The warder nodded, rather doubtfully. ‘Don’t suppose there’s much point your appealing to the populace today. You won’t have many supporters here, I suppose.’
That was another understatement. Nobody in Venta cared a fig for me — quite the opposite, it seemed — and anyway Marcus would be presiding as iudicius, directly on the departed governor’s behalf. That meant that even the permanent jury had no say in anything — verdict and punishment alike were at his absolute, personal discretion. I did not want him too displeased with me.
After a little more discussion and a hefty bribe, I got my bowl of water and a drying cloth of sorts and dabbed at my face and ruined tunic where I could. Then, shortly after dawn, I was led out and taken to the forum under guard.
I was more than a little apprehensive, though. Judging by the cheering crowds along the way, my patron and his entourage had just arrived at the basilica, among all the pomp and ceremony which he so enjoyed — trumpets, heralds and a retinue of uniformed soldiers at his side, while he waved graciously to passers-by, resplendent in his laurel wreath and purple stripes. It made my dismal appearance even more acute.
I knew I was hardly looking spruce as I was brought in between two brawny-looking guards, but even so my lack of public penitential show was enough to draw hisses from the gallery, where a gaggle of young women had come to see the fun, though they hid their faces behind modest veils. That was a little bit unusual, I thought. Most of the spectators at such affairs are men.
The courtroom was bursting with other people, too. The public procession and the trumpet calls had naturally caused quite a stir in the town, and news of the trial must have travelled fast. Every inch of standing space was packed, and the adjoining area, which could be partitioned off to form another courtroom, had been left open to accommodate the crowd.
I was led — not chained, but still at sword-point — up the steps and down the courtroom to the dais. One of my guards was obliged to lead the way and force a path for us through the throng. I could hear the mocking and the whispering and I was jostled several times as I passed by. At least, I thought, because I had claimed to be a citizen, the trial was taking place indoors before a proper judge. Proceedings against non-citizens are still often conducted in the open air by lesser functionaries, to the hoots and jeers and heckling of the mob: it is a rough kind of justice and public humiliation is part of the ordeal.
There was nothing at all humble about this. I walked the whole length of the basilica. The building from outside might look relatively small, compared to the one in Glevum, but inside it was still an imposing edifice. The central nave was flanked by towering columns in the Corinthian style — doubly impressive in the narrowness of the space, which made them look much taller than they were — while the severely formal patterns on the plastered wall and the stark black and white tesselations of the floor added to the impression of humourless solemnity.
Marcus was already seated on the rostrum at the further end on a sort of judicial throne, flanked by two minor magistrates. I was brought to stand at the bottom of the steps, but for the moment he paid no attention to me at all. He was talking and laughing lightly, leaning back, as if he were enjoying the attention, as no doubt he was.
He was at his magisterial best, all purple stripes and laurel wreaths, with a heavy, jewelled torc of Celtic gold round his neck and his seal ring prominent upon his hand. I had never seen the torc before — it was not a thing he generally wore. I guessed it had been lent to him for the occasion — or given outright perhaps — by some local dignitary anxious to curry favour with His Excellence. Certainly my patron looked very well in it, and it gave him additional presence and authority.
Then a court official made a sign and Marcus clapped his hands. There was a little rustle through the crowd, and an expectant silence fell.
One of the court recorders stood up to read the charge. ‘Excellence, in the name of the Most Imperial Commodus Hercules Exsuperatorius, the Merciful, the Fortunate and the Dutiful, Emperor and God, I have the honour to inform you that the man before you stands-’
He got no further. Marcus had noticed who I was at last. He half rose from his seat and let out a startled roar. ‘You? You ridiculous old fool. What by all the immortals have you been up to now?’ His face was dangerously scarlet with anger and dismay at his own unstatesmanlike display. He sank back on his seat and turned towards the clerk. ‘What is the meaning of this farce?’
A lean hungry-looking fellow at the bar stepped forward at these words. ‘Excellence, this is no farce at all. An honest hot-soup seller was stabbed to death last night, and all his money taken. This man was on the premises, we have witnesses to that. And he was carrying a knife. The shopkeeper’s wife accuses him and brings this case to your attention, Excellence. She seeks the right of talio, or compensation from the state at least.’
Marcus looked at me with obvious contempt. ‘The keeper of a common hot-soup store, you say? Is this true, Libertus?’
If I could have dropped onto my knees and grovelled, I would have done, but I was still at sword-point and did not dare make an unexpected move. ‘Your pardon, Excellence. I was in the shop, it’s true, but I did not kill the man. He was alive when I last saw him, talking to his wife. As for the knife, it is not a weapon, it’s a dining tool. A fine one, certainly, which my patron gave to me.’ I essayed an apologetic smile.
He was not amused. ‘Silence! Confine yourself to answering the questions which I ask. If I want your comments, I will ask for them. Your full name?’ He sounded so unlike himself that I was seized with fear. I had taken for granted up till now that once before my patron I was safe, but it suddenly occurred to me that this was by no means certain after all. Marcus prided himself on fairness and impartiality. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he would find against me, patron though he was. He had tried and executed friends before.
‘Longinius Flavius Libertus, Roman citizen, from Glevum in the east.’ I reeled off my Roman title with a tongue which almost refused to frame the words.
Marcus nodded briskly. ‘Who brings the charges, here?’
The lean-faced man stepped up again. ‘I do, Excellence. I am paid to advocate this woman’s cause. .’ He indicated Lupus’s wife, who I now saw was sitting close to him.
This was a surprise as well. Naturally, being female, and therefore a child in the eyes of the law, she could not bring the case herself, but advocates command substantial fees and I wondered how Lupus’s wife had afforded the expense, especially after the cash chest had been stolen from the shop. Normally some male relative or guardian would plead on her behalf, but perhaps — since she was a newcomer to the town — she had no other family nearby. I wondered if there had been a contribution from the Venta Christians, though the sect is not a wealthy one: most of its adherents are among the poor or the slaves, more able to pray for things than pay for things, the saying went.
Wherever the money had come from, though, it had been well spent. Advocates know all the details of the law, and this advocate was an impressive one.
Marcus acknowledged him without a smile. ‘Very well. What is he charged with and who are the witnesses?’
The lean-faced man set out the accusations one by one. He did it expertly. I had murdered Lupus and stolen the wooden cash box from the shop. Only I had any opportunity; the woman herself had seen me there within a moment of his death, and — as the guards were prepared to testify — I had been carrying a knife, in contravention of civilian law. And later I had been seen escaping from the scene with haste and secrecy. A dozen witnesses could be brought in to confirm this evidence.