The Price of Freedom

by Rosemary Rowe

  There was. ‘What did you first think when you read that note?’

  He was not expecting the enquiry and he thought before he spoke. ‘I could not believe what I was seeing, citizen. I’d no idea my master had been gambling. He always said he disapproved of it. And as for using the money from the tax – he must have been quite desperate, though I don’t know why.’ He stopped and peered at me. ‘You’re looking sceptical. You don’t think this was a gambling debt at all? Yet it involved a lot of money – I saw him counting it. Do you suppose that somebody was forcing him to pay for something else?’ A look of sudden comprehension crossed his face. ‘To ensure their silence? About some discrepancy in the accounts, perhaps? Now that, I could understand more easily. Master cared about his reputation very much – and if he’d made some terrible mistake …’

  ‘Blackmail?’ I exclaimed. The thought had not occurred to me, and I was tempted to wonder if the steward might be right. But only for a moment. ‘An interesting theory,’ I told him with a smile, ‘and it shows you are a man of some intelligence. And loyalty, as well, since it does not occur to you that he had really been misappropriating funds?’

  ‘My master?’ Loftus looked appalled. ‘I could not begin to imagine such a thing. But an error – possibly. He was very meticulous, of course, always used an abacus to double-check, but everyone is human. And if someone found it out and threatened to announce it publicly …’ He tailed off again. ‘He had private funds, of course, and I’m sure he would have called on these at first – but I hear these people keep on raising the amounts they ask. In that case I could even imagine him borrowing from the tax, or even gambling to accrue enough to pay. Then, since he could not produce the money when required, he took the only honourable route! You think that’s what happened?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. I think that we are dealing with a clever robbery. I don’t believe he killed himself at all.’

  Loftus was so incredulous he sank down on the corner of the desk. But after a moment he firmly shook his head. ‘But of course he did – I found him hanging there. And he left that note. It was his writing-tablet, I’m quite sure of that – it was a special one he used for official purposes.’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘Forgive me citizen, I should not have sat while you are standing – but you startled me.’

  I waved the apology aside. ‘It’s of no importance. But this question is. Was it his writing? You could swear to that? I saw the writing-tablet in my patron’s house – and the words are scratched into the wax in an untidy scrawl. I would have expected Acacius Flauccus to write a standard military hand.’

  Loftus stared at me a moment and then shook his hairless head. ‘He did. Though I agree, you could hardly tell that from the note. I supposed that emotion had taken hold of him. It was most unlike my master to write untidily – but anything might happen if you’re going to hang yourself! But now you make me question it …’ He paused. ‘You don’t believe he wrote it?’

  ‘I am becoming ever more certain of that fact.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘Loftus,’ I said gently. ‘That is your master lying there. He was a little man, shorter than you are by a hand’s breath, if not two. Yet you tell me that, when you found him hanging from the beam, you could not reach the noose. Not even by standing on the stool?’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly, citizen. Nor from the desk, it was too far away.’

  ‘But if you could not move the desk alone, he certainly could not – he was aging and had recently been ill. He couldn’t have pushed it, single-handedly, to underneath the beam, let alone have shoved it back into its place again – using his feet presumably – once he had the rope attached. The stool, as I glimpsed it in the doorman’s waiting cell, is simply far too low. And there is no other furniture. So can you tell me how he could have contrived to reach that beam at all – far less secure a cord to it and hang himself?’

  FOURTEEN

  There was a long, long silence, then Loftus raised his head. ‘So you believe that someone put a noose around his neck, then lifted and suspended him by force?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe that force would be required. I think your master was already dead – strangled from behind, with the same cord, I think. Something silken, judging by the mark around his neck. Do you know what became of the ligature, in fact?’

  The steward made a face. ‘I think the soldiers took it when they took the writing-block. They took the stylus and the coffer-box as well – and several other things. I think that they intend to use them as evidence. The tesserarius means to charge me with withholding information about illicit gambling, and assisting my master with evading debts and effecting an illegal death. That would have seen me sentenced to the mines. Now he will change the charge to murder, I suppose – so there’s no longer any hope for so merciful a fate. But I didn’t kill my master, citizen.’ His voice was breaking with terror as he spoke.

  ‘I am quite sure you didn’t,’ I assured him. ‘And, since you have witnesses – both to your presence at the slave market and to the stiffening of the corpse when you returned – I think it can be proved. But someone did. Two people probably – since it’s almost certain that the desk was moved to hoist him into place.’ I saw that he was close to tears of relief and gratitude, so I added quickly, ‘Now, you asked if you could see him – this is the time, perhaps. Lift the cloth and look closely at the marks around his neck. The lower one is not at the right angle for a noose. And I believe that there are vestiges of blood beneath his fingernails, but not from scratches inflicted on himself.’

  Loftus said nothing more, but knelt beside his master on the floor and reverently moved the shrouding from the face. He shuddered for a moment at that discoloured skin, then bowed and muttered something to his gods. I left him for a moment to pay his last respects before I murmured gently, ‘Do you see the marks I spoke of?’

  He nodded but he did not turn to look at me. ‘Did someone call his name aloud, as he would have wished, to ensure his spirit was entirely gone? And hasn’t there been anyone to keep up a lament? Or does the tesserarius actually hope my master’s spirit will return and haunt the place?’

  ‘I’m sure the funeral women have done what is required,’ I said, evading his question. ‘The tesserarius himself arranged for them to come and I think he would insist on at least the minimum, for the sake of decency.’

  ‘Then why have they left him in a tunic, like a common tradesman?’ Loftus demanded, sitting back on his heels to look up at me. ‘Why not his toga as befits his rank? He was no patrician, but he was a citizen.’

  That was a sensible question. I should have thought of it myself. A corpse is always dressed in its best finery for the journey to its last resting place. Of course, all the arrangements here were most unusual, insofar as Flauccus’s goods were forfeit, so he could not pay for the funerary rites himself, but you would expect the toga. There was to be a proper ceremony at public expense, because he’d been a government official, and anything else would be an affront to the state. (Though only a small cremation, like the humblest private one – so perhaps he was lucky he was dressed at all, and had not simply been thrown into the pit for common criminals. It may have been my patron’s interest in the case which had prevented that.) I didn’t say any of this to Loftus, naturally.

  ‘Did he have a toga with him? He hadn’t sent it on ahead?’

  He shook his bizarrely shaven head. ‘He had his best one waiting on the desk when I left to go and sell the slaves. I folded it and left it in readiness myself. He was on official business – he would have wanted it. I suppose the soldiers took it, with the other things.’

  ‘I’ll mention it to the tesserarius,’ I said. I had plans to ask him about several things, in fact. ‘I promised he could have the body later, to dispose of it. He has planned a funeral pyre. Do you wish me to ask him if you can attend?’

  Loftus gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He would not permit that for a moment, citizen. It is merely your warrant that has
allowed me out at all. The man is simply waiting to lock me up again.’

  ‘Then I fear that he’ll be disappointed,’ I replied. ‘This is demonstrably a murder, so matters are entirely different now. For one thing, your master’s legacies will stand, so you won’t be automatically forfeit to the state. Indeed, when the will is found and proved before the witnesses you should have your freedom after all.’

  He looked at me, hope springing in his eyes.

  ‘And secondly,’ I said, ‘I have a task for you. I wish you to return to Glevum with the gig and report to my patron, Marcus Septimus – telling him what my conclusions are – after your master’s funeral, of course. In the meantime, do you wish to start your own lament? I will try not to interrupt you, if you do, but I’d like to continue searching for the will.’ I saw his startled look and added hastily, ‘I’m sure your master’s spirit will understand the need.’

  Loftus sighed. He plucked a sprig of hyssop from the folds around the corpse and placed it carefully upon his master’s breast, then gently covered up the body again. He rose, still painfully, and turned to look at me. ‘To restart the lament, once it’s been interrupted for so long, would be more likely to disturb his spirit than to flatter it. The mourners will beat their breasts and wail when they move the bier. I can lament him then. In the meantime, I will assist you in your search. But, citizen, I do not have much hope. I suspect my master left the will in Glevum with the authorities, for fear that he would not survive the journey back. I told you that he was already feeling ill. But if it is here, there is only one place it could be.’ He gestured to the desk. The realisation that his master had not killed himself had altered everything – and now he was clearly anxious to assist. ‘If you could help me move this further from the wall …?’

  It was as heavy as he had suggested it would be, almost too heavy for the pair of us, and I almost shouted to the soldier to assist. Then I remembered that Victor was outside in the gig. I had almost forgotten that he was waiting there with Trinculus, but I sent the guard out for him and he soon came hurrying.

  ‘You called me, citizen? I’ve left that young soldier outside to hold the horse.’ He spoke with courtesy, trying to appear unworried by the corpse, but could not stop casting uneasy looks at it.

  I explained why he was needed, and he gave a little nod. ‘Would it be best to move the body, first?’ he enquired, nervously. ‘I should not like to treat the dead with disrespect, by knocking him or treading on him while we move the furniture.’

  I glanced at Loftus who indicated that – although unwillingly – he accepted this. ‘Then let us put the bier into the atrium before we start,’ I said. ‘It’s the honourable place to leave a corpse.’ And where he should have been in any case, since he did not kill himself, I thought, but did not voice the words. ‘We’ll slide him gently through, and strew him with the herbs and flowers again.’

  Victor nodded and between them he and Loftus eased the bier into the atrium-cum-waiting room, moving it with care (so as not to deposit the contents on the floor, which would have been a dreadful augury!) and making sure that it was lying with its feet towards the door so that the spirit could escape – though Flauccus’s had departed long ago.

  This done, and with the three of us to help, it was the work of a few moments to move the desk from the corner and reveal the shelves behind. They were manifestly empty.

  I was disappointed. ‘Never mind. It was essential to look …’ I saw the expression on the steward’s face, and stopped. ‘There is a hiding place? Concealed at the back?’

  Loftus gave the vestige of a smile. ‘Not in the desk, itself – my master would not have been able to move it out unaided, to reach the strongbox when he wanted to. But it has a part to play.’ He ran his hand along the side of it, and removed a strip of bronze that I’d supposed was part of the design. Removed, it proved to be intricately shaped, tapered and finished with a foot-shaped end, set at an angle and with several slots in it. As we watched, the steward slipped the wider end into a gap between the shelves and moved it sharply downwards.

  There was a scraping noise as though a bolt had been released, and half of the bookshelves swung outwards and away, revealing what looked like a large cupboard set into the wall. It was closed and obviously locked.

  Loftus grinned at our astonishment. His nervous manner had now disappeared – this was clearly the information he’d been withholding earlier. ‘Another of my master’s personal designs, which he had completed when the desk was made,’ he confided with a smile. ‘Though only the carpenters were supposed to know and they were sworn to secrecy on pain of dreadful death. That’s why he brought them here from far away, kept them in the room until the job was done, then packed them off again, though I believe he paid them very handsomely. It was some time before he confided this hiding place to me, but when he started to feel ill, he did, saying that if he died I was to see to everything and that he wanted me to know where this was, just in case. So if I can remember how to operate this key …’

  This time it was the shaped end that he slid into the lock, which had clearly been made to accommodate the shaft. He wriggled it a moment and there was a distant click as the pins which held the inner bolt were raised out of the way, permitting him to move it sideways and so unlock the door. I have heard of clever Roman keys like this, but never seen one used, and was intrigued to find that the mortice piece – held in its new place by springs and pins – became a handle by which Loftus pulled the door ajar.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ he murmured. ‘No will here, I fear. Though there are still these other things …’ He opened the compartment fully as he spoke.

  There were ‘other things’ indeed. Several gold statues, piles of silver plates, more items wrapped in linen and stored in narrow crates, and at least a dozen bulging leather bags which rattled with the chink of coins at his touch. A little fortune neatly packed to take away. I stared at Loftus.

  ‘My master’s private treasure,’ he told me, with some pride. ‘Enough to complete the purchase of the villa that he’d contracted for – and to pay for the bathhouse I spoke to you about. Obviously he was going to take it when he left.’

  This explained why there might not have been sufficient room, even for a tiny little stool, I realised – and more than sufficient to repay the missing tax! And it would all be left to Glevum, when the will was read – so no doubt the curia could find a legal ambiguity which would allow them to use it to make up the deficit. Marcus would be relieved and – though the thieves, at this distance, were unlikely to be found – would regard himself as justified in having sent me here. A relief to me, as well – since I could now decently relax, move on to Abonae and enjoy a wedding feast.

  I turned to Victor. ‘You’d better relieve young Trinculus, and have him fetch the tesserarius from the bridge. He ought to witness this. Tell him we have proof that Flauccus was not a suicide – no one hangs himself, despairing of a debt, when he has a treasure hidden twenty paces from the spot. And there are other signs besides, which I will show him when he comes.’ Victor nodded, and hurried out while I turned to the steward with a smile. ‘Meantime, Loftus, I would like to see the stable block.’

  Loftus looked astonished. ‘But there’s nothing there. I explained that, citizen.’

  ‘All the same,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see the place. It’s central to another puzzle which I’d like to solve, though it is not of great importance any more. Your master clearly did not sell the travelling carriage and the horse in part payment of a debt – as I was at first half-ready to believe – so someone must have taken it and driven it away. And he had not sold the slave who usually drove, you say?’

  Loftus shook his head. ‘He was intending to buy a different driver when he got to Glevum, I believe. He even made an offer, but heard nothing more. But it was always planned that Aureax would drive him there.’

  ‘So what became of him?’

  Loftus looked at me, alarmed. ‘You are not suggesting that
Aureax killed our master – or was involved in robbing him?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that, citizen. He had not been with Acacius Flauccus very long but he was happy here.’

  ‘Happy?’ I echoed, wondering if the recency was significant.

  ‘Pleased with the prestige. I heard him only recently in the servant’s hall – when some visiting page was bragging of his horse – boasting that he drove the finest equipage for miles and was treated with respect by all the army guards, even at the toll posts where he was recognised. Not that he could have been involved in this – he was very slight, even shorter than my master, and hardly built for struggle and exertion, beyond what’s called for in dealing with the horse. Though Aureax knew exactly how to handle her – it did not call for strength.’

  ‘Just the one horse?’ I enquired.

  Loftus nodded. ‘Just one nowadays, though it was very strong. My master used to keep another he could ride, but since he had that fever he got rid of that and used the coach to take him everywhere. He kept it single-rigged and did not mind that it was slow. Aureux was very proud of that, in fact. Used to say that it was a tribute to his skill, to manage a big coach with just a single horse.’

  ‘You’re talking of him in the past,’ I pointed out. ‘Almost as though you think that he is dead.’

  Loftus shook his head. ‘I hope not, citizen – when I thought this was a matter of a gambling debt, I assumed he was simply sent off on a false errand to get him out of town. Let’s pray that’s still the case. Otherwise …’ But he was already leading me out of the atrium, and through the inner door into the narrow court.