A Pattern of Blood

Chapter Nine

Junio was endearingly pleased to see me. He was not accustomed to endless hours of waiting. Back at the Glevum workshop, he was my only servant. He helped me with everything, and I was additionally teaching him the rudiments of pavement-making. One day, when he gained his freedom, when I was gone or he was old enough to manumit, I intended that he would have a trade to support himself.

Several hours of idleness in the attic had been hard for him to bear, and he threw himself into my service with enthusiasm. A pair of matching slaves had been sent to tend me, but Junio would not allow them near me. He insisted on doing everything himself. He stoked the braziers, trimmed the wicks, fetched water to bathe my hands and feet, combed oils through my hair and beard, plumped up my cushions, extricated me from my outer garments, lighted my way to the latrine and finally tucked me up, cleansed and shining, under the woven blankets on the luxurious Roman bed — wooden frame, webbed base, padded mattress and all. When, after all that, he sat down on the floor beside me and began to fold and brush my toga, I took pity on the waiting pair and sent them away.

Junio, who up until then had been according me unaccustomed respect, and speaking only when spoken to, put down his work as soon as they were gone and grinned at me cheerfully. ‘No spiced mead tonight, master.’ It was my favourite nightcap, but not one I expected to find in a Roman household. ‘How will you ever sleep? And on such an uncomfortable bed, too.’

I found myself grinning back. My bed at home was a humble pile of reeds and rags. ‘Doubtless I shall manage. The physician has promised me a sleeping draught.’ I explained to Junio the events of the day.

He nodded. ‘I heard that Quintus Ulpius was dead, of course. Eventually. We thought something must have happened — Marcus’s slave and I — we were promised bread and cheese in the attic, but no one came near us for hours. We did not worry at first: we had a gaming board, and I was beating him at twelve-stones.’

I sighed. It was no use remonstrating with Junio: he had been raised in the sort of Roman household where even the slaves learned to gamble as soon as they could count. Even if the dice were loaded, as they often were, he could calculate odds faster than I could measure a pavement. ‘I hope he could afford it?’

‘I took four as coins from him before he lost interest. Then finally one of the servants brought us word.’

‘And your bread and cheese, I hope?’

Junio chuckled. ‘No, in fact, when the food did come we ate like kings. Pickled beef and fruit. I don’t know who authorised it. The girl who brought it gave us the news, and said that the whole household was in uproar.’

I nodded. ‘What else did she tell you? I should like to know the servants’ gossip.’ A man’s slaves often know more about his household than he knows himself. ‘Did she have anything to say about Julia, for instance? What do her maidservants think of her?’

Junio made a wry face at me. ‘They think she takes an insufficient interest in the household, and devotes herself too much to men’s affairs. She is vain about her looks, too. She surrounds herself with unattractive maidservants on purpose, and is forever taking potions and spending a fortune on powders and perfumes. Though it is doubtful that the male slaves think the same. Julia can charm anything in a toga, and I hear that every man in the household has fallen for it to some degree, from the kitchen boy to the surgeon. The secretary in particular is quite besotted with her.’

I thought of tall, awkward, pedantic Mutuus and laughed. ‘And what did Quintus Ulpius think of that?’

‘His reaction was very much like yours. More amused than anything, from what I hear. This Mutuus is a citizen by birth, taken in noxal surrender. He apparently has ideas above his station and follows Julia about like a pet lamb. He makes himself quite ridiculous. Thinks she values his learning, since she seems to like clever men, though he is simply a slave to her. Quintus thought it was funny, by all accounts, though he could be obsessively jealous if there was any real rival. He hated Julia’s former husband, for instance. Flavius, is that his name?’

I nodded. ‘It was quite mutual.’ I knew that there was no love lost between Quintus and Flavius. ‘So Quintus was fond of his new wife?’

‘Devoted to her. He quarrelled violently with his son about it. Maximilian resents Julia — he must be the only male who does. He has never forgiven his father for marrying again. His own mother died last year, drinking bad water from a well, but Ulpius divorced her many years ago. She was a beauty once, apparently, but she had no dowry, and then she caught the pox.’

Poor creature, I thought. It would not be the first time an illness had stripped a woman of both her looks and her husband. ‘No wonder Julia is so careful of her health and appearance, if her predecessor caught a disfiguring disease.’

‘All this attention to her looks certainly seems to work. Quintus Ulpius is delighted with her — or was. He would have liked another son, they say, and was prepared to work very hard to have one.’ He gave me a wicked smile. ‘But there was no sign of success, and she was consulting Sollers secretly.’ His grin broadened. ‘Not so secretly as she thinks, of course. One of the slaves found out, and now they all know. Though they do say that perhaps the fault is not with Julia.’

I frowned at him. ‘With Quintus, then? But surely, Maximilian. .?’

‘Is not much like his father, do you not think? But this is merely rumour. Of course, if Quintus could not sire an heir, no doubt Mutuus would have been very glad to help.’

‘You are not suggesting. .’ I was horrified.

He grinned. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Quintus would have had his nose cut off if there was any suggestion of that! No, it is just that Mutuus has dreams. The maidservants think it is hilarious.’

‘Who told you this?’

He gave me that impudent look again. ‘Don’t look so startled, master. You’ve taught me how to ask questions. I was told by a bald-headed slave girl.’

I gazed at him in surprise. ‘Bald-headed?’

‘Julia isn’t a bad mistress, but she is heartless in some ways. She sometimes does buy good-looking slaves. She won’t let them attend her, but she gets them for their hair. She has them forcibly shaved and then sold on again when their locks have grown back a little. The girl who brought us our supper was one of them — she was bought and sheared last week and is still balder than a rat’s tail. She is feeling her humiliation deeply — it was not difficult to make her talk about her mistress.’

I nodded. A girl with no hair. This, clearly, was the explanation of that caped female in the garden. She would have been sent to serve the slaves, because she was useless for public duties. The cape was obviously to cover her head while she went to the kitchens for the food. But she would have been punished severely if anyone knew she’d been seen — I was glad I had not confronted her in the grotto. But I could not resist the enquiry. ‘Why did Julia want the hair?’

‘She has several elaborate hairpieces, for different occasions.’

This was an unpleasant idea. I thought of my Gwellia and her lovely hair. Had that, too, been brutally shaved off to serve some mistress’s vanity? Or, worse still, lovingly dressed and brushed to rouse a master’s fancy?

I said sharply, ‘I want to see Julia in the morning. There is something about her that I can’t get out of my mind.’

Junio seized upon my words at once. ‘You have felt her charm too, master? You surprise me. I thought you immune to such things.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ I said severely. ‘There is something I would like her to explain, that’s all. You should be able to work out what it is.’

Junio gazed at me thoughtfully. I encouraged him sometimes to follow my reasoning and make deductions, just as I taught him to lay mosaics. It was another skill I hoped to leave him with, by and by. He shook his head.

‘When she left us. .’ I prompted, and saw the understanding dawn on his face.

‘Of course,’ he said eagerly, ‘she was going straight to Ulpius. Only she didn’t go. Maximilian came from his father on purpose to look for her.’

‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘So if she did not go to her husband, why not? Where did she go instead?’

‘And if she did go to him,’ Junio said slowly, ‘she must have been the last to see Ulpius alive. Or. .’ he looked at me with dawning comprehension, ‘the first to see him dead. I see! No wonder you want to speak to her. I am sorry, master, to have made a jest of it.’

I was just contemplating a magnanimous reply when there was a timid tap on the apartment door. Junio got up to open it, and I saw the turquoise page standing on the threshold, bearing an enormous carrying tray. He came in and set it carefully on the little locking chest beside the bed.

‘I am bidden to bring you this, citizen. His Excellence requested food, and it was thought you would require some too.’ He glanced covertly at the poor, faded under-tunic which I had kept on as a nightshirt, and which I was now attempting, not very successfully, to hide under the blankets. ‘And Sollers has sent you a sleeping draught. I did not realise you had retired for the night.’

I looked at the dishes set out upon the tray, and recognised, not for the first time, the privilege of rank. The kitchens of this house were straining with the preparations for a funeral banquet, which, given Quintus’s position in the town, was clearly to be a sumptuous one. Every slave would already be working most of the night, grinding spices and pounding herbs, skinning beasts and turning spits. Every surface would be crowded with spicy doughs and steeping snails, every pan full of simmering sauces, every salver groaning with gilded meats, every pot of oil that was set in the kitchen floor pillaged twice over to prepare for the feast. Had I requested a hot meal tonight I should have been lucky to receive a bowl of soup from the stockpot and a crust of bread. But Marcus, being Marcus, had only to say the word, and someone had sent him a magnificent light supper of braised pork with fennel, honeyed pheasant with mushrooms and something which looked like pickled quails’ eggs and peppers.

The problem, from my point of view, was that all of these delicacies had been liberally doused with that disgusting fish sauce, liquifrumen, without which no self-respecting Roman thinks any meal complete. Personally I loathe the stuff. Why anyone should think that a pickle of half-fermented fish entrails and anchovy should enhance the taste of honest food is something I have never understood, although I have sometimes been known to force it past my lips in the interests of maintaining good relations with the wealthy. However, the prospect of doing so at this hour and on this scale for no especial purpose was more than I could honestly bear. On the other hand, if I refused entirely I risked causing offence to my hosts and embarrassment to Marcus.

I looked hopelessly at Junio. He was rather better at fish pickle than I was, having been fed on Roman table scraps from birth, but even he was looking at me warningly. He had ‘dined like a king’ in the attic, I remembered. I sighed. Even high-society Roman table manners, which permit a man at a feast to tickle his throat with a feather so that he can make room for more, do not extend that toleration to normal household dining. Vomiting in the courtyard was not an acceptable solution for either of us.

‘Rollo,’ I said, ‘I did hear Sollers call you Rollo, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, citizen.’

‘Well, Rollo, I am not sure that I can manage this. I am a poor man, and not accustomed to rich meals at night.’

He looked at me aghast. Poor men who were guests in his master’s house obviously did not enter his picture of the world. ‘But citizen, it has been prepared especially for you. My mistress came to the kitchens herself to give the orders for it.’ He looked at me and, quite unexpectedly, giggled. ‘Your pardon, citizen. But it was amusing, really. First the chief slave came, to demand a meal for Marcus. Then Julia arrived to order special dishes. When she had gone, Maximilian stormed in, fresh from the lament, insisting on tasting everything, and ordering extra seasoning to show he was in command. Then Sollers turned up, muttering about “restorative regimen”. He is a great believer in diet to balance the humours, and he countermanded half the orders on medical grounds, and added a few of his own. In the end I think the cook just prepared what he thought was best.’

‘Each one trying to outdo the others?’ I suggested.

He snorted. ‘It was like Hadrian’s Wall in there, everyone trying to take control. It was the same with bringing your trays. Sollers told Mutuus to bring yours, and sent me to Marcus, since most of the usual house slaves are busy. Maximilian caught us doing it, and insisted we change places.’

I looked at him sharply. ‘For any reason?’

‘None that I can think of, except to contradict Sollers. Unless. .’

‘Unless?’

Rollo hesitated. ‘I am sorry, citizen. I should not have spoken. I cannot tell you that.’

I leaned back on my pillows and said, conversationally, ‘Rollo, your master has been murdered today. I am assisting Marcus to investigate. A man has been arrested, but there are some questions unanswered. If I think that you are withholding information, I shall have to tell His Excellence. That pretty turquoise tunic may get very dirty indeed.’ I dislike threats, as a general rule, but this one had the desired effect. Rollo paled and swallowed hard. ‘You were saying,’ I prompted, ‘unless. .?’

The words came out in a rush. ‘Unless Maximilian hoped to keep me from Flavius. He is sleeping in the triclinium on a couch, since you and Marcus have the guest apartments, and Maximilian is occupying his old room again. If I had served Marcus with his supper, I should have passed Flavius’s door.’

‘Would that matter?’

He gave me a crooked smile. ‘Everyone sees me as a messenger, citizen. Maximilian did it. He used to get me to speak to his father for him. Flavius has used me several times to take messages to Julia, and Maximilian knew it. He doesn’t trust Julia, and sees conspiracies everywhere. Flavius spoke to me privately in the courtyard tonight. I think Maximilian saw us.’

‘And what did Flavius want?’

Again that hesitation, before the page said, ‘Maximilian was right. Flavius asked me to attend him later. He has a very important job for me, he says. A secret.’

‘What secret is that?’ I asked wryly.

Rollo flushed. ‘Oh dear, here I am, talking too much again. Truly, citizen, he did not tell me what it was. I thought. . I gathered the impression. . that there might be money in it. Naturally, I agreed.’

‘Naturally.’ Money, I imagined, had changed hands on earlier occasions too. I did not blame Rollo. He was a slave, and if a house guest asked for his services, naturally he must give them. ‘You are only doing your duty. If there is money in it, that is your good fortune.’

Rollo, though, must have caught the wryness in my tone, because he looked at me anxiously. ‘What should I do, citizen?’

‘Attend him, of course. But there is one thing you will do in addition. When he gives you the commission, you will come and tell me what it is.’ I was relying on Marcus’s authority here: I was, after all, asking Rollo to betray a confidence. But I was hopeful. The page said himself that he ‘talked too much’, and he had already been gossiping to me about the household as if he had known me for years.

He was looking at me doubtfully now, and I hastened to reassure him. ‘It may be nothing important — a message to his household, a wager on the chariot race tomorrow — and if that is so, I shall say nothing, not even to Marcus, and the secret is safe. But remember, a message may seem innocent to you, yet have some meaning which you do not understand. So whatever the errand is, tell me before you do it. It is your duty to your dead master. And to yourself. Is that clear?’

The page gave me an uncertain smile. ‘Yes, citizen.’

‘Good,’ I said heartily. ‘Now, what are we to do with this tray? I cannot stomach fish sauce at this time of night.’

‘Perhaps Flavius would like it,’ Junio suggested. ‘Or, if you could take something, the rest could be returned as scraps to the servants. No doubt some of them would appreciate it.’

That was an obvious solution, once he had suggested it, and judging by the hungry way Rollo was eyeing the pork and fennel, an appreciative recipient would not be hard to find. I took a spoon, for form’s sake, and moved the food around the plates a little, to disturb the symmetry with which it had been arranged, but without actually eating any. Then I took up the cup which contained the sleeping draught.

‘Very well, Rollo,’ I said, ‘you may deal with this tray and then attend on Flavius. Ensure that the platters do not return to the kitchens too full.’

Rollo seized the tray eagerly.

‘And don’t forget,’ I said, ‘that you are to come back when you have spoken to Flavius.’

‘I won’t, citizen. I won’t.’ Rollo gave me a conspiratorial look and fled, as though I had offered him a bribe.

Which perhaps in a sense I had. A plateful of good food is sometimes better than money to a slave. At least a man can hide food in a place where no one else can steal it. It was sobering to realise how much such a gift would once have meant to me — fish-pickle sauce or not.

Junio thought so too. ‘I think you have won a devoted friend there, master. At no cost to yourself. Now, since you have asked him to return, do you wish to drink this sleeping potion now, or would you prefer that I should sing for you?’

I had taught him some of the old, haunting Celtic melodies. He had a soft, pleasing voice, and he knew it delighted me to hear him.

‘Sing softly, then,’ I said. ‘We do not wish to disturb the lament.’

Outside, Julia was crooning her lamentations, wistful and heartbreaking. Her lamenting was replaced by Sollers, and then one by one by the voices of slaves. The night darkened, and the dawn had begun to lighten the courtyard before I drank the potion Sollers had sent and drifted finally to sleep.

And still Rollo did not come.