A Bitter Chill (31 page)

At long last Clarus drew to a close, and was rewarded with loud clapping. Well, it was his party. Now it was time for the final toast. Priscus glanced at his father, realised he was asleep, and rose to propose it himself. “My friends, I know you’ll all agree this has been a wonderful occasion, a most generous and delightful Saturnalia party. I thank our host and hostess on behalf of everyone. Please join me in drinking their good health. Hail, Silvanius and Clarilla!”

We drank the toast, and everyone tactfully refrained from noticing that Plautius and Sempronia weren’t joining in. Clarus and his sister rose, and she announced that there would be more wine, food, and entertainment in the sitting-room, and led the way out. The party began to break up as diners left their tables and moved slowly towards the wide double doors. Now, I thought, might be a dangerous time for Plautius, with everyone milling about in disorganised groups. I got up and began to make my way steadily through the press of people towards his couch, where Timaeus was bending over him, talking gently. He’d rolled over onto his stomach, and the physician reached out to turn him onto his side. At the neighbouring couch Priscus crouched down beside Sempronia, gently shaking her and murmuring “Wake up, Mother.”

Then Timaeus snatched away his hand and jerked upright, giving a small shrill cry. He stood up, and said distinctly, “Help, somebody, please. My lord is ill!” He seized Plautius’ left wrist in his fingers, for all the world as if he was feeling for a pulse.

I moved fast, and so did Quintus, and we reached Plautius at the same time. Quintus felt for a pulse at his neck, and I turned his head to see his face. It was a ghastly greyish-blue colour, and there were flecks of foam around his mouth.

Quintus muttered, “I can’t find a pulse. Can you, Timaeus?”

“No, I can’t. But he’s only asleep, surely. Just taking a nap after a good meal….” He began shaking Plautius, gently at first and then more roughly, murmuring, “My lord, wake up. Please, my lord!” But there was no reaction from the still figure.

The room was still half full, but had gone unnaturally quiet. Everyone heard Quintus’ next words. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

C
HAPTER
XXII

I don’t know how everyone stayed so calm. Well, yes, I do: the famous Roman virtue of self-discipline came into its own. At times of crisis you realise how Romans have come to be masters of the world.

Silvanius and his major-domo managed to clear the remaining diners from the room with speed and courtesy but no panic, which was a minor triumph in itself. Sempronia awoke, and Quintus went to her and told her quietly what had happened. She sat on her couch bolt upright, as white as marble, but didn’t speak or cry. Priscus seated himself beside her, holding one of her hands, and began to weep silently.

Fabia stared blankly and then began to tremble, and sat down on the nearest couch. Horatius went to stand next to her, still clutching his glass of wine. Timaeus was crying, and Diogenes began to wail loudly, and tore his tunic in the ritual gesture of grief. But his devotion to Plautius had been mainly for show, so perhaps this display was too. Clarus stood like a statue, his face a picture of astonishment, soon changing to alarm. Clarilla had tears in her eyes, but she controlled them with an effort and said she would go to the sitting-room to see to the other guests.

I stayed slightly apart from the rest, keeping silent because I didn’t know what to say, and feeling like an intruder in the family’s private grief. I looked round for Quintus and saw him talking urgently to Rufus, who nodded twice and then hurried from the room. To my relief Quintus came to stand beside me, but his first words were gloomy. “I’ve failed him, Aurelia. I promised I would protect him, and I haven’t.”

I briefly touched his hand. “You did all you could. And it may be his illness that killed him. We don’t know for certain yet.”

“I do,” he muttered. “But you’re right, we must go through the formalities.” He turned to Clarus. “Clarus, you’re the senior magistrate in this area, and as you know, I carry the Governor’s authority to investigate anything unusual, such as a sudden death. I’ll help you in any way I can. Have I your permission to examine Plautius and establish how he died?”

Clarus nodded. “By all means, Antonius. But surely it was his illness? He’s been unwell ever since before he left Londinium to come north. That’s what has caused this tragedy, surely….” He trailed off, glancing quickly at Sempronia.

“It’s our duty to be certain,” Quintus answered. “Plautius was an important man, of senatorial rank, and the Governor will want to be assured that we checked everything properly. Now, I’d like to spare the ladies as much distress as I can. Clarus, perhaps you’d escort her ladyship and Fabia to one of your sitting-rooms, and find a maid to sit with them?”

“Willingly, yes. My lady—Miss Fabia—I think we should leave Antonius and Timaeus to do what must be done. Will you come with me please?”

They went quite meekly, glad to have someone to tell them what to do. Diogenes sniffed noisily. “I’ll go with my lady, in case I can be of service. There’s nothing I can do for my master now.” He followed them out.

“Spare the ladies?” I mouthed at Quintus, and then asked aloud, “Shall I go too?”

“No, stay, please, Aurelia. I had to get rid of her somehow, didn’t I?” he added in an undertone.

I nodded. The last thing we wanted was Sempronia watching our every move.

We sat down, and there was a depressed silence until Clarus returned. “Clarilla will look after them. All our other guests have left, or are leaving now. The snow has started again, so they were anxious not to delay.”

“I think that’s for the best. None of them were involved in this sad business,” Quintus said.

Horatius stirred himself and asked, “What’s in your mind, Antonius? You’re wondering about the note Plautius received today?”

“I think it must have a bearing,” he answered.

“What note?” Priscus asked sharply. “I’ve heard nothing about any note.”

Without a word, Quintus produced the papyrus he’d shown me earlier. Priscus read it and burst out, “Why wasn’t I told about this? Why was he allowed to attend the banquet, with so many people about, when he was in such danger?”

“He wanted to attend,” Quintus said gently. “And he didn’t want his family worried, as he thought, unnecessarily, so he only told Timaeus, Horatius, and me. Now, first things first. Was this a natural death, caused by his illness? Timaeus, come over here please.”

We all moved to the couch and looked down on the dead man.

Quintus asked the physician, “What was the nature of his illness?”

“He had a diseased heart, and congestion of the lungs.”

I pointed to the foam around his mouth. “Was that one of his usual symptoms, when he was ill?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“And this bluish colour in his face?” Quintus asked.

Timaeus replied slowly, “Yes, I have seen something like that before, but not so extreme. He gets—he used to get bad chest pains and have trouble breathing. Sometimes he almost seemed to be choking, gasping for air, and then his face went greyish, perhaps with a tinge of blue. But not like this.”

“In your opinion,” Quintus asked, “has he died as a result of his illness?”

After a long pause, Timaeus answered, “No.”

“Let’s be absolutely clear,” Quintus persisted. “It’s your opinion that he did not die a natural death?”

“No, he did not.”

A shiver went through us all. Before our eyes, on what should have been a happy, peaceful occasion, Plautius had been murdered.

“What exactly did he have to eat tonight?” I asked Timaeus.

“One step at a time,” Quintus said. “I see where you’re driving, Aurelia, but let’s go carefully here. Timaeus, can you make a suggestion as to what caused his death?”

“Aurelia’s right. It looks like poison. But the gods alone know how it was given. I was extremely careful. He ate a little of the meat that everyone else had—the pork, which we saw carved in front of us. The rest of his meal, a selection of appetisers and vegetables and sweets, I prepared with my own hands, and I tasted a sample of each one before I’d let him eat it.”

“You got the food ready in the kitchen beforehand?” Priscus asked.

“Yes.”

“Could someone have tampered with any of it while it was waiting in the kitchen?” Quintus suggested.

He shook his head firmly. “I left Hector guarding it.”

“Ah, now we’re getting to it,” Horatius exclaimed. “The kitchen was quite disorganised tonight, with some sort of Saturnalia horse-play. Isn’t that right, Chief Councillor?”

“Yes, just seasonal fun and games, you know,” Clarus agreed. “I had to speak sternly to my major-domo to make sure things did not get out of hand.”

“Well, Timaeus?” Quintus asked sternly, “Can you swear that nobody could have interfered with your master’s food? Can you be sure that Hector wasn’t careless, letting his attention wander when the others were running amok? You can’t, can you?”

The physician had gone deathly pale and seemed unable to speak.

Priscus said, “Gods, I wish I’d known about the threatening note that Father received. I’d have taken better care of him! Whoever actually committed this foul crime, I’m holding you responsible, Timaeus. You should have guarded him better.”

Timaeus bowed his head. “Yes, my lord. I know I’ve failed him.”

I thought this was unfair of Priscus. “I think Timaeus did everything he possibly could. Your father was well aware of the risks he faced. Whoever killed him was clever, and well-organised, and determined. This was his second attempt, remember, and he also killed Leander. I’m saying ‘he’, but there could perhaps be more than one person involved.”

“You should rather say ‘he or she’.” We all turned to the door and saw Sempronia standing there. Her first reaction, weakness or shock or whatever it had been, was clearly over. She strode into the room, erect and angry, with Diogenes following at her heels.

“Mother,” Priscus objected, “you shouldn’t be here. Please wait with Fabia until we’ve finished.”

“Nonsense, Aulus! Where else should I be? This is in effect a family council, and I have a right to be here.” She walked over to her dining-couch and sat down. We all moved to stand in a group round her, like courtiers around a monarch.

“Now, you’re discussing how my poor Gnaeus died, and from what I heard as I came in, you’ve concluded that his death wasn’t a natural one. Is that correct?”

“I’m afraid so, Sempronia,” Quintus said. “It seems he was poisoned sometime during the banquet.”

“May the gods of the Underworld receive him kindly.” Her composure almost slipped, but then she was in control again. “There’s no doubt who’s responsible. I assume you all agree. So what are you doing to arrest her?”

“Her?” Priscus echoed blankly.

Horatius said, “Who d’you mean, Sempronia? You know who’s done this dreadful thing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s that girl Albia.” She turned on me. “Your sister!”

“
What?
Don’t be ridiculous!” I took a step towards her, but Quintus put a hand on my arm, and I stopped and said more calmly, “Albia is no murderer. She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t, do something like this.”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” Quintus put in. “I know you don’t like her, Sempronia, but that doesn’t make her a killer.”

“You think not? Then allow me to show you how wrong you are. Albia has made up her mind to marry Decimus, regardless of where his duty lies, and against his family’s wishes. She came to realise she couldn’t do so while Plautius was head of the family and refused to give consent. So she decided that killing him was her only way of achieving what she wants. Well, she may think she’s achieved it, but let me tell you here and now, I shall never accept a murderer as my son’s wife.”

This brought me up short. I’d been so preoccupied with how Plautius had died that I hadn’t thought about the implications. Candidus was now the head of the Plautius family, with freedom to do as he liked, whatever his mother said, and she would certainly continue to say plenty. His father’s death had released him to marry Albia. I knew my sister would never resort to killing. But Candidus—was it remotely possible that he’d been so enraged by his father’s intransigence that he’d made up his mind to poison him?

No, it wasn’t even remotely possible. But it wasn’t surprising that the burden of suspicion was being thrown onto him and the woman he’d chosen. Everyone knew there had been violent disagreements, culminating in tonight’s argument. What was it Horatius had told me? “He finished by storming out and yelling, ‘Goodbye, Father. I hope I never see you again. Remember, men are only mortal, but love goes on for ever!’” How many other people had heard the words?

As if she read my thoughts, Sempronia said, “The girl might even have lured Decimus into helping her. He was always an impressionable boy. But she’s the one who is truly guilty. She’s the murderer. And I don’t understand why you’re all sitting around like a gaggle of old wives discussing the price of fish. Get after her! Find her! Bring her back here, and Decimus too, if you have to!”

Thank the gods, I thought, the old horror has just shown me the obvious way to prove Albia’s innocence. “They left here just before the banquet began, didn’t they? About—what, three hours ago?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “So they can’t be far away. If we get a party on the road now to pursue them….”

“Just hear me out, please. Supposing for the sake of argument that Albia was the kind of person to commit murder, she couldn’t have poisoned Plautius at the banquet.
She wasn’t here.”

“Oh, that is irrelevant. She wouldn’t necessarily do the killing with her own hands. In fact she almost certainly would use a servant. What slaves did you bring with you?”

“None.”

“
None?
How extraordinary! But you must have had a carriage driver.”

“Yes, and I sent him home again. He’ll collect me at noon tomorrow.”

“Then she used one of the Chief Councillor’s slaves, or perhaps one of ours. She tried to murder Gnaeus at the mansio, and then she killed another of our men in a pathetic attempt to cover her tracks. You see? It all fits together.”