Murder in the Forum (28 page)

The footsteps stopped beside me. I continued to stare fixedly at the floor of the cart.

‘Great Hercules!’ exclaimed a voice. ‘I might have known that we would have trouble with that one. Hanging around here in a toga the other day, pretending to be a citizen and asking too many questions.’ I looked up and recognised the guard with the spear, whom I had spoken to after my visit to the
thermopolium
. He had the spear again, and he was looking none too friendly with it.

I said nothing. He would never believe I was entitled to that toga, and I was in enough trouble already. I could only wait until Marcus could be found to vouch for me.

The guard poked at the fringe of Zetso’s hood, lifting it back from his sodden cloak. ‘And here is another one. There has been a lookout for this fellow on the gates for days. Oh, dear Mars, our commander is going to be delighted with this little cargo.’ He nodded to our escort. ‘Get them down. We’ll get them locked up in the guardroom straight away.’

Our descent from the cart was just as humiliating as our entry into it. I was released from the restraining ring, a soldier grabbed the rope which bound my arms and I was hauled to the back of the cart and lifted unceremoniously down like a bundle of hay. Zetso followed shortly after and we were marched, though none too steady on our feet, through the gate and into a cell in the bowels of the watchtower.

It was merely a holding cell, but the Romans know how to construct a prison. It was calculated to instil despair. Dank floors, cold stone, damp bedding and bleak walls with only the smallest slit above our heads to permit the entry of reluctant daylight. The smells of human terror – sweat and urine – mingled with the sour odours of decay.

‘I appeal to the Governor of Britannia,’ I exclaimed, as I was shoved half staggering into the room. If Pertinax were here he would be lodging with Marcus. ‘I am a Roman citizen . . .’

‘With traces of a slave-brand on your shoulder? Tell them all that at your trial,’ the guard said, jeeringly. ‘You will see the governor soon enough.’ He gave me a final push and tied my bonds loosely to a shackle on the wall. Zetso was propelled in after me.

I had expected Zetso to protest as well, to refer to his warrant and demand immunity or at least an audience with the commander of the garrison. He did neither. He gave a sneering laugh as the door swung to behind us, then as the key turned in the massive lock he shouted, ‘You will pay for this!’ Then he lapsed into silence again.

I marvelled that he could find anything to laugh and sneer at, although he was better placed than I was. Once that warrant was proved he would certainly be released. I might never see the outside world again, except perhaps when I was taken out to die.

I did not look at him, nor he at me. We had brought this misery on one another. We stood, each in his own stinking corner, leaning in fettered silence against the filthy wall. I do not know how long we stood there – perhaps an hour, though it might have been far more. Through the narrow slit in the wall we could see the sky grow darker, and the gloom of our prison grew more gloomy yet. I was hungry and thirsty, tired and bruised, but there was nothing to eat or drink, and nowhere to sit except the pile of damp and fetid straw on the floor.

However, after what seemed a thousand years, a duty soldier unbolted the door and opened it a crack. A thin shaft of light streamed into our cell and he pushed a stale loaf and a shallow bowl of water at each of us.

Zetso made a move, so sudden that he startled me in the darkness. ‘Guard!’

The soldier paused. I saw his hand move towards his sword, but Zetso was no threat. He, like me, was still bound about the arms.

He strained at his bonds urgently. ‘I wish to send a message. I can pay.’

The soldier sheathed his dagger, hesitantly. It is not uncommon under Roman law for prisoners to send messages, even letters, from their cells. Especially if they can pay the messengers. ‘Well?’ He left the door open and moved towards Zetso.

Zetso’s voice dropped to a murmur. He intended that I should not overhear, but around those empty walls even a whisper echoed. With a little effort I could make out every word.

‘A message, urgently, to Gaius’s house. Look at my hands. See, there is a ring on my second finger. It is the finest onyx. Remove it and take it to the citizen. Tell him that I am held here and ask him to arrange for my release. Do that, and the jewel is yours. Bring me my release within the hour and you shall have another to match it.’

I did not need to hear the soldier’s reply. In the light from the door I saw him remove the ring, and a moment later he disappeared. The door shut and Zetso shuffled back against his corner in the darkness, but already I could sense a more confident air about him.

If only I had a ring with which to bargain, I thought, perhaps I could send a message to Marcus. Although of course there was no guarantee that Zetso’s plea would ever reach Gaius. Gaius? I jerked myself upright. Why was he sending messages to Gaius? Had he conspired with Gaius from the start? That was a possibility I had not considered. And yet, now that I had thought of it, I wondered why it had not occurred to me before.

There were so many factors which suggested it. Felix had died in Gaius’s own house. Who would have such opportunity to poison his food? Or perhaps not even food. There was that so-called cure which Gaius proffered. Supposing that had contained the poison? Far more secure than meat or drink which anyone might share. And Gaius hated the man. Not merely with the kind of general loathing which anyone who had met him felt for Perennis Felix, but with a more personal hatred. Something, surely, connected with his wife?

I tried to piece the story together, as I had heard it from my several witnesses. Gaius had visited Rome, together with his wife – the young and beautiful bride whom he had loved. She had been affected by the journey, he had told me that himself, and Phyllidia’s mother – Felix’s unwanted wife – had been good to her. And then?

I shrugged. I did not know. Felix’s wife had died, supposedly from drinking bad water from a well. That was not surprising; there were often deaths from contaminated water sources. Yet Phyllidia – and Gaius too it seemed – believed that Felix had arranged her death. ‘He sent her a gift of wine and she died shortly after.’ Why should they suspect him of that? Others had perished from drinking of the same well.

Then, like a thunderbolt from Jove, a solution occurred to me. Supposing Gaius’s bride was one of those ‘others’? What had Gaius said? ‘She was with her when she died.’ If Felix had sent poisoned wine, had he killed both women at a stroke? That was a motive for revenge, if I ever heard one. A sweet revenge, if Gaius had contrived to serve Felix with a little of his own medicine. Provided by Zetso perhaps, stolen from Felix’s stores? It was Felix’s own poison, I was sure of that from the empty phial. It was the image of the one that Phyllidia had stolen.

It would explain so much. Why Gaius had been so ready to adopt Phyllidia. Even the hapless dog, perhaps. A painful sacrifice to test the effect of Gaius’s mixture?

I was so pleased with the elegance of my solution that I had almost forgotten the discomfort of my surroundings. Even when a duo of guards arrived a little later and took Zetso off ‘upstairs’ – presumably to more congenial surroundings – I was sustained by the realisation that, if I could prove my theory to the court, not even the imperial warrant was likely to save his life. The penalty for a slave who conspires to kill his master is always death. And for all his fancy uniform, Zetso was still a slave.

Little by little, though, my enthusiasm waned. Even his silent presence in the cell had been some company, and without him the darkness seemed more threatening and every instant an hour. I tried to console myself anew by imagining the case I would present to Marcus – supposing Marcus ever sent for me. As the weary night drew on I began more and more to doubt it. I had nothing to offer to the guard; how should Marcus learn that I was here?

I had reckoned without Junio.

It was late – very late. So late that hunger and fatigue had forced me to gnaw a little at the musty bread. With my arms bound to my sides, I could only do so by lowering myself painfully to my aged knees and leaning forward to it like an animal. I understood now why they had provided water in a bowl – there was no way that I could lift a cup. I was obliged to lap at it, like the abject creature I was. Nor, once down, could I regain my feet. I was beginning to resign myself to the necessity of spending a dismal night down there, grovelling on the stinking straw, when I heard the key in the latch.

The door was opened, and two things happened at once. Junio came in, accompanied by two guards whose blazing torches flooded the cell with sudden blinding light, and on the instant – as if that same illumination had lit the dusty corners of my brain – I saw the flaw in all my careful reasoning. If ever a man could smile and groan at once, I did it then.

Junio ran to me. ‘Master? What have they done to you?’ He set down the cloth-wrapped parcel he was carrying and turned to the guard. His voice was trembling with what may have been anger, but sounded treacherously close to tears. ‘Release his bonds at once. Have you no fear of the authorities? This man is a Roman citizen. More than that, he is under the protection of Marcus Septimus. See, here is his letter of authority.’ He stooped and produced Marcus’s warrant from his parcel.

The younger soldier looked sheepish. ‘We learned that one of these two was a citizen. We thought it was the other prisoner. He has rich clothes and carries seals to proves he works for the imperial court. That is why your master has been held. He questioned and ignored the seals, and stands accused of treasonably failing to honour the Emperor.’

Junio looked at me. ‘Did you not appeal to Marcus, or to the governor? I tried to let them know you were arrested, but they are at this funeral feast tonight. They have been involved in the rituals all day.’

Before I could reply the soldier started babbling again. ‘He did appeal – to the governor, and we have made arrangements for him to be heard. He asked for the governor, and the governor he shall have. He is to be taken before him first thing in the morning. We are simply holding him here, waiting for the court, like any other prisoner. There was nothing to mark him out. He has no . . .’ whatever he was going to say – toga, rings, money – he thought better of it, ‘marks of status,’ he finished lamely.

The other guard said nothing, merely leaned forward with his dagger and cut my bonds. ‘I’m sorry, citizen,’ he muttered gruffly, as I attempted to move my numbed fingers and my stiffened arms. ‘But how were we to know? A tattered tunic and work-hardened hands. You don’t look like a citizen.’

Junio meanwhile had opened up his bundle more fully to reveal my toga, darned and mostly clean, freshly fetched from the fuller’s. I have never been so glad to see the wretched garment in my life. He shook it out and held it towards me. I saw the two soldiers exchange frightened looks.

‘You’d better fetch the captain of the guard,’ said one, and the other disappeared. I could hear his footsteps clattering on the flagstones. Junio helped me to my feet, and taking off my still-sodden cloak began to wrap me gently in my toga. Its heavy folds were warm and comforting, and perversely I began to shiver.

All the old gods of earth and stone, bless Junio! Suddenly, the soldiers could not do enough for me. I was taken upstairs – or rather I was assisted there – to a small room with a stool and a narrow bed, and a bowl of warming soup was brought to me. I was still a prisoner, of course, with a guard at the door, and would be tried tomorrow, but I recognised anew the privileges of citizenship and patronage. Even when I was found guilty of the charges – as I doubtless would be – I would die a more dignified death.

They were so apologetic at my previous treatment that they allowed Junio to stay with me awhile. ‘If only I could prove a case against Zetso!’ I said. ‘There might yet be hope for me if I could show that he conspired to kill his master.’ I outlined my ideas concerning Gaius.

Junio beamed. ‘But, master, that is wonderful. Gaius was famed for having loved his wife to distraction. If Felix poisoned her, even by accident, he would have had a splendid motive for poisoning Felix.’

‘Except,’ I said gloomily, ‘that he didn’t do it. There is the dog, for one thing. I attempted to convince myself, but while I can accept that Gaius would murder Felix, I do not believe for a moment that he would harm his dog.’

Junio was not to be quelled. ‘Perhaps the dog was killed by accident. When Felix dropped his drinking cup, perhaps? You told me that everything was split upon the floor.’

‘Yes,’ I conceded. ‘I believe that something of the kind destroyed the dog. But not at Gaius’s hands. Supposing that everything I said is true. Gaius had prepared a poison mixture, and was ready to proffer it as a medicine. How could he hope to ensure that Felix would conveniently require it, by choking on a nut?’

Junio stared at me. ‘Tommonius . . .?’ he suggested, feebly.

‘Tommonius had no grudge against Felix. Against Marcus perhaps, for upsetting his private affairs, but he had never met Felix. He came to the feast hoping to arrange some trade with him. In any case, when he placed the bowl on the acrobat’s feet, how could he guarantee which nut Felix would select, to have it stick in his throat – or, indeed, that Felix would select a nut at all?’

Junio sighed. ‘So, what do you suppose? Octavius is guilty after all?’

‘Of course he isn’t. He clearly thought that Phyllidia had killed her father. Presumably he knew that she had stolen the poison, and deduced the worst. The poor idiot made a confession in the hope of saving her. But he could not have done it. He was not even in the house until the banquet was begun, and I myself was with him after that. And Phyllidia did not arrive until the gates were closed.’

‘One of them might have bribed the servants.’

‘When? Unless Phyllidia was in collusion with Zetso. I considered that. It remains a kind of possibility – we know that she had succeeded in stealing poison – but I cannot make sense of it. Why come to Britannia to murder her father? She might have done it much more readily at home. She still had her phial of poison intact – and what did Zetso stand to gain from it?’