David Wishart: Last Rites

Well, he couldn’t say fairer than that. Since we’d come back in I’d been letting my eyes wander round the room. There was a long wooden screen across part of the opposite wall, with a low platform in front of it, and I could feel cold air blowing from that direction. Arruntius had said you could get into the garden from the atrium via the covered porch. No doubt that was how. ‘Uh, why the platform? I said.

‘Oh, that was for the musicians.’ I’d thought Aemilia would have a mousey voice, but she sounded brassy if anything, and she drawled her vowels like some of these top-class patricians do.

‘Musicians?’

Bat-bat, flutter-flutter. Jupiter! ‘The rite needs music. Flutes mostly. Especially at the point when -’ Aemilia stopped, and her eyes slid nervously towards Junia Torquata, who frowned and pursed her lips.

‘ Euphemeite ,’ she murmured.

Keep holy silence : a rap over the knuckles because of the men present; only women are allowed to know the details of the Good Goddess’s rites. Aemilia coloured up and looked away. Yeah, well. I turned to Torquata.

‘I told you about the musicians myself, young man,’ she snapped. ‘We ordered a dozen from the guildhouse near the Temple of Juno Lucina.’

‘They’ve gone?’

‘Naturally they’ve gone. Their contract was only until dawn. They left with the other celebrants.’

‘Guild policy, Valerius Corvinus.’ Nomentanus was smiling. ‘You pay extra for overtime.’ There spoke the guy who held the purse-strings: the state gave a grant for official ceremonies, but it never went all the way towards covering costs and the balance would have to come out of the appropriate magistrates’ own pockets. Meaning, in this case, Nomentanus’s. ‘Besides, they’re working girls, they have other engagements.’

Well, it couldn’t be helped, and I could always call in at the guildhouse later for a list of names. Although it was unlikely that one of the musicians was involved. ‘You think I could talk to the maid now?’ I asked Galba. ‘Uh … Niobe, wasn’t it? And to your head female slave.’

‘Certainly. Certainly.’ The consul was frowning: I had the impression that he thought all this rigmarole was a waste of time and the sooner we all stopped cluttering up his living-room and went home the better. Maybe he was right. ‘I told them to wait in the kitchen. You, there.’ He beckoned over one of the slaves standing against the wall. ‘Fetch Niobe and Pythia.’

‘No, that’s okay.’ I didn’t fancy conducting an interrogation with a fair slice of Rome’s beautiful and good breathing down my neck. Besides, I’d bet the girls would be more talkative on home ground. ‘I’ll go to them.’

Galba just looked at me, then turned away with a sniff. Par for the course. I wondered if the bastard even knew where his own kitchen was.

They were sitting together side by side at the kitchen table, although I got the impression that there hadn’t been much talking going on. When I came in they jumped to their feet like someone had yanked on a string. Home ground or not, they looked nervous as hell; understandable, because like I say under the strict letter of the law with a suspicious death in the house all the slaves could be killed out of hand just on the off-chance they might’ve been in on it. It was obvious which was which: Pythia was a grey-haired old biddy seriously handicapped in the teeth department, while Niobe was a dark-haired, dark-skinned little stunner the same age as the dead girl.

There was a stool in the corner by the sink. I pulled it over and perched on it while they watched me like rabbits watching a snake.

‘Hey, that’s all right,’ I said quietly. ‘Sit down. No one’s going to bite you.’

They looked at each other. Pythia sat but the girl didn’t.

‘You’re Niobe?’ I said to her. She nodded. Her eyes were big and scared. ‘I was told you found the body.’

Another nod. Moisture gathered under her right eye and crept down her cheek, but her expression didn’t change.

‘You care to tell me about it? From the beginning?’ The girl swallowed, tried to speak and swallowed again. I waited patiently. ‘Take you time. There’s no hurry.’

‘We’d finished eating. After the rite.’ Her voice was low and husky, and the accent was good for a slave’s. Of course: she’d been brought up outside the slave quarters, as one of the family. ‘The mistress had been sitting on her own in the corner and I’d been serving her. She got up. I was going to follow, but she said not to bother, she was only going to the toilet, she wouldn’t be long. I waited fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and she didn’t come back.’

‘So you went to see if there was anything wrong.’

She nodded. ‘She wasn’t in the latrine. I thought maybe she’d taken ill and gone to lie down somewhere, so I went looking for her. The door to one of the spare bedrooms was open and I saw … I …’ She stopped.

‘That’s okay,’ I said gently. ‘Take your time.’

‘She was lying on the floor with a knife in her throat. There was … there was blood … all over …’ The tears were running freely now, but she paid them no attention. Another gulp. ‘I’m sorry, sir. That’s all I can tell you. Except that I fetched the Lady Junia Torquata right away.’

‘Was it your mistress’s knife?’ I kept my voice neutral.

She brought the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away the moisture; a single, sharp gesture as if she were ashamed of it. ‘No, sir. At least, I hadn’t seen it before. Any knife, I mean, not just that one. What would the mistress want with a knife?’

‘But she could’ve had it without your knowing?’

The girl was quiet for a long time. Then she said, in a voice like a ghost’s, ‘Yes. Yes, she could.’

Just that. ‘Okay.’ I shifted on the stool. ‘You sure you don’t want to sit down?’ She shook her head. ‘The Lady Torquata said your mistress seemed worried, that she had something on her mind. You know anything about that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘She didn’t talk to you about it? Give any sort of hint?’

‘No, sir.’

The lips were tight and her eyes never moved from mine. She was lying, sure she was; however, short of turning her over to the torturers I wasn’t going to get much further, and I didn’t want to do that. I sighed. ‘Was your mistress pregnant?’

‘ No , sir!’ Her chin went up, and I thought for a moment she was going to hit me. ‘The Lady Cornelia was a Vestal!’

‘But you’ve just told me she didn’t confide in you. It’s possible.’

‘It is not possible! The Lady Cornelia would’ve -’ She stopped, then went on carefully. ‘My mistress would have died first. If that’s what they’re saying out there then -’

‘Okay, okay.’ I held up my hand. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?’

Was that hesitation? I wasn’t sure. In any case, she shook her head.

‘No, sir. Nothing.’

‘The lady was wearing a ring. A man’s ring, on a cord round her neck. You know where she got it?’

The lips tightened again. If looks could have killed I’d’ve been a grease spot. ‘No, sir.’

Well, that was that. She knew, I’d’ve bet a year’s income on it, but short of dragging the information out of her with red-hot pincers I was stuck. Probably I wouldn’t get it even then. I turned to the other woman, Pythia. ‘Who opened the back door?’ I said.

I thought she was going to faint. ‘Pardon, sir?’

‘The tiles were wet. Someone must’ve opened the door and let the rain in.’

She was dish-rag grey and shaking. ‘The back door’s bolted, sir.’

‘Sure. It is now. But the floor was still wet. Damp, rather. It’d been mopped. My guess is whoever bolted the door, or rebolted it, maybe, cleaned up first.’