That would not have surprised me either. Decurions, especially in wealthy cities like Corinium, are not the most popular of citizens. True, they are voted into office, but since decurions are responsible for allocating contracts for public works and also for collecting taxes, they are often viewed with jaundiced eyes, especially by those who did not secure the contracts or who had to pay the tax. And, of course, by those who have not managed to become decurions.
‘Well,’ Marcus said, ‘there is some problem over his wife. She was a wealthy woman, apparently, and she left her former husband to marry Quintus. You know what these heiresses are like.’
I did indeed. A woman who leaves her husband, or is divorced from a free marriage, is entitled to take her dowry with her. The Empire is full of attractive vaduae who ally themselves to one influential man after another. ‘Then that is the likely explanation,’ I said. ‘This Quintus would not be the first victim of marital revenge.’
Marcus drained his winecup before he spoke. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but I fear the worst. Quintus is a known supporter of the governor’s. He has supported him openly in the forum, and sent him personal gifts. He has also entertained me royally.’
Of course! It had not occurred to me to wonder how Marcus came to number a Corinium decurion among his acquaintance. No doubt he had been in receipt of some ‘personal gifts’ himself.
‘His friendship with the governor was well known?’
‘He has many clientes on that account,’ Marcus said.
I nodded. Every powerful man has his band of followers who visit him daily to pay court and bring gifts, hoping for patronage, or letters of recommendation to the mighty.
‘Two days ago, for the first time since the attack, he was well enough to entertain them. But after the visitors had left, something was found in the colonnade. A wax writing tablet. And on it was scratched in crude letters “Remember Pertinax”. Quintus thought it was a threat – related to the attack on the governor. He sent me a message yesterday, sealed and delivered by special courier. He fears another attack. That is where you come in, Libertus.’
I gaped at him. ‘You want me to go to Corinium and prevent it? To find out what happened?’ If this was a political intrigue at the highest level, I thought, I might as well stab myself in the back with my dagger now, and save someone else the trouble. I began to burble. ‘But Excellence, I’ve already been there trying to trace Gwellia. I was at the scene. I shall attract suspicion if I wander about asking questions. I shall be arrested, or people will take me for a government spy.’ Which, of course, is exactly what I would be. It was not a comfortable thought.
Marcus was not to be swayed. This was dangerous for him too, both politically and personally. He smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t want you to ask questions. At least, not openly. Quintus is undertaking some extensions to the public baths. I want you to design a pavement for him. It will give you a reason to be there, and you can keep your ears and eyes open.’
This was not a request, of course, although it was couched as one. It was a command, and a command from Marcus had all the force of a governor’s edict. If he asked you to go, you went – if you knew what was good for you. Whatever the dangers might be.
He smiled. ‘The pavement should be a valuable commission, and I knew you would welcome the chance to continue your search for . . . Gwellia, is it?’ Marcus himself had left a woman in Rome, but he surrounded himself with pretty women, and always regarded my loyalty to my former wife as an amusing aberration.
I made one last effort. ‘I have customers . . .’ I said feebly.
‘Refer them to me. And don’t worry about the travel. I shall take you to Corinium myself. Quintus will arrange accommodation.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now, enough of business: the slaves shall bring us some water for our hands, we’ll send for our napkins and spoons and go in to dine. I presume you have your own knife with you?’
I nodded, but my heart was not in it.
It was a pity, really. Marcus had arranged a simple but robust menu of my favourite Roman foods. Sea bream with lovage, then baked veal with leeks and aniseed, all rounded off with almond cakes with honey and pepper. Even the dreaded pickled fish sauce was served separately as a dip, in deference to my taste. I appreciated the gesture but somehow, with this visit to Corinium hanging over me, I had lost my appetite.
‘Well, at least I get a chance to go back to Corinium,’ I said, when, much later – after musicians and a comic recitation at which I remembered to laugh heartily – we bounced wearily home again. I smiled at Junio ruefully.
He grinned back, understanding perfectly. ‘So now we know what Marcus wanted.’
Chapter Two
We went to Corinium the next day. Marcus had requisitioned a closed imperial carriage with a following cart for luggage and two mounted cavalrymen as escort, so the journey took only a few hours. One glimpse of the official insignia and the two outriders, and all other users of the military highway made way for us, as if by magic. It could hardly have been more different from my last visit to the town. This time, by comparison, the journey was luxury – not just for my ageing bones, but even for Junio, lurching along behind in the luggage cart with the other possessions. It was barely noon before the earth ramparts and wooden stockades of the town came into view, with their imposing newly built stone gatehouses and the slate roof of the basilica glittering beyond.
No surly questions at swordpoint on our arrival, either. The guards at the gate straightened smartly at our approach, lifting their arms in salute, and we whisked under the portico and into the town without so much as a challenge.
Corinium is a fine place by daylight. A man can buy anything here if he has the money for it: the little booths around the market place display oil, wine, leather, bone, glass, pottery, perfumes, herbs and statues from all over the Empire, while the many macella of the market house itself teem with the sounds and smells of livestock and the raucous calls of butchers, offering fresh-killed meat of every variety. The laws about wheeled transport were openly flouted, and as we swept down the road towards the forum we sent a dozen handcarts scurrying from our path, loaded with everything from turnips and roasted birds to firewood and fleeces. I wondered how many of these traders would exchange their freedom of movement for the dreadful hubbub and congestion of Glevum at night, despite the automatic Roman citizenship a colonia confers on those who live within its walls.
There was at least one inn, I knew, and there were doubtless others, but Quintus Ulpius, it seemed, had insisted on entertaining the whole party in his own house. That argued a residence of a certain size, but as we rattled up to his imposing outer wall and bowled through the gates, I realised that this was a town house grander than anything I had ever seen in Glevum – or anywhere else, for that matter. The dwelling did not open directly onto the street, as most such houses do, but was set back amid a screen of trees, behind a formal garden with statues and arbours, and a colonnaded walkway skirting the outer wall. It was more like a country villa than a town residence. There was even an elaborate water basin, where an overweight Neptune straddled a disconsolate dolphin in a cascade, fed, as I discovered later, from a private water supply piped in from a nearby stream.
Behind the leafy screen of branches I could glimpse the house itself, a fine stone building in the Roman style, with an extra wing on either side. I had an impression of graceful verandas, lofty rooms, and a fountain glimpsed through the open door suggested a further courtyard beyond. At the door, a veritable army of blue-tunicked slaves stood ready to rush out and help us to descend. Being a decurion has manifest advantages.
In more ways than one, I discovered. A pair of house slaves showed us down a paved passageway to the atrium. There was no open central pool, as they reputedly have in sunnier climates, but the effect had been echoed by an amusing blue mosaic depicting sea horses and dolphins. I had just time to admire this, a beautiful inlaid table and the fine painted walls, before a woman came to meet us. She was a small, shapely wom
an in a Roman stola, with bright, dark eyes and a little smile that made the heart skip. This, presumably, was the heiress wife that Marcus had spoken of.
Her first words confirmed it. ‘I am Julia, Quintus’s wife,’ she said simply. She had a way of lowering her eyes which I found quite charming. ‘My husband had hoped to greet you himself, but he is still weak from his wound, and has tired himself meeting clientes. He begs that you will refresh yourself, and he will see you as soon as he is rested.’
If jealousy over his wife had been the motive for that attack, I thought, it would be understandable. This was an enchanting woman. She was no longer young – perhaps as much as twenty-five years old – but she was still undeniably attractive: not classically beautiful and statuesque in the pale Roman style, but dark, curvaceous and fine-featured. There was no doubt about her wealth: her soft amethyst-coloured stola or over-tunic, was of the finest quality, worn over a long shift of deep lilac wool. She wore a plaited girdle of purple silk, and her neck and wrists were heavy with gold. Her hair had been prinked and curled in the latest fashion, her eyebrows were plucked, and as she moved she gave off a faint aura of some exotic perfume which, even to my untutored senses, smelled extremely expensive. And yet she conducted herself with simplicity, and the brightness of those downcast eyes was due, I realised, not merely to the painted kohl line edging them, but also to tears. She seemed deeply moved by her husband’s plight.
Marcus was looking at her appreciatively. No wonder Ulpius had made enemies, I thought. Taking one thing with another, the decurion was an enviable man.
He had arranged a gracious reception. Junio visibly fretted at not being allowed to attend me personally, as our baggage was bestowed, garlands distributed and our feet and hands washed, but that could not be helped. We were visitors in this house, and he was taken off to the attic to play dice and eat bread and cheese with Marcus’s serving boy, while we were shown to couches into the elaborate dining room and a tray of fruit and watered wine was set before us. Two attractive young slave boys, so alike they might have been brothers, hastened to attend us. In this household, even a snack was offered with a flourish.
‘I am sorry,’ Marcus said, when the rituals of hospitality had been observed, ‘that Quintus is so ill. I came especially in response to his letter. I have brought the pavement-maker that I told him of, too, to discuss designs for the caldarium. Libertus is also skilled at solving mysteries. He will discover who attacked your husband, if anyone can.’
Julia turned to me, and I felt the force of that beguiling smile. ‘Then you are thrice welcome, citizen. I would offer a thousand sestertii to learn who stabbed my husband. And this caldarium means so much to Quintus. He will want the finest pavements. You knew, of course, that he was proposing to endow the new hot room in the public bathhouse to mark his year in senior office? It will win him support with the populace, he says – the poorer electors appreciate a warm place to go in the winter – and probably an honorary edict from the administrative council.’
And, I realised, make him a favoured candidate for even higher office. No wonder the man attracted clientes. This generous ‘gift to the town’ might even, in the end, prove personally profitable to the donor. A project of this size would be worth thousands of denarii, and the man dispensing money on that scale could be sure of generous ‘donations’ from dozens of wealthy hopefuls. Someone, for example, would have to supply the building stone, someone’s ships would bring the marble from Italy, someone’s potteries and forests provide the water channels and gutters. There must also, I thought wryly, be several humble but ambitious mosaic-makers even now devoting precious time and possessions to wooing Ulpius, or even promising to alter their wills in his favour, in an attempt to win this contract for the caldarium pavement. They were wasting their time, poor souls, if they but knew it. That commission was already mine. The decurion had ambitions, in his turn, and could not afford to ignore a recommendation from someone as important as Marcus.
Basking in this knowledge, I smiled at Julia. ‘You know a great deal about the project.’ I meant it as a compliment. Not many women understood the practicalities of power.
She favoured me with that smile again, glancing up under her eyelashes as though we were conspirators. ‘He does sometimes discuss these things with me, and not just with his council of friends. After all, he has the usufruct of my dowry.’
Of course, since theirs was a ‘free marriage’, her husband could legally invest the income from her lands and fortune, provided he didn’t deplete it. No wonder he discussed his projects with her. No wonder, either, that her former spouse bitterly resented that she had chosen to leave him. Previously, he would have had the rights to that dowry.
Marcus was visibly unhappy with all this vulgar talk of money, and anxious to begin the real business which had brought us here. He said, suddenly, ‘Is Quintus able to receive us now?’
She flashed him an apologetic smile. ‘I will go and see. But please, gentlemen, I beg of you, if he receives you, do not overtire him. He is still frail. Sollers says the wound is deep and might yet become infected. Last night, in fact, my husband seemed to have a slight fever. Sollers was worried; he watched all night with him, but this morning Quintus declared that he felt better and insisted on receiving his clientes again.’ She dimpled. ‘He is an obstinate man. And he wants to see you, I know. But you will remember, won’t you, that he is still weak?’
‘Of course,’ Marcus said, and she was gone, through the inner door into the courtyard. He turned to me. ‘A charming woman.’
I hid my smile. ‘Devoted, too. See how she went to check on his condition for herself, and did not merely send a slave.’
I meant it as a warning, but Marcus merely chuckled. ‘If you knew Quintus, that would not surprise you. She is right to call him obstinate. If Quintus decides upon a thing, he is hard to shake. He wants to see us. Therefore a slave would have been ordered to fetch us, whatever the state of his master’s health.’ He picked up the remaining slices of pear and popped them one by one into his mouth.
I watched him in silence. If Ulpius is as immovable as that, I thought, he might make an intractable enemy in political matters. And he supported Pertinax, so he would be no friend to those with more flexible allegiances. That could win him implacable enemies – and powerful ones. It was an uncomfortable thought, and it was some moments before I plucked up the courage to share it with Marcus.
My patron thought about it for a moment. ‘You think that was the motive for this attack?’
‘It had occurred to me. When Pertinax was lying close to death, there must have been local councillors in Corinium who were ready to change their support to someone more likely to survive and reward them for their allegiance. Probably they said so in private. In that case, Quintus knows who they were. And that is no light matter. Sedition against the governor is a capital offence.’
Marcus looked at me gloomily. He was about to say something when there was a noise in the adjoining room. The screen was flung back and a young man strode in from the atrium. The slaves attending us stepped back, startled, to let him pass.
He was a tall, thin young man with a narrow face, close-set eyes and a petulant expression. He looked dishevelled: his hair was tousled and curly, there was the faint down of a beard on his unshaven chin, and though his rings were costly, his toga was stained with wine and his hems were even more frowzy than my own. The effect was to make him look childish, although there was no childhood bulla around his neck, and he was obviously a man.
‘Where is the woman?’
‘The woman?’ Marcus sounded even more startled than I was at this peremptory greeting. ‘What do you mean, citizen?’ He had risen to his feet, bridling, and his voice was ominous.
I winced. I have seen men flogged for showing less disrespect, but the young man seemed oblivious.
‘What do I mean? Why, Julia. The woman. My father’s new wife.’ He caught my frantic glance, and seemed, at last, to see that there was som
e impropriety in his behaviour. He added, ‘I’m Maximilian, by the way. Quintus’s son. I’ve just come from my father – I’ve upset him as usual. He wants to see her.’
‘She has this minute gone to him,’ Marcus said, in the same icy tone.
Maximilian shook his head. ‘Well, I did not see her, and I have just left his bedside. I shall have to look for her. If she doesn’t turn up at once, it’ll be my fault. Everything is my fault, since she came to this house.’ He turned to the slaves at the door. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go and find your mistress and tell her my father wants her. Now!’
The two slaves looked at each other and scuttled off, while Maximilian leaned over casually and helped himself to the remaining fruit which had been set for us. Son of a decurion he might be, I thought, but he had appalling manners. And no sense of self-preservation. It was bad enough showing disrespect to his father, calling him by his familiar name, Quintus, instead of using his nomen properly, but now he was being equally disrespectful to Marcus, though the wide purple stripe on Marcus’s toga should have warned the boy that this was no ordinary guest. I glanced at my patron. He was looking increasingly dangerous. At any moment, I thought, there would be serious trouble.
‘This is Marcus Aurelius Septimus,’ I said, ‘my patron. We await an audience with your father.’
‘Marcus? My father’s guest?’ The boy paled. ‘Forgive me, Excellence. I took you for the two clientes my father still has waiting – otherwise I should never have presumed . . .’
‘I see.’ Marcus was laconic. ‘Do you usually treat your father’s friends like this?’
A Pattern of Blood Page 3