Rosemary Rowe: A Pattern of Blood

Sollers looked startled. ‘But surely, Excellence. .?’

Marcus silenced him with a look. ‘There is no room for argument. This is a question for the governor — and I am his representative. Quintus was not merely a citizen, he was a senior magistrate, loyal to Pertinax. I shall oversee this questioning myself. Libertus will help me. Have the slaves prepare a room for us, and perhaps something to eat. The killer must be in the house. There is no time to lose.’

Sollers inclined his head. ‘Of course, Excellence. I was merely about to observe that Maximilian may have left already, since you have given him permission to go to the bathhouse. But I will convey your orders, naturally.’

Marcus looked sheepish. ‘There is no bathhouse on the property?’ It was a reasonable assumption, in fact; most men of such conspicuous wealth prefer to conduct their ablutions in private.

Sollers smiled gravely. ‘Ulpius has long intended to build one, but the price of office is high, as you know. Besides, I think he enjoyed the bathhouse. When he was well he used it as a kind of unofficial office for meeting his friends and business acquaintances. But now, perhaps, with your permission, Excellence, the slaves could also be instructed to clean this room and prepare the body for burial? I should like to see my friend afforded some dignity.’

Marcus flushed. Sollers was right again. There was perhaps something unseemly in conducting this conversation with a dead man at our feet. ‘Of course.’

‘And, if you have no objection, Excellence, when I have conveyed your instructions, perhaps I could go to Julia? She will have learned of this by now, and she will be distressed.’

‘Of course,’ Marcus said again, and we went, all three, out into the courtyard. Sollers set off towards the slaves’ quarters at the rear.

But almost before he had disappeared, a party of slaves arrived from the kitchen and filed into the room we had just left, ready with water bowls, cloths, linen wraps and anointing oils.

Someone, obviously, had given orders already.

Marcus and I exchanged looks and went back to the atrium. A table had been set there, with two stools and a jug of wine.

‘Maximilian seems to be taking his new role as head of the household seriously,’ Marcus said wryly. ‘He appears to have thought of everything. Except a slave. It appears we shall have to pour our own wine!’

‘I’ll see if I can find someone,’ I said. ‘And I’ll look for this Flavius and his friend while I’m about it. They cannot be far away.’

Marcus nodded, and I left him to wait in comfort, while I set off in search of a servant to pour the wine. Strictly speaking, I should have sent a slave to find the missing clientes too, since I was a guest in the house, but I welcomed the chance to look around a little.

I had some idea, now, of the layout of the residence. The whole building was shaped like a giant H, the principal rooms across the centre, with attics above, and two wings projecting forwards and back on either side. I had been to the rear of the house. There, I knew, were the bedrooms and other private apartments ranged along each side of the central courtyard garden; while beyond the herb gardens, arbours and central water basin, the top of the H was almost closed off by a separate block which obviously contained the kitchens and the servants’ quarters, and a two-seater latrine over the drain. Presumably the rest of the household offices — the rubbish heap, oil stores, orchard, poultry yard and stables — lay beyond, the whole enclosed behind the massive wall which ran around the entire property.

I did not go that way. Quintus’s waiting room and reception salon formed one of the forward wings of the H, so instead of going into the rear courtyard, where the slave quarters were, I went out into the front court, and looked to my right, where the front entrance to the ante-room lay.

The door to the ante-room was open, and through it I could glimpse the table and a portion of the bench. Nothing more: the room was too long, and in any case the inner door would screen any view of the reception room beyond, where the funeral preparations must by now be under way. But I had seen what I wanted. Anyone coming from the reception room could have come out this way and rinsed his hands in the central fountain. Or he might have done so in the rear courtyard. In either case, he ran a considerable risk of being observed.

I looked around for possible witnesses, but there was no one in sight. As I watched, however, a page in a turquoise tunic emerged onto the farther veranda, one of those handsome young boys that every wealthy Romanised household seems to keep as a pet.

I summoned him with a gesture. ‘Slaves in this household are like donkey-hire men at a market. Lots of them around, but you can never find one when you need one. Where is everybody?’

He was obviously terrified, but he had been trained in flirtation, and batted his eyelids at me. ‘Your pardon, citizen. We are in confusion. No one is at their usual station. I, for instance, apart from carrying messages for the family or for guests, usually attend exclusively on Quintus Ulpius.’ He smiled at me ingratiatingly, but I said nothing and he babbled on, as if explanations might win my favour. ‘But since we heard of my master’s death, everyone is giving different orders.’

‘Such as?’

He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Two slaves were sent into the town for anointing oils. Citizen Maximilian demanded another four to go with him to the bathhouses, and two others were needed to attend my master.’ He was running out of fingers, and he spread his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘Then Julia Honoria sent down orders, wanting messages carried all over the place — to funeral musicians, stonemasons, orators, anointers, and even to the market to order food for the funeral feast. She even has the garden slaves cutting greenery and herbs. In the end there were only three of us left in the slaves’ waiting room. Then Sollers came in and ordered us to come and get the study ready for His Excellence. Me, Rollo! I did my best, but I am no cleaning slave. In the end the other two said I was in the way, and sent me outside. So here I am. Can I serve you in any way, citizen?’

Not in the way he presumably served Quintus, I thought. I have no taste for pretty young pages. Nor as a witness, either. According to the testimony I had just heard he was in the slaves’ room until after the murder. I toyed for a moment with the idea of sending him to look for the missing men, but one glance at his exquisite turquoise tunic and embroidered slippers was enough to dissuade me. His function was merely to look decorative. He would be more concerned with keeping his expensive shoes clean than in doing anything useful. As the slaves cleaning the study obviously recognised.

And there was Junio, banished to the attic, I thought with irritation. But it wasn’t this lad’s fault. I tipped him a couple of copper asses , which brought a smile back to his face, then I sent him off to pour the wine for Marcus, and set out to find the missing clientes myself.

It did not take me long. They were sitting together halfway down one of the colonnades in the front courtyard, in a little leafy arched arbour with a stone seat. The place was screened from the rest of the garden by a semicircular area of thick hedge and a portly and charmless statue of Minerva — so secluded that I might have walked straight past it, had I not heard the murmur of voices.

‘It is absolutely typical of the man,’ one of them was saying. ‘Absolutely typical. Keeps me waiting until last, and then has me sent away to kick my heels in the garden while he is “resting”. I suppose I shall count myself lucky if he consents to see me before dark.’