Like stags, I thought suddenly.
And the herd was watching now, waiting for the heads to lower, the imaginary antlers to lock.
It was Marcus who moved first. ‘Tigidius Perennis Felix,’ he said, his voice poisonous with charm, ‘we meet again. An unexpected . . . honour.’ There was a deliberate pause before the final word.
Felix smiled. If this was a sample, I thought, on the whole I preferred the scowl. ‘Marcus Aurelius Septimus. It is good of you to travel so far. Greetings on behalf of the Emperor, and of your esteemed mother.’ I saw Marcus stiffen. ‘I trust I have not curtailed your . . . ah . . . business in Corinium too much.’
He said it with a leering smile. Obviously Felix must know by now what the ‘business’ had been. But Marcus was equal to it.
‘On the contrary, Perennis Felix, my business in Corinium has reached a most satisfactory conclusion.’
Felix gave a lecherous laugh. ‘Splendid.’ He stepped forward and clapped my patron on the shoulder. ‘Come then, let us take our places. The chief priest is waiting to make the sacrifices.’
Almost as though it were a signal, there was a little movement among the watching company, a visible lessening of tension. The murmur of conversation began again, and the slaves recommenced their progress with the serving baskets.
But the noise was still subdued. Over the hubbub, Felix’s voice could be distinctly heard. ‘I have reserved a place for you beside me. There are important matters that I wish to discuss with you.’
I saw the flush rise to my patron’s face. I could see why. Marcus reclined at the top table by right, and usually – unless he was dining with the governor – in pride of place. The suggestion that he owed his place to Felix’s patronage was deliberately insulting. But he held his tongue. The first skirmish, it seemed, had gone to Felix.
But Felix had not finished. He placed his hand familiarly on Marcus’s elbow, and murmured something into his ear. I saw Marcus pull away angrily.
‘On no account!’ He spoke so loudly that people turned towards him, and there were one or two raised eyebrows and titters, hastily suppressed. I wondered what unsavoury proposition Felix had made. Whatever it was, my patron was having none of it.
Felix had turned the same colour as his edges, but he said smoothly, ‘No matter. We will talk of this again. For now, let us begin the feast. Besides, there is someone I wish you to meet. A bit of a barbarian, certainly, but a very influential man. He comes from the wildlands on the south-western margins of this island, but he runs the biggest tin and copper operation in the province. He produces some of the finest bronze in the whole Empire. Everything from weapons to jewellery. I have dealt with him before, through a bronze-trader, but the prices are extortionate.’ Felix gave his disagreeable smile. ‘So I will see what kind of bargain I can strike. That is one of the chief reasons why I have come to this benighted country.’
He gestured towards a man whom somehow I had not noticed before, perhaps because he was half hidden from my sight by a partition. He was conspicuous enough, in all conscience, here in this roomful of togaed officials – red-headed, flamboyant in Celtic plaid and a long Celtic moustache – yet somehow I had not seen him there, leaning quietly against a pillar with his back towards us, watching the musicians.
Felix led Marcus towards him, saying loudly, ‘He will join us at my table. Unattractive, perhaps, while one is dining. The fellow speaks barbarous Latin, and insists on diluting his wine so much that it is scarcely wine at all, but one has to humour these people. I have had to send for extra water for him. His name is Egobarbus.’
As he spoke I craned forward to catch a better glimpse of the man that he had indicated. And gasped aloud. ‘Dear gods.’
It was unfortunate, perhaps. Few people, seeing a scruffy Roman citizen in Glevum, would remember that I was once a freeborn prince among my own people, and that the wealthiest men of my homelands were at one time well known to me.
But it was so. I had met Egobarbus, or Andregoranabalus as he was properly called. His father then was the fabled owner of those mines of pure tin and copper on which the armourers of Rome depended for their bronze – a striking man, tall, red-headed, unpredictable, with a quick temper, a sharp mind, a foul mouth and a stout heart. I rather liked him, though he would make a ruthless enemy, and I had often dined at his table.
The son I had loathed on sight. He was the only child, and so petted and pampered by the womenfolk that he had come to think of himself as a kind of human Rome – the centre of the known universe. He had inherited his father’s ginger hair and quick temper, but allied to it a temperament so casually cruel and self-absorbed that even the trading Romans – despairing of ever pronouncing his Celtic name – had nicknamed him ‘Egobarbus’, ‘I the beard’, in honour of his spectacular facial hair. He had long since shaved off the youthful beard and adopted the long drooping moustache of the Celtic nobleman, but the name had stuck.
The last time I saw him he was whipping a helpless puppy for daring to bark in his presence. He was bigger than I was in those days, but all the same I had distinguished myself by seizing the lash from his hand and turning it on himself. It had caused a rift between our households, and it was twenty years since we had met, but I would have recognised him anywhere. As doubtless he would know me.
That was what had caused my exclamation. For this was not the man.
Chapter Five
I had no time, however, to warn Marcus. Felix and his party were already taking their places at the top table, and submitting to having their feet washed by the servants (a custom which has always perplexed me – I suppose it keeps the dining couches clean, but we Celts prefer to rinse our face and fingers before we dine). The rest of the company naturally followed suit.
I was allocated, as I expected, a stool near the rear wall, together with a stout citizen trader, who looked from me to Marcus, sighed, and carefully ignored me for the rest of the evening. We were joined at last by a sallow young man who arrived, breathless and panting, just as the chief priest from the Temple of Jupiter – a skinny old goat with a wavering voice which could scarcely be heard from where we were – was muttering his way through the ritual oblations and we all, finally, sat down to dine.
It was, of course, impossible to communicate with Marcus, or to hear any part of what was being said at his table. Not that there seemed to be much to overhear. Marcus was clearly still startled and affronted after his outburst earlier, and was listening with exaggerated interest to the aged magistrate on his right. Since this was Gaius Flavius, the dispossessed owner of the house we were dining in, I lost interest. I guessed that Marcus was enduring a prolonged lamentation on the topic of dogs and how they had been banished from the dining room.
After a while, Felix turned away with a dismissive gesture, and began a muted discussion with the supposed Egobarbus, who did not seem particularly delighted at the attention. In fact he was looking decidedly ill at ease, shifting awkwardly on the couch and looking doubtfully at the Latin delicacies placed before him.
I looked again at Egobarbus and wondered idly who his barber was. I had once had a moustache like that – though not half so luxurious – so I knew how much it cost in wax and constant trimming to keep it in that flamboyant state. Egobarbus seemed aware of it. He kept dabbing his moustache nervously with his napkin, and glancing doubtfully at Felix. I wondered if Felix was propositioning him.
However, there was nothing to be learned at this distance, and I turned my attention to the meal. It was more than welcome after a long day spent jolting in carriages, with only bread, apples and honeyed dates to sustain me. The food, even such of it as reached the stool-sitters, was excellent – ducks’ eggs and partridge breast, stuffed pork and lovage – while the gilded birds, roast stuffed piglets and exotic cakes which were carried to the main tables were triumphant proof of what the finest cooks in Glevum could produce, without warning, in a day. As Marcus had told me, each magistrate had contributed some delicacy from his own k
itchen.
Even so Felix seemed dissatisfied. He spurned the pork, the hare, the swans, and merely picked discontentedly at the more expensive imported delicacies, like olives, dormice and rabbit, though these dishes he mostly commandeered for himself. Gaius was looking grieved – doubtless these costly luxuries had been appropriated from his larder.
Personally, I made a splendid meal, unspoiled by fermented fish entrails since – being at the lowliest table – I could refuse that revolting Roman sauce with impunity. Marcus, from what I could see of him, also ate heartily.
From time to time, as usual on these occasions, the courses were interspersed with speeches as we rinsed our fingers in the bowls of water brought by the slaves. Then after the honeyed apricots and pepper – which were delicious – a local poet rose to his feet and recited, at excruciating length, an ode of welcome which he had written in Felix’s honour – a piece of such unutterable banality that one felt the author must have expended more time in the final performance than he ever spent on the composition.
At last, however, he paused to draw breath, and the rest of his recitation was instantly drowned out by such sustained and deafening applause that he finally withdrew – no doubt holding a very good opinion of himself and his talents. The way was thus opened for the other entertainments and the wine, which the servants were already pouring through filters and mixing with water ready to serve into drinking cups. I caught the eye of the sallow young man opposite, and we exchanged grins of sympathy.
More than sympathy, when I came to look at him closely. It was nearer empathy. The boy looked as out of place here as I was, his hair thinning prematurely, his hands as work-roughened as my own and his toga no better quality than mine, either. And yet he was clearly a proper Roman, not just a Roman citizen, but a man from Rome: not only was his face unfamiliar, but when he spoke to the servants he used the clipped accents and stilted Latin characteristic of the Imperial City.
His name was Silvanus Flavius Octavius, he told me, and he was a tile-maker. That explained the toga – in Rome, tradesmen are often citizens, since any freeman born within the city walls has automatic right to that coveted status. But what had brought him here?
He seemed alarmed by the question, and the sallow face flushed. ‘Oh, business, business,’ he said vaguely. ‘Making contact with your tile factory in Glevum.’ He turned the conversation to mosaics, in which he had – or feigned – a professional interest.
Visiting the local factory? That was of course possible; Glevum is famous for its tiles. I was asking myself with some interest what, in that case, he was doing at Felix’s banquet, when there was a sudden unscheduled change in proceedings, and I forgot my curiosity for a while.
There was a stir at the top table and Marcus rose to his feet. That was unexpected but not unprecedented. Rhetoric is highly prized among Romans, and an impromptu speech by some would-be orator is a possible hazard at any official function. But I had never seen Marcus do it.
He held up his hand for silence, and the diners – who had been looking forward, finally, to the appearance of the musicians and dancing girls – unwillingly settled back to listen.
Marcus was brief. ‘Citizens, welcome on this auspicious occasion. I will not keep you long.’ (Muted cheers and a little laughter.) ‘I speak only to tell you that tonight there is a double cause for celebration. Not only is Perennis Felix with us, but my business in Corinium is finally completed.’ (A little puzzled laughter.) ‘Yes, gentlemen, I recently concluded a contract with Julia Delicta, in due form before a magistrate, and I am delighted to report that I am now a married man.’
At this there was such an outburst of cheering that – like the poet – he was for a moment unable to continue. Only two men present did not join the applause. One was Perennis Felix, whose cheeks had turned first scarlet and then white, as though someone had slapped him. The other was the sallow youth.
He stared at me for a moment, then said, as if I might understand, ‘Phyllidia! Then everything is not lost.’
He set down his goblet, and before I could stop him he had bolted from the room. The other diners carefully paid no attention, either to him or to me. Perhaps they thought it beneath their dignity: Octavius and I had already flouted convention by vulgarly discussing trade at the table. More likely they were simply being meticulously polite. It is not uncommon in fashionable circles for a man to desert his couch at dinner, usually to tickle his throat with a feather and thus make room for more. Indeed, in Rome vomitoria are often provided for the purpose. It is not, however, considered well mannered to notice this, and other guests merely go on talking about philosophy until the missing man returns.
Octavius, however, did not return.
I was curious, so curious that I might almost have followed him, but Marcus was looking in my direction. Felix, I noted, had managed to recollect himself and was joining in the enthusiastic tumult occasioned by Marcus’s announcing, as he sat down, that he was sending out for an additional celebratory amphora of wine to be served at every table.
Now it was Felix who rose to speak.
‘Citizens of Glevum,’ he said, speaking the words as if they tasted of bad fish, ‘I thank you for your welcome. I am, I confess, a little disappointed by the news. I had hoped to arrange a match between Marcus Septimus and my own daughter. Indeed, she is at this moment travelling to the Insula Britannia on that very account. However, since my dearest dream is now impossible, I can only ask you to raise your drinking vessels and hope the young man is as happy in his choice as he deserves to be.’
It sounded more threat than congratulation, but the assembled company was very willing to drink, especially at someone else’s expense. Only Marcus did not charge his drinking cup, but raised it in acknowledgement. Felix sat down to scattered applause, and then the entertainment really began. Starting with the acrobat, naturally.
He was good, so good that Felix had him come back again after the dancing girls and give a second performance. And again after the musicians. Marcus’s wine had arrived by this time, so much of it that it had to be carried in by servants of every kind – I even noticed Zetso among them, murmuring to his master – and the mood of the party was becoming hilarious.
The acrobat, having exhausted his repertoire, was resorting to tricks amongst the tables, balancing a goblet of wine on his forehead and curving himself slowly backwards until he rested on his hands and feet like a spider, and raising himself again without spilling a single drop. The whole audience laughed and cheered, Felix most of all. The acrobat flung himself into the air, somersaulted twice, and, landing lightly on his hands, walked upside down between the tables.
One of the guests seized a bowl of nuts and dates from the slave who was carrying them, and balanced it upon the upturned feet. The acrobat, still on his hands, danced over to the high table and, bending his elbows and knees, effectively presented the bowl to Felix to select from.
Felix was visibly enraptured. His swarthy face was flushed, his breathing fast, his tongue flicking out to lick his fleshy lips. He stood up, leaned forward and selected a nut, and slipped it into his mouth. He moved to take another, but the acrobat sinuously twisted his body and moved the bowl out of reach. There was a roar of approval.
Felix, flattered but sensing that he was being mocked, pushed aside the table and lunged after him, snatching a handful of nuts and holding them triumphantly. There were more cheers, and then the acrobat straightened his limbs and danced provocatively away, to tumultuous applause. In the centre of the room he flicked the bowl upwards with his feet, twisted himself upright and caught the bowl again, all in one fluid movement. The audience went wild with frenzy.
The acrobat turned back, to bow towards the top table . . . and stopped. Something was happening to Felix. He appeared to be choking. He was leaning on the end of the dining couch clutching his throat, coughing, gasping, spluttering, his face scarlet and his eyes bulging. Presumably he had swallowed one of the nuts. With all eyes on the performance no
one had noticed his predicament.
Even now there was a moment of horrified inaction, and then, suddenly, everything was happening at once. Egobarbus, or whoever he was, strode over and began to thump Felix helpfully on the back. Slaves rushed forward with goblets of water and wine, someone else tried to force a piece of dry bread into his mouth. Even old Gaius reached into the recesses of his toga and offered a phial of a dubious-looking substance which he insisted was a specific against all ills, and had once saved his best bitch in similar circumstances. Only Marcus did not move. He stayed, reclining where he was, watching with a kind of horrified fascination while all around him surged forward with a dozen suggested remedies.
Felix, waving his hands helplessly, at first attempted to fight them off, but he was still spluttering and coughing and in the end, eyes streaming, he submitted to their attentions.
In vain. A crisis seemed to grip him. Gagging, gurgling, he clawed at the air a moment and then, with a terrible gasping groan, he pitched head forward onto the table, scattering everything to the floor. Meat, wine, water, dates and fragments of shattered bowls and pitchers joined the gnawed bones and debris already littering the tiles.
There was a terrified pause and then a dozen slaves rushed forward to lift the inert body to the dining couch. Someone suggested fetching their private physician, or the military doctor from the barracks. But we hardly needed the doctor to tell us what everyone in the room was aware of.
Perennis Felix was dead.
Chapter Six
Everyone reacted in different ways, as people do in a crisis.
Serving slaves froze where they stood, waiting for instructions. Guests withdrew into corners and whispered, or jostled forward to stare. No one doubted what had happened. The memory of that herald’s shattered body in the forum was uppermost in everybody’s mind and on everyone’s lips. The souls of the unburied dead are notoriously vindictive.
Murder in the Forum Page 5