Murder in the Forum (6 page)

The house was ready for company. Lighted torches flanked the entry and the sound of music and voices was already emerging from the open doorway, where a burly doorkeeper was standing, armed with a stout stave and a threatening frown, and already regarding me with suspicion.

Fortunately, my patron was clearly an important man, even to those who did not know him, with his wide purple stripe and his six panting slaves accompanying the litter. At a word from him the doorman stepped back reluctantly to let me pass, and turned his attention to another guest drawing up at the door. However, I felt him monitoring me. It was the same throughout the evening. Every time I raised my head I was conscious of some servant watching me, with disapproving eyes.

Nonetheless, we made our way inside and were announced by the usher. Formalities were beginning. The two reception rooms and the
triclinium
– the dining area – beyond them had been turned into a sort of three-part room by opening the screen doors in between. Low tables were set out with dining couches around them, in groups of three as fashion dictated, and strictly graduated in terms of grandeur and comfort, so that nine people could sit around the top table, nine at the next and so on.

I calculated that there must be at least fifty-four people expected – most of whom seemed to be here already – and the houses of all the magistrates in Glevum must have been pillaged for the furniture. Even so there was a cluster of lowly stools around a rickety trestle right at the back against the wall. I had no doubt whatever where my seat would be.

The rooms were alive with activity. All Glevum seemed to be there, important men most of whom I knew by sight and – like any sensible tradesman – spent much of my time avoiding: aediles, questors, magistrates, priests, augurers and senior commanders from the garrison. Slaves were moving among the guests distributing banqueting wreaths, knives, spoons and napkins. A trio of nervous-looking musicians were tuning up in a corner, and a nubile young dancing girl was adjusting her costume so that it showed off her assets as flatteringly as possible.

Poor child! If she hoped to impress the guest of honour, she was wasting her time. Felix, splendid in purple edgings, was reclining at the high table, a goblet in his hand, patently ignoring the earnest conversation of the ageing magistrate beside him, and gazing with speculative interest at the dusky young male acrobat limbering up in an abbreviated loincloth at the other end of the
triclinium.

When he saw Marcus, however, he got to his feet and stood, waiting to greet us. Marcus walked deliberately towards him, and then – a little more than sword-reach distant – just as deliberately stopped.

Somehow there was a tension which communicated itself to the entire company. Conversation ceased, the musicians stilled their strings. There was a little rustle of anticipation, and then the whole room fell silent, motionless, as the two men confronted one another.

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.

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 kitchen.

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.