The Legatus Mystery (13 page)

He was impatient to talk things over with me. ‘So, master, you have learned a lot today. You have discovered several motives for the murder of the Emperor’s ambassador. Optimus was a rival of Fabius Marcellus, and jealous of his advancement in the army – suppose that he had access to the temple, through Aurelia perhaps? She might well have helped him, too – it sounds as if she did not love her uncle, since he was instrumental in a marriage that she did not want to make. Perhaps she even encouraged Optimus? Or even killed the
legatus
herself?’ He broke off. ‘But I see that I am reasoning amiss. You look doubtful, master.’

I shook my head. ‘I can see why either Optimus or Aurelia would want to kill the legate. But I’m sure that body in the temple wasn’t Fabius. It seems more likely that it was a messenger. Why should anyone kill him? And more than that, where is the body now?’ I looked at him. ‘Go on downstairs and have your supper, Junio. You must be hungry and I want to think.’

My deliberations did me little good. I turned the problem over and over but no solution came. Perhaps Gwellia had gleaned some further information. I would ask her when she came – as my slave-cum-wife she consented always to lie beside me, and that part of life at least was sweet enough.

Downstairs I could hear her chiding Junio, and scrubbing the dish I had used with a handful of damp sand.

I turned over with a smile, and waited for my wife to come to bed.

Gwellia had nothing further to report, and though we talked till far into the night no inspiration visited my dreams. I rose early, breakfasted on the oatcakes and water which Gwellia had prepared for me the previous night, and – having loaded everything onto a handcart and thrown an old sack over it – I had set off with Junio for Optimus’s house before the sun was well over the horizon.

Even at this time of the morning the streets were already busy. We came upon a group of schoolboys, dragging their feet outside the building where the
paedogogus
had his rooms. They went in as they caught my glance, and through the open window space we could distinctly hear one of them swearing that the household dog had chewed his writing tablet, and the master roaring for the whipping-slave (who was still cowering outside the door) to come and take his master’s punishment.

Towards the centre of the town stall-holders and shopkeepers were opening shutters and setting out their wares, and as we turned towards the
macellum
– the area of market stalls behind the forum – we twice had to avoid sullen butcher-boys with staves, who were driving their animals down the narrow side streets. The air was alive with moos and baas and bleats, and we had to be very careful where we trod. (It didn’t deter the purchasers, however. As we followed one lad and his herd of scabby sheep to the fresh-meat market stall, the first customers of the day were already gathering.)

Apart from a laden donkey or two, and the occasional handcart like my own, the roadway was empty of waggons and carriages – wheeled transport is not permitted within the walls during the hours of daylight. Of course, it is a different matter after dark: the streets are full of creaking carts, and a ragged urchin was even now busy scraping up last night’s manure into a makeshift bucket, no doubt hoping to sell it somewhere for an
as
or two. We negotiated our handcart around him, through the carriage ruts, and it was still only about the first hour when we presented ourselves once again at Optimus’s house.

I was in my tunic this time, naturally, so no courteous delay awaited us. Strange what a difference the absence of a toga can make. No sooner had the doorkeeper admitted us than the Phrygian steward came bustling out to tell us how inconvenient it was going to be to have the entranceway repaired, and to inform us that we couldn’t leave the handcart there. He watched us sulkily as we unloaded it, and despatched Junio to ‘hide it’ in the stable at the back.

‘It ith ecthtremely awkward,’ he complained. ‘My mathter Optimuth hath important callerth – and if you’ve got the floor tileth up, I thuppoth we shall have to thend them around to the thervantth’ entranth! That’th undignified enough, without them falling over a trademan’th cart!’

I realised that this was a veiled rebuke, and a reminder that today I should have come in by the servants’ door myself, but I said nothing except, ‘We shall be as swift as possible. Even quicker if you have a slave or two who could help us lift the broken tiles – and I shall need clean water later on for the mortar, and to clean the surface when the new pattern has been laid.’

The Phrygian steward looked appalled – perhaps at the prospect of the household’s supplying some of the unskilled labour for the job – although it is not uncommon in my trade, especially when a household wants a pavement in a hurry. ‘I’ll thpeak to Honoriuth Optimuth,’ he said, with his most self-important air, and disappeared.

Junio had come back by this time, and was already on his knees with a sharp implement, removing the damaged border tiles. I set to work beside him. The pieces had been so poorly set that they lifted easily, and by the time a terrified little kitchen slave had arrived to help us – lugging a wooden pail of water that was half as big as he was – we had almost completed one side of the hall.

Junio showed him what to do, and I got out my wooden template and my measuring stick and began the work of making up the border to replace the edge we’d moved. It was a tricky business. The pre-formed pattern would fill most of it, but the piece had not been created for the space and the placement of it had to please the eye, before additional tiles could be arranged to fill in the remainder of the gap. But first the area must be prepared, and once the mortar layer was laid it was important to set the work in quickly, before the surface dried – preferably without having so much cement mixed up that the excess hardened in the bucket.

While I was busy with my calculations, someone struck the entrance bell outside. I was dimly aware of it, and of a murmured conversation, but I paid scant attention – remembering that Optimus was expecting ‘important callerth’ who had no doubt been duly directed to the rear entrance in the lane. Perhaps, in the light of that hooded visitor the night before, I should have been more alert, but I was so intent on centring my pattern that I noticed nothing, until a deliberate cough intruded on my consciousness.

I raised my head.

The Phrygian steward was at the inner doorway, his lips set in a disapproving line. ‘Your pardon, pavement-maker.’ There was something insolent about his tone. ‘I do not want to interrupt your work, but there ith thomeone here to talk to you. An urgent methage from your patron, it appearth.’

I got to my feet, wiping my dusty hands on my tunic. ‘A message? Here? From Marcus? What has happened now?’

The steward only shrugged and stood aside, and I went out to find the messenger.

He was waiting for me at the rear entrance, and was cloaked from head to foot against the rain, which had evidently begun to fall again. All the same, even at a distance I felt I’d seen the man before. As I approached, and he pushed back his hood to bow towards me, I realised who it was. ‘Why, you’re the temple slave who came to fetch us at the bath-house yesterday!’

He nodded.

‘Something is amiss?’ I asked. It looked as if there was.

He had been anxious yesterday, but he looked, if anything, still more anxious now. He was pale and seemed to be actually sweating as he said, ‘A thousand apologies, citizen pavement-maker, for disturbing you again. I was sent at first to His Excellence your patron, but he told me to come and find you here. You are to leave everything and come at once.’

That would please Optimus, I thought. But Marcus Aurelius Septimus took precedence over a mere pavement. There was no question but that I would have to go. ‘What’s happened now?’ I was already taking off my leather apron, and my mind was whirling like a donkey-mill.

The young slave ran his tongue around his lips and glanced about, as if afraid of being overheard. ‘You will see.’

‘Something at the temple?’

That nervous glance again.

I stopped, in the act of dusting off my knees. ‘Not the bod—’ I was about to say ‘the body of the legate’, but I caught the expression on his face, and was suddenly aware of the presence of the steward, still lurking silently behind me. I nodded, to show the temple slave I understood. If news of yesterday’s disaster had not yet reached the town, I had no desire to be the source of it. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Tell His Excellence that I’ll be there, as soon as I’ve had time to wash myself.’

The temple slave nodded, and left the way he’d come. I watched him for a moment, then swivelled round – thereby surprising the Phrygian steward, who was tiptoeing away, and trying to pretend he wasn’t.

‘You heard that,’ I said, to make it clear I knew that he’d been listening. ‘I am summoned to His Excellence, and need to make myself respectable. I have water waiting in the passageway.’ I began to lead the way towards it.

‘And what about my mathter’th pavement?’ he complained, trotting after me.

‘I will leave my slave to go on working while I’m gone. I have made the calculations, and he can manage here without me for an hour.’ I had no idea how long this errand would take me, but I thought that this might placate Optimus, should he arrive and start to ask for me. We were back at the passageway by now, where Junio and the kitchen slave had almost finished moving the damaged tiles. I left the kitchen slave to prise out the rest as I took Junio aside and gave him my instructions. I also told him where I was going, and why.

‘You think they’ve found the body, master?’ he murmured in an undertone, holding the water bucket for me as he spoke.

‘Something of the kind,’ I whispered back. ‘Let’s hope it isn’t something worse. The temple slave wouldn’t tell me any more, with the steward listening, although whatever it was seemed to have frightened him half out his wits.’

Junio bent closer, lifting the water, and taking the chance to murmur in my ear. ‘Perhaps, since you are summoned to the temple, this really is an opportunity sent us from the gods. That kitchen slave has had a dreadful time. He hates his master and the steward too. I think he might talk to me some more – I might even discover who that caller was. But he won’t say a word while you’re about – you are a master, so you frighten him. I’ll see what I can find out while you’re gone.’ He raised his voice. ‘Now, if you’re ready, master, to rinse your face?’

I nodded, and dipped my head into the water bucket. I came up spluttering, ran my fingers through my hair and eyebrows, and rubbed myself briskly in my cloak. It wasn’t perfect for attending Marcus and the temple, but I was as ready as I’d ever be.

‘I’ll come back as quickly as I can,’ I said to Junio, loudly enough this time for everyone to hear. ‘Mix up some mortar, and then you can lay out that pattern on the linen base. You’ll see I’ve marked the place where it should go. Do you think you can manage that?’

Junio gave me his wide, cheerful grin. ‘I should hope so, master. I’ve had the most exacting tutor in the Empire.’

I aimed a playful cuff at his ear, and left him to it, aware that the kitchen slave was gaping like a frog.

It was no great distance to the temple, even from the rear entrance of the house, but it was raining enough to make me very glad of the veranda over the entrance and the ambulatory. The temple slave was there to greet me, together with Trinunculus who seemed to have appointed himself my especial guide. In the distance I could see Meritus and his attendant priests all huddled together at the entrance to the Imperial shrine. Of Marcus and the pontifex there was no sign.

‘This is a dreadful business, citizen,’ Trinunculus said, with only the faintest sideways glance at my ungentlemanly attire. ‘It has caused quite a stir, I can assure you.’ He waited for me to wash my hands again in the sacred water bowl. ‘No doubt you know by now what’s happened here?’

‘You have found the corpse?’

Trinunculus looked startled and shook his head. ‘If only it were something so simple.’ He glanced towards the temple slave. ‘He didn’t tell you?’

The slave boy flushed, but he answered steadily enough. ‘There was someone listening. And the pontifex instructed me to say nothing at all . . .’

Trinunculus silenced him with a nod. ‘Very well. In that case, citizen,’ he said to me, ‘you’d better come and see things for yourself.’

All this secrecy was making me thoroughly uneasy, and as we crossed the courtyard I turned to Trinunculus for an explanation. I knew his love of gossip and he was clearly bursting to tell me, but something – perhaps the mention of the pontifex – had silenced him, and he resolutely said nothing until we had almost reached the entrance to the Imperial shrine.

‘There you are, citizen,’ Trinunculus said. ‘You can see it with your own eyes.’

He stood back, and I approached the shrine. Only one half of the screen door had been fully opened, and the little group at the entrance had to step back to let me in.

I am not normally a nervous man, but I confess that I was almost overcome by fear. Nobody spoke. Only Scribonius kept up a quiet sing-song chant – muttering charms and incantations, I realised, to keep the evil influences at bay. Meritus stood stock-still, like a human mountain, shaking his head as if in disbelief, while Hirsus had his hands pressed to his mouth and was gibbering faintly. By this time the hairs on my back were stirring with disquiet, and the palms of my hands were uncomfortably damp.

I swallowed hard, and peered into the religious gloom of the shrine. I was preparing myself for almost any horror: dismembered bodies, monsters, sacrilege. What I was not expecting was that – at first sight at least – everything in the temple seemed exactly as I’d left it.

I took a step forward.

‘There,’ Meritus murmured. ‘On the floor. We found it this morning when we first came to the shrine.’ He paused, swallowed and looked around, as if some malign presence might be listening, before he went on. ‘I think you know we washed it yesterday.’

I looked where he was pointing, and I felt my veins run cold. There on the shadowed tiles before the altar, in the self-same place where yesterday I had seen Hirsus kneel and soil his priestly robes, was the ominous, dark stain once more. And yet I had watched, with my own eyes, as a temple slave had knelt and scrubbed all trace of it away.