Rosemary Rowe: Requiem for a Slave

Not necessarily in this room, of course. He was not likely to have come into the back workshop without an invitation, especially when I wasn’t here. Unless for some extraordinary reason Minimus had lured him inside? I thrust that theory instantly away. Minimus would never have murdered anyone. I was quite ashamed for having thought of it.

Besides, when I looked more closely, I could see two faint grooves running in the stone dust from the doorway to the pile, and Lucius’s toes and sandals were abraded at the front as if he’d been hauled ignominiously along with them dragging on the floor. It suggested that he had been murdered outside of the shop, then half lifted up, dragged in by the armpits and flung face down on the tiles.

That observation gave me some relief. It would have needed a stronger man than Minimus to accomplish that. My slave was scarcely more than a child, and Lucius, though there was little flesh upon his bones, was quite a solid corpse. He was at least as tall as I am, and — as I was now uncomfortably aware — was very heavy, dead. Only a full-grown adult could have dumped him here. Or more than one, of course.

But who would want to murder a man like Lucius? I gazed down at his face. Lucius had been an ugly man in life and he was uglier in death, but he was a harmless soul. True, his wares were terrible, but he was surely not a person to have serious enemies? Then I saw his belt. The loops that held his money-purse had been cut through and the leather ends now dangled uselessly. The purse itself was gone. Not that there was ever very much in it. Was that why he had died, for the sake of the few asses that he’d earned from his pies? It was more than usually possible, in fact.

There had been rumours of rebel bandits in the forests again: a band of straggling Silurians and Ordovices from the wild lands to the west, who, unlike the vast majority of those now-peaceful tribes, had never accepted Caractacus’s defeat. Their targets were mainly military, of course, though anything Roman — such as a toga — might find itself attacked, and they sometimes ambushed travellers to steal money and supplies. At one time Marcus had nearly stamped the problem out, but in his absence it was getting worse, and once or twice the brigands had made forays into town.

Was that, I wondered, what had happened here? Had Lucius been loitering for me outside the door when he had been ambushed by robbers from the woods? They always killed their victims, so that they could not testify (the punishment for banditry was crucifixion still), and realizing that there was no one in the shop, they could well have dragged the body in and left it out of sight. Perhaps — supposing that the workshop was his own — they also doused the fire and snuffed the tapers out, to make the place look closed, so that discovery of the corpse would take as long as possible and thus delay pursuit. It seemed the likeliest explanation of implausible events.

It also suggested a disturbing thought. In his new tunic — grimed with stone dust now — Lucius did not look the pauper that he generally did. It was darned and mended, but that suggested care, and casual marauders would not have known his twisted face and recognized him as simply a wretched pie-seller. They might easily suppose that the coin-purse at his belt held gold and silver rather than a handful of the smallest of brass coins.

Poor Lucius! It seemed my well-intentioned gift had brought him only grief. Besides, I was certain that he’d come to the workshop to see me — and if he had not come here, he would not have died. If only Minimus had been here to send him home again!

Which raised another question. What had happened to my slave? Finding the body had driven that problem from my mind. For one mad moment I gazed around the room, half fearing that I’d find another corpse among the stones, but there was nothing. I even looked in the attic space upstairs, but there were no signs of footprints in the dust, and everything looked just as usual. I came quickly down again. I was really anxious now. When I came to think about things soberly, it was not like Minimus to have left his post. He was young and over-eager, but he was obedient to a fault.

So had he been taken away against his will? By the same bandits, perhaps? It was not a pleasant possibility. The best I could hope, in that case, was that he’d been seized to sell: there was always a market at the docks for young, good-looking slaves — overseas traders took them, and no questions asked — though what their ultimate fate might be was quite another thing. But there was a much more likely reason for abducting him. He had belonged to Marcus, one of the most important Romans in the world, and no doubt had useful information he could be forced to give, in ways too unpleasant to think about.

I went outside and looked rather wildly around. Minimus’s knuckle-bones were spread out on the counter top — I had left him sitting on the stool ready to deal with any customers, and it was clear he’d been playing with them while I was away. He would not have dared to do so if I’d been about. This proof of childish mischief brought a constriction to my throat.

And there was the pie-tray, leaning on the stones.

I sighed, thinking of the owners of those two simple things: Lucius, with his one eye and his awful pies, who had sought my protection and was lying dead, and my little red-haired scatterbrain of a slave, for whom I was, naturally, entirely responsible. A fine protector I had proved to be!

I turned away and thumped my fist against the wall next door, then buried my head against my arm. I was aware of a shameful prickling behind my eyes.

‘Hyperius, you can go ahead and let them know I’m here.’ A voice behind me cut across my thoughts. I recognized the imperious tones of Quintus Severus. Dear Jupiter, I had forgotten about him and I was not prepared — I hadn’t changed into a toga, my hands were dark with grime, and my face was smudged with most unroman tears. He would doubtless see all this as dreadful disrespect. And I could not even ask him to come inside my shop. What was the chief town councillor going to say to that?

I composed myself with an effort and turned to see the man himself. He was descending from a private litter in the centre of the street, assisted by a supercilious-looking slave. Quintus was always an imposing figure, tall and gaunt in his magisterial robes, and he looked every inch the civil dignitary now: completely out of place in this area of the town. Over his toga he wore a dark-red cloak, edged with expensive gold embroidery — causing a passing turnip-seller to turn and stare at him — and he carried a leather switch in one ringed hand. He wore his brown hair fashionably cropped, accentuating his huge brows and long, patrician nose, and his deep-set eyes were gazing around with evident dismay.

The source of his concern was evident. He was wearing an expensive pair of soft red-leather shoes, and there is no fancy paving in this suburb of the town (which has grown up, haphazardly, just outside the northern walls), merely a muddy road with a stone causeway either side.

I hastened forward, making the deepest obeisance my ageing knees could bear. ‘Honoured citizen!’ I stammered in dismay. ‘I must apologize. .’

He looked at me, and I saw the dawning consternation and horror on his face. I realized what a spectacle I must currently present, and devoutly wished that I had not agreed to meet him at the shop.

‘Libertus? Pavement-maker? Is that really you? What are you doing there?’ He seemed to recollect that I was a citizen, and he made a visible effort to control himself. ‘I’m sorry, citizen, I did not expect to find you on the street. Hyperius, you dolt!’ he added to the slave, who had obediently walked towards the shop and was now standing hesitating, goggling at me. ‘Come back here at once. Can’t you see I need you to help me cross all this?’ He flicked his switch in the direction of the mire.