The Fateful Day (18 page)

This time the look that they exchanged was a bewildered one. Then Festus shrugged his shoulders. Obviously the promise of the bribe had done it’s work. ‘Just ordinary hair. The one thing that I noticed about the purple-striper that we saw was that his face was very pale, as if he never went outside into the sun and wind at all …’

I had just time to reluctantly conclude that this could not be florid Commemoratus after all, when we were interrupted by the tanner’s wife calling from the hearth. ‘Citizen Libertus, I think you’d better come.’

Great gods! I had been chattering all this time while Maximus was hurt! I scampered across the workshop as quickly as I could, scattering tesserae in all directions as I came. I think I was in time. I took my poor slave’s hand and held it in my own, and I still believe there was the faintest pressure from his fingertips and that a suspicion of a smile curved the bloodless little lips before the hand went slack and the face expressionless. I picked up the copper mirror which was on the floor nearby, where Junio had dropped it earlier. I held it despairingly before my slave-boy’s mouth, but – though I kept it there for minutes – no blessed mist appeared.

My beloved little red-haired Maximus was dead.

I
staggered to the stone pile and sat down heavily. To any outsider my distress would no doubt seem ridiculous. My patron had been robbed of goods worth millions of denarii, his household slaves had all been killed, Pertinax was murdered and the Empire was in shock, but the loss of Maximus – a mere slave of the kind that you could pick up from any slave-market for not much more than the price of an amphora of good wine – hit me harder than any of the other horrors of the day. I closed my eyes and buried my head between my hands. I have no idea how long I stayed like that, but after what seemed an eternity I was conscious of a hand on my shoulder and a soft voice calling me.

‘Father?’ I looked up, wearily. Junio was beside me, carrying the remnants of the mead, re-warmed and steaming in a metal drinking cup. ‘Drink this.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t want anything.’ I tried to say the words, but my voice had failed.

‘Maximus mixed the spices in for you – almost the last task he performed on your account. So, don’t make his efforts appear to be in vain. Drink it – as he meant you to!’ My son spoke so severely that I did as I was told.

There was not a lot of mead but it was strangely comforting, though the act of drinking what my dead slave had so lovingly prepared almost made me weep. But my grief was mingled with an anger too – a bitter fury so intense it gave me strength. I would find the culprit and I would make him pay, even if I had to go beyond the law.

The law, I knew, was of little use to me. The killing of another person’s slave was an offence, of course, and if I could find the culprit and convince a court, I could demand the maximum legal penalty for such a crime: a compensation of three times his market price. No doubt there were excellent slave-boys available for less, but no amount could buy me another Maximus. I did not want a substitute – I wanted something much more like revenge.

But first, I had to find the murderer, and there seemed to be only one place to begin: Cacus, the giant with the muscles of a human Hercules, who could break me in two across his knee as easily as I could snap a twig. I looked around the inner workshop, ready to ask Festus and his friend to tell their tale again – no new questions, since I’d promised that, just a recapitulation of their first account, with the inducement of another half-sestertius if they did. But the room was empty except for Junio and me and that shrouded form which had once been Maximus, his injured head now tenderly covered by my cloak. Four lighted tapers burned around the corpse.

Junio had followed the direction of my glance. ‘The tanner’s wife and her two slaves have gone. There was nothing further she could do for Maximus – we’d closed his eyes and called his name three times and set the candles up, but she had a business to attend to, and naturally she wanted to get back to it. She was very good – even offered to leave Festus with us to start up a lament, but I said that we’d prefer to take the body home and do these things ourselves.’ He looked sadly at me. ‘I presume I guessed that right. She promised we could have her slave again if we changed our minds.’

I shook my head. I had always supposed that Maximus would be one of the bearers at my funeral. It had never occurred to me that I might find myself arranging his. (Of course, many slaves are simply buried without ceremony at all, as very young children are, but I held Maximus in too high a regard for that.) But it left me a problem. Unlike Marcus, I had not paid contributions for my servants to the Slave Funeral Guild: I had not even considered whether they would prefer a Roman pyre or to be interred in a proper grave as I hoped to be myself. I would like to think of little Maximus entire, dressed in a gold and silver gown and with a jewelled circlet on his head, happily living in the Celtic Otherworld, but he was born into a Roman household, and – if he had a preference – it would probably be for a version of the cremation rite. As paterfamilias, that meant I could officiate at the pyre myself – an idea which was heartbreaking in one respect, of course, but also comforting. There would be no funeral oration or lamentation pipes, but I could make sure that he enjoyed some dignity in death.

‘We’d better get some purifying herbs,’ I said, making an effort to turn my mind to practicalities. ‘We’ll do it properly. Cleanse the body and purify the room, and put him in his newest tunic, cloak and shoes. We’ll break his bowl and spoon and put them on the pyre, and Minimus can …’ I broke off. I could not bear to think of what Minimus would feel. The two boys were not related, but they had seldom been apart since Marcus bought them several years ago – and had grown so close they could often finish each other’s sentences.

Junio understood what I could not find words to say. ‘Speaking of herbs,’ he murmured. ‘We had a visitor. Vesperion came here bringing a gift of healing herbs and unguents that they had in store, which Alfredus Allius sent to you, but I had to tell him that he’d come too late.’ His voice wavered for a moment, and I realised how hard Junio, too, was finding this. But he recovered and went on in a calmer tone, ‘He’s gone to tell his owner what has happened here – and he promises some funeral herbs instead. He’ll be back with them as soon as he can collect them, he declares. That is why I roused you when I did.’

‘Vesperion?’ I murmured stupidly.

He took the now-empty drinking cup from me. ‘He will be back quite quickly, Father, if I am any judge. Are you now sufficiently recovered to receive him when he comes?’

I nodded. ‘Help me to my feet. I’ll go to meet him in the outer room. It isn’t seemly to ask him to come into a room of death like this.’ I was a little ashamed of my unmanly show of grief and tried to emulate my son’s example, and be controlled and businesslike. ‘I suppose we’ll have to think of how to purify the shop – and ourselves as well – otherwise people will avoid this place as being cursed and the workshop will be ruined. And news will get about. The tanner’s wife was very kind indeed, but I’m sure she was partly driven by curiosity and the prospect of a thrilling tale to tell.’

Junio extended a strong arm to lean on, and I struggled to my feet. ‘Vesperion promises that his herbs will deal with all the cleansing rituals – they have imported purifying mixtures in their stock, presumably destined for the undertakers and arrangers of public funerals. If Alfredus Allius genuinely makes a gift of those, Minimus will have as fine a send-off as any slave could have.’

‘That would be some comfort to me,’ I allowed. ‘And I’ll find out who did this if it’s the last thing that I do.’ I managed to summon up a rueful smile. ‘As I suppose it might be. The presence of Cacus is the only clue I have – if he did not come into the shop himself, he must know who did. I don’t relish the idea of confronting such a giant, but I’ll have to find him and try to talk to him – though I don’t quite know how. He and his master are no doubt on their way to Isca by this time.’

Junio frowned. ‘Though if they missed the reading of the will, perhaps they’ll linger long enough to lodge a legal challenge with the magistrates.’

That was sensible and I pounced on the idea. ‘It’s possible Alfredus Allius will know – perhaps I’ll go and ask him before I leave the town, but I can hardly do so with my toga in this state.’ I was attempting to straighten the garment as I spoke, but my efforts had the opposite effect. The folds, which had been tending to unwind earlier, were hanging down around me in untidy loops, and there was little for it, but to start again.

Junio put the cup down on the shelf above the fire and came across to help. ‘You think that Cacus was responsible?’ he asked.

I shook a doubtful head. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. It would obviously be no problem for a man of his size and strength – he could have felled little Maximus with a single blow, and wrested the ladder from its restraining cords and tossed it over there with no more effort than it would take for me to squash a fly. But there is quite a lot of blood, as you pointed out to me. I’ve managed to get it on my feet from simply standing there.’ I pointed to my sandal-prints which were clearly visible. ‘You would have thought that Cacus would get it on himself as well, but when I saw him shortly afterwards, his gold-coloured tunic was impeccable.’

‘Which is more than you can say about your toga,’ Junio said, coming across to help me with rearranging it. ‘There are several bloodstains on the hem.’

‘I’ll use it as a winding-sheet for Maximus,’ I said. Legally that was probably a terrible offence – slaves are prohibited from wearing Roman dress. But I no longer cared. It simply seemed appropriate to wrap the boy in something that was mine – and there was nothing else of sufficient size available.

Even Junio was looking slightly shocked.

‘Not for the funeral itself,’ I added, ‘but for when we take him to the roundhouse later on. It won’t look like a toga if we fold it properly – just a piece of woollen cloth. That way we can lay him on the mule with decency, and it will not matter if it gets stained again. I’ll have to send Maxi …’ I trailed off, hopelessly. ‘I’ll have to take it to the fullers for a second time,’ I corrected. ‘But for the moment, help me take it off. I can’t wear it as it is.’ I meant it. I could not bear to think of bearing splashes of my servant’s blood, though that put paid to my calling on the councillor tonight. It would not be proper to call on a curia member in my working clothes. ‘I’ll have to delay calling on Alfredus Allius,’ I said.

‘You can send a message with Vesperion, perhaps, when he comes back again,’ my son replied, helping me to shuffle off my awkward garment as he spoke. ‘Or better still, I’ll go to the west gate and enquire. If they’ve really gone to Isca they’ll have their travelling coach, and Cacus would attract attention anywhere he went. If not, presumably they are still in town.’

I nodded doubtfully. ‘I need to talk to Cacus. He’s the only lead I have – assuming that he was the one the tanner’s servant saw.’

‘Either way, there’s nothing more that you can do today,’ my son went on. ‘It would take too long to trace them and it wouldn’t be proper to abandon Maximus. You’ll have to catch Cacus tomorrow if you can. But when we’ve finished here, we’ll put the body on the mule. It means you have to walk, but there are advantages to that. If I’m quick with my enquiries, I can catch you up.’

I was loath to give up the idea of finding Cacus, but this suggestion was clearly sensible and Junio was right: the first task was to see that Maximus was safely taken home. So with Junio’s help I spread my toga on the floor, and with the greatest care we swaddled the poor dead slave in it.

‘I’ve washed his hands and feet with water from the jug,’ my son said, soberly. ‘The rest of the cleansing will have to wait till we get to the roundhouse later on. All we need now is for Vesperion to come back with … Ah! There’s a knocking now.’

So I went out in my tunic to the outer room and Junio opened the front door of the shop. To my astonishment I saw that there were two men on the step. The old steward was accompanied by Alfredus Allius himself, still wearing the dark toga that I’d seen him in before.

I had recovered something of my wits by now, and was in a slight dilemma about the proper courtesies. The little outer area is a narrow space, where – when the shutters are removed – the open counter looks out on the street: hardly a place in which to receive a curial councillor. The slats had been absent when I first arrived, but had obviously been replaced when Junio left the shop, and not been taken down again since then, so only my son’s taper offered any light – though he busied himself at once with rectifying this and opening the counter to the light of day. That helped a little, as the afternoon streamed in, but there was nowhere I could ask the magistrate to sit except the little three-legged wooden stool which the slave-boys sometimes use when Junio and I are busy on a piece, so they can watch for prospective customers.

What on earth had brought him to a place like this? With some embarrassment I gave a little bow. ‘Citizen, you do too much honour to my humble shop. I fear we’re not equipped to entertain you properly.’

I need not have concerned myself. My visitor waved my apologies aside in a way that Marcus never would have done. ‘Citizen, I’m very sorry to learn that your young slave is dead. And, since you were at my warehouse when the first tidings came, convention and courtesy demands that I should call.’ The councillor had a distinctive flat and nasal voice, and always came close to peer at one with weak, short-sighted eyes. I was glad that we had thought to take the shutters down. ‘One can’t be too careful with the spirits,’ he went on.

I nodded. There is a superstition that the spirits of the newly dead can walk abroad, seeking those who should have attended them at death but did not come. By calling at my workshop in this way, perhaps Alfredus Allius was hoping to ensure that his warehouse was not troubled by the ghost of Maximus.

I murmured that his visit here was very kind, but that Maximus had not died until after I returned.

‘So I understand,’ he said, to my surprise. ‘But this is a house of death and I had promised herbs.’ The curial councillor had turned slightly pink. ‘I had a corpse in my own warehouse, as I think you know, and business was blighted until I obtained some special herbs from Rome to cleanse the place. Fortunately I still had some in store.’ He gestured towards the aged steward as he spoke. ‘Vesperion, you have something for the citizen, I think.’

The old man shuffled forward to present me with a casket of dried herbs, his aged knees and hip-joints creaking audibly. ‘There may be enough to prepare your poor servant for the funeral pyre, as well. With my master’s compliments, citizen.’

I hardly had to glance to know this was a handsome gift. The little chest itself was beautiful, and the herbs and spices it contained were ones which I could never have afforded for myself. I could detect basil, rosemary, myrrh and frankincense – as well as the usual hyssop, lavender and myrtle. I gazed at Alfredus in astonishment.

But my surprises had not ended. My caller spoke again. ‘I have sent to the priest who cleansed my property for me – and for the wise woman who advised me what to do.’