Rosemary Rowe - Murder in the Forum

I marvelled that he could find anything to laugh and sneer at, although he was better placed than I was. Once that warrant was proved he would certainly be released. I might never see the outside world again, except perhaps when I was taken out to die.

I did not look at him, nor he at me. We had brought this misery on one another. We stood, each in his own stinking corner, leaning in fettered silence against the filthy wall. I do not know how long we stood there — perhaps an hour, though it might have been far more. Through the narrow slit in the wall we could see the sky grow darker, and the gloom of our prison grew more gloomy yet. I was hungry and thirsty, tired and bruised, but there was nothing to eat or drink, and nowhere to sit except the pile of damp and fetid straw on the floor.

However, after what seemed a thousand years, a duty soldier unbolted the door and opened it a crack. A thin shaft of light streamed into our cell and he pushed a stale loaf and a shallow bowl of water at each of us.

Zetso made a move, so sudden that he startled me in the darkness. ‘Guard!’

The soldier paused. I saw his hand move towards his sword, but Zetso was no threat. He, like me, was still bound about the arms.

He strained at his bonds urgently. ‘I wish to send a message. I can pay.’

The soldier sheathed his dagger, hesitantly. It is not uncommon under Roman law for prisoners to send messages, even letters, from their cells. Especially if they can pay the messengers. ‘Well?’ He left the door open and moved towards Zetso.

Zetso’s voice dropped to a murmur. He intended that I should not overhear, but around those empty walls even a whisper echoed. With a little effort I could make out every word.

‘A message, urgently, to Gaius’s house. Look at my hands. See, there is a ring on my second finger. It is the finest onyx. Remove it and take it to the citizen. Tell him that I am held here and ask him to arrange for my release. Do that, and the jewel is yours. Bring me my release within the hour and you shall have another to match it.’

I did not need to hear the soldier’s reply. In the light from the door I saw him remove the ring, and a moment later he disappeared. The door shut and Zetso shuffled back against his corner in the darkness, but already I could sense a more confident air about him.

If only I had a ring with which to bargain, I thought, perhaps I could send a message to Marcus. Although of course there was no guarantee that Zetso’s plea would ever reach Gaius. Gaius? I jerked myself upright. Why was he sending messages to Gaius? Had he conspired with Gaius from the start? That was a possibility I had not considered. And yet, now that I had thought of it, I wondered why it had not occurred to me before.

There were so many factors which suggested it. Felix had died in Gaius’s own house. Who would have such opportunity to poison his food? Or perhaps not even food. There was that so-called cure which Gaius proffered. Supposing that had contained the poison? Far more secure than meat or drink which anyone might share. And Gaius hated the man. Not merely with the kind of general loathing which anyone who had met him felt for Perennis Felix, but with a more personal hatred. Something, surely, connected with his wife?

I tried to piece the story together, as I had heard it from my several witnesses. Gaius had visited Rome, together with his wife — the young and beautiful bride whom he had loved. She had been affected by the journey, he had told me that himself, and Phyllidia’s mother — Felix’s unwanted wife — had been good to her. And then?

I shrugged. I did not know. Felix’s wife had died, supposedly from drinking bad water from a well. That was not surprising; there were often deaths from contaminated water sources. Yet Phyllidia — and Gaius too it seemed — believed that Felix had arranged her death. ‘He sent her a gift of wine and she died shortly after.’ Why should they suspect him of that? Others had perished from drinking of the same well.

Then, like a thunderbolt from Jove, a solution occurred to me. Supposing Gaius’s bride was one of those ‘others’? What had Gaius said? ‘She was with her when she died.’ If Felix had sent poisoned wine, had he killed both women at a stroke? That was a motive for revenge, if I ever heard one. A sweet revenge, if Gaius had contrived to serve Felix with a little of his own medicine. Provided by Zetso perhaps, stolen from Felix’s stores? It was Felix’s own poison, I was sure of that from the empty phial. It was the image of the one that Phyllidia had stolen.

It would explain so much. Why Gaius had been so ready to adopt Phyllidia. Even the hapless dog, perhaps. A painful sacrifice to test the effect of Gaius’s mixture?

I was so pleased with the elegance of my solution that I had almost forgotten the discomfort of my surroundings. Even when a duo of guards arrived a little later and took Zetso off ‘upstairs’ — presumably to more congenial surroundings — I was sustained by the realisation that, if I could prove my theory to the court, not even the imperial warrant was likely to save his life. The penalty for a slave who conspires to kill his master is always death. And for all his fancy uniform, Zetso was still a slave.

Little by little, though, my enthusiasm waned. Even his silent presence in the cell had been some company, and without him the darkness seemed more threatening and every instant an hour. I tried to console myself anew by imagining the case I would present to Marcus — supposing Marcus ever sent for me. As the weary night drew on I began more and more to doubt it. I had nothing to offer to the guard; how should Marcus learn that I was here?

I had reckoned without Junio.

It was late — very late. So late that hunger and fatigue had forced me to gnaw a little at the musty bread. With my arms bound to my sides, I could only do so by lowering myself painfully to my aged knees and leaning forward to it like an animal. I understood now why they had provided water in a bowl — there was no way that I could lift a cup. I was obliged to lap at it, like the abject creature I was. Nor, once down, could I regain my feet. I was beginning to resign myself to the necessity of spending a dismal night down there, grovelling on the stinking straw, when I heard the key in the latch.

The door was opened, and two things happened at once. Junio came in, accompanied by two guards whose blazing torches flooded the cell with sudden blinding light, and on the instant — as if that same illumination had lit the dusty corners of my brain — I saw the flaw in all my careful reasoning. If ever a man could smile and groan at once, I did it then.

Junio ran to me. ‘Master? What have they done to you?’ He set down the cloth-wrapped parcel he was carrying and turned to the guard. His voice was trembling with what may have been anger, but sounded treacherously close to tears. ‘Release his bonds at once. Have you no fear of the authorities? This man is a Roman citizen. More than that, he is under the protection of Marcus Septimus. See, here is his letter of authority.’ He stooped and produced Marcus’s warrant from his parcel.

The younger soldier looked sheepish. ‘We learned that one of these two was a citizen. We thought it was the other prisoner. He has rich clothes and carries seals to proves he works for the imperial court. That is why your master has been held. He questioned and ignored the seals, and stands accused of treasonably failing to honour the Emperor.’

Junio looked at me. ‘Did you not appeal to Marcus, or to the governor? I tried to let them know you were arrested, but they are at this funeral feast tonight. They have been involved in the rituals all day.’

Before I could reply the soldier started babbling again. ‘He did appeal — to the governor, and we have made arrangements for him to be heard. He asked for the governor, and the governor he shall have. He is to be taken before him first thing in the morning. We are simply holding him here, waiting for the court, like any other prisoner. There was nothing to mark him out. He has no. .’ whatever he was going to say — toga, rings, money — he thought better of it, ‘marks of status,’ he finished lamely.