Murder in the Forum

Chapter Sixteen

For a moment I simply stood and gaped. Then, I leaned over and grasped my smelly trophies in both hands, bundled them into the filthy linen, and, abandoning all thoughts of dignity, a moment later was rushing like a war envoy through the streets towards Marcus’s apartment. My head was spinning with my discovery.

The quickest route to Marcus’s house lay down the wide central avenue but in spite of my haste I avoided it, not least because the sight of a respectable elderly citizen in a toga rushing wildly through the town — especially when bearing a stinking linen cloth full of items from a waste-heap — is calculated to arouse unwelcome interest. I was already late for my meeting with Marcus, and I had no wish to be further delayed by embarrassing explanations to the town guard.

I avoided the attention of the vigiles, by some good fortune, but I was aware of startled faces as I passed. It is difficult to hurry in a toga, and my frantic attempts to keep my drapes together was the subject of great glee among the street urchins, who jeered and pointed mercilessly. When I noticed a couple of fascinated spectators in tunics, whispering to each other and then following me at a distance and melting into doorways if I turned to look, I concluded that I had made an exhibition of myself and slowed my pace to a more accustomed stride.

All the same, I was impatient to see Marcus. He would be delighted with my discovery, and although I was unlikely to receive financial reward he would almost certainly offer me a little food and drink. I was hungry. It was already long past midday, but a house of mourning offers its guests no refreshment until the funeral feast.

I turned my thoughts to the events of the day. To whom did the second poison phial belong? To Octavius, seemed the obvious answer. Had I entirely misread the motive for his ‘confession’? I was beginning to become much more suspicious of that young man.

I turned the corner into a narrow alley which would take me to the street where Marcus lived, a mere unpaved footpath between the houses. The rubbish here had been recently cleared, and — keeping a watch upwards, lest anything be tossed from an upstairs window — I was able to pick my way easily along it. I was hurrying, too — my patron would be losing patience altogether.

It came as a surprise, therefore, to suddenly become aware of running footsteps behind me. These unwholesome alleys are rarely frequented. I turned my head to look, but even as I did so something powerful caught me behind the knees and I found myself collapsing forwards on to the paving. At the same instant a strong arm seized my wrist and twisted my forearm painfully behind me, jerking my head downwards while powerful fingers clamped across my mouth.

I could not have cried out if I dared, but a harsh voice behind me muttered, ‘Keep your mouth shut — and your eyes too, if you know what’s good for you,’ and I felt the cold metal of a blade-point pressed into my neck.

I knew what was good for me. I am an old man and the hands that forced me downwards were strong. I did not attempt to struggle, but did as I was told, kneeling obediently where I had fallen. I tasted dirty sacking as a bag of rough cloth was pushed over my head and the drawstring tightly bound around my mouth, cutting into the corners of my lips and effectively gagging me. My other arm was forced back and I felt the bite of leather as a thong secured my wrists none too gently behind me.

My heart was thudding at my ribs. I had been foolish to come this way in a toga and without an escort. I would not be the first foolish old man to lose his life for the sake of a few sestertii.

As if in answer to my thoughts I felt the pressure of the blade withdraw, and a moment later something flicked at my belt, cutting loose my purse-pouch. I had dropped the linen bundle as I fell, and I sensed rather than heard the clink of glass as my attackers scooped it up.

I wanted to plead, to explain, but the bag was gagging me. I was pushed roughly forward, losing my balance so that my forehead grazed the pavement. A foot caught me ignominiously in the rear and a moment later I heard the running footsteps disappear. It was all over in an instant.

For a moment I lay there, too dazed to move. I could scarcely believe what had happened. I had been set upon and robbed in broad daylight in my own city. I rolled uncomfortably over, and struggled back to my knees. It was not easy, with my hands secured, but I managed it at last, and turned my attention to the awkward business of trying to free my wrists.

There are endless legends of escaping slaves and runaway wives who twist their hands and loosen their bonds, or find some sharp projection nearby and ingeniously saw them through. The reality is a little different. I was stiff, bruised and uncomfortable, and ridiculously aware of the ignominious figure that I must present, kneeling helplessly in a muddy alleyway with my head in a bag. For a moment I was almost glad that there was no one nearby to witness it.

Then common sense prevailed, and I was aware of panic. There was no reason on earth why anyone should venture down the alley for hours — perhaps for days. I had a miserable picture of myself drenched and starving, found half dead by the very town guard that I had been so anxious to avoid.

Or, if I was unlucky, twice as dead as that.

This reflection sharpened my responses, and I did at last manage to move my fingers sufficiently to find the knot in my bonds. I sent up a swift supplication to all the gods I knew and began to pluck at it, in the hope of loosening it. At last I felt it move a fraction, but it was an agonising business.

I tried to think as I worked. It is a means of suppressing panic.

My attackers first. Who were they? I had heard footsteps echo away down the alley, and I thought I knew which way they had turned, but that was little help. They would have vanished into the crowds long ago.

They. I was sure that there were two of them. Yes, certainly, there must have been: one to hold me down, the other to bind me. And there had been two sets of running feet. That was a beginning, something to hold on to.

A pair of random thieves perhaps, lying in wait beside the narrow alley, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting passer-by. Well, I wished them joy of their booty. So much effort for so little reward. My purse contained only the smallest of coins, after Junio’s foray into town and my own purchase of soup, and the thieves would hardly be delighted by the objects in my linen parcel. The leather thong that bound me must be worth more than they had gained. For a moment I almost smiled at the absurdity of it.

Almost as if my mind had cleared, another thought struck me. Suppose this had not been a purely random attack? Those two shadowy watchers — I had been aware of them almost ever since I left Gaius’s house. What had I glimpsed of them? I searched my memory. I could curse myself for having paid so little attention.

Men. Certainly men, and, I rather thought, wearing brown tunics, although I could not be sure of that. Not cloaks, certainly, and neither did I recall seeing anything in their hands, though one of them must have been wearing a dagger. They were big men, too: I seemed to envisage them filling a small doorway as though they were both tall and broad. But the rest was shadows. Try as I would, I could remember nothing more.

I had loosened the knot a little by this time and with a little working I could feel the leather moving on my wrists. It was a mixed blessing — as the blood rushed back to my hands the numbness ebbed, and I could feel the ache begin. My fingers, though, had recovered their feeling and I worked more dextrously.

I was still plucking at the leather when I heard the noise. Footsteps — hesitant footsteps behind me in the alley. Light footsteps, as if it was a child. I wriggled myself around in that direction, and tried to call for help, but the sacking in my mouth reduced my words to a muffled roar. The footsteps stopped.

Idiot! I tried to imagine the picture I must present. If I frightened him away I might lose my chance of rescue. (I assumed it was a him — few girls would venture alone into such an alley.) But the footsteps had not retreated. I toned down my roar to what I hoped was a more comforting sound, and turned round so that my bound hands were visible. I lifted them as best I could, hoping that he would understand and help me to free them.

A voice. Clearly a child’s. ‘What are you doing?’

I almost sobbed, and muttered something muffled through my sack.

‘You want me to undo you?’

That was better. I nodded, enthusiastically.

‘Are you a citizen?’

I nodded again.

‘You must be rich. What will you give me? Twenty asses?’

It was just my misfortune, I thought bitterly, to find myself in negotiation with a calculating beggar child. On the other hand, I would cheerfully have promised twenty denarii. I nodded so vigorously that my sack shook.

The footsteps approached, gingerly, and I felt a small hand touch my bonds. I moved my fingers and he drew back sharply, but a moment later I felt the leather twitch. For a moment I was hopeful, but then the voice said plaintively, ‘It is too tight, citizen. I cannot move it.’

I longed to urge the child to fetch his parent, if he had one, or at least to take the news of my predicament to someone. But I could only roar incomprehensibly.

But he had a suggestion of his own. ‘I could take that sack off your head, citizen. I cannot untie it, but it is torn, here, at the back.’ I felt the tug of little hands and suddenly the cloth behind my head parted, and there was daylight and air. I blinked open my eyes.

He was a small, ragged child with the big eyes, thin legs and bloated stomach which spoke of having far too little to eat. Not a slave, or he would have been better cared for — more likely the starving offspring of some poor freeman labourer. Yet the child was loved — it had not been sold, but kept, living in a hovel somewhere, to help pick a thin living on the land or work from dawn to dusk to earn a quadrans or two. No doubt one of the scavengers I had dismissed so lightly earlier.

He was staring at me speechlessly.

I used my shoulder to work at the end of the sack, which was still tied tightly around my mouth. It was painful, but I must have gained strength from desperation, for I managed to move it just sufficiently to say, ‘Ar. . uh. . Ar-uh oh-ee-iuh eh-ih-uh.’

The child went on gazing. ‘Marcus?’ he said, suddenly understanding. ‘Marcus Aurelius Septimus?’

I nodded, gratefully. ‘O!’ I managed. ‘O ah eh ih.’ I signalled frantically with my eyes.

His stare widened. ‘Me? Go and tell Marcus?’ I thought for a moment that he would refuse, out of simple awe, but the grubby face broke into a grin. ‘That should be worth an as or two. You wait here!’ he added, unnecessarily, and set off at a canter.

There was nothing to do but wait, as the boy had said. I shuffled over to the wall and leaned my weary head against it. My jaw ached from the gag and from where the heavy hand had clamped it.

The heavy hand. I had glimpsed it, in the split second before it clamped across my mouth. A big work-hardened hand, devoid of rings, and a thick muscular wrist. And on the hand and wrist and arm, a scattering of thick red-gold hairs. I took a deep breath. Was it possible? A red-headed man? I had been looking for Egobarbus and his red-headed slaves, but now I began to wonder if perhaps they had found me.

Who else would have cause to steal my linen parcel?

I was still contemplating this when there was a shout from the street. ‘Master! Oh, master! What have they done to you?’

It was Junio, rushing towards me with the child at his heels.