That observation gave me some relief. It would have needed a stronger man than Minimus to accomplish that. My slave was scarcely more than a child, and Lucius, though there was little flesh upon his bones, was quite a solid corpse. He was at least as tall as I am, and – as I was now uncomfortably aware – was very heavy, dead. Only a full-grown adult could have dumped him here. Or more than one, of course.
But who would want to murder a man like Lucius? I gazed down at his face. Lucius had been an ugly man in life and he was uglier in death, but he was a harmless soul. True, his wares were terrible, but he was surely not a person to have serious enemies? Then I saw his belt. The loops that held his money-purse had been cut through and the leather ends now dangled uselessly. The purse itself was gone. Not that there was ever very much in it. Was that why he had died, for the sake of the few
asses
that he’d earned from his pies? It was more than usually possible, in fact.
There had been rumours of rebel bandits in the forests again: a band of straggling Silurians and Ordovices from the wild lands to the west, who, unlike the vast majority of those now-peaceful tribes, had never accepted Caractacus’s defeat. Their targets were mainly military, of course, though anything Roman – such as a toga – might find itself attacked, and they sometimes ambushed travellers to steal money and supplies. At one time Marcus had nearly stamped the problem out, but in his absence it was getting worse, and once or twice the brigands had made forays into town.
Was that, I wondered, what had happened here? Had Lucius been loitering for me outside the door when he had been ambushed by robbers from the woods? They always killed their victims, so that they could not testify (the punishment for banditry was crucifixion still), and realizing that there was no one in the shop, they could well have dragged the body in and left it out of sight. Perhaps – supposing that the workshop was his own – they also doused the fire and snuffed the tapers out, to make the place look closed, so that discovery of the corpse would take as long as possible and thus delay pursuit. It seemed the likeliest explanation of implausible events.
It also suggested a disturbing thought. In his new tunic – grimed with stone dust now – Lucius did not look the pauper that he generally did. It was darned and mended, but that suggested care, and casual marauders would not have known his twisted face and recognized him as simply a wretched pie-seller. They might easily suppose that the coin-purse at his belt held gold and silver rather than a handful of the smallest of brass coins.
Poor Lucius! It seemed my well-intentioned gift had brought him only grief. Besides, I was certain that he’d come to the workshop to see me – and if he had not come here, he would not have died. If only Minimus had been here to send him home again!
Which raised another question. What had happened to my slave? Finding the body had driven that problem from my mind. For one mad moment I gazed around the room, half fearing that I’d find another corpse among the stones, but there was nothing. I even looked in the attic space upstairs, but there were no signs of footprints in the dust, and everything looked just as usual. I came quickly down again. I was really anxious now. When I came to think about things soberly, it was not like Minimus to have left his post. He was young and over-eager, but he was obedient to a fault.
So had he been taken away against his will? By the same bandits, perhaps? It was not a pleasant possibility. The best I could hope, in that case, was that he’d been seized to sell: there was always a market at the docks for young, good-looking slaves – overseas traders took them, and no questions asked – though what their ultimate fate might be was quite another thing. But there was a much more likely reason for abducting him. He had belonged to Marcus, one of the most important Romans in the world, and no doubt had useful information he could be forced to give, in ways too unpleasant to think about.
I went outside and looked rather wildly around. Minimus’s knuckle-bones were spread out on the counter top – I had left him sitting on the stool ready to deal with any customers, and it was clear he’d been playing with them while I was away. He would not have dared to do so if I’d been about. This proof of childish mischief brought a constriction to my throat.
And there was the pie-tray, leaning on the stones.
I sighed, thinking of the owners of those two simple things: Lucius, with his one eye and his awful pies, who had sought my protection and was lying dead, and my little red-haired scatterbrain of a slave, for whom I was, naturally, entirely responsible. A fine protector I had proved to be!
I turned away and thumped my fist against the wall next door, then buried my head against my arm. I was aware of a shameful prickling behind my eyes.
‘Hyperius, you can go ahead and let them know I’m here.’ A voice behind me cut across my thoughts. I recognized the imperious tones of Quintus Severus. Dear Jupiter, I had forgotten about him and I was not prepared – I hadn’t changed into a toga, my hands were dark with grime, and my face was smudged with most unroman tears. He would doubtless see all this as dreadful disrespect. And I could not even ask him to come inside my shop. What was the chief town councillor going to say to that?
I composed myself with an effort and turned to see the man himself. He was descending from a private litter in the centre of the street, assisted by a supercilious-looking slave. Quintus was always an imposing figure, tall and gaunt in his magisterial robes, and he looked every inch the civil dignitary now: completely out of place in this area of the town. Over his toga he wore a dark-red cloak, edged with expensive gold embroidery – causing a passing turnip-seller to turn and stare at him – and he carried a leather switch in one ringed hand. He wore his brown hair fashionably cropped, accentuating his huge brows and long, patrician nose, and his deep-set eyes were gazing around with evident dismay.
The source of his concern was evident. He was wearing an expensive pair of soft red-leather shoes, and there is no fancy paving in this suburb of the town (which has grown up, haphazardly, just outside the northern walls), merely a muddy road with a stone causeway either side.
I hastened forward, making the deepest obeisance my ageing knees could bear. ‘Honoured citizen!’ I stammered in dismay. ‘I must apologize . . .’
He looked at me, and I saw the dawning consternation and horror on his face. I realized what a spectacle I must currently present, and devoutly wished that I had not agreed to meet him at the shop.
‘Libertus? Pavement-maker? Is that really you? What are you doing there?’ He seemed to recollect that I was a citizen, and he made a visible effort to control himself. ‘I’m sorry, citizen, I did not expect to find you on the street. Hyperius, you dolt!’ he added to the slave, who had obediently walked towards the shop and was now standing hesitating, goggling at me. ‘Come back here at once. Can’t you see I need you to help me cross all this?’ He flicked his switch in the direction of the mire.
The attendant, a stolid man of middle years, whose scarlet tunic was almost as gorgeous as his owner’s, turned a sullen red and hurried back to proffer a supporting hand. Quintus Severus took it and picked his way fastidiously across the mud and grime.
‘Decurion,’ I burbled, dropping another bow. ‘A thousand pardons, distinguished citizen. I regret that I am not dressed to welcome you. Furthermore, I fear that I’m unable to invite you to my shop. But—’
He gestured me to silence and gazed at me, rather as a slave-master might assess substandard wares. ‘Unable to invite me? What exactly is going on?’ He took a deep, exasperated breath. ‘I understood I was expected here?’
‘Of course you were, distinguished citizen,’ I said, still gabbling with dismay. ‘But, you see, there’s been an accident.’
‘An accident?’ That clearly shocked him, and you could see a kind of light dawn in the cold blue eyes. ‘What sort of accident?’ He frowned, contriving to convey that accidents were unacceptable, and that this one was evidence of my bad management. He looked me up and down. ‘An accident to you?’
‘Not to me, decurion. To Lucius,’ I explained.
‘Lucius?’ The intonation suggested that this was even more absurd than permitting accidents. ‘And who is Lucius?’
‘A street-vendor,’ I murmured. ‘A pie-seller, in fact. I found him in my workshop just before you came.’ I took a deep breath and made a plunge for it. ‘I am afraid he’s dead – murdered. Someone’s throttled him.’
‘A pie-seller?’ Quintus echoed again, disbelievingly. He made it sound as if he thought that this was somehow all my fault and had been deliberately arranged to inconvenience him. ‘Murdered in your workshop? What was he doing there?’
When I was expected,
his tone of voice implied.
‘I don’t believe that he was killed there, citizen. More likely set on in the street and robbed, and dumped there afterwards. I fear it may be bandits . . .’ I outlined my reasoning.
‘I see.’ Quintus abruptly seemed to have lost interest in this. ‘Spare me all the explanation, citizen. I know that you are skilled at solving mysteries – Marcus was always boasting of your skill – but the death of a pie-seller is hardly my concern.’
‘But you understand that I can hardly ask you in the shop and show you patterns with him lying there.’
He cut me off with a dismissive gesture of his hand. ‘Naturally not. It seems I’ve had a wasted journey here this afternoon. Unfortunate, but I concede that it is unavoidable. One cannot conduct business in the presence of a corpse. It would be inauspicious to a remarkable degree. What will you do with the body, anyway? I don’t imagine that the pie-seller belonged to any guild?’
This was a problem that I hadn’t thought about – I had been too shocked at finding Lucius dead. But, of course, he would require some sort of burial. There were special societies, even among slaves, to which people paid a small sum every month to ensure they received a proper funeral and were not condemned to walk the earth as ghosts, but, as Quintus had remarked, it was unlikely that Lucius had ever joined such a guild. Seriously poor freemen very rarely did – money was needed for more pressing purposes. I said, ‘He has a mother – no doubt she would know.’
Quintus made a disapproving face. ‘Better to inform the garrison authorities, and they will come round with a cart and put the corpse in a communal grave. It is not a council matter, since we’re outside the gates. You will want to have the workshop ritually cleansed to get rid of evil omens as soon as possible, I suppose – and you can’t do that until the body has been moved. Though it may cost you a little to have them bury it – he is not strictly a vagrant or a criminal.’
I winced. I had seen them put bodies in the common pit before – tipped in without ceremony and covered up with lime. It was not what I would have chosen for Lucius at all, but it’s where he would have ended if he’d dropped dead in the street, and a proper funeral was an expensive thing and would mean a full two days of mourning closure for the shop. Besides, Quintus was right about the cleansing rites. No customer would come to a workshop where a murdered corpse had lain, for fear that it was cursed – only a proper ritual would dispel the fears. That would involve an expensive sacrifice at least, and probably a priest with incense, scattering water on the floor. This business was already likely to cost more than I could easily afford.
Quintus was looking questioningly at me. ‘I could alert the gatehouse as I go home, perhaps. Then they can send a party later on.’
‘Someone had better go and tell his mother, just in case,’ I said aloud. ‘Though I suppose that I will have to see to that myself. It’s not a task that I look forward to.’
He looked at me, astonished. ‘Get a slave to do it – you do
have
a slave, I suppose. Don’t I remember that Marcus lent you some?’
I nodded glumly. ‘Two little matching boys. And that’s another thing. One of them, who was attending me today, seems to have disappeared. I fear the killers may have kidnapped him.’
Quintus stared at me. His attendant made a stifled noise. ‘What is it, Hyperius?’ the decurion said.
‘If I might be permitted, citizen . . .?’ The slave had a peculiarly unctuous tone of voice. ‘If the pavement-maker’s slave has disappeared, why should we suppose that bandits are involved? Surely it is likely that it was the slave who killed the pie-seller? Stole his purse and made a run for it?’
Quintus looked absurdly pleased at this remark. ‘Of course. Well done, Hyperius. Marcus is not the only one to have a clever man to help.’ He turned to me. ‘With your reputation, citizen, I am surprised you didn’t think of that explanation for yourself.’
‘I did, decurion, but I dismissed it instantly – and so would you, if you had known my slave.’ It sounded impertinent and I hurried on, ‘Anyway, there is evidence that there was a much stronger hand at work.’ I explained about the tracks. ‘You – or your slave – can come and see it for yourself—’
He cut me off with one impatient hand. ‘Of course, we shall do nothing so absurd. To come into your workshop is to invite a curse. We have already lingered here too long. I shall get in touch with the garrison and have them move the corpse, but I shall also tell them to look out for your page and hold him on suspicion of involvement in all this. Hyperius is right. It wouldn’t be the first time that a slave has stolen a purse and made a run for it.’
I shuddered. To be apprehended as a fugitive slave is a serious affair, unless the slave can prove that his master was unnaturally cruel and he had gone to seek protection from a kinder one. And it did not require the master himself to bring the charge. Quintus would doubtless do exactly what he said, and that would make three capital offences of which Minimus was accused – running from his master, theft and homicide.
‘I’m sure that Minimus has done nothing of the kind,’ I protested, ready to give my reasons, but Quintus was already bridling and he cut me off.