Fortunately, the slave’s little homily was having some effect. A few of the crowd were still muttering discontentedly but others were beginning to drift away.
‘This is the handiwork of the gods,’ the slave said again. ‘Leave proper propitiation to the priests. There is nothing you can do here for the moment.’
I turned to Scribonius. ‘If this
is
the hand of the gods,’ I murmured (we were still inside the ambulatory, so that only he could hear), ‘perhaps there is nothing
anyone
can do. However, I am still inclined to seek a human agency. I remember that opened bolt and that unprotected key. Make your sacrifices, just in case, to placate the deities – but keep your ears and eyes open too. That is the best way you can serve the temple.’
He nodded, doubtfully.
‘Farewell, for now at least.’ I left him to it, and made my way out past the slave and through the gate.
A little gaggle of people still lingered there, reluctant to disperse. As soon as they saw me they surrounded me, asking a hundred questions and tugging me this way and that, all shouting at once, their voices high with panic. I could see in their faces that unreasoning fear which had possessed me earlier.
‘What’s happening, tradesman? Why have they called on you?’ One of the wailing women accosted me. I did not know her, but she’d seized me by the sleeve and forced me to stop and talk to her. I was wearing a simple tunic, of course – if I had been wearing my toga, she would never have dared. ‘What’s happening in there? A demon with four heads they say. And someone saw a shower of stars last night. Are we all doomed?’ She gave my arm a little jerk, as if she could shake the information from me.
Her terror was infectious. I knew that if I closed my eyes, I would see that reappearing stain, hear that inhuman moaning sound, feel the sticky warmth of blood upon my hands. I began to find my own heart thumping hard, and a cold sweat running down my spine. Besides, they were all swarming round me now. I’ve always had a fear of mindless crowds. But there was little I could say to calm them down. I was as mystified as they were. But it would not do to show it.
As I was trying to compose myself, a second crone began plucking at me on the other side. ‘And is it true there was a visitation from the gods?’
‘A monstrous spectre with a face like death?’ That was a third, pulling at my shoulder.
A man in a tattered tunic thrust his red face close to mine. ‘Don’t try to fob us off with lies. We heard that awful moaning yesterday.’
This was getting out of hand. It would not take much to start a riot. I had to do something. I strove to recollect myself. ‘These things are exaggerated in the telling,’ I said firmly, shaking myself free. ‘Some serious events have happened at the temple, it is true, but there is a simple human explanation – which you will be told. But not today.’ I only wished I was as certain of that as I sounded. ‘The priests will tell you at the proper time, but first, of course, they must consult the auguries. Now, I am going back to attend to my work, and I suggest that you all do the same.’
The temple slave had got down off his stool, and now flashed me a grateful smile, as if we were accomplices in a convenient lie.
Yet there
was
an explanation, I told myself fiercely. There had to be. If these unearthly events had occurred at the altar of Mighty Jupiter, perhaps my terrors would be justified. Even a Celt like me would have recognised the workings of a supernatural hand. But they had happened at the Imperial shrine, and surely that was quite a different matter? Commodus was officially a god, of course, but I had never had the slightest belief in his divinity, much less in his ability to perform miracles and signs. Surely, rationally, I couldn’t accept it even now?
I felt a little calmer at the thought, and that confidence must have communicated itself to the crowd, because they began to drift away. I couldn’t explain my reasoning to them, of course – I value my scraggy neck too much. It would not have taken much, in the mood that they were in, to turn the mob against me, and what I had just thought was treasonable, as well as impious. The punishment for that was horrible, though it might have caused amusement to the crowd. If Fabius Marcellus the legate ever did visit the city, I had no wish to form part of the civic entertainments by facing the beasts in the arena for his delight. I am an old man, and my sense of humour about these things is not what it was.
I elbowed my way out through the remnants of crowd, and went resolutely back to Optimus’s house. One or two of the stragglers followed me, still plucking at my sleeves and questioning. I was glad to arrive at the back door of the house, where I could get away from them.
Especially since I had no answers to give them. If there
was
some human explanation for what I’d seen, I had no idea what it was. I needed time to think.
I rapped sharply on the wooden gate, and the doorman let me in.
This time, when he greeted me, the doorkeeper seemed noticeably more relaxed. ‘Citizen Optimus got tired of sending important visitors round to the servants’ door,’ he informed me cheerfully. ‘He’s gone off to hold his meetings in the public baths.’ He chuckled. ‘Taken that Phrygian steward with him, so you can find your own way through the house if you like. Save me having to get up, and leave the back door unattended.’
‘Thank you. I think I know the way.’ I hurried off before he had time to change his mind. I wanted to take the opportunity of being unattended to have a quick look in that inner courtyard garden where I’d seen the hooded shape. Not that there was very much to see. The colonnaded walkway I had seen the day before; a few uninteresting plants; a collection of poky storerooms at the back, full of amphorae, sacks and barrels; a sort of two-storey outhouse for the slaves; a
lararium
to the household gods, and a small courtyard with an oven in it, where bread and cakes were evidently baked without the threat of setting fire to the kitchen. Just like a dozen other dwellings of its kind.
I might have investigated further, but at that moment a woman emerged from one of the bedrooms off the colonnade. She was short, well fed, well coiffured and well dressed, and accompanied by a pretty slave girl carrying a tray of unguents. This must be Optimus’s wife. She stared at me.
‘I’ve come about the pavement, lady,’ I explained.
She nodded vaguely and I went quickly on into the front section of the house.
It was almost a relief, after the pressures of the day, to walk into that calm interior and to think about a piece of floor which was not occupied by disappearing corpses or reappearing blood. The only bodies in the passageway, when I arrived, were those of Junio and the kitchen boy, and they were clearly very much alive. Both were on their knees, facing away from me, occupied in laying tiles to a template under Junio’s vociferous command.
‘Not there, you stupid oaf, you’ll put your hand down on the wet cement. A little further right. That’s it. And now another – pass me that red one, quick! Before the mortar sets! Come on! Did they breed you from a tortoise and a snail?’
I recognised something of my own style in this, and could not contain a chuckle. The kitchen slave heard me and scrambled to his feet, red-faced, brushing his dirty hands diligently on his apron.
‘What are you . . .?’ Junio said, and then he turned and saw me too. He stood up in his turn, a slow reluctant smile on his face. ‘There you are, master,’ he said. ‘I did not hear you come.’
‘So I observe,’ I said, trying to sound severe. ‘Judging by the sight that greeted me!’
The kitchen slave looked anxious, but Junio only grinned. ‘Master, you have come back half an hour too soon. Another little while and we’d have finished the job.’ Now that I was not confronted by a pair of tunicked bottoms, I could see the border they had been working on. He was right. Most of the missing tiles had been reset by now and a good job they had made of it – though there was a slight imperfection in one corner, and they had created a lot of dust and chippings in the process.
I said, ‘It’s an improvement on the previous pavement, certainly. That corner piece, you could have used a smaller template there – but it will do. I think I can disguise it.’ I tied on my leather apron as I spoke (it had been folded on the floor nearby) and got to my own knees, creakily. ‘If you let me have those last few tile pieces there, and some water perhaps, so we can wash it down . . .’ My last remark was intended for the kitchen slave, but he had already seized the bucket and was gone.
‘Master, what happened at the temple?’ Junio asked eagerly, as soon as the boy was out of earshot. ‘Have they discovered something new? What did they want you for in such a hurry?’ He was already collecting up the tesserae I’d asked for.
I told him, briefly – omitting my sacrilegious moment in the grove. ‘So, you can see, I have made little progress. Not like you – I see you’ve had assistance all the morning here?’
Junio nodded. ‘Lithputh gave orders that the boy was to help me until you came back – decided that someone should keep an eye on me, I think. I got the feeling that he knew what I was planning, and did it to stop me wandering about unsupervised and questioning the other slaves.’ He put the pieces he’d collected into a pile, and stood nearby to help. I looked up at him, inviting him to think about the task. ‘Red, in that corner, do you think?’ he said.
I held a tile or two above the floor to try out the effect. He had a good eye – red was exactly right. I nodded, satisfied. But I was still interested in Lithputh. ‘It wouldn’t make much difference how many slaves you saw. If Optimus or his steward had anything significant to hide, surely one servant would know as much as any other?’ I spoke from experience. ‘It’s hard to keep a secret in a household full of slaves.’
Junio shook his head. ‘Perhaps not in this household, master. Lithputh rules it with a rod of iron – quite literally a rod sometimes, I hear. Out of frustration, I suppose. It seems he’s been trying for a long time to save up and buy his freedom – but you know what Optimus is like. Phrygian stewards may be commonplace in Rome, but they’re a luxury item here – and Optimus must have set the price unreasonably high. In any case Lithputh can’t afford it. And his master fines him for all breakages and “wastage” in the house – so even that price rises all the time. It’s clear his master doesn’t want to let him go.’
‘And Lithputh takes it out on all the rest?’ I guessed.
Junio nodded. ‘Beatings for everything, from breaking plates to “standing gossiping” – and he has his spies – so naturally, if there is the slightest problem, everyone blames everybody else, and no one confides in anyone. There’s a real household atmosphere of resentment and mistrust.’
‘At least when Lithputh is about,’ I said, remembering the doorman’s manner. I put down the tiles and began to scratch the pattern in the mortar. The paving task that I had set myself was complex – an inner curve to minimise the flaw and link the new work to the old, and a final small medallion shape to draw the eye away. Curved lines are always more difficult than straight, and it must be done before the mortar dried.
‘There!’ I said at last, sitting back on my heels. ‘That will do, I think. Now we can start filling in the tiles.’ The task must have needed all my concentration because it was only now that a thought struck me. ‘All this about the household, the slave boy told you that?
You
seem to have gained his confidence, at least.’
‘I’m not part of the household,’ Junio grinned. ‘All he wanted was a sympathetic ear. He was only too anxious to pour out all his woes.’ He was passing me the tiles one by one, anticipating my needs.
‘Which were . . .?’ I prompted.
‘The poor boy was only purchased recently, to replace another kitchen slave that died. He is terribly ill-suited to the job. His name is Kurso. He was a child slave and playmate to a rich man’s son before, but then his master went to school and so he wasn’t needed any more. He’s had a dreadful time since he arrived. He dropped a serving dish the first hour he was here – he had not known that it would be so hot. Of course, they punished him – and that made it worse. He’s grown so terrified that he’s clumsier by the hour. The other slaves avoid him – they think he brings bad luck.’
‘Perhaps that’s why Lithputh selected him to come and help us?’
‘I expect so, master. Unfortunately, though, if there is gossip in the household, he is the one least likely to have heard it. He seems to have spent much of his time locked in a cellar, either waiting for a beating or recovering from one. Poor boy, he has no skills at anything. I’m surprised that Optimus chose to purchase him. Though Kurso was healthy, young and cheap – no doubt that appealed. But he’s not stupid, master, though they think he is. He isn’t clumsy if he isn’t scared. I showed him what to do here, and he was very quick to learn. Especially when Lithputh left us alone. I think Kurso even quite enjoyed himself.’
‘And so did you, you impudent young scamp,’ I told him. ‘I heard you giving orders like an overseer!’ That sounded sharper than I meant, and I hurried to add, ‘To some effect, at least. He seems to have been very helpful here.’
Junio’s face cleared, and he grinned. ‘Helpful in more ways than one. One can learn things even in a cellar. As I promised, master – I think I may have some real news for you—’ He stopped suddenly as the boy came back into the room, red-faced and struggling under the weight of the heavy bucket, which was filled right to the brim.
‘Ah, Kurso! The water!’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘At last!’
It was the mildest of rebukes, but the effect was startling. Kurso turned a painful shade of red, stepped backwards, and slopped half of the bucket’s contents on the floor as he set it down. ‘I’m sorry, citizen,’ he blurted, with a little sob. ‘I did not mean to be so long – and now I’ve spilt it.’
‘You’d have been quicker with a lighter bucket,’ Junio said.
‘Lithputh is back. He saw me coming to you with the pail and sent me back to fill it properly. Said I was a lazy little swine and to fetch a proper bucketful next time. I’m sorry, citizen.’ His lip was trembling.