Requiem for a Slave (8 page)

I nodded. The standard-bearers of the legions often wore such hides draped across their head and shoulders when they were on parade, leading the troops on ceremonial marches through the streets. They wear them into battle too, apparently – presumably to make the standard easy to pick out – and I have even seen wolf-skins worn on the daily route march, although I always thought that they must be insufferably hot. ‘I saw one at the tannery.’

‘That’s the one he’s bought. He was lucky to get it,’ Glypto said. ‘You can’t get the wolves these days, with all those rebels in the wood.’

‘But that was not the only customer?’ I said. ‘There was another fellow who came in looking round – a man with a fancy cloak-clasp, I believe. I remember your master mentioned him to me.’

The mask had come down on Glypto’s face again. ‘Glypto can’t tell you, citizen. He wasn’t in the shop. He has already told you about everyone he saw, and his mistress will be furious with him for being late.’

There was no point in pressing him, and I let him go, though I did call after him as he scampered off, ‘There will be a quadrans for you the next time that we meet – more if you happen to remember something else.’

He paused and turned around. ‘But how can I be sure to see you, citizen? They don’t let Glypto out. Only to put on the rubbish on the pile.’

‘Then I will meet you at the midden-heap,’ I said. ‘If you can contrive to be there tomorrow’ – I was about to say ‘when the sun is at its height’ but I remembered that I had a naming ceremony to attend, and I amended it – ‘in the late afternoon. I will keep a watch for you.’

He nodded. ‘Till tomorrow then,’ and he went back through the gate into the tannery. Almost at once I heard the shrill voice of the tanner’s wife. It raised in hectoring reproof, followed shortly after by the sound of blows. I cringed a little. I felt responsible.

Six

Radixrapum caught my eye as I turned back. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Funny sort of fellow, that old slave. I wonder what he did see in the alleyway – or whether he really saw anything at all.’

‘I hope I’ll discover that tomorrow, when we meet,’ I said, but even as I spoke the words they sent a chill through me. If Minimus was in danger, that seemed too long to wait. Surely I had to find him before that! Yet my best hope of finding him was to trace the murderer, and I had little idea of where to start with that. Besides, there were other urgent things that needed to be done, and – what with questioning Glypto and lighting candles by the corpse – I’d already delayed too long. ‘I had planned to tell Lucius’s mother what had happened to her son,’ I told the turnip-seller, ‘but now there’s scarcely time to reach her before the cart arrives.’

‘There’s no chance at all of reaching her, I shouldn’t think, and certainly no time for you to get back again.’ He gave a little grin, tilting his turnip head at me. ‘Don’t look so stricken, citizen. You never did have time – and if you stop to think, you’ll realize that as well. When we were in the workshop just now, you mentioned that your recent customer was chief decurion, didn’t you? I could see he was wealthy, but I hadn’t realized he was as important as all that. If the senior town councillor tells the garrison to send the cart round here, obviously they’re going to do it straight away.’

I nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘Then perhaps you don’t need me to stay and keep a watch? Or do you still intend to go to the pie-bakery and find her anyway? You said it would be better if she didn’t see the corpse.’

I suppose that had been vaguely in my thoughts, but I answered stubbornly, ‘I think she ought to know. And she may know something that will help me trace the murderer – for instance, whether Lucius had personal enemies.’

He looked at me quizzically. ‘You wouldn’t like to put that piece of work up on a plank and rest it on my barrow before you go? I’ll give you a hand, of course, and you can wheel it out into the street. Then it will be out here when the army comes, and nobody need ever know that it was in there with the corpse. The decurion did not see inside the shop, you say – and I want that half-sestertius, so I won’t be gossiping – but you can’t prevent the soldiers from telling everyone. And they will have to go inside to pick the body up.’

He was quite right, of course, and it was a concern. Quintus’s reaction to a dead man in my shop had been enough to tell me what my customers would think if rumour got around. I was beginning to look at Radixrapum with more and more respect. His suggestion was not a foolish one. In fact, I rather wished I’d thought of it myself.

Although his barrow was much smaller than my handcart was, and currently full of earth and bits of turnip-top, it would be the work of moments to clear that away, and, with care, the Apollo plaque was not too large to carry in that way. The piece was already mounted on its linen backing cloth, ready to be reversed and cemented into place, and I had that terracotta tray on which to carry it. That could be managed on the barrow, though it would take a lot of care. The mosaic was not quite finished at one edge, of course, but that was, if anything, a help. It made it slightly easier to move, since I could protect the edges in transit with a rolled strip of cloth, and a border can always be filled with larger tiles, or even with painted mortar if required.

I had border tesserae already cut and quite a lot to spare; the extra pieces could be taken with it as they were, and I could put in the final touches when it was in place. I had already left the necessary tools and mortar at the site, when I put down the preliminary layer yesterday. So it was tempting to do as the turnip-seller said. But there was Lucius’s mother to consider too.

Radixrapum saw that I was havering. ‘It won’t make any difference to his mother, citizen. She cannot help him now. If you go off and tell her, what are you going to do? Stop the army carting him away and ask her if she wants to take the corpse herself? That will just be an impossible expense, because she’ll have to provide the funeral – you and I are both aware that he would never have contributed to any guild. So you’ll end up paying for it all yourself. And you couldn’t decently just put him on a public pyre. If you’re going to stand as patron, you would have to do it right – with at least a funeral director and bier, and very probably a priest and some sort of sacrifice. It would cost a huge amount. To say nothing of all the cleansing rituals you’ll have to get performed before you can reopen your shop in any case. And you weren’t officially his patron, were you, citizen?’

He was voicing the very thoughts that I’d had earlier. I made a groaning sound. With the loss of Quintus’s order, things were hard enough, without additional expense – especially if the Apollo piece fell through. ‘Not officially his patron,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Though he’d half-adopted me as one, this last half-moon or so. I simply feel an obligation to do something, that is all.’

He cocked a brow at me. ‘If the corpse had turned up anywhere but here, it’s likely that nobody would have told the mother anything, and she would only have deduced that Lucius was dead when he did not come home. You will have saved her that, at least. This has been thrust on you, and you have done your best – you’ve lit candles for him and called three times on his soul. No reason why you should lose your customers as well. You can go and see the mother afterwards, if you feel you must, and offer her such consolation as you can. But if we are going to move this piece of work of yours, we ought to do it fast, or the army cart will turn up and catch us in the act.’

It was no good arguing. The man was not such a turnip as he looked. He was obviously right. I nodded doubtfully. ‘We’ll do as you suggest.’

He gave me another conspiratorial grin. ‘Of course, you’ll have to buy those last few turnips first, to clear the space. Shall we say another half-sestertius for the lot, and for the temporary hire of the barrow too?’

Dear Mars! He almost seemed to be enjoying this. ‘Oh, very well,’ I said. ‘If you look behind the counter, you will find a leather bag I sometimes use to carry bread and cheese. Put the turnips in it, and we will make a start.’

It did take a few moments to clean the barrow out, but, despite his protests, I insisted it was done – the mosaic would be balancing dangerously enough, without there being lumps of earth beneath the tray preventing it from lying properly. When we had finished, we went into the shop.

It was my turn to feel disconcerted by the corpse. The tapers were still burning at Lucius’s head and feet (though the most pervading smell was not of smoke and tallow grease), and despite the blindfold round the head, I was uncomfortably aware of the memory of those bulging eyes – as if the dead man was somehow staring through the cloth.

I was glad that we had moved the body earlier; it made it easier to turn our backs on it, though I had an eerie feeling that it was watching me – reproachful because I hadn’t gone to find his mother first. But the turnip-seller seemed to be free of such uncomfortable fantasies and he was already kneeling by the plaque and laying hold of the linen backing piece. So I suppressed my fancies and, with his help, I shuffled the whole plaque on to the tray, stuffed strips of cloth around it and lashed it into place. Then between us we carried it out on to the barrow. It fitted, in a fashion, though it was precarious. Then we went back and gathered up the extra tiles into another length of cloth, knotted it securely into a roll and wedged the bottom of the load with it, so it could not slip forwards if the barrow lurched. The whole thing looked incongruous, but all the same it was a great relief to have it safely out.

And just in time, it seemed. There was an unfamiliar sound of wheels and jangling chains, and the military cart came lurching into view, moving slowly in the narrow, muddy confines of the road. It was not forbidden to bring horse-drawn transport here during the hours of daylight, as it was within the walls (and anyway this was an army vehicle and would have been exempt) but the area was not designed for wagons of this size. There was barely room for it to inch along. I leaned against the wall and tried to look insouciant, as though I had been waiting there since Quintus left.

The turnip-seller, however, was not content with this. He glanced towards the barrow. ‘This looks out of place with a mosaic on – they’ll notice it for sure. I’ll take it round and put it in the alley while they’re here.’ He seized the wooden handles and made as if to trundle the whole thing out of sight.

I shook my head. ‘That would only take you past them. Go the other way. Push it a little further down the road,’ I urged. ‘That will arouse much less suspicion than you going skulking by the midden-heap. These soldiers have no idea that you have been with me – to them you are just another vendor with a barrow in the street. They won’t know what’s on it, if you take it far enough.’ I saw him hesitate, and added urgently, ‘When they’ve taken Lucius, we can decide what we do next. But move quickly if you’re going to. They are almost here.’

They were indeed: one obviously senior soldier with a swagger stick, and two reluctant younger ones behind him with the horse. The older one, whom I had nicknamed ‘Scowler’ in my mind, was already striding purposefully towards us.

The turnip-seller must have seen him coming too. He did not even glance in my direction as he said, ‘I could always take it to the site for you. I know where it is – the villa is even on my own route home. When you’ve been to see the woman, I will meet you there and take the barrow back.’ He gave a fleeting grin. ‘That’s worth another half-sestertius, don’t you think, citizen?’ And, without waiting for an answer, he set off down the street. I swear I heard a distant cry of ‘Turnips!’ as he went.

‘Are you this pavement-maker we’ve been sent to find?’ Scowler was barking the question in my ear.

I turned to face him. He was standing close beside me: deliberately close, in a posture designed to be threatening. His feet, in their hobnailed sandals, were planted wide apart and he carried a helmet tucked beneath one arm, while the other hand rested lightly on his hip, the fingers caressing the handle of the baton at his belt. His head was tilted arrogantly back.

‘Well?’ he said.

I looked him up and down. The man was swarthy, crop-haired and stocky, with a self-important air, though the chain-mail tunic and the sweat-stained leather underskirt marked him as an auxiliary officer at best – one of the many from the southern provinces, perhaps, lured by the promise of citizenship when he retired. In that case, I outranked him – in one respect at least.

‘I am the citizen Longinus Flavius Libertus, certainly, and this is my workshop,’ I said evenly, stressing my title and my full three Roman names – a signal that I was already a citizen myself.

He must have got the point, although he showed no outward sign. His voice, however, became less peremptory. ‘I was sent here on the orders of the chief decurion. Said there was a body of a pauper to collect.’ He leaned a little closer as he spoke. He smelt of sweat and horses and cheap watered wine. ‘Seems to think your slave has robbed and murdered him.’

I looked at him coldly. ‘Decurions can be wrong.’

That seemed to strike a chord. He used a sharp elbow to dig me in the ribs. ‘I don’t think he can believe it much himself – about the murdering at least. If he wanted to bring a charge against the slave, he’d want to produce the dead body, wouldn’t he – not have it disposed of quickly in the pit?’

I looked at him sharply. I had not thought of that, although perhaps I should have done. I’m not entirely familiar with the details of the law.

He gave me another nudge. ‘Though we’ve been told to hold the boy if he turns up. Says that he will haul him to the courts and have him charged with robbery and with attempting to run away. He claims the boy belongs to Marcus Septimus – not to you at all – and in the owner’s absence he will act for him and make the formal accusation that the law requires.’

I tried to keep my voice completely unconcerned. ‘The boy was lent to me, however, and I make no such charge. Quintus Severus is wrong about the theft as well. Whoever killed the pauper stole his purse and took my servant too – which I hope to prove by producing both of them. But the decurion is right about the corpse. You’ll find it in my workshop, lying on the floor.’