Rosemary Rowe: Requiem for a Slave

It was an attractive theory, but I shook my head. ‘Look at where the cord was tightened.’ I pointed to the place. ‘You can see that the force was clearly back and down. If he had been hanging — or had hanged himself — obviously the greatest force would be from overhead. Besides, if someone had simply cut the body down, why would they remove the rope from round its neck?’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I expect you’re right. Will you be able to force the eyelids shut?’

In fact, I was not at all convinced I could, and I was squeamish about touching that one protruding eye. I compromised by seizing a piece of linen cloth nearby — intended as backing for a piece of work — and binding it around the head to form a bandage, as embalming women sometimes do. The body was getting noticeably stiffer now, and I was glad to lay the purple face down on the tiles again. With the blindfold on, it did not look so bad. I got up, breathing heavily. ‘No question of the soul finding a route back that way now.’

‘Aren’t you going to call his name?’ the turnip-seller asked. ‘In case his spirit is still somewhere nearby?’

I was quite sure that the soul had fled some little time ago and I was not anxious to encourage it to come back again. ‘Don’t you think I ought to go and find his mother first? Suppose that Lucius did not hold with Roman rites? He looks more like a humble Celt to me — or he might have been a follower of that Jewish carpenter, or Mithras or Isis, or some other modern cult. They all have their own customs when dealing with a death.’ As I spoke, I made a point of washing my own hands, very carefully, in my water bowl.

The turnip-seller looked reproachfully at me. ‘Anything is better than being picked up in a cart and flung into a pit with no rites performed at all. Call his name, pavement-maker. It falls to you, if anyone. It should be done by the senior person in the house. Well, you’re the senior here. I am just a freeman, and you’re a citizen. Besides, this is your workshop, and it will be you he haunts if you don’t do it right.’

Perhaps it was this last thought that made up my mind for me. I am not an adherent of Roman rites myself — I make the required sacrifices on holy days, of course, to Jupiter and the pantheon, and the Emperor as well (it is never wise to alienate a deity, just in case), but I am more inclined to venerate the older gods of tree and stone. However, I have witnessed the ritual enough to know what I should do.

The window space was already open — as the rite demands — so I took a deep breath and stood beside the corpse and cried in a loud voice, ‘Lucius!’ It occurred to me that I didn’t know if he had another name, so I added ‘The pie-seller’ to be doubly sure. There was — mercifully — no answer, so I repeated it twice more.

‘There now, citizen. We have done all we could,’ the turnip-vendor said in a prosaic tone, though I noticed that he’d flattened himself against the wall as I called on Lucius’s name — presumably lest he should impede the spirit’s path. Now, though, he was smiling cheerfully. ‘You go and get the embers and I’ll stand watch outside.’

I picked up an oil lamp and a copper bowl. ‘I will go to the tanner’s and see if they will let me light the lamp, as well as have some embers to start the fire again. Then we can set some tapers round the corpse. Besides, I can ask the tanner some questions while I’m there, in case he noticed anything unusual this afternoon. I’ve already asked the candle-maker on the other side.’ The tanner might be less churlish with his answer too, I thought.

Radixrapum nodded. ‘It would be a good idea. When I was here before, I saw someone with a donkey at the tanner’s gate, unloading hides. They might have noticed if anyone else was in the street.’

‘I’ll ask them,’ I agreed, though I would scarcely have much time for questioning if I wanted to reach the pie-house before the soldiers came. I turned to Radixrapum to say as much to him, but he was already on his way outside and there was nothing for me to do but follow him.

The tanner was a small, squat, swarthy man, with bandy legs and eyes that were noticeably crossed. His face was lined and so raddled with the fumes that it had become the colour of his hides, and he rejoiced in the possession of a single tooth. It was impossible to guess what sort of age he was — he looked fully fifty or sixty years of age, but he had looked much the same when I first moved into the shop and that was now some fifteen years ago. Perhaps his tanning had preserved him too.

I could see him through the open gate as I pulled the rope to ring the bell. He was arranging finished skins into a pile and selecting the best ones to hang up on display in a dingy little area which served as a front court. He came towards me, grinning — if, with one tooth, it could be called a grin.

We knew each other slightly. In the days when, like him, I had lived above the shop, he had called round several times seeking an arrangement to collect my urine pots, so he could mix the contents with various leaves and herbs for a concoction which helped loosen the hair from stubborn hides. However, I already had a contract with the fullers-shop nearby, and nothing came of it. This was the first time that I had called on him.

He was still baring his gums at me, in what was obviously intended to be a friendly smile. ‘Citizen Libertus.’ His voice was mumbling and cracked, though I have heard him raise it in anger many times when one of his workers’ efforts failed to please. ‘To what do we owe the honour of a visit? Do you wish to purchase hides? Or a piece of goatskin — I’ve got some nice ones here. For a blanket, or a pair of shoes for your good wife, perhaps?’ He gestured to the hides that he’d been stacking earlier.

I was tempted to tell him the whole story but rejected the idea. Unlike the turnip-seller, my neighbour loved to talk, and I knew he had dealings with the wealthy in the town, including the customer for the Apollo piece. I thought of asking if I could borrow a handcart for an hour but rejected that as well — he would be bound to ask questions as to why I wanted it. So I simply shook my head and jerked my chin towards the oil lamp and the bowl. ‘I am not bringing business, neighbour, I’m afraid. I come requesting coals. A flame for the oil lamp and some glowing embers to get the fire alight. There’s nothing in the workshop that I can light them with.’

He focused both eyes vaguely on my face. ‘Not even your Vestal flame alight? And you a Roman citizen?’ he said.

It was true that there was a little altar-niche on my premises, dedicated to the goddess of the hearth — no doubt he had seen it when he came to call — but it dated from the time the little shop was built, in the previous owner’s time. Even when the upper storey had been a sleeping space, I never lit a sacrificial flame on it except on occasions like public holy days or the feast day of the Emperor, when such observances were generally required.

I had made no answer, and he took that as assent. ‘That was careless, neighbour.’ He raised his thinning eyebrows in a knowing arch. ‘Too busy talking to that fine customer of yours? I saw the expensive-looking litter at your door. And wasn’t it the chief decurion getting out of it? I sold him an ox-skin once. I hope he gave you a nice contract and made it all worthwhile?’

‘I lost the work, in fact.’

He made a little grimace of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, citizen. Someone came in with a lower estimate, I suppose. They’re all the same, these very wealthy men. Quibble about a quadrans with the likes of us, then spend a fortune on public works and games to woo the populace, especially when they want to win a vote. Like that Gaius Greybeard or whatever he is called, who’s been trying unsuccessfully to get an ordo seat for years, putting up that fountain at the crossroads recently. And your decurion’s the same — promised new hangings for the ordo room, they say, simply to impress the other councillors. Put extra on the taxes, I shouldn’t be surprised, so we shall pay for it.’