The Chariots of Calyx (2 page)

The shadow let the boy fall gently back, and stepped silently over the lifeless figure into the room beyond. There was a long, long pause. Caius Monnius was a substantial man, and he did not die without a struggle. But a pillow muffled his gurgling and at last the woven chain – its three strands supple and strong yet together no wider than a man’s finger – accomplished its deadly work again.

Then the shadow edged soundlessly to the connecting door which led to the bedroom of the lady. The door inched open. A knife gleamed dully in the gloom. The shadow moved towards the bed.

But the lady Fulvia was not asleep. She lay back on her pillows, eyelids shut, and as the knife was raised she seemed to tense. Then, as the blade came down, she moved her arm so that the savage edge merely slashed across her flesh. She opened her eyes and stared about, but before she could even force herself upright – gasping with pain and clutching at the wound – she knew she was alone. She heard the knife clatter to the floor. And then the lady screamed, and kept on screaming, so loudly that the sleeping servants in the attics woke.

A moment later the stairs rang with the sound of their footsteps, and the passages glowed in the flare of their hastily lighted tapers. A dozen slaves rushed into the lady’s room, to find her sitting up on her bed, clutching her blankets to her with bloodied hands. She was pale and shivering, and gesturing wordlessly towards the inner door and to the bloodstained knife which still lay glittering on the floor nearby.

‘The master!’ someone shouted, but Caius Monnius would never come to his wife again. He lay slumped upon his bed, the pillow by his side, with his crushed festal wreath still grotesquely on his head and the chain so tightly wound around his neck that here and there the hammered metal had bitten into flesh, and blood was oozing between the narrow links. The shutters at the window-space had been forced open. A servant cried out in horror.

Fulvia struggled to rise. ‘I must attend my husband!’ But she collapsed into the arms of her slave-woman.

Frightened slaves rushed outside at once into the dark. The garden was walled, but the lights of their torches soon revealed a crude ladder set up against the wall in the furthest corner. There was no one in the garden: no one in the street. The shadow, whoever it was, had merged into obscurity and vanished.

Of course, I didn’t know all this at the time. Like every other honest citizen in Londinium, I was fast asleep in bed.

Unlike most of those respectable citizens, however, it was not my own bed that I was occupying. In fact when the household slave arrived to call me, it took me a few moments to work out where I was.

‘Citizen? Libertus? Pavement-maker?’ I came to my senses to find somebody calling my name. Unnecessarily loudly and close to my ear, I thought. I had been dreaming that I was an emperor, resting on cushions of down.

I opened one eye and shut it again instantly. That’s a powerful oil-lamp, I thought crossly, as the brightness seared my sight. What idiot had brought it inches from my eyes?

‘Longinius Flavius Libertus!’ The voice was insistent. ‘Are you awake?’

I forced the eyelid open again. No oil-lamp, I realised painfully, just sunlight streaming through the open shutters. But my fuddled brain refused to deal with the implications of that. I simply turned on my pillows and tried to drift back into oblivion, muttering crossly, ‘Go away.’

‘Citizen mosaic-maker! His Excellence the Governor enquires if you have slept.’

That woke me. I sat up in bed so suddenly that I narrowly escaped oversetting the bowl of scented water that the slave was carrying. For a moment I goggled at the painted walls, the carved table, the fine wooden shutters standing open at the window-space, the terracotta paving on the floor. And this bed! Not cushions of down, exactly, but the next best thing – a proper bed with a woollen mattress on a splendid stretched goatskin base. A far cry from my usual humble pile of rags and reeds. And the young slave at my bedside was not my own cheerfully scruffy Junio, but an elegant stranger in an exquisitely bordered tunic.

Of course! This was not the wretched attic over my mosaic workshop in Glevum. I was a house-guest of His Supreme Excellence Publius Helvius Pertinax, supreme commander of the legions and governor of all Britannia. I was in his palace in Londinium, and judging by the broad daylight pouring through the windows I was guilty of a serious breach of etiquette. Most Roman households rise at dawn, and all important citizens expect to begin the day by receiving their
clientes
, the retinue of humbler citizens and freemen who call each morning to offer their homage in return for patronage, favours and even – occasionally – breakfast. I should have been awake, dressed, and ready to attend upon on my host hours ago.

Governor Pertinax is a just and even-handed man, but he is also noted for his punctiliousness and sense of duty. I could only hope that this morning his generosity was more in evidence than his severity. I tumbled out of bed at once and began fumbling for my fine new toga to pull on over my humble tunic.

‘His Excellence is asking for me?’ I attempted to drape myself hastily in the great length of crisp white cloth. That was a mistake. As anyone who has ever worn a toga knows, putting on that most Roman of garments is not a matter that can be hurried. Loose folds were already detaching themselves and escaping into droopy loops around my knees. But I felt the need to hurry. The governor had shown me great favour by inviting me here at all – to be so late to greet him seemed like woeful disrespect. Better men than I have doubtless been flogged for less.

The slave watched me for a moment with a kind of pity and then put down his bowl on the carved ebony table and came to my aid.

‘Permit me, citizen. After all, that is what I am here for.’ It was true, of course, but the man had such an air of supercilious elegance that I had been ashamed to ask him. Now I had made myself look additionally inept by failing to manage the wretched thing myself.

He stepped forward with a lofty smile. The snaking toga at once arranged itself into obedient folds in his hands as he unwound me from its coils. ‘There is no need for such haste,’ he said, in the manner of a tolerant tutor-slave. ‘His Excellence has ordered me to bring you water for ablutions. My master understands that after your long journey from Glevum you were naturally weary. And you no doubt wish to wash before you go to see him.’

I ignored the implied rebuke and breathed out a little. I had been weary, certainly. The journey to Londinium had taken days, and even in an official carriage on the military roads travel on that scale is hard on the bones, especially when you are nearing fifty, as I am, and unaccustomed to such journeying. ‘His Excellence is gracious,’ I said. ‘And perceptive.’

The slave smiled thinly as he laid aside my garment. If he was appalled at the sight of my second-best tunic, frayed and mended (my best one was at the fuller’s, itself being washed after the journey), he betrayed it only by the flicker of an eyelid.

‘Perhaps His Excellence observed your deportment last evening,’ he remarked, picking up the bowl again and coming to sponge my head and neck expertly with the cool water. ‘It was noticed that you were almost asleep at dinner.’

My heart sank. Another breach of good manners! I had hoped that my weariness would pass unremarked, but the truth was I’d found it difficult to keep my eyes open at the table – especially after my lingering visit to the bath-house, and the relaxing massage with scented oils I had been given to take the jolts out of my joints. The rich food had not helped, either, nor the plentiful supply of Roman wine. I am not accustomed to such luxuries. Perhaps it is as well that the governor is famed for keeping a comparatively spartan table – some banquets would have proved too much for me altogether.

I had rather prided myself on how well I had kept awake, right through the floor show and the sacrifices – at least when Pertinax was watching. I had even remained sufficiently alert to avoid swallowing any of that dreadful fish sauce which the Romans insist on serving with everything. Yet evidently my drooping eyelids had not escaped detection. No doubt the table-slaves had noticed.

I wondered if my behaviour when I was shown into this guest-room had also been reported to my host. Probably it had. I had made no attempt to observe the proper formalities – I have no recollection even of lying down. One moment I was surrounded by slaves, being relieved of the festive wreath around my forehead, helped out of my smart new toga (itself a present from the governor) and assisted somewhat unsteadily towards the pillows: the next, it seemed, I was being awoken by this servant. And now the governor was asking for me.

I thought about this as I permitted the slave to splash cool water over my legs and arms and dry me with a towel. A trickle of apprehension ran down my spine, far colder than the wash. ‘He called for me by all three names, I notice?’

That was more than an idle observation. It is the mark of a Roman citizen to have three Latin names. As a Celtic noble captured into slavery, I had acquired mine ten years ago, when my master died and bequeathed me his own coveted status together with my freedom. Nevertheless – like that wretched toga – it was a badge of citizenship which sits uncomfortably on me and which I avoid using as far as possible. Even the governor last night had clapped me on the shoulder and called me simply ‘Libertus’. By using my full title now, it seemed he was offering me a rebuke.

The young attendant ignored the implied question. He folded me deftly into the toga and fastened it with a clasp at my shoulder. ‘There, citizen,’ he said, standing back to admire his handiwork. ‘Now you are fit to attend upon His Excellence. You may eat, first, if you wish.’ His tone suggested that, at this hour, food was a luxury which it would be wisest to forego.

I sat down on the bed again while he fastened my sandals. I was hungry, but I was obediently ready to decline the offer of breakfast, when the slave went on, ‘My master ordered that food should be prepared for you, and naturally I arranged for bread and fruit – though your slave now tells me that you would have preferred oatcakes.’ A preference for oatcakes, his manner implied, was the ultimate mark of a hopeless barbarian.

‘Junio?’ I said. In the anxiety of the morning I had overlooked the fact that my own young slave had accompanied me to Londinium and would be somewhere in the building. Probably resting after the journey. As a guest, I had naturally been provided with a servant from the household as a matter of courtesy, but that did not preclude me from having my own slave attend me too.

Suddenly I felt aggrieved. I had rescued Junio from a ruffian of a slave-trader when he was no more than a terrified, half-starved child. Surely he could have contrived to come and wake me up at a less socially embarrassing hour? ‘Junio!’ I said again. ‘Where is he?’

The elegant slave looked disapproving. ‘He is waiting outside with a tray. In case you should have wanted that light repast I spoke of . . .’

I guessed that Junio had insisted on bringing me breakfast himself. I felt a little better. Somehow with Junio at my side I would feel more comfortable, even in these grandiose surroundings. But my feeling of irritation did not altogether disperse. Junio had been there all this time, hovering outside my door. He could have spared me the humiliation of being washed, dressed and condescended to by this elegant creature.

‘Perhaps I will have an apple, after all,’ I said. ‘It would be singularly inappropriate to appear before my host with a stomach grumbling from hunger. You may send Junio in.’

The slave hesitated a moment, then with a look of reproachful disdain he crossed to the door and flung it open. Junio came in, carrying a tray. The sight of that slight familiar figure with its tousled curls and irrepressible grin gave me a sudden confidence.

I nodded imperiously to my erstwhile attendant. ‘You may leave us, thank you. And take that dirty water with you. I will call you again when I require you to lead me to His Excellence. Oh, and . . .’ I reached my hand into the leather drawstring purse at my belt and drew out a coin. It was more or less obligatory to tip the servants if one visited a strange house. All I could find was a five
as
coin – little enough, but I would have been glad of it in my own slave days. Not in this household, however. The look on the young man’s face was almost comical. I really think for a moment he considered giving it back.

‘My thanks, citizen,’ he said gravely, and bowed himself out.

Junio put down his tray on the inlaid table, his grin broader than ever. ‘Your gift did not impress him, master?’ The tray, I saw, carried a platter of fine fruits – figs, dates, medlars, plums and apricots which must have come from all over the Empire. There was nothing so humble as an apple.

I ignored Junio’s remark and picked up a small brown medlar. It was mellow and ripe, and I sank my teeth into the fragrant flesh.

Junio watched me in mock horror. He had been raised as a slave in a Roman household, and seemed to share our conquerors’ misconception that because a ripe medlar looks half rotten it cannot be good to eat. ‘Chosen like a Celt,’ he grinned.

‘Enough of your impudence.’ I spoke with as much severity as I could muster. ‘Why did you not come and rouse me earlier, you young scoundrel? You might have saved me the embarrassment of being late for the governor.’

This time his surprise was genuine. ‘Wake you, master? But it was His Excellence himself who gave orders that you were not to be disturbed. You’d had a long journey already, he said, and it is a long way to Eboracum.’

That was true. I had been invited to Londinium by the governor on purpose to accompany him to Eboracum. Pertinax had learned from my patron in Glevum that I wished to go there to look for Gwellia – the wife who had been torn from me some twenty years earlier when we were both captured by pirates and sold into slavery – and had arranged to take me with him as a reward for solving a politically embarrassing killing. What Pertinax did not know was that my reasons for making the journey had become redundant. I now knew that Gwellia had been sold on. I had even glimpsed her for one tantalising moment, bound hand and foot on the back of a cart with a whole consignment of other female slaves, being driven south. By now she was probably somewhere in Londinium itself.