‘Take a look,’ Crispinus ordered. ‘Take your time, and tell us what you think. The only witness is inside. Once you are done come to the praetorium. Then we can talk properly after you have had a chance to refresh yourself.’
Ferox opened the door, blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of a pair of oil lamps and his nose was assaulted by the reek. Waiting inside was the medicus, and a soldier sitting glumly on one of the wooden seats in the row to his right. It was never very comfortable sitting there unless you were using it. Presumably this was the witness. His shield and spear were propped beside him, and he was wearing a dark cloak, so he must have been on guard. Someone had brought in two coils of rope.
‘He’s in there.’ The medicus pointed to the row of seats along the opposite side of the block.
The row of seats was made up in sections, with three holes cut into a single frame of sanded and varnished wood, except at the corners where the board was angled to shape and each had only a single place. Each was hinged, so that it could be lifted and leaned back against the wall. There was space for fifteen men on either side of the long room, and in the centre two barrels of clean water, another overturned and empty, as well as a pile of fresh sponges, and a dirty trough where used sponges could be dipped before they were put into the buckets to be collected.
Ferox walked over to the middle of the left-hand row of seats. In the dim light it was hard to see much through the neat round holes in the wood. He leaned forward and almost gagged as the stench rose up to meet him. The darkness reminded him of the pool in his dream.
‘This was how you found him?’ He stood up and asked the question, as much to calm his stomach as anything else. He could not see anything definite through the seats, or smell anything apart from the overwhelming reek of filth, but it was clear there was a corpse down there.
‘So he says,’ the medicus answered when the soldier said nothing.
‘Well, boy?’ Ferox asked. The lad looked barely old enough to enlist. A lot of Batavians were like that, covered in freckles and so fair haired that they rarely needed to shave. ‘What happened?’
The young soldier sprang to his feet and stiffened to rigid attention, staring at a point a foot or so above Ferox’s head.
‘Sir!’ His voice cracked and the word came out as a squeak.
‘No need to be formal. Sit down and take off your helmet.’
‘Sir.’ The straps on the cheek pieces were already untied, so the soldier slipped off his bronze helmet and put it down beside him. One hand brushed the moss that was glued to the top to look like fur, a peculiarity of the Batavians.
‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Cocceius, sir.’
Ferox smiled. ‘So, named after an emperor, just like me. Your father was in the cohort?’
‘Yes, sir. In the century of Exomnius. He was discharged three years ago.’ After twenty-five years of service auxiliaries like the boy’s father were granted Roman citizenship for themselves, one wife and any children from the marriage.
‘And when you were old enough you joined up?’ A nod. ‘Didn’t fancy a legion?’
‘Legionaries.’ The lad brimmed over with all the contempt of his seventeen years. ‘I’ve shit ’em!’ He stopped, embarrassed and must have remembered that Ferox belonged to a legion. ‘Sorry, sir, didn’t mean no disrespect. Only ever wanted the Ninth, sir. It’s the best cohort in the army.’
‘I know, I’ve fought alongside you.’ Flattery rarely did any harm. He patted the lad on the shoulder. ‘Your folks still here?’ Some soldiers could never quite let go and settled in the vicus, the civil settlement outside their old base.
‘Nah, Mam and Dad took us home as soon as he was free. Got a nice patch of land and some prime cows.’
‘But you grew up with the cohort?’ Another nod. ‘Good, then you’re a veteran and I can talk to you man to man. When did you come down to the latrine?’
Even in the dim light Ferox saw the youth’s eyes flick from side to side just once. ‘Hard to say, sir,’ he began.
‘I do not care if you were on guard and nipped in here for a quick crap while no one was looking,’ Ferox said. Sentries were not supposed to leave their post for any reason. ‘It will be our secret, and I’ll make sure there is no charge. Tell me the truth. You were on the fourth watch?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cocceius licked his lips. ‘Had to go, sir, had to, so I came down. Wouldn’t have been gone long, I swear.’
‘So what happened?’
‘As I opened the door there was this scream from inside. Then this girl appeared. Must have been her screaming. She ran towards me. She was filthy, but her dress was all torn open, and they were out, her…’ The young soldier struggled for the right word.
‘“Tits” is the medical term,’ the doctor said from the far side of the room.
Cocceius laughed nervously. ‘They were out, bouncing everywhere. “They’ve killed him! They’ve killed him!’ she yelled at me, and tried to push past. I dropped my shield and spear and tried to grab her.’
‘I’ll bet.’ The medicus was obviously enjoying the story.
Ferox tried to ignore him. ‘Go on. She got away?’
‘Yes, sir. She was slippery. I tore her dress a bit more.’ Cocceius frowned, and when the medicus guffawed the furrows on his brow grew even deeper, worried that he should not have done that. ‘Didn’t mean to, sir.’
‘Then you’re a fool,’ the doctor muttered.
‘Accidents happen,’ Ferox said. ‘So you grapple, but she slips past and runs?’ Cocceius nodded fervently. ‘You didn’t follow.’
A shake of the head. ‘I really needed to go,’ the boy pleaded.
‘Must have slipped over the wall,’ the medicus cut in, serious at last. ‘When the sun came up they found an old dress torn to shreds hanging from the parapet. It stank, so must have been our girl’s.’
‘And?’ Ferox asked.
The doctor shrugged. ‘A patrol took a look around. No problem finding volunteers to search for a naked woman, of course, but no sign.’
‘Was she pretty?’ Ferox turned back to the young soldier.
‘Yes, sir.’ Cocceius tried to grin like a man of experience and only managed to look more boyish.
‘What did she look like?’
‘She was big, sir, really big.’ The boy winked.
‘Was she tall?’
‘I think so.’
‘What colour hair?’
‘Not sure, sir. Dark, maybe.’
‘How did she smell?’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind, only a thought. How old was she? Bit older than you?’ A slight nod. ‘Fine, so you let her run and then got to work yourself. Did you think about what she had said?’
‘Only when I was done. Then I took a look around and thought I saw something down in the drain over there. Then I ran and gave the alarm.’
‘As you should.’ Ferox patted the lad again. ‘Well done. Wait here in case I need to ask you some more questions.’ He crossed to the other side to join the doctor. ‘Give me a hand, will you?’ They reached down and together lifted a section of the wooden seats. It was stiff at first, then gave suddenly and banged against the wall. The one next to it moved easily. ‘You’ve already had a peek?’
‘Yes.’ They stared down, the medicus holding a lamp over the gaping hole. ‘Not pretty, is it?’ the doctor said. ‘Nasty way to go, swallowing shit.’
The dead man lay face down, his head almost buried in the dark piles of excrement. His tunic was hitched up around his hips so that his bare buttocks looked very pale and plump. He was short, but fat with heavy arms and legs.
‘Do we know who he is?’
The doctor sniffed. ‘Reckon it’s Narcissus from the procurator’s staff. Or was.’
Another imperial freedman, just like Vegetus, and the coincidences continued to pile up suspiciously. Ferox took off his cloak and boots because there did not seem much choice. ‘Get the ropes ready.’ He prised up
another of the stiff seats and clambered in, jumping down into the clinging and stinking contents, which came up to his calves. The stench became even worse. His first step took him deeper into the mire and he wondered whether his dream had been prophetic. Probably had a lot of business late in evening after men had eaten their classicum, the meal that came at the end of the day. This was one of four latrine blocks to serve the seven or eight hundred men and their families who were in the fort at the moment. Senior ranks had their own private facilities, but everyone else used these blocks, and the army diet of rough brown bread, vegetables and plenty of meat meant that they got a lot of use. Yet Narcissus was a guest of the prefect, so had no need to use this latrine unless he had a good reason, so why was he here?
Ferox went towards the body, steadying himself on the wall, when his foot slipped. Before noon a fatigue party – the men marked down as ad stercus on the duty roster – would come and make sure the drains were sluiced out thoroughly and give the place a clean. He would have expected the material to be harder by now, but it was like wet clay. That meant he was not the first down here. His foot brushed against something big and solid, and feeling about he discovered a belt with an open and empty pouch. The dead freedman’s dishevelled tunic suggested that his body had been searched thoroughly. His best guess at the moment was that the woman had come down here. Most likely she had taken off her dress, then afterwards used the water from the overturned barrel to clean up a bit. Ferox examined the side of the drain pit. He could reach the top easily, and guessed a moderately sized woman could grab them, even if she needed to jump. With a hold on the lip of the wall, it should not be too hard to clamber up unaided. If you could get your elbows over it – and he could do that readily – then anyone fit could get out in a moment.
The medicus peered down, ropes in hand. ‘Having fun?’
Might as well smile. ‘Omnes ad stercus,’ he called up, using one of the army’s oldest jokes. ‘Let me have the first one.’ He reached up for the rope. There was nothing more to learn, so they may as well get the corpse out and have a proper look. Ferox tied the end of the rope around the corpse’s legs, and then took another and lifted him so that he could run it under his armpits. By the time he was done, his tunic, arms and legs were smeared thickly with filth. It was hard to imagine being clean again. He jumped for the lip of the wall, could not grip properly, so wiped his hands as best he could on his tunic. The second time he got a firm grip, hooked his elbow over the top and scrambled up. The medicus had not offered a hand and Ferox could not blame the man.
With the help of Cocceius, they hauled the dead body up and laid him on his back on the earth floor. Ferox went to one of the barrels, and gestured to the others to help because it was almost full and very heavy. They tipped water onto the freedman, pouring some, stopping, then letting another wave clean him.
‘That will do,’ the medicus said, and began to examine him.
‘Well, the poor bugger did not choke to death,’ he announced after only a cursory glance. ‘That’s a mercy.’ He held up the front of the man’s tunic, poking his fingers through a tear in the stained wool. ‘Let’s have some more water. No, better yet, soak a sponge.’ Ferox did as instructed and then watched as the doctor half pulled, half dragged the tunic over the corpse’s head. Taking the sponge he washed the chest clean around a small but deep wound just underneath the ribcage. ‘Neat job.’
Ferox nodded, and was not surprised when after a thorough search the doctor declared that there were no other injuries. ‘Would have killed him instantly.’
‘A pugio?’
‘Maybe. Any sharp knife really. Whoever it was stood very close and knew what they were doing.’
‘A woman?’
The medicus snorted. ‘You didn’t know him, did you?’ He took the sponge and cleaned lower down on the body. ‘No women for this one. Not ever, I’d guess. They usually castrate them when they are young.’ He seemed genuinely moved. ‘Poor bastard. Hasn’t had much luck in life, has he?’
‘Have you ever met anyone on the procurator’s staff who was poor?’
‘Not much good if you can’t enjoy yourself.’ He sighed. ‘Anything else to do now?’
‘No, that is it for the moment. Have you got somewhere in the hospital where you can have him cleaned up and take another look?’
‘Aye. I’ll see to it. Doubt there’s anything more to see, but will do my best.’
‘I know,’ Ferox said. ‘Still, you know how it is when one of the emperor’s servants is involved. Everything by the book. There was a work party waiting when I got here, so you will have plenty of help.’ He went to the remaining barrel and washed his arms and as much as the rest of himself as he could. It was not much of an improvement and disturbing the filth only seemed to stir up the smell. ‘Cocceius.’
‘Sir.’
‘Am I right in thinking that you didn’t kill this man?’
‘Sir?’ The boy was genuinely puzzled. Like most auxiliaries these days, he did not carry a pugio. ‘Thought not. In that case you are dismissed. Get cleaned up and report to wherever you should be now.’
‘Sir!’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Am I in trouble, sir?’
Ferox grinned. ‘Shouldn’t think so. You might want to practise catching slippery ladies though!’
‘Yes, sir!’
After the soldier had gone Ferox had a thought. ‘Tell the fatigue party to search for any knives or daggers in here,’ he told the medicus. ‘Doubt they will find anything, but no harm in trying.’
‘Any theories?’
‘Typical Greek!’ Ferox chuckled.
‘I’m from Leptis Magna.’
‘Even worse, you Africans can actually think in a straight line! What do you reckon happened?’
‘Someone murdered him.’
Ferox slapped his forehead. ‘Eureka! Now I need a bath more than he ever did. I just hope the noble tribune has given the necessary orders.’
III
A bath was ready in the simple but private room maintained by the prefect and his wife in their house. Before he was permitted inside, Ferox was taken to the courtyard of the praetorium and instructed to dunk himself thoroughly in a tall and wide barrel filled with water. His mind, always prone to wandering away, thought of the story of the Hound, one of the great heroes claimed by his tribe and just about everyone else. The stories were almost the same apart from some of the names and the identity of the enemy wherever you went and he had even heard ones very similar told in Gaul. After one battle, where the Hound had gone into his battle frenzy and butchered hundreds of enemies, he returned to the stronghold still lusting after slaughter. Terrified that he would kill all the men he found, even his kin, they sent out bare-breasted women to meet him. Modestly, the young hero turned aside – a part of the story that had never made much sense – and while he was distracted the men grabbed him, and plunged him into three barrels of water. The first burst asunder, the second boiled, and the third merely bubbled as the frenzy left him.
The only woman in the courtyard was an elderly slave, fully clad and smirking as the centurion stripped off his tunic and climbed into the water. Philo waited impatiently with a fresh cloak and a pair of the wooden slippers worn in a bath-house. The prefect’s private bath did not have the heated floor, something impractical in a timber building, but when he reached the pool and shuddered as he lowered himself into the hot water, it was with an almost spiritual joy. Philo fussed, until Ferox sent him away, promising to let himself be shaved once he had finished. A hint that the boy was to make discreet enquiries among the other slaves and freedmen put a jauntiness in his step as he left. Philo dearly loved to be useful and thrived on gossip.
An hour later, clean shaven, dressed in his finest tunic, new breeches and best boots, Ferox was ushered in to a room Cerialis kept as an office. Only the prefect and tribune were there, which was surprising because normally the prefect’s cornicularius would keep a record of the meeting. After a few questions about his wo
und and his welfare they let him report. They appeared to have known or guessed much of it already, and the fact that the freedman had been stabbed rather than smothered made little real difference. It was murder either way.
‘Was it the woman?’ Crispinus asked once he had finished.
‘She may have killed him, but I very much doubt she could have heaved him down into the drain. He was well built, and a corpse is always awkward to handle. So either she had help or she got there after the real murderer had gone. The floor was too scuffed from soldiers’ boots for there to be any clear prints.’
‘Any idea when he was killed?’
‘Sometime during the night.’ Ferox doubted that the medicus would be able to make any better guess even after examining the corpse more carefully. ‘The body was no longer stiff, so he probably had been there a few hours. Hard to say any more than that.’
‘Indeed.’
Ferox could sense that both men were uncomfortable, even nervous, and some of that was surely because the dead man was no ordinary freed slave, but one of the emperor’s household and a servant of the procurator. The procurator of Britannia was an equestrian, just like Cerialis and several score other officers, officials and wealthy people in the province. Lucius Neratius Marcellus was the legatus Augusti pro praetore of Britannia, the supreme representative of the emperor in the province, a former consul and a distinguished member of the Senate. Yet the procurator was also the emperor’s man, charged with overseeing the finances in the area, from taxes to the revenue of imperial estates, and was in direct communication with the emperor. Friction between legates and procurators was not uncommon, especially under the more nervous emperors. Back in the days of Domitian, it was the procurator who had reported on the activities of Sallustius Lucullus, then legate in Britannia, accusing him of dangerous ambitions, and citing as evidence his naming a new pattern of lancea after himself. That episode ended in the legate’s execution. Even his bodyguard, who carried the offending javelins, had been formed into a special unit as a punishment and sent to Moesia on the Danube. What was written in the procurator’s confidential reports mattered a lot, even under the enlightened rule of Trajan.
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