Murder in the Forum (7 page)

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.

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.

Of course, that did not make this event seem any the less disturbing. Rather more so, if anything. The idea of an unseen vengeful spirit in our midst was decidedly discomfiting.

Some men, particularly those with little influence but a lively instinct for safety, attempted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and possible reprisals – human or supernatural – by loudly offering to go for help and dashing to the door. I might have attempted an exit myself, but I knew that it was hopeless. I had come with Marcus and there was no possible chance of pretending that I had been somewhere else all evening, and bribing a dozen witnesses to prove it, as some of the others would surely do. In any case the door-keeper, alerted by the sudden panicky exodus, realised that something unfortunate had happened and turned most of them back.

The remaining dignitaries eyed each other doubtfully. Fortunately all the senior civil and judicial authorities of the town were present, so there was no possibility of one group being less politically implicated than another. And there
were
political implications. The death of the guest of honour at a banquet is always an embarrassment, but even supernatural visitations were downright unwise when they caused an accident like this to a visiting favourite of the Emperor’s, especially at a civil banquet in a province already suspected of being rebellious. Little knots of magistrates huddled together, muttering in low voices. Some gulped at their wine dazedly. One could see why.

A dozen muted arguments broke out, but as tempers frayed with anxiety voices became shrill and raised. The topics seemed to be the same – what to do next, who should do it, and exactly which kind of funeral rites would be appropriate. Clearly no one wished to take responsibility (since, if the Emperor ever made enquiries, a wrong decision was likely to be much more dangerous than no decision at all) but everyone had an opinion. Some urged caution and delay, or even sending to the governor for advice, as though time would somehow soften the enormity of the event. Others seemed to feel the need for immediate action and were loudly demanding sacred herbs from the garden, calling for blankets from their litters, or sending bemused servants in all directions with contradictory messages.

The poor acrobat, obviously terrified at the outcome of his performance, had edged the nut bowl surreptitiously onto a table, and tried to slide unnoticed back into the corner with the rest of the entertainers. The nubile dancing girl burst into tears and the musicians began whispering together, patting her on the arm and nodding knowingly towards Gaius as owner of the house.

Gaius saw them. The danger of the situation was not lost upon him. He buried his head in his hands and let out a howl that would not have disgraced one of his dogs. Not surprisingly. The accident had occurred in his house. At the very least he would be personally responsible for the costly and time-consuming rituals of purification and mourning. At worst . . . well, choking on a nut might be an accident, or vengeance from the dead, but Commodus was not noted for either his leniency or his logic.

As if summoned by the howl, two slaves came out of the kitchens with a salver of sugared fruits. News had evidently not spread to the neither regions, but when they saw what was happening they bolted back again, leaving the door open. Gaius’s dogs, taking advantage of the moment, bounded in and added to the confusion by rushing around the room yapping and barking, leaping up on their master and lapping up the food under the tables. One of them, horrifyingly, began sniffing at the corpse.

It was at that point that Marcus finally took command. Whatever else, such indignity could not be tolerated. He strode over to the couch and pulled the dog away. At the same time he signalled to the musicians. The drums sounded and the lute-players touched their strings. Instantly the hubbub ceased and everyone looked towards Marcus. There was an almost visible ripple of relief. He was the most influential man present, and by stepping forward he had relieved others of the responsibility.

‘Citizens! This is a most unfortunate accident. Naturally, you are disturbed. But at all costs let us preserve decorum. Gaius, call your dogs to heel.’

The old man gave a feeble whistle. The dogs ignored him but a pair of his slaves, obviously accustomed to the duty, seized the dogs by the iron collars round their necks and dragged them downstairs towards the cellars and kitchens.

Marcus watched this performance in silence. Then he spoke again. ‘The body, I think, should be moved into a bedchamber. You, you, you and you,’ he indicated a line of waiting slaves, ‘go outside. Fetch a litter to place him on. The funeral arrangers will have one. Order the best they have, and bring the undertaker here. See that the
libitinarius
brings his anointers and pall-bearers and anything else that he needs.’

The lads scuttled to obey.

Marcus turned to the rest of us. ‘We have all been in the presence of sudden death, and therefore we all need rites of purification. Fortunately, we have the high priest of Jupiter among us. He will tell us what it is necessary to do.’

That was a happy stroke. Even the Emperor himself was in awe of the gods. The old priest dithered out to the household altar, fussed importantly with his robes and said, in a cracked and faded voice, ‘I shall need water, wine and oil. And a flame, from the Vestal altar in the atrium.’

Marcus gave a nod, and two slaves sidled away to fetch these necessities.

‘And then there are the candles and herbs to set at the bedside.’ More slaves departed.

There was a pause, while the requisite fire and liquids were fetched. Then the priest lit the lamp before the votive statues and began a long and complicated invocation of the gods in general, and Jupiter in particular, not forgetting the Emperor – in his role as divine being – and the household deities. He ritually washed his hands of death, and poured out conciliatory sacrifice, sprinkling herbs and some crumbs from the feast upon the sacred flame.

‘Prayers too for the herald,’ someone called, and the old man repeated the process with a morsel of bread and watered wine, dropping his voice to an incantatory murmur. The gods, being divine, were doubtless able to hear it. More mortal ears, like mine, were unable to distinguish a word. No doubt that was intentional. Commodus assuredly had his spies amongst us and would hear every detail of this ceremony. The priestly balance of duties between gods and Emperor cannot always be an easy one.

Nevertheless, the effect was impressive. When he had finished he blessed the ceremonial vessels, and the slaves moved among us, offering each person present first the bowl of cool water and then a dish of ashes from the altar. One by one we took the garlands from our heads, dipped our hands and rinsed our faces in ritual cleansing, and solemnly placed a fingerful of ashes as a mourning sign upon our foreheads. Not one of us, I think, would genuinely have shed a tear for the lifeless figure lying on the couch, but there was something reassuring about fulfilling the rites. Even I, who am not a believer in the Roman pantheon, felt vaguely comforted, particularly when the old priest at the end of the ceremony picked up a bronze salver and struck it ringingly – striking bronze is a well-known Roman specific against malevolent spirits.