizen. It was not here. I was wearing it last evening at the feast.’

I frowned. ‘Then why not steal another of your necklets? You have a number here, equally strong and pliable. I still do not understand it. Why go to the trouble of finding another chain, of precisely the same pattern as yours, to strangle Caius Monnius with? It makes no sense unless the murderer wished to implicate you. That similarity of design is no coincidence.’