Rosemary Rowe - A Pattern of Blood

The words came out in a rush. ‘Unless Maximilian hoped to keep me from Flavius. He is sleeping in the triclinium on a couch, since you and Marcus have the guest apartments, and Maximilian is occupying his old room again. If I had served Marcus with his supper, I should have passed Flavius’s door.’

‘Would that matter?’

He gave me a crooked smile. ‘Everyone sees me as a messenger, citizen. Maximilian did it. He used to get me to speak to his father for him. Flavius has used me several times to take messages to Julia, and Maximilian knew it. He doesn’t trust Julia, and sees conspiracies everywhere. Flavius spoke to me privately in the courtyard tonight. I think Maximilian saw us.’

‘And what did Flavius want?’

Again that hesitation, before the page said, ‘Maximilian was right. Flavius asked me to attend him later. He has a very important job for me, he says. A secret.’

‘What secret is that?’ I asked wryly.

Rollo flushed. ‘Oh dear, here I am, talking too much again. Truly, citizen, he did not tell me what it was. I thought. . I gathered the impression. . that there might be money in it. Naturally, I agreed.’

‘Naturally.’ Money, I imagined, had changed hands on earlier occasions too. I did not blame Rollo. He was a slave, and if a house guest asked for his services, naturally he must give them. ‘You are only doing your duty. If there is money in it, that is your good fortune.’

Rollo, though, must have caught the wryness in my tone, because he looked at me anxiously. ‘What should I do, citizen?’

‘Attend him, of course. But there is one thing you will do in addition. When he gives you the commission, you will come and tell me what it is.’ I was relying on Marcus’s authority here: I was, after all, asking Rollo to betray a confidence. But I was hopeful. The page said himself that he ‘talked too much’, and he had already been gossiping to me about the household as if he had known me for years.

He was looking at me doubtfully now, and I hastened to reassure him. ‘It may be nothing important — a message to his household, a wager on the chariot race tomorrow — and if that is so, I shall say nothing, not even to Marcus, and the secret is safe. But remember, a message may seem innocent to you, yet have some meaning which you do not understand. So whatever the errand is, tell me before you do it. It is your duty to your dead master. And to yourself. Is that clear?’

The page gave me an uncertain smile. ‘Yes, citizen.’

‘Good,’ I said heartily. ‘Now, what are we to do with this tray? I cannot stomach fish sauce at this time of night.’

‘Perhaps Flavius would like it,’ Junio suggested. ‘Or, if you could take something, the rest could be returned as scraps to the servants. No doubt some of them would appreciate it.’

That was an obvious solution, once he had suggested it, and judging by the hungry way Rollo was eyeing the pork and fennel, an appreciative recipient would not be hard to find. I took a spoon, for form’s sake, and moved the food around the plates a little, to disturb the symmetry with which it had been arranged, but without actually eating any. Then I took up the cup which contained the sleeping draught.

‘Very well, Rollo,’ I said, ‘you may deal with this tray and then attend on Flavius. Ensure that the platters do not return to the kitchens too full.’

Rollo seized the tray eagerly.

‘And don’t forget,’ I said, ‘that you are to come back when you have spoken to Flavius.’

‘I won’t, citizen. I won’t.’ Rollo gave me a conspiratorial look and fled, as though I had offered him a bribe.

Which perhaps in a sense I had. A plateful of good food is sometimes better than money to a slave. At least a man can hide food in a place where no one else can steal it. It was sobering to realise how much such a gift would once have meant to me — fish-pickle sauce or not.

Junio thought so too. ‘I think you have won a devoted friend there, master. At no cost to yourself. Now, since you have asked him to return, do you wish to drink this sleeping potion now, or would you prefer that I should sing for you?’

I had taught him some of the old, haunting Celtic melodies. He had a soft, pleasing voice, and he knew it delighted me to hear him.

‘Sing softly, then,’ I said. ‘We do not wish to disturb the lament.’

Outside, Julia was crooning her lamentations, wistful and heartbreaking. Her lamenting was replaced by Sollers, and then one by one by the voices of slaves. The night darkened, and the dawn had begun to lighten the courtyard before I drank the potion Sollers had sent and drifted finally to sleep.

And still Rollo did not come.

Neither was he in evidence next morning, when, aroused by a general commotion in the courtyard, I finally awoke.

Junio was standing beside me with a brimming bowl (I still liked to plunge my face, Celtic-fashion, into cold water on awakening), and an appetising morning meal of fresh milk and hot oatcakes. The Romans can keep their breakfast of fruit, bread and watered wine — this was a feast for a king. I said so to Junio as I made the ritual offering of the first few drops from my cup.

He grinned. ‘I bought it for you fresh from the street sellers, master. With Julia’s blessing. I said that you would like it above all things — though Maximilian was inclined to be irritated that I had scorned his kitchens. The family, of course, will eat only bread and water today until the funeral banquet, but they cannot expect Marcus to do so, or you and Flavius either, so it was easier to send out for something. In any case, the household kitchens are full to bursting with preparations for the feast.’ He tucked into one of the delicious oatcakes which, as usual, I had set aside for him.

‘Fit for a king,’ I said again, when the last warm, fragrant crumb was gone and we were licking our fingers reluctantly.

Junio’s grin broadened. ‘Well, if His Majesty has sufficiently feasted, perhaps he would like me to help him with his toga? I imagine you would like us to go and look for Rollo?’ He said ‘us’, I noticed, as if it were inevitable that he should assist me in any enquiries, but I made no comment. I allowed him to drape me in my toga and we went outside.

It was a damp and drizzling day, made drearier by the moaning rise and fall of the distant lament, but the courtyard was full of bustle. Slaves with buckets, cloths, feather dusters, sponges and ladders scampered everywhere, while a pair of lads were already busy scattering sawdust in the colonnade and sweeping it up again with their twig brooms. Clearly the house was to be as clean as the Emperor’s armour before the expected guests arrived.

I led the way into the atrium, but there was no sign of Rollo, and we wandered through the front enclosure towards the gate. Visitors were already arriving. News of the decurion’s death had spread quickly overnight, and from the murmur outside it seemed that half Corinium was at the gates.

The gate opened to admit a slave in a fancy tunic, clutching gifts of oil and wine. Representing a member of the civic curia, no doubt, and come to offer lamentations by proxy, though his master would attend in person to grace the burial procession and enjoy the banquet.

Then came one of the clientes, genuinely weeping. No wonder, perhaps, if Quintus had been his only patron — without whose good offices he would now struggle for a livelihood. Perhaps he genuinely loved him, or perhaps he masked an inward glee with this show of public grief: if, for example, he expected to be mentioned in Quintus’s will, in recompense for favours done, or found himself unexpectedly relieved of the necessity of naming Quintus as one of his own heirs.