Rosemary Rowe - Murder in the Forum

All the same I did not wish to keep Felix’s driver waiting.

So I hurried. Back though the town and out of the gates to where a makeshift suburb of humble shops and dwellings huddled together outside the walls, on the marshy land beside the river. No fine paved roads and handsome buildings here — only running gutters, crowded streets and the hammering, shouting, smoke and stench that always accompanies manual industry. I turned into a particularly noisome little alley, stepped over a pile of stone and marble chippings into a ramshackle front shop, poked my head around the frowsty curtain that separated customers from the kitchen-workshop behind and called, ‘Anyone there?’

A curly-headed lad of fourteen or so, wearing a leather apron and a cheeky grin, rose to his feet from where he had been cutting tiles on the floor, screened from my sight behind the table. ‘Master? You are back early.’

This was Junio, my servant and assistant, and as my eyes became accustomed to the light I could see what he had been working on, a series of tiny red tiles for one of the new ‘pattern pieces’ we were making for prospective customers. It was good work, and I was about to say so — I have been teaching him my skills against the day when he gains his freedom. In the meantime I am glad of his assistance. I may be fit and youthful for my age, but I am an old man of almost fifty.

Before I could speak, however, Junio forestalled me. ‘What is it, master? You look as if you have encountered a ghost.’

I thought about that battered, broken form in the forum and shuddered. ‘The next best thing,’ I said, and sinking down on my stool I told him all about it.

Junio fetched me a goblet of mead and heard me out in silence. When I had finished he shook his head. ‘This Felix sounds a real brute. And casually summoning Marcus to him, like a slave. Your patron will not care for that.’

‘He will care even less for my interrupting his love-life,’ I said irritably. ‘So if you have quite finished stating the obvious, perhaps you could find me my best cloak and a twist of bread and cheese for the journey, before Felix comes looking for me. I have no wish to travel in the same fashion as Marcus’s poor herald.’ That was an attempt at levity. Of course, I am a citizen and unlikely to be subject to quite such summary execution.

Junio shivered. ‘Do not joke about such topics, master.’ But he made particular haste to do my bidding. He scuttled up the stairs to the shabby sleeping-quarters above, calling as he did so, ‘Shall I bring my own cloak also? Surely you want me with you?’

I did. Very much. Not only because having a slave in attendance would visibly enhance my status and increase my comfort, but also because I have been teaching Junio my other skills as well. He has a sharp mind and has often helped me with his powers of observation and deduction. I would appreciate his company at any time, and never more than now, dealing with Felix Perennis. Whether Marcus agreed to accompany me or not, I was much more likely to come out of this alive if I had an observant witness at my side.

And it was possible that Marcus would not consent to come — after all, he was an aristocrat in his own right, and rumoured to be related to the Emperor himself. In that case I shuddered to think what my fate might be. All the same, I called back after him, ‘No, I think not.

‘There will not be room in the carriage,’ I said, when Junio reappeared. ‘Even if Zetso did condescend to carry slaves, Marcus will have his own attendants with him and they would take precedence over you. I should have to leave you behind.’ Even Junio could not argue with the logic of that, but he looked so crestfallen that I added encouragingly, ‘Besides, someone has to look after the shop.’

There was a measure of truth in that too, since my workshop is made of wood and situated interestingly between a tannery and a candle-maker’s, but Junio looked unimpressed. After all, he had accompanied me on many such expeditions before. However, he said nothing. He placed bread and cheese in my pouch and helped me into my cloak in silence, and — swiftly damping down the fire and putting up the shutter as if to wordlessly demonstrate how easy it would have been to shut up the premises — he accompanied me out of the house and back through the city to the East Gate.

Zetso was already there.

It was a fine arched gateway, with an imposing gatehouse over it, and set at the end of an impressive thoroughfare flanked with fine statues. It was intended to make visitors stop and stare, but nobody was looking at it today. All eyes were on the carriage, the imperial crest emblazoned on the doorway, the splendid golden horses and the even more splendid carriage-driver. Zetso was posing on the step, displaying his bronzed legs to advantage, to the obvious admiration of one of the soldiers manning the gate. I breathed a sigh of relief — my keeping Zetso waiting might otherwise have been dangerous.

All the same, I got in quickly; under the eyes of the crowd I felt like an actor in a spectacle. I tapped the side of the carriage to show that I was ready, and we were off.

I thought at first our cracking pace was for the benefit of the watching guard, but even after we had skirted the straggling northern suburbs and joined the main road over the escarpment where the town was far behind us, we still galloped towards Corinium as though our lives depended upon it.

As perhaps — considering the fate of Marcus’s herald — they actually did.

I had half hoped to use the journey as a time to collect my thoughts and prepare a conciliatory approach to Marcus, but it was impossible. I needed all my concentration to hold myself on the seat. If Perennis Felix travelled like this, I thought, alternately bumping his head and his nether regions, no wonder he was bull-shouldered and short-tempered. But, although the jolting addled the brains and numbed the hindquarters, it did reduce the journey to little over two hours.

Even when we reached Corinium there was no time for contemplation. The town guard threw open the gates at the first glimpse of the imperial blazon, and almost before I had time to lean out and shout directions to Zetso, we were bouncing along the crowded streets, scattering ladders, donkeys, handcarts and pedestrians as we went. However, we reached the house without any actual fatalities; the imperial crest worked its immediate magic on the gatekeepers and we drove straight in like the Emperor himself.

I was familiar with the house from a previous visit on official business with Marcus, but even so I was impressed again. It was a magnificent mansion, with a walled garden and carriage drive, more like a country villa than a town dwelling, and a pair of matched slaves was already hurrying out to meet us. Marcus was a lucky man, I thought. He was already legal guardian to his lovely widow under the terms of her husband’s will, but if he married her he would have the full usufruct of this estate in addition to his already considerable wealth. And here I was about to interrupt his courting. I was not looking forward to it a bit.

Other slaves came out to tend the horses and Zetso was led away, muttering, to the servants’ quarters to be fed and watered in his turn. I was led ceremoniously into the atrium, where dates and watered wine awaited me. I cared for neither, but I took a little for form’s sake — anything was welcome after that jolting in the carriage — stated my business and settled down to wait.

I did not wait long. After a very few minutes, in which I prepared and rejected a dozen little speeches, Marcus himself strode into the room. He was angry, tapping his baton against his leg in a way which would usually have had me cringing. He had evidently been disturbed at an unwelcome moment; his short fairish curls were tousled, his face was flushed and his fine purple-edged toga showed every sign of having been donned in a hurry — even the gold brooch at his shoulder was fastened askew.