Rosemary Rowe - Murder in the Forum

The rooms were alive with activity. All Glevum seemed to be there, important men most of whom I knew by sight and — like any sensible tradesman — spent much of my time avoiding: aediles, questors, magistrates, priests, augurers and senior commanders from the garrison. Slaves were moving among the guests distributing banqueting wreaths, knives, spoons and napkins. A trio of nervous-looking musicians were tuning up in a corner, and a nubile young dancing girl was adjusting her costume so that it showed off her assets as flatteringly as possible.

Poor child! If she hoped to impress the guest of honour, she was wasting her time. Felix, splendid in purple edgings, was reclining at the high table, a goblet in his hand, patently ignoring the earnest conversation of the ageing magistrate beside him, and gazing with speculative interest at the dusky young male acrobat limbering up in an abbreviated loincloth at the other end of the triclinium.

When he saw Marcus, however, he got to his feet and stood, waiting to greet us. Marcus walked deliberately towards him, and then — a little more than sword-reach distant — just as deliberately stopped.

Somehow there was a tension which communicated itself to the entire company. Conversation ceased, the musicians stilled their strings. There was a little rustle of anticipation, and then the whole room fell silent, motionless, as the two men confronted one another.

Like stags, I thought suddenly.

And the herd was watching now, waiting for the heads to lower, the imaginary antlers to lock.

It was Marcus who moved first. ‘Tigidius Perennis Felix,’ he said, his voice poisonous with charm, ‘we meet again. An unexpected. . honour.’ There was a deliberate pause before the final word.

Felix smiled. If this was a sample, I thought, on the whole I preferred the scowl. ‘Marcus Aurelius Septimus. It is good of you to travel so far. Greetings on behalf of the Emperor, and of your esteemed mother.’ I saw Marcus stiffen. ‘I trust I have not curtailed your. . ah. . business in Corinium too much.’

He said it with a leering smile. Obviously Felix must know by now what the ‘business’ had been. But Marcus was equal to it.

‘On the contrary, Perennis Felix, my business in Corinium has reached a most satisfactory conclusion.’

Felix gave a lecherous laugh. ‘Splendid.’ He stepped forward and clapped my patron on the shoulder. ‘Come then, let us take our places. The chief priest is waiting to make the sacrifices.’

Almost as though it were a signal, there was a little movement among the watching company, a visible lessening of tension. The murmur of conversation began again, and the slaves recommenced their progress with the serving baskets.

But the noise was still subdued. Over the hubbub, Felix’s voice could be distinctly heard. ‘I have reserved a place for you beside me. There are important matters that I wish to discuss with you.’

I saw the flush rise to my patron’s face. I could see why. Marcus reclined at the top table by right, and usually — unless he was dining with the governor — in pride of place. The suggestion that he owed his place to Felix’s patronage was deliberately insulting. But he held his tongue. The first skirmish, it seemed, had gone to Felix.

But Felix had not finished. He placed his hand familiarly on Marcus’s elbow, and murmured something into his ear. I saw Marcus pull away angrily.

‘On no account!’ He spoke so loudly that people turned towards him, and there were one or two raised eyebrows and titters, hastily suppressed. I wondered what unsavoury proposition Felix had made. Whatever it was, my patron was having none of it.

Felix had turned the same colour as his edges, but he said smoothly, ‘No matter. We will talk of this again. For now, let us begin the feast. Besides, there is someone I wish you to meet. A bit of a barbarian, certainly, but a very influential man. He comes from the wildlands on the south-western margins of this island, but he runs the biggest tin and copper operation in the province. He produces some of the finest bronze in the whole Empire. Everything from weapons to jewellery. I have dealt with him before, through a bronze-trader, but the prices are extortionate.’ Felix gave his disagreeable smile. ‘So I will see what kind of bargain I can strike. That is one of the chief reasons why I have come to this benighted country.’

He gestured towards a man whom somehow I had not noticed before, perhaps because he was half hidden from my sight by a partition. He was conspicuous enough, in all conscience, here in this roomful of togaed officials — red-headed, flamboyant in Celtic plaid and a long Celtic moustache — yet somehow I had not seen him there, leaning quietly against a pillar with his back towards us, watching the musicians.

Felix led Marcus towards him, saying loudly, ‘He will join us at my table. Unattractive, perhaps, while one is dining. The fellow speaks barbarous Latin, and insists on diluting his wine so much that it is scarcely wine at all, but one has to humour these people. I have had to send for extra water for him. His name is Egobarbus.’

As he spoke I craned forward to catch a better glimpse of the man that he had indicated. And gasped aloud. ‘Dear gods.’

It was unfortunate, perhaps. Few people, seeing a scruffy Roman citizen in Glevum, would remember that I was once a freeborn prince among my own people, and that the wealthiest men of my homelands were at one time well known to me.

But it was so. I had met Egobarbus, or Andregoranabalus as he was properly called. His father then was the fabled owner of those mines of pure tin and copper on which the armourers of Rome depended for their bronze — a striking man, tall, red-headed, unpredictable, with a quick temper, a sharp mind, a foul mouth and a stout heart. I rather liked him, though he would make a ruthless enemy, and I had often dined at his table.

The son I had loathed on sight. He was the only child, and so petted and pampered by the womenfolk that he had come to think of himself as a kind of human Rome — the centre of the known universe. He had inherited his father’s ginger hair and quick temper, but allied to it a temperament so casually cruel and self-absorbed that even the trading Romans — despairing of ever pronouncing his Celtic name — had nicknamed him ‘Egobarbus’, ‘I the beard’, in honour of his spectacular facial hair. He had long since shaved off the youthful beard and adopted the long drooping moustache of the Celtic nobleman, but the name had stuck.

The last time I saw him he was whipping a helpless puppy for daring to bark in his presence. He was bigger than I was in those days, but all the same I had distinguished myself by seizing the lash from his hand and turning it on himself. It had caused a rift between our households, and it was twenty years since we had met, but I would have recognised him anywhere. As doubtless he would know me.

That was what had caused my exclamation. For this was not the man.

I had no time, however, to warn Marcus. Felix and his party were already taking their places at the top table, and submitting to having their feet washed by the servants (a custom which has always perplexed me — I suppose it keeps the dining couches clean, but we Celts prefer to rinse our face and fingers before we dine). The rest of the company naturally followed suit.

I was allocated, as I expected, a stool near the rear wall, together with a stout citizen trader, who looked from me to Marcus, sighed, and carefully ignored me for the rest of the evening. We were joined at last by a sallow young man who arrived, breathless and panting, just as the chief priest from the Temple of Jupiter — a skinny old goat with a wavering voice which could scarcely be heard from where we were — was muttering his way through the ritual oblations and we all, finally, sat down to dine.