The Chariots of Calyx (7 page)

Someone, clearly, was trying to calm the outburst. There were muffled voices for a moment, and then the tirade began again.

‘Well, you listen me, my friend. You tell your master, is he alive or dead, that Eppaticus Tertius is arrived to see him. And if Eppaticus does not see somebody very soon, then Eppaticus will take his matters to the court. Twenty thousand sesterces, he owes to me, and he promised me today.’

More apologetic muttering. The doorkeeper evidently.

‘No, I will not make less loud my voice. All Londinium can know these things. And the other things will I tell, that Caius Monnius wishes I should hide – those things I will shout from the steps of the forum, if I do not have my money in my hand today. Now, stand back and let me see him, or by all the gods of the river, you will be the one which is dead.’

There was a scuffle, a shout, a bang and a groan. I glanced at Junio, and a moment later the two of us were hastening back towards the atrium the way we had come. Eppaticus, however, was too quick for us.

We met him coming towards us, in one of the interconnecting rooms. He was a huge man in a plaid cape, with shoulders like an ox and a red bull face under a thatch of light brown hair. In one great hand he had hoisted the unfortunate doorkeeper by the neck of his tunic, and was half carrying, half pushing him along; while with the other (which seemed the size of a fire-flail) he brushed aside the two burly household slaves who tried to detain him, as though they were no more than a pair of troublesome sheep.

He was still bellowing. ‘Dead, you say he is? Then you will show me him. Dead or alive, I will see Caius Monnius.’

‘Ask this citizen,’ the doorkeeper squawked, his toes scarcely touching the ground as he was thrust along. ‘He is an emissary from the governor.’

Eppaticus stopped, looking me over from haircut to toga hem. ‘So? Another Roman? What the governor wishes in this house? What things that cheating Caius Monnius had told against me?’ He was working himself up into a rage again, and for a moment it looked as if he might forget himself, and lay violent hands on me.

‘I am a Celt, like yourself,’ I said, speaking in my native tongue. ‘And they are telling you the truth, Eppaticus. The man is dead. They are even now preparing him for his funeral.’

He put down the doorkeeper, and stared consideringly at me. As he turned his head I saw with surprise that he wore his hair in an old-fashioned Celtic pigtail at the back, although his forehead was not shaved as it would have been in my own tribe, and he lacked the long waxed moustache that would have suggested noble descent. His dress, too, was a mixture of traditions. He wore a Roman-style tunic, rather than trousers, under his Celtic plaid.

He was gazing at me with suspicion, but he replied in the same language. ‘You are not from these parts, citizen? Your dialect is strange to me.’

‘As yours to me,’ I said. It was true. It was almost as difficult for me to comprehend his barbarous Celtic accent as to follow his fractured Latin. Nevertheless, the discovery that I was a fellow countryman had some effect. It had stopped the furious bull in his stampede and I hoped it forged a kind of fragile bond between us, though he was obviously still extremely wary of me. The tribes of Britain have often nurtured worse enmities between themselves than were ever felt for our conquerors.

I said to reassure him, ‘I am from the farthest south-west corner of Britannia.’ That, I hoped, was safe. Tribal tension is always greatest between immediate neighbours.

Eppaticus nodded his huge head slowly. ‘And I am Trinovantine.’

I had heard of them. One of the most warlike and quarrelsome tribes in the country: at one time, they had even joined forces with the Iceni to revolt against Roman rule. Of course, that was more than a century ago, and old scores had been officially forgotten – at least in public – but men still spoke in whispers of the terrible revenge which the Romans had inflicted on the warrior queen Boudicca and her daughters, and the razing of the cities (including Londinium) which had supported the rebels. I imagine that the Trinovantes have little love for a toga.

No surprise, then, to find Eppaticus clinging to Celtic ways – in fact it was more surprising to see the extent of his Romanisation. And he could hardly welcome an emissary from the governor. Indeed, he was staring suspiciously at me.

‘Ah, yes! A Trinovantine. The barley ear,’ I said, to cover my frantic thoughts.

I meant nothing particular by that – any trader in the island might have said the same. The original coinage of the Trinovantes was marked with an ear of barley, and therefore everyone in the province associated the name with the symbol, but the effect on Eppaticus was startling.

He let out a roar that rattled the wall-hangings. ‘What has Caius Monnius been telling you? It was an arrangement – he was as much to blame as I was. It was a private matter, between ourselves, and now he tries to incriminate me! I’ll kill him!’

I looked around the corridor. The slaves were watching the exchange with expressions which ranged from horrified amusement to blank incomprehension.

‘Eppaticus,’ I said, ‘be careful what you say. Many of the servants here speak Celtic.’

He gave a snort of contempt. ‘I care not which hears me,’ he bellowed in Latin. ‘He betrays me to the governor. I said before and I say again, I kill him. I throttle him. I wring his dirty Roman neck!’

‘Eppaticus,’ I said gently, ‘you are too late. I told you. Caius Monnius is dead. Someone has throttled him already. That is why the governor has sent me here.’

He seemed to understand the message for the first time. He stared at me a moment. ‘Murdered?’

Then, surprisingly swiftly for a man of his stature, he pushed the slaves savagely aside, and – still roaring like a bull – before anyone could stop him he fled headlong from the house.

As soon as they had picked themselves up and pulled themselves together, two of the house-slaves ran out after him. I followed, a little more slowly, as my age required.

But as I arrived at the front entrance they returned, panting.

‘It is no good, citizen, he had a horse outside, being held by a beggar. He was on to it and away in no time. We almost caught him, but he was too quick for us.’

I frowned. ‘Who is he? Apart from being called Eppaticus?’

They looked at each other, shrugging. ‘I do not know, citizen. He is not a man we’ve ever seen before.’

‘Not as a dinner guest? Not among your master’s
clientes
?’

They shook their heads in unison.

I found myself in a quandary now. I was here to investigate the death of Caius Monnius, and Eppaticus had apparently not known about that, so I had no reason to detain him. Yet his behaviour throughout had been so extraordinary – barging into the house uninvited, and barging just as abruptly out of it again – that I was reluctant just to let him go.

I turned to Junio, who had followed – like a good slave – at my heels. ‘Fetch me Superbus,’ I said, with sudden determination. ‘He can go and ask a few questions for me. I want to know more about that Trinovantine.’

‘Superbus, master?’ Junio sounded stricken. ‘Are you sure that he will ask the right question—’

I interrupted him. ‘Send me Superbus,’ I said firmly. ‘You cannot be everywhere at once, and there are more immediate matters here which I want you to help with.’

‘As you wish, master,’ Junio said, and did as he was bidden, although with an expression which suggested that he still had the gravest doubts about the wisdom of my decision.

‘And be quick about it!’ I shouted after him, largely for the benefit of the assembled servants, who had been watching this unslavelike exchange with fascination.

‘Well,’ I said, rounding on the others briskly. ‘Have you no work to do? Back to your stations at once, and report this intrusion to your mistress. You!’ I elected one of them at random. ‘Escort me to the lady Fulvia. If she is well enough I think I should hear her account of what happened last night.’

‘Yes, citizen,’ he murmured dutifully, as the others shuffled off to their posts. ‘If you would follow me . . .’

He led me back towards the master’s quarters. Only just in time. As I turned away, I could already hear Annia’s voice raised in outrage. ‘You worm! You offspring of a circus trainer’s pimp! How dare you not inform me of this sooner!’ While Lydia wailed plaintively, ‘Another intruder! Great Mercury defend us. We shall all be murdered in our beds.’

My attendant shot me an embarrassed smile and led the way back to the painted passage where I had been before. The smoke was thicker now, and more pungent, but we passed the master’s room and the slave tapped timidly at the second door.

‘Enter!’ said Fulvia’s voice, and we went in.

It was a luxurious room, beautifully decorated with roundels of painted flowers on the wall. Fine bed, fine cushions, fine rugs upon the floor: a great bound chest near the door for clothes and ornaments: another at the foot of the bed: an elegant footstool: a little brazier and a dozen lamps: an exquisite small shrine upon a stand, and a small shelf built into the wall where there was such an assortment of phials and pots, boxes, mirrors, combs and bowls that you might have thought the lady was going into the cosmetics business herself, and had made a collection for the purpose.

As in every other part of the house, no expense had been spared, but here there was evidence of a discerning eye. The garments that an elderly maidservant was folding fussily into the storage chest, too, were not only of finest wool and linen, but in the subtlest colours to be had in the Empire – mossy greens, soft blues and amethyst – each one a tribute to the dyer’s art. And to the depth of the buyer’s purse, I thought.

Fulvia was lying back against her pillows. She had removed her veil and silken belt and placed them on a stool beside the bed, but otherwise she was dressed as before, and her dark robes were in starkest contrast to the beautiful pastel shades around her. One of the pretty pageboys was engaged in bathing her forehead with what looked like goat’s milk and water from a bowl. The other boy stood at the open window-space, which was large – exactly like the one in the next room – and was using a large feather fan to waft away the pungent smoke which was issuing from under the inner door. Nevertheless, the air was heavy with the smells of incense and burning herbs.

Fulvia stretched out a languid hand to me. ‘Ah, you have come, citizen.’ I bent over the hand, and she continued, ‘I was beginning to wonder what had happened. I heard some sort of . . . commotion.’

‘Eppaticus the Trinovantine,’ I informed her. ‘Come to demand his money. He claims that your husband owes him twenty thousand sesterces. That’s five thousand
denarii
!’

I had hoped to provoke some sign of recognition at the name, but there was none. Fulvia wrinkled her pretty brow. ‘Eppaticus,’ she murmured. ‘What an ugly name. I have never heard it, I am sure. I would have remembered it.’

‘You would not forget
him
in hurry,’ I said. I gave a brief description.

She shook her head. ‘One of my husband’s nasty business contacts, I imagine. I’m sorry, citizen, I cannot help you there.’

‘And the money?’ I enquired. ‘Five thousand
denarii
is a lot of silver. You think your husband really owed him as much as that?’

She waved a careless hand. ‘Oh, that is quite possible. Monnius was always striking deals.’ She seemed more composed now, speaking about her husband, than she had done previously. She furrowed her pretty brow, and added, ‘Did I not hear that money had been taken? About that amount, I think. Perhaps Eppaticus was right, and that was the money owed to him.’

‘Twenty thousand sesterces?’ I said in amazement. Pertinax had spoken of a ‘substantial sum’, but I had not imagined a small fortune like this. Even carrying away such a quantity of coins would be quite a feat in itself. ‘Did Monnius regularly keep such large amounts in the house?’

Fulvia laughed. ‘Oh yes, citizen. And larger sums than that. He had safe hiding places built especially – under the floorboards in his room, in his study, even in the walls. If you were to search this house from roof to soil I dare say you would find ten times that quantity in gold and silver, even now.’

‘And could you lead me to these hiding places?’

She dazzled me with a smile ‘Not I, citizen. I was never told his secrets. My husband did not trust females with money. Not even his mother. Of course, where I was concerned there was no problem. If I wished for anything, I had merely to ask. Monnius was always’ – she smiled – ‘a
susceptible
man.’

I let it pass, for the moment – though naturally there were questions I would want to ask her later. I said, ‘And the documents?’

‘Documents?’ She sounded astonished.

‘I understand some scrolls have also disappeared.’

‘Scrolls? I do not think so, citizen.’ She frowned. ‘At least . . . I had not heard of this. Documents? You are certain of that?’

‘I report only what I heard,’ I said. ‘A sum of money and at least one document-scroll. Your husband would have had such things, I presume?’

‘Indeed, citizen. His writing desk was always littered with them. I saw him take delivery of some new ones yesterday. Though they are only business contracts and copies of the imperial corn decrees, I think. Why should a sneak thief make away with those?’

‘You have the advantage of me, lady. You have seen his “documents”. Perhaps you could suggest a reason.’

Her pale cheeks coloured faintly. ‘Perhaps I could have done, citizen, except that my father had firm views on educating women. He believed that girls should learn what he called “
useful
arts”. Hence, I can play three types of instrument, sing you songs in Latin and in Greek, dance you most kinds of dance and tell you a hundred legends. I can dye wool, weave a length of cloth, mix you a remedy and oversee a household to perfection. But, though I can scratch my name on a wax tablet when required, in general reading is not among my skills. And I did not know that any scrolls were missing.’

She spoke with a kind of bitterness and I could only nod. Celtic girls have always received the same education as their brothers, so that these days, when so many richer Celtic men read Latin, one expects their educated womenfolk to do the same. I am inclined to forget that Roman families sometimes see matters differently. I changed the subject hastily. ‘But, even if you could not read the scrolls, you can tell me something about what happened here last night?’