Murder in the Forum

Chapter Twenty-seven

A Roman court is always an impressive business, even when one does not find oneself the subject of it. The lofty chamber, white-robed magistrates, the bevy of scribbling slaves and scuttling attendants, the tap of sandals on the pavement floors and the swish of togas — all these things create a sense of awe. Even the babbling crowds of the curious and ghoulish, who are forever clamouring at public places, feel it and are hushed.

When the court is to be presided over by the provincial Governor, the awe is increased a hundredfold. As I was conveyed to the basilica next morning, under guard but still wearing my toga, the streets were lined with residents — many of them no doubt roused from bed and co-opted for the purpose. Yesterday’s funereal wreaths and arches had been re-dressed with flowers and ribbons, and were doing double service as festive garlands. As we passed, some of the attendant crowds waved their branches and cheered, as people do at processions for no especial reason but to pass the time.

We had not long to wait. The notes of distant trumpets could be heard, then clarions, drummers and the sound of cheers. A string of infant slaves appeared to strew the way with rose-petals, mounted horsemen followed, and at last Pertinax himself arrived, in a closed imperial carriage with a marching guard.

I had never seen the Governor before, except in statues. He was a little less impressive than his images — a man of middle height, and middle age, with a strong intelligent face, at once severe and just, and an air of dignified authority. In another time and place I would have liked him at once, but as I stood shivering in the courtroom to meet him I was more aware of the stern jaw and the determined stride than of the high forehead and the twinkle in the eyes.

A carpet had been laid out for him, all the way from the top of the steps into the judgement room. He walked sedately along it, though he seemed oblivious of it, to take his seat. It was a kind of gilded chair, almost like a throne, with a footstool before it on which he rested one sandalled foot. With his deep-purple edges and his fine cloak swirled behind him he sat there like a monument to justice, while servants placed a wreath around his brow.

Marcus, who was following, was forced for once to take a lowlier stool. He still wore a mourning band around his toga, and many of the other dignitaries did the same.

I tried to catch his eye, but he refused to look in my direction.

‘Set forth the prisoners,’ the governor said, and I was led forward. At least a hundred spectators, apart from magistrates and officials, had packed themselves around the walls and doorways, but there was an open space in the middle of the room. I found myself standing in it, with Zetso at my side. His hands, like mine, were bound together at the wrists, but he showed no signs of a flogging.

‘What are the charges?’ Pertinax’s voice was resonant.

I was arraigned first. I had ordered the arrest of the other prisoner, claiming the governor’s authority, in defiance of a signed authority which promised him safe conduct as the agent of his master. I had questioned the authenticity of the seals. A clear case of treasonable insult to the Emperor. Was I guilty of these things?

I would be asked the question three times, as required by law, but I could see no help for it. I had no counsel here to plead for me; my only hope was that Marcus would provide one. At the moment, however, he was simply looking excruciatingly uncomfortable, clearly regretting our association, and hoping that I would not try to claim his patronage.

‘Guilty,’ I said, and felt the court relax. Without a plea in defence, the death sentence was a foregone conclusion, though it must be ratified by the Emperor. Furthermore, a governor was not empowered to impose the most humane of such sentences, liberum mortis arbitirum (the freedom to choose the manner of one’s dying), whose victims had proved such a willing market for Felix’s poisons. When I was sentenced, there would be something to see.

Two more admissions of guilt and I was a dead man. What I did save myself, by making this confession freely, was the necessity of having it extorted under torture.

‘Charges against the other prisoner?’ Pertinax demanded, and the court turned its attention to Zetso.

The guard reading the indictment cleared his throat. ‘I understand, Excellence, there is a counter-accusation. I am not quite clear on the terms. This man was a servant of Perennis Felix, but he disappeared most suspiciously on the evening of the banquet. It appears that there is some evidence of a conspiracy. . a letter. .’

‘Let it be produced!’

And there was Junio, in a brand-new tunic (which I certainly had not provided), elbowing his way through the crowd to produce the waxed tablet which I had opened. I cringed, mentally. There were penalties for tampering with the mail: Felix had enjoyed imperial protection, and his seal still dangled from the damaged cord.

I glanced at Zetso, expecting to find him gloating and triumphant, but to my surprise he had turned the colour of curdled milk and was visibly sweating.

‘I was acting on the orders of my master,’ he shouted. ‘You should be asking him. I know nothing more about it.’

‘Your master is dead,’ Pertinax said, grimly. ‘I attended his funeral yesterday — that is what brought me to Glevum. He is hardly in a position to answer further questions. I fear that we shall have to rely upon your memory.’

The court, in deference to the governor’s rank, rocked with immoderate laughter at this sally.

But Zetso was not laughing. He turned to look at Marcus, and his voice was shaking. ‘Dead! So,’ he said, ‘you have discovered the truth. Well, I regret nothing. The man was a monster and a disgrace to Rome, and he deserved to die. I am only sorry that in the end I had no hand in it. And now my master is dead. You have killed him, and now I suppose you will kill me.’

There was a horrified silence in the court, but Zetso scarcely seemed to notice. He turned to Pertinax. ‘Guilty, Mightiness. Guilty. And before you ask me, guilty again. And proud of it. But you will not take me alive.’

He lifted his joined hands and brought them down with all his force upon the neck of his guard, who crumpled and sagged like a snail in salt. Zetso seized the sword in one roped hand and whirled it two-handedly above his head. ‘Stop me who dares!’ he cried, and springing over the recumbent guard he rushed towards the doorway, still slashing wildly about him.

There was a general panic. Women screamed and drew back at his approach, and a burly guard stepped forward to block his path. Zetso did not pause an instant. He was strong and fit and trained in swordsmanship. One mighty kick in the groin sent the older soldier reeling, someone fell bleeding, and next moment there was almost a riot as men and women trampled each other to avoid his path.

‘Stop him!’ the governor commanded, but a dozen soldiers had already started after him, unsheathing their swords as they ran.

But Zetso had caught sight of someone in the crowd. He stopped, staring, at a woman in a handsome stola who had fled for safety to the official podium. I saw who it was, almost as he did. Julia Delicta, her hood flung back and her lovely hair in disarray, was clinging to her husband for protection.

‘No!’ Zetso murmured. ‘You are dead!’ He looked around. The soldiers were forming up about him in a half-circle, backing him against the wall. He whirled the sword again, and they stepped back a pace, almost instinctively. But it was hopeless. He could not — even fully armed — continue to keep them all at bay. With his hands tied, he was doubly doomed.

‘I tell you I was acting for my master,’ he screamed. ‘Even if the Emperor was dead, Felix’s seal should have counted for something. Until you murdered him. Great Mars! What have you done to me? I was to have bought my freedom with this service.’ The blade went whistling through the air again, but this time as he finished the stroke he flipped the hilt in his hand, ready to turn the weapon on himself.

One of the soldiers caught the action. His sword flashed up and Zetso’s blade went spinning to the floor. The cornered man let out a roar of anger and despair, then suddenly charged forward, so deftly that he dodged between their weapons with no more than a bloodied cheek. He made a run for it.

They cut him down before he reached the door.

There was a terrible pause in the courtroom — an embarrassed pause, as if social protocols had been broken. The dignity of the court had been disturbed, and by dying in this way Zetso had cheated both the executioners and the human vultures in the arena. Then Marcus clapped his hands, and the administrative machine lumbered into action.

Officials carried away the corpse for burial in the communal pit. Spectators strained and stared and argued for a view, until the attendant soldiers drove them back at swordpoint. Slaves appeared as if by magic with a tableful of wine and dates for the official party, while other less fortunate menials scurried with mops and buckets to clean the tiles, and take away the splendid woven carpet which was soaked with blood.

They seemed to have forgotten me. For fully half of an hour, while they cleared the courtroom and discussed the situation in hushed whispers, I was left to stand helplessly in my corner — my hands still bound and with a soldier at my side — with nothing to do but think.

I did think. About Zetso and his warrant, and his seals and his letters, and his extraordinary behaviour in the dock. He had appeared to be accusing Marcus of killing his master. For a moment I almost toyed with the idea: Marcus had been oddly uninvolved when Felix died, sitting quietly at the table looking distracted. I had noted it at the time, and put it down to embarrassment. Between Felix’s drunken lustfulness, and the Celt’s distaste for wine, my patron must have felt completely ill at ease. But now? And why had Zetso seemed to think the Emperor was dead?

And then, and only just in time, I saw.

Pertinax had taken a rod of office from a lictor and banged on the floor with it to command attention. ‘The incident is over,’ he announced. ‘We will resume the business of the court. Where is the prisoner?’

I was pushed forward again. Zetso’s demise had made no difference to the charges against me. I had defied the Emperor and I could not deny it.

‘Are you guilty of the charges?’ the governor asked me, for the second time.

‘I am,’ I said. ‘But I claim mitigation.’ I found myself uttering the time-honoured formula which was the only legal grounds for amnesty. ‘I acted in the interests of the Emperor, and I have information vital to his safety.’