Rosemary Rowe: A Pattern of Blood

A moment later Maximilian stormed into the room, accompanied by two slaves. He wore a clean toga, this time edged with the black stripe of mourning that tradition demanded. Following a recent custom there were ashes rubbed onto his forehead, but otherwise he was hardly the traditional picture of grief. On the contrary, he was clearly furious.

He wasted no time on civilities. ‘What is going on here? I am to be master of this house, yet I come home to start mourning my father, and find myself locked out of it like a criminal, and have to threaten the gatekeeper before he will consent to let me in. On whose authority were the gates locked?’

Marcus was looking dangerous. ‘On mine.’

‘Oh!’ Maximilian looked nonplussed. ‘I see. Then I must defer and apologise, naturally. But it is humiliating, having to hammer on your own gates for admittance. And who are these. . gentlemen?’ He gestured contemptuously towards Lupus and Flavius.

‘We have seen you,’ Lupus put in eagerly, ‘at the chariot races. You remember?’

‘Oh, I think he knows you well enough,’ Sollers said. ‘He identified Flavius as the owner of that knife only a moment ago.’

Maximilan flushed angrily. Interesting, I thought. The youth was a convincing actor, but a poor liar. Had he really forgotten what he had said to us? Perhaps these two men were genuinely friends of his.

Marcus, however, had no time for such speculations. He looked at Maximilian stonily. ‘They were visiting your father. I asked them to remain. Just as I asked the gatekeeper to lock the gates. I presume you too would wish to prevent the murderer’s escape? Even if that left you embarrassed in the street?’

That was a threat, and Maximilian knew it. Failure to take satisfactory steps to find a benefactor’s killer is sufficient legal grounds for having a legacy overturned. He said sullenly, ‘I apologise, Excellence. I bow to your decision. My house is at your command. Obviously.’

Marcus ignored the hidden barb in the last remark, but I knew that he had noted it, and that it would not be forgotten. Sooner or later, Maximilian would pay for that, and for his earlier rudeness. Marcus took his position very seriously. For the moment, though, he contented himself with a tight smile. ‘In that case, perhaps we could make a start?’

‘Of course.’ Maximilian gave a brief nod to one of his attendants, who scurried away instantly. ‘And with your permission, I shall begin preparations for the lament.’ His voice was carefully polite, but his manner was still defiant. By proposing to begin the lamentation he made it deliberately difficult for Marcus to send for him for questioning: one cannot interrupt a mourner’s wailing without showing serious disrespect to the dead. I saw Marcus’s jaw tighten. I did not care for Maximilian, but I was tempted to utter a warning. This was a dangerous game.

It was Sollers who spoke. ‘Permit me a suggestion, Excellence. My friend has, of course, left instructions for his funeral. He revised them shortly after he was stabbed in the street. I witnessed them myself, and no doubt Mutuus knows where to find them. Ulpius wished, I know, to have a burial — in order that Julia might be interred with him — and had already purchased a stone coffin and a tombstone, and named the professional mourners and arrangers that he wished to have. Since there is all this to organise, could you graciously break with tradition and deal with some of the menials first, and let them return to work? The gatekeepers, perhaps, so that we can admit the anointing women and funeral arrangers when they come; and the personal slaves who were on duty in this part of the house at the time? While you are doing that, perhaps I could, with your permission, make a start with my own duties. If poor Ulpius is to be cleansed for burial, his wounds must be decently dressed and covered.’

Marcus looked at me, and I nodded. It was exactly what I should have chosen myself. Maximilian, however, shot Sollers a poisonous look. ‘I shall be needed for the ritual too. I am the heir here. It may be your job to tend his wounds, but it is my place to close his eyes and burn the herbs and light the candles around the body.’

‘Of course,’ Sollers said smoothly. ‘Perhaps you should be spoken to immediately after the servants — that will give you time to take a little sustenance before the lament begins.’ I realised as soon as he had spoken that this was exactly what he had always intended. ‘Perhaps the other citizens could also go to the triclinium?’ Sollers went on. ‘I have already spoken to the cooks, and they are preparing a light meal.’

It was neatly done: in one deft and deferential move Sollers had promoted himself over Maximilian as the organiser of the household. I glanced at Marcus, wondering how he would react — it should have been his place to decide on the order of interrogation — but he was nodding approvingly.

Sollers’s suggestions also overcame a difficult social dilemma for all of us. By custom a household does not offer formal meals while officially in mourning, except for the funeral banquet — presumably lest the spirit of the departed might feel neglected or peckish and return in spectral form to join the feast. On the other hand, there were important guests in the house who must be offered hospitality. By suggesting refreshment before the lament, Sollers solved the problem delicately.

Not everyone, however, was so pleased. ‘You spoke to the cooks? In my father’s house?’ Maximilian cried, heatedly. ‘I seem to have no position here at all.’

This outburst restored my patron to positive good humour. ‘Very well,’ he said, ignoring Maximilian. ‘Sollers, please see that it is arranged. Libertus and I will take refreshment in the study, and we will deal with people in the order you suggest.’

It was soon arranged. Marcus and I were shown into the room, which had been prepared for us with oil lamps and a brazier and even a water-clock to enable us to keep track of time. A couch and table had been provided for Marcus, and after we had partaken of a ‘snack’ (a tray of cold roast meats with fish pickle, and a selection of bread and cheeses which would have been a fine meal in my house), we were ready to begin.

Marcus and I had worked together before. What he liked was to have people brought before him one by one. He did most of the questioning, sitting in state on a chair, while I squatted on my stool beside him and threw in an additional query now and then.

It was a system which worked well in many ways. Marcus had authority and status. Even members of the curia could be exiled at a word from the governor’s agent, and he could open the doors of the gaol or bring the torturer running. People who would have dismissed me with a supercilious stare were inclined to grovel helpfully to Marcus.

However, terror can tie as many tongues as it loosens. I have often found that a little unguarded gossip is more help in an enquiry than hours of carefully constructed testimony — and no one is truly unguarded in the presence of an imperial agent. Besides, Marcus is inclined to lose patience with a line of questioning if he cannot see the immediate relevance of it, so I didn’t expect this joint questioning session to produce any immediate answers.

Even so, I was surprised by how little we learned.

Sollers was right to suggest starting with the gatekeepers. Their testimony was crucial because, from their little rooms beside the front and back gates they could see everyone who came in and out of the house.

The keeper of the main gate was whiter than goat’s cheese with terror, but his story was quite clear. Yes, there had been a small crowd of clientes calling at the house early this morning. Yes, he recognised most of them. Two of them were strangers, but they claimed to have been invited by Maximilian, and they were admitted. Then our party arrived, and then Maximilian in a litter, but by this time most of the visitors had left again. When the message came to close the gates there were, by the keeper’s calculation, apart from ourselves, only the two strangers within the walls, an ‘elderly councillor with a wig, and a red-faced narrow-striper who had left a fancy carriage waiting in the street’. Lupus and Flavius, evidently.