I nodded. ‘It would put a stop to rumour and unrest. I think His Excellence would approve. Some things remain to be resolved, but this is the funeral of an official, so soldiers will accompany the cortège – I do not foresee any difficulty there. Let the slave-boy close his mistress’s eyes and mourn her. There is no one else to do it. Unless . . .’ I looked at Fortunatus.
He looked away, and shook his head. The maidservant bowed her way out of the study, followed by the undertaker’s man. A moment later, from Fulvia’s room, there was the scent of burning herbs and the pageboy’s faltering voice began a heartfelt, sobbing lament.
‘Now, if you will pardon me,’ I said, ‘I will return to the governor. He will be awaiting my report, and there are matters on which he may wish to act.’ I looked from Annia Augusta to the floor, and saw her look of consternation. My surmises were correct, I thought. ‘Send my slave after me when he arrives.’
‘But,’ Lydia protested, after a moment’s pause, ‘I don’t understand. If there was no intruder at the feast, who was it who stabbed Fulvia again?’
‘You have just answered that question for yourself,’ I said. ‘I suspected it before, and now I’m sure. Annia Augusta knows the answer too – that’s why she’s raised no question of her own. You did it, Lydia. How else would you have known that she’d been stabbed? We told you Fulvia was dead, but no one mentioned knives.’
She pitched forward in a graceless faint. Fortunatus caught her before she hit the floor.
Chapter Twenty-six
‘Well, pavement-maker, welcome. Prepare him a place there, slave.’ Helvius Pertinax, resplendent in a coloured dining robe, gestured graciously to a triclinium couch. He helped himself from a tray of pork and leeks, which a small servant-boy was offering to him, and gestured capaciously to me to do the same. ‘A simple meal – I hope it meets your taste.’
I rose from my kneeling position and sank down on the proffered couch, glad of an opportunity to recline. I was exhausted, but damnably hungry, and Pertinax’s ‘simple meal’ smelled like ambrosia to me. In my old toga, bathed and shaved, I felt like a human being once again.
A long time later, the governor turned to me. ‘Glaucus has been captured, did you hear? Unfortunately, dead. The soldiers who arrested him had lost too much money on the chariots, I fear. They may have been a little over-exuberant.’ He held out a goblet to his serving-boy, who filled it to the brim with watered wine. ‘I hear you have done well today. And it was a domestic murder after all, not a political one. That news is doubly welcome.’
I had waited for this moment. Like any civilised Roman, Pertinax preferred philosophy to business as a topic of dinner conversation. Until the spiced fruits were cleared away, he had been discoursing learnedly on Homeric verse. Now, though, he had signalled he was ready. I outlined to him the events of the day.
He heard me out, gravely and courteously, nodding from time to time. When I had finished he said, ‘So Lydia betrayed herself, in the end.’
The servant filled my goblet in its turn. ‘I had my suspicions before then, but that slip about the stabbing confirmed them. I was sure that it was someone in the villa. The statue had not been pushed behind Monnius’ door, it had been propped up on the wooden bowl and pulled over by that cord. It was very top-heavy, so it was not hard to do, although it must have created quite a crash. She has described it to me since. She went into the passageway, shut the door as far she could, then pulled the cord behind her. She hoped it would come free as the statue fell, but it didn’t, so she stuffed the end back through the crack, and latched the door. The statue prevented anyone from entering the room, which was what she intended. She hoped to rescue the cord again before it was discovered, but if not it was Fulvia’s anyway, the girdle cord she always took off when she went to rest.’
Pertinax sipped his wine, and picked up a pickled nut. ‘So it was someone in the villa. But why were you so sure that it was Lydia?’
‘She went to Fulvia’s room, she told us that, with the potion she had prepared. A sleeping draught, of course, although she denied it later. Probably in the goblet rather than the flask, since she was so ready to drink from that herself before Annia Augusta stopped her – but in any case it would have done her little harm.’
Pertinax nodded. ‘She might even have smashed that drinking glass herself, to deflect suspicion. But it did not deflect you, my friend.’
I smiled under his praise, but honesty prompted me to add, ‘But who else could it have been, Excellence? All the slaves adored Fulvia, as we know. Fortunatus was not in the house. Annia Augusta was here with me when her daughter-in-law was killed, and Filius was sulking in his room. There was no one else. Lydia, of course, believed the story of the intruder and did not see the risk.’
‘So that is why she chose to use the knife? I wondered why she did not opt for poison. It seems an easier way, for a woman with her skills.’
‘She thought that poison would be traced to her, and she might have been blamed for Prisca’s death as well – although, as it turned out, she was wrong in that. If Fulvia had been poisoned like her maid, I might have believed she really had been at risk all along and that I was completely wrong in my suspicions. Then the truth might never have been discovered. But Lydia thought the story of the visitor was real.’
‘So she tried to draw your attention to that window?’
‘That was a mistake. Monnius’ shutters were slightly open, but she could not have known that, unless she opened them herself. By custom they should have been closed – and yet she mentioned the window-space specifically. And another thing. I knew that whoever stabbed Fulvia must have been covered with her blood. That pointed to Lydia as well. It was that, and not the sacrifice she offered, which spattered her clothes and made her cleanse herself. Of course, the breaking of the imago gave her an excellent excuse.’
He nodded. ‘There would have been a lot of blood.’
‘There was.’ Remembering that dreadful scene, I was glad of the glass of wine in my hand, although it is not my favourite drink. ‘Will she be tried for murder, Excellence?’
He shook his head. ‘Not unless one of the family brings a charge, and in any case Lydia could claim the law of talio, rightful retribution. Monnius was her protector and the father of her son. Fulvia murdered him, so she did have cause. It would be hard for any court to sentence her.’
‘Except, of course, she did not know that at the time.’
He gave one of his rare smiles. ‘So why did she do it? Jealousy?’
‘She was afraid that Fulvia would bring a querela against the changing of the will. Lydia kept talking about the courts. It did not occur to me at first, but the law requires seven witnesses. We know that Fortunatus was one of them – but he is not a citizen. He bought his freedom, true, but he has no voting rights. There would be cause for question in the courts, and you know what that can do to an estate.’
‘I see. Filius would inherit at least half, of course, since he is the eldest son, but if Fulvia got the town house, as she clearly thought she would, Lydia would find herself without a home. I don’t imagine Fulvia would welcome her.’
‘I think she did it for Filius, not herself. She claims it was for him, and I believe her. Half his inheritance was at stake – and his dignity. Fulvia took his rightful place in the procession, too. I think it was that, above all, which sealed her fate. I noticed that Lydia was holding herself oddly when she came out of Monnius’ room. Obviously, she was hiding the dagger under her cloak then – it was in Monnius’ room, but it was to be offered as part of the grave-goods so no one would have noticed it was missing. I suspected nothing at the time, and Lydia is so ungainly that her awkwardness was not remarkable.’
Pertinax popped another pickled nut into his mouth. ‘So she will claim talio. She will be banished from the town, at worst. But the family would be chased out anyway. People do not take kindly to a frumentarius who cheated them – and Annia Augusta was implicated too, you say?’
&nbs
p; ‘I’m sure of it, Excellence. I knew it as soon as I saw her with Eppaticus, though I was exceptionally slow in working it out. She was the one who started the alarm, you will remember, both for the money and the missing document. We know that Fulvia hid the money, and why, but that did not explain the document, nor why the money disappeared again.’
‘Annia Augusta found it, I assume?’
‘I led her to it, without meaning to. She found me on my knees, and when I had gone she discovered the hiding place herself. Then, when Eppaticus came back, she paid him what was owed. She admitted that. So why did she not simply tell me so? Why not restore the money to the estate? And why was there “no paper for the warehouse” as Eppaticus said? She must be hiding something – perhaps for Monnius, but he was dead. More likely for herself.’
Pertinax was watching me intently. ‘Go on.’
‘I began to see how pieces of the pattern linked together. Annia Augusta had a large estate, which she insisted on managing herself, through a steward, often against Monnius’ advice. It was “towards the sea”, you told me, which must mean to the east, because we drove to Londinium from the setting sun, and met no oceans on our way. But I learned from the warehouse I visited that there had been bad rainstorms in the east, and many harvests were ruined in their stacks.’
‘Including hers?’
‘That seems most probable. It was common knowledge in the household that Annia had scorned to use Monnius’ drying floors. Your boatman had the answer, Excellence. He complained of sacks of grain half rotting when the baker got them home, and I know how it was done. The chief clerk at the warehouse wearied me with his account of corn, but I am grateful now. Damp rye or barley can be mixed with spelt, which must be roasted before it’s threshed. The spelt is placed at each end of the sack and does not rot, although the poor grain in the middle sprouts and spoils. And the buyer cannot see it. Of course it is an easy matter, with the distribution chutes, to fill the sacks like that. And once the grain is sold, it is remarkably difficult to prove.’
Pertinax was frowning. ‘And what has Eppaticus to do with this? It was Annia’s corn.’
‘He bought the crop from Annia, and sold it back to Monnius. That way, if there were complaints, it could not be traced back to the family. It was a huge risk for Eppaticus, of course – you know the law. The bargain had to be settled in cash, and once the money had changed hands the owner of the corn was legally responsible. No wonder he panicked when Monnius was murdered before he paid.’
‘Yet he came back to the house a second time?’
‘He was desperate for the money to pay his gambling debts. Men like Glaucus are not patient with those who owe them money – especially large sums of it. He must have been delighted when Annia found the money and agreed to pay him – he was already down by the whole price of the transaction, since he was obliged to pay her in cash in the first place, to make the contract legal. But he was worried at not having a receipt, and no warehouse records. Without the documents he had no proof of anything.’
‘That was why Annia removed the documents? To see to it that he was still legally responsible?’
‘I don’t think so, Excellence. She was simply worried that any investigation into Monnius’ death – and the stolen cash – might bring to light the business of the corn. When the money went missing, she hid the documents. I have no doubt they’ll be found among her things. There was a lot of money at stake – it represented a whole season’s earnings for the farm. Of course, there was a profit for the warehouse too.’
Pertinax looked grim. ‘Buying half-rotten corn cheap, and selling it at the proper price – there was a little fortune to be made. The warehouse supervisor had to know, that’s clear, and he doubtless got his share of the profit. I shall have him arrested instantly. Odd that I have never heard complaints.’
‘There have been murmurs, Excellence. Of course, the army and the racing teams would always get the best, but the baker and his like can complain all they wish – nobody pays attention until there is a riot.’
‘But there are laws. Interfering with the corn supply is a serious crime.’
I grinned. ‘I know. The warehouse supervisor must have been terrified when we turned up and he had to show us round, though he avoided taking us to the particular grain loft in question. I did find damp rye and spelt grain mixed. I’m sure the system had been perfected many times. The only difference on this occasion was that the rotten corn was Annia’s own. No doubt, like any owner of a farm, she was glad to get any price at all for her worthless crop. Monnius saw that she did not lose, even though she had ignored his advice.’
Pertinax sighed. ‘Well, all those responsible will be charged at law. Eppaticus too. There will be heavy fines. Upsetting the supply of corn can destabilise the whole city.’
‘Poor Eppaticus! I doubt he ever saw the grain, although he stood to make a very neat profit by buying and selling it without asking too many questions. I don’t think he has even got anywhere to store it. That is what I sent Junio to confirm.’ I frowned. ‘What has happened to Junio, by the way? I saw him briefly when he first came back, but he went scuttling off again saying he had a mission to perform for you, and I haven’t seen him since. I hope nothing has happened to him?’
Pertinax smiled in earnest then – a warm, pleased smile that transformed his face. ‘He is a clever boy, that serving-lad of yours. When he checked the warehouse of Eppaticus he talked to the slaves and discovered something of great significance. He took it on himself to come and report his findings straight to me, and I have authorised him to go and act on my account.’
I found myself frowning. I would do much for Pertinax, but if he took a fancy to purchase my slave I would find it very hard to forgive him. Yet this must be something of the kind – a slave is not often empowered to act for the governor.
Pertinax seemed to read my thoughts. ‘Do not be alarmed, my friend. But it is clear that after your ordeal you are not well enough to accompany me to Eboracum, as I promised you, and with my new appointment overseas I cannot delay my visit there any longer. I am sorry to disappoint you. I wished to offer you some other reward, and Junio has made a good suggestion. There was something at Eppaticus’ warehouse that he thought you would particularly like. I have instructed him to purchase it for me. I believe he is in the palace with it now – although there is no obligation on you to accept. Would you care to see?’
My mind was racing. Inlaid cabinets and Samian ware? Such things were beautiful, but had no place in my humble workshop home. Perhaps there had been tiles or marble in the warehouse which I could use for pavements – that would be a valuable gift. I could trust Junio. I said, ‘I should be honoured, Excellence.’
He clapped his hands and sent a servant running. I took a sip of wine, and waited.
Not for long. Junio appeared at the door, his face a huge wide grin. And behind him . . . the glass slipped from my hand . . .
‘Gwellia!’
Chapter Twenty-seven
She was exactly as I remembered seeing her that last cruel time, when each of us was tethered to a cart, and for a few heartbreaking seconds I met her eyes and knew she was alive. Not the dark, lively beauty I had married but she still wrung my heart, though she was subdued and lined, bowed by a dreadful weariness.
I looked at her and saw the matching tears that welled up in her eyes.
‘Gwellia!’ I said again, in a voice that scarcely obeyed my will.
She looked from me to the governor, and seemed to hesitate. Then in a dreadful gesture of submission Gwellia came and knelt before me, bowing her head to the floor beneath my feet in the eternal sign of servitude. I do not think that I have ever seen a sadder thing.
‘Master?’ she said, and I thought my heart would break.
I took her by the hand and raised her up, but she evaded my eyes. I saw the tears on her lids. ‘You were one of the leftover slaves?’ I said gently. ‘One of the ones that Eppaticus had for sale?’
She
nodded, and then said in that beloved voice, from which all laughter had fled, ‘Few people want an older female slave – we are too frail to work, too old to breed.’
A glimpse of what those years of servitude had been for her almost broke my heart. How many children had she borne, I wondered. How many owners had pawed that lovely frame? ‘Oh, Gwellia,’ I sighed.
Pertinax looked at me anxiously. ‘The gift displeases you?’
I shook my head, almost incapable of speech. ‘These tears are pleasure, Mightiness,’ I managed at last and saw him smile with satisfaction.
It was the same that night, in the cubiculum. I called her to me. She came and stood beside the bed, silent and shivering, to await my next command. For a moment I caught her eyes – and saw, or thought I saw, the ghost of the old fire that once had sparked between us. Then it was gone, and she was once again a picture of obedient resignation, tinged, I saw, with fear.
‘It’s all right, Gwellia,’ I said softly. ‘Lie down.’
She took up station at my feet, as Junio did.
‘You are my wife,’ I said. She shook her head.
‘That was dissolved,’ she murmured brokenly. ‘I could not have borne the shame of my life else.’
She was right, of course. Once we were taken into slavery the marriage between us was not recognised in law.
‘But I have found you now,’ I urged.
The phantom of a smile touched her lips. ‘I am happy just to be your slave,’ she said. ‘They told me I was purchased for Libertus, but I did not know the name. What should I call you?’
The Chariots of Calyx Page 24