A Pattern of Blood (2 page)

‘Stand aside, there.’ One of the
aediles
, the market police, appeared behind me, jostling through the crowd and making way for the litter which had now appeared. I stepped aside smartly. The last thing I wanted was an interview with the aediles, on suspicion of being a stranger at the scene of a crime. The authorities have very effective ways of dealing with witnesses they are dubious of, so effective that people often confess to things they couldn’t possibly have done in the first place. I had no wish to have my memory tested.

I wasn’t wearing my toga either, and that made me an immediate offender, should anyone arrest me. Strictly, as a male Roman citizen, I am required to wear a toga in public at all times, but like many of my humbler fellow citizens, I usually ignore the instruction. They are expensive to clean and awkward to put on, and I have never learned to wear one with grace. It may be different in Rome, but no one in the Insula Britannica is going to stop a mosaic-maker with a handcart and ask him why he isn’t more formally dressed. I had thought about wearing it on the morrow, in fact, to give myself more status when I wanted information, but had decided against it. My toga needed cleaning, and besides, wearing a toga on a trip like this would be to invite the attention of pickpockets and a higher price at every hostelry.

Now, though, I was sincerely regretting the decision. A toga would have ensured, at least, that I wasn’t manhandled by the aediles. I slipped back into the thermopolium. The crowd was in any case beginning to drift away.

‘Still alive, is he?’ I realised that the stallholder had been standing at my elbow.

I nodded. ‘It seems so. Otherwise he would not have applied the poultice. Badly wounded, though. Lucky his friend was there, and so well equipped.’

The man spat into the corner, expertly missing the food vats. ‘Well, he would be. That’s his doctor, that is. Best medicus in Corinium. All right for some, being able to afford a private physician.’

‘Just as well he could,’ I said. ‘Who is he, anyway, the man who was attacked?’

The stallkeeper gaped at me. ‘You don’t know? That’s Quintus Ulpius Decianus. He is one of the councillors here, a
decurion
. Richest man in Corinium, or one of them.’

‘I see.’ I did see. If Quintus Ulpius was a decurion, he would be worth robbing. A decurion is one of the highest officials in municipal administration, and the chief requirements for election to the office are the possession of a sizeable property and payment of a large fee into the official coffers. And, presumably, he had just won something on the chariot races.

‘Stranger here, are you?’ The stallholder spat again, less accurately this time. Two racegoers had come into the shop, wearing favours for the green team, and they were looking at me menacingly. I remembered that their team had lost, and I smiled nervously.

‘Here on business for a day or two,’ I said.

‘Only, I thought you might be looking for a bed,’ the stallholder said. ‘My brother keeps an inn.’

I was so relieved, I let myself be persuaded. It cost too much, of course, five
as
coins for a shared bed, and five more for a blanket, but at least it took me away from the hostile crowds and the eagle eye of the aediles.

My visit to the town was not much more successful in other ways. I devoted two days to my enterprise, lost four days’ earnings and gained nothing more than the name of a possible slave trader and a rash of flea bites from sharing my bed at the inn with an unsavoury fellow traveller. Of course, it did not prevent me from planning assiduously to come again as soon as I could afford it. If I could find that slave trader, he might be able to remember who had bought Gwellia. But in the meantime, I was not sorry to go home.

Someone might have remembered seeing me at the scene: that could still mean being dragged before the authorities.

At least, I thought, as I began the weary walk back to Glevum in the drizzle, by the time I next got to Corinium this whole affair would have been forgotten. And, fortunately, the stabbing of a decurion was none of my affair.

Which only shows how wrong a man can be.

Even when the invitation came, many days later, I did not foresee trouble. In fact, I was inclined to be foolishly flattered. Junio, my servant-cum-assistant, came out from my ramshackle workroom to fetch a piece of marble, and found me standing among the stone heaps at the entrance to the shop, staring thoughtfully down the crowded, muddy street.

It was not difficult to see what I was looking at. Here, among the butcher’s stalls, rickety workshops, bedraggled donkeys and second-hand clothes sellers, that smart, gold-bordered tunic and scarlet cloak stood out like a centurion in a slave market.

‘A messenger?’ Junio rubbed a dusty hand through his tousled curls. ‘I thought I heard voices. Good news, then, master?’

I realised that I was smirking inanely, and I adopted a more dignified expression. ‘An invitation from my patron, Marcus. I am to dine with him tomorrow, at his new villa. Alone.’ I tried to keep the self-satisfaction from my voice.

Junio whistled. ‘A private dinner with the regional governor’s personal representative, eh? I wonder what he wants.’

I frowned. He was right. Junio was only a boy still, but he understood the world. He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, I could not be sure. When I found him, half-starved and shivering in a slave market eight years ago, they didn’t know his age. He was simply a tearful, terrified child and I had tossed the slaver a few coins and taken him home. And now here he was, taller than I am, and showing more sense than I had done. Taking infernal liberties, too, by telling me so.

I put on my sternest face. ‘You are impertinent. Kindly do not speak of Marcus Aurelius Septimus so.’

‘Oh, come, master,’ Junio persisted, selecting his piece of marble from the heap. ‘How long has His Excellence been your patron? Two years? Three? When has he ever sought you out, unless he wanted something? And it must be something important. I know how highly he values your intelligence, but he wouldn’t invite a simple tradesman to dinner just for the pleasure of his company. Not even you.’

I glowered at him. He was right, again. Wealthy and influential Romans like Marcus do not usually invite mere pavement-makers to dine with them privately in their country villas. Obviously Marcus wanted something. And it was clearly something significant. Generally, if Marcus wanted me to do something, he simply sent for me and ordered me to do it.

‘I imagine,’ I said loftily, ‘that it concerns the librarium mosaic at his new country house. It needs repairing, and I assume that he is about to offer me the commission. After all, I was responsible for his getting the villa in the first place.’

‘And for seeing that he needed a new pavement to go into it,’ Junio reminded me cheerfully. ‘Perhaps you are right. No doubt he thinks you owe him another. After all, it was you who ordered the new floor to be dug up.’

‘Only in order to solve a murder!’

Junio grinned. ‘True. Though you know what His Excellence is like. He probably thinks a dinner invitation is better than payment.’

He had a point there, too. The problem in dealing with Marcus is that he affects to regard me – at least for payment purposes – as a valued artist and thinker, to whom mere money would be an insult. In fact, such insults would be very welcome, if only to buy food and candles and to pay the rent, all of which are getting more expensive by the year. There are mutterings everywhere that the Emperor himself will have to ‘do something’ soon, though I doubt, myself, that the boorish, addle-pated Commodus will ever bestir his imperial self sufficiently to introduce a double denarius or to restrict the price of wheat. In the meantime, a poor tradesman has to count every
sestertius
. I was not, however, about to admit that to Junio.

‘Marcus knows everyone of importance in the whole of Glevum,’ I said, with some justice. ‘He has already put a number of valuable contracts my way. If his pavement is admired, I shall have wealthy clients clamouring at my door.’

‘That would be a sight, indeed!’ Junio agreed. I could see his eyes dancing at the mental picture of those ‘wealthy clients’ coming to my shop in person. My workshop is outside the colonia walls, down on the marshy lands beside the river where the rents are cheap, away from the fine Roman paving and lofty buildings of Glevum proper, with its forum, fountains and fine open spaces. Rich citizens rarely come here. I could imagine them, pot-bellied and self-important, wrinkling their fastidious noses at the mingling smells from the tannery and tallow-maker’s, and trying vainly not to trail their togas in the mire. Despite my anxiety, I found myself suppressing a smile.

Junio was thinking of togas too. ‘I suppose you will be wanting to wear your formal dress for the occasion?’

I groaned aloud. I had not worn it to Corinium, but this dinner with Marcus was a different matter. ‘I’ll have to wear it, I suppose. Poor unbleached woollen thing that it is.’

Marcus himself would undoubtedly be sporting a dazzling white linen affair imported from Rome, with a broad stripe of deep imperial purple round the edge – a reminder, if anyone doubted it, that he is of patrician blood. Marcus’s family name is Aurelius, and though that is a very common name, he is widely whispered to be related to the Emperor. He has never confirmed this rumour, but he hasn’t denied it, either. Personally, I don’t question the truth of it – at least, not when Marcus is listening.

‘You will want your toga cleaned, then, master.’

I had forgotten that. My toga still had an unofficial stripe of its own – a rim of grime around the bottom from the last time I’d worn it, visiting an important customer up a narrow lane in muddy weather. Junio had wanted to take it to the fuller’s earlier, but I had demurred because we had got so behind in the shop.

I looked at Junio in dismay. ‘What am I to do? There isn’t time to send it to the fuller’s and have it bleached before tomorrow night.’

Junio shook his head, grinning. ‘Well, this is a chance to try that famous Celtic “washing mixture” you brought back from Corinium. We’ll see if it’s as good as you claim.’

I hadn’t brought it from Corinium, in fact. I’d got it from a Dubonnai farm I knew, which I had visited on the way home to arrange to buy their distinctive red stone for tiles. I was made welcome, as usual, in the cheerful smokiness of the roundhouse, and I struck a bargain for the tiles over a pitcher of honeyed mead with the owner, sitting around the central fire, attended by dogs and chickens, toothless women and bold-eyed girls. The Dubonnai (or ‘Dobunni’ as the Romans call them) had been making soap, and hearing that I remembered it from my youth, with typical Celtic generosity they insisted that I take some home in a pottery jar. It was not identical to ours – I was seized into slavery from the south-west of the island – but it was very similar.

Junio was intrigued when I showed him. He had never heard of soap. He was half-Celt himself, but had been raised by Roman owners who preferred more civilised cleaning methods.

I waxed eloquent about it, extolling its virtues and reminiscing about my own roundhouse and how my young wife and my grandmother used to save goose grease to soften their hands, or to boil up with lye from the wood ashes into a washing mixture. I remembered it vividly – a strong, sticky substance vigorously applied by my grandmother to clothes, cooking implements and even, occasionally, to people.

Junio had been fascinated. He usually was when I started talking about my younger days. He had been born in servitude, and couldn’t remember his own family. Or he affected to be fascinated – perhaps he was only humouring his master.

Whatever the truth, I was not hugely enthusiastic about having this untried substance used inexpertly upon my only toga, but there was little else to do, and after my paeans of praise for it, I could hardly back down now. So we set to work with the soap.

It was smelly and caustic and irritated the skin, but it was fairly effective, rubbed into the hems, though we used a whole amphora of fresh drinking water to rinse them off. How Gwellia and my grandmother would have laughed at our efforts! I remembered my wife standing knee-deep in the river, skirt looped up to her waist, rinsing her small-clothes in the running stream. How beautiful she had been, with her plaited hair and laughing eyes, her bronzed thighs glistening with wet. But it did not do to think of that. I dragged my attention back to the toga.

I wore it next evening to Marcus’s villa. It was not altogether dry, since there was too much stone dust in the back workshop to dry the thing off properly in front of the cooking fire, and we had been reduced to stretching it out to air in front of the window space upstairs.

Marcus had sent a cart for us, because the villa was some miles from Glevum, so we rode like rich men. I had been to the house before, when it was owned by a retired centurion, but I was struck again by how imposing it looked in the twilight, with the lanterns at the gatehouse, the surrounding farm and the villa itself glimmering with candles, a long, low building with lofty rooms. Of course, it had been built to impress. The visitor was intended to marvel at its opulence and realise that no expense had been spared. I realised.

I felt more than usually at a disadvantage, though, as I was shown into the echoing marble atrium to wait, in a toga that was still slightly moist at the edges and which gave off a warm, steamy smell in the heat of the braziers and the underfloor hypocaust heating. If I had known what was in store for me, I would have felt more doubtful still.

The slave at the inner door looked at my damp hems with disdain, but a toga is still a toga. He announced me with a flourish – all three Roman names, as befitted a citizen. ‘Longinus Flavius Libertus has arrived, master.’ He gave me that look again. ‘The mosaic-maker.’ That was to put me in my place. Important citizens do not have trades, they live on the income from their lands and ‘managed’ businesses. He didn’t mention Junio, of course, who was following me to take my cloak, any more than he would have mentioned a pet dog if I had happened to bring one with me.