Murder in the Forum

Chapter Nineteen

The evening was as dismal as I had feared. The poor old herald was a sorry sight, stretched out on a makeshift bier on my workshop table, with the ritual candles burning around him. He had not been a pretty spectacle when he was dragged away behind the carriage, and a day and night pegged up to a stake had not improved him — even the bits of him which one could see. I was glad that the guild, contrary to custom, had covered his face with a cloth.

They had done their best with him, bathed his appalling wounds and clothed what they could in a new robe which Marcus had provided. They had also provided a weeper, whose moans could be heard from the alley outside, and put up a wreath of funerary green on my entranceway to show that there was a corpse within. So, as I had half expected, people were already crossing the street to avoid the house. I would be lucky to have any customers call for days, after this.

Marcus was right about one thing. When the moment arrived there was comparatively little ‘fuss’. The guild had provided a mere four bearers, and they turned up almost before I was ready for them. I was still clothing myself in the lugubria, the dark-coloured robe expected of the closest relatives or chief mourners. I hadn’t worn mine since my own master died, and that was more than ten years earlier. Fortunately, since I had increased in girth as well as age, Roman fashion is not close-fitting.

I arranged my folds, with Junio’s help, and dashing the required ashes on my forehead I hurried down to meet the funeral workers.

Marcus’s bribe had clearly done its work. The foreman of the guild was there in person, together with a little wizened man I recognised as a priest of Diana, although I am not sure if the local slave guild has some affiliation with that cult, or whether this religious functionary merely happened to be available. Either way he looked pleased with this assignment — perhaps he too was benefiting from Marcus’s purse.

The guild foreman came wheezing over, wringing his thin hands, to instruct me in my ‘duties’. I was surprised. I have attended slave funerals before, and normally everything is performed by the guild.

The old man looked at me with rheumy eyes. ‘Oh no, citizen. You represent the slave’s owner — a rare honour at these occasions. And since the slave’s owner is His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus of course it is doubly so. Naturally you must help officiate. You could begin now, perhaps, by calling on the spirit of the departed?’

This was awkward. I knew what to do — I was supposed to call the herald’s name, to ensure that his spirit really had departed, but this was difficult because I didn’t know it. I had to content myself with simply calling ‘Herald of Marcus’ three times, in ringing tones. It seemed to satisfy my audience.

It did not occur to me until afterwards that, since I represented Marcus, they were unlikely to be critical of me, whatever I did. And it made little difference. The poor fellow’s spirit had clearly escaped the body long before, and given the manner of its going, I doubt it was anxious to be recalled.

These formalities complete, the bearers hoisted up the bier, and took it outside. I saw them place it on the more ornate carved carrying stretcher they had brought with them, for which there was no room in my cramped workshop. Instructed by the priest I doused the candles, ‘purified the room with fire and water’ (a whirled censer and a quick sprinkle from the ewer provided) and we were off: myself, Junio, the pall-bearers, two professional keeners, the officiating functionaries and a couple of skinny torch-bearers.

My habitation, of course, is on the west side of the city on the marshy margins of the river — not a suitable place for cremations and inhumation. To reach the cremation site necessitated a long damp procession through the town. Fortunately the guards at the gates were used to funerals, and let us through without a murmur.

It was still drizzling.

‘We shall be lucky if he burns at all,’ Junio murmured at my side, and I was obliged to silence him. As chief mourner I had to maintain an appropriately lugubrious expression.

We crossed the town — taking the narrower lanes, to avoid the night-time traffic — and as we did so our procession lengthened, until by the time we reached the eastern wall there must have been twenty people in the retinue.

I glimpsed Junio’s face in the torchlight.

‘Who are they all?’ he mouthed.

I recognised some of them as other servants of Marcus. No doubt my patron had sent them, as he had sent me. I frowned severely. ‘People who knew the herald or belong to the guild, naturally,’ I whispered, in my best pompous manner.

Junio grinned. ‘Or who have contrived to attach themselves to the procession in the expectation of a free meal afterwards.’ He cocked an eye skywards. ‘Given the weather it is fortunate that we don’t eat the funeral feast at the graveside in these islands, as they are said to do in Rome.’

He spoke so softly that only I could hear him, and he almost made me smile. That would be unforgivable for a chief mourner and I had to scowl fiercely to put a stop to his levity.

We had passed through the far gates by this time, and reached the site where the guild held its cremations. Despite the damp evening the pyre was dry — it must have been covered with something — and a member of the guild was already standing by with a torch to light it, and an amphora of something liquid to pour onto the faggots to help them burn. Oil and fat perhaps, or distilled wine: I wish I knew their secret.

It was time for me to pay attention to the ceremony; according to the priest it was my job to scatter a handful of earth on the corpse before it was consigned to the flames.

I did so, and was preparing to take my place in the crowd again when the foreman of the guild came bowing over.

‘An oration, citizen?’

Of course! I had forgotten that. I was also expected to make some sort of flattering speech about what a good herald this had been. Without, of course, alluding to the manner of his death, or appearing to criticise Felix. There would be spies everywhere. Once more I mentally cursed Marcus for getting me into this. If one of the guild were making this oration I would have felt a great deal safer.

I cleared my throat. ‘Fellow. .’ — I was about to say ‘citizens’ but stopped myself in time — ‘Glevans. .’

It was not a good speech, but I managed something.

Then I had to be witness as a part of the corpse was cut off to be ritually buried — a grisly concession to custom which the average mourner is spared — and finally the bier was lifted from its gilded stretcher and placed rather clumsily on the pyre.

‘Not too close, citizen,’ the foreman murmured, gesturing me back.

He was right. The moment the torch was applied the flames sprang up, and once the liquid was poured onto them the heat and smoke became even more intense. Perhaps the cloth that covered the face had also been doused in something because, despite Junio’s fears, the whole corpse was soon burning fiercely.

‘Grave-goods?’ the foreman asked, in an undertone.

I shook my head, feeling foolish, but he was clearly not surprised. A slave does not often have possessions and a man cannot take into the next world what he does not own in this.

The aged priest muttered a prayer to his goddess, pausing and smiling to me at intervals. I muttered something inaudible which I hoped sounded appropriate, and soon the immediate formalities were over. I have always disliked the smell of burning flesh and I was glad when I was permitted to stand back with the crowd. Most of them had pulled their hoods over their heads against the drizzle. Gratefully I did the same and resigned myself to wait.

It promised to be a damp evening. Even the appearance of a drummer and piper did nothing to enliven it.

All the same, the pyre-builders knew their trade. They had developed combustion into a fine art: the fire and the torches were skilfully kept alight, and indeed it was not much more than an hour before the mortal remains of Marcus’s herald were reduced to ashes. They were then doused with wine and water and swept up — at least partially — into a funeral pot. To my relief I was not expected to take any part in that.

They handed the urn to me, though, when they had finished, and I was obliged to lead the procession and carry it — still warm — to the communal tomb building recently erected by the slave guild. I had not seen the edifice before, although there were already a number of burials within it. They call it a columbarium, a dovecote, because of the dozens of little niches set into it, and they are very proud of it. Besides, it saves money. Slaves die every day and a communal resting place removes the need to sacrifice a pig each time to consecrate the grave.

I put my pot warily into the recess the foreman indicated, and a guild functionary fixed it into place with damp mud. It would be sealed more firmly later.

I was afflicted by a terrible desire to wipe my hands on my dark-coloured toga, after handling the pot, but it would have been disrespectful to do so. I forced myself to stand still while the old priest muttered a quick blessing, first on the grave itself and then on the bread and wine which the foreman handed me.

‘No other grave-meats?’ he enquired, and again I was forced to say no.

He nodded. ‘There rarely are,’ he said, in his peculiar wheezing whisper. ‘And don’t worry, once the urn is in this grave, you won’t need to feed it further. There will be other funerals, with their own foodstuffs, and we sacrifice a bit for everyone at regular intervals.’ He stepped back and allowed me to place my humble offering in the appropriate place.

I regretted not having provided some grave-meats, if not to be cremated then at least to be offered now. This dry crust and dribble of thin wine did not seem much sustenance for the long journey into the next world, but it was all that the herald was likely to get.

I hoped there would be something more substantial offered to the living. I was cold and hungry and still stiff from my ordeal and I knew a funeral supper was to be provided. Knowing the guild, it was likely to be a single dish of stewed river eels and barley, a meal which I have never liked, probably accompanied by that revolting fish pickle. I told myself that after my eventful day I should be grateful to eat almost anything — and in any case, as chief mourner, I could hardly refuse.

Well, I would soon know. The priest was invoking the moon-goddess again and then it would be time for us to return to the city. Already the more impatient mourners at the back were beginning to drift away in the direction of the gates. At last the mumbling stopped, I added my ‘Vale’ to the dead man and the obsequies were over.

The guild foreman fell into step behind me. I ventured an enquiry about the funeral supper.

‘Eel stew, citizen? By no means. There is pork stew tonight, and fennel. I have had the kitchen slaves prepare it specially. Last night, with such a huge attendance, it was different — though of course not everyone attended the banquet.’

‘There were many mourners?’ I said, with more politeness than interest.

‘Crowds,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t tell you how many.’ In the flickering torchlight he smiled thinly. ‘Of course, with a big crowd like that there are always hangers-on. One fellow had to turn back at the gate because his father had been jostled to the ground in the crowd, and another came to me this morning saying that he’d been robbed. No doubt there were outlaws and thieves among us.’

And then, at last, something meshed inside my brain. The foreman went on chatting to me all the way into town, about this funeral and that, and what distinguished servants he had been called upon to bury, but I confess I was scarcely listening.

Never mind that the pork and fennel was poorly cooked, and that it was served smothered with the vilest kind of jellyfish pickle-substitute, or that the speeches and eulogistic poems went on for far too long — my mind was on other things.

If Zetso or Egobarbus had left the town last night — and I was fairly sure that at least one of them had — I now knew how they had done it. It had been so blindingly obvious that I was ashamed of myself for not thinking of it before.

I was even more ashamed a little later when, as we were walking home again, Junio turned to me. He was trotting along beside me, holding a taper.

‘Master?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but it occurs to me. .’

‘Well?’ I said.

‘If I were a stranger to the town, and wished to pass the gates after sundown without arousing suspicion. .’

‘You would put on a cape and pretend to be a mourner at a funeral. And there was a huge funeral last night, anyone could have gone to it. Yes, Junio, I am very slow. The same thought has just occurred to me.’

He frowned. ‘Only. .’

I waited.

‘Only, from what you say, Zetso and Egobarbus both left the banquet late. The funeral would have been over by then. One would have to move with the crowd. A lone mourner would have attracted attention.’

‘You think so?’ I said. ‘Watch this.’ We had almost reached the city gates and, as we approached, the guard, seeing my mourning clothes, grudgingly opened up the inner door and permitted us to pass.

Junio thought for a moment. ‘You mean, he would have to be hiding here, in the western suburbs? But then he would be trapped between the walls and the river, once the guards were alerted.’ He sounded excited, suddenly. ‘But in that case, he must still be here.’

‘Either that,’ I said, ‘or he found another way. Joining at the East Gate when the mourners were returning, for instance, and pretending to “turn back” to find his father.’

Junio looked at me.

‘Somebody did,’ I said. ‘The foreman told me so. And I was too stupid to have thought of it. And now Zetso or Egobarbus — whichever it was — has a whole day’s start over the searchers. It is very unlikely we shall catch them now.’

It was no comfort, when I got home, to find the whole house still smelling of herbs, candles and corruption. Dismissing Junio’s offer to bathe my bruises, I threw off my damp lugubria and called rather petulantly for a blanket. As I did so, ready to lie down in my tunic as I always did, my fingers found the cord loop of the little bottle. I had forgotten all about it again.

Junio brought the cloth to cover me. ‘What is that, master?’

I told him. ‘But if she poisoned her father,’ I finished, ‘she did not do it with this.’

Junio chuckled. ‘Then it is as well you didn’t show this to Marcus. He is so fearful of the Emperor’s wrath that he would have had half Glevum under lock and key. That old crow of a servant was taken to the jail and began singing like a blackbird. Claims that Phyllidia always hated Felix — even before the Octavius affair — because she thinks he poisoned her mother for bearing him no sons.’

It bore out what Gaius had told me, but I had not expected Junio to know. ‘Where did you hear this?’

Junio grinned. ‘In the servants’ room, while you were interviewing that gatekeeper. One of the slaves had visited the jail and came back bursting with gossip. All I had to do was listen — as you have always taught me, master.’

I aimed a playful cuff at his ear, but he evaded me easily. He curled up at my feet, blew out the taper and was asleep in an instant.

But I couldn’t sleep. The more I learned about this affair, the less sense it seemed to make.