As I made my way back through the town I was not displeased with my progress. I knew the direction that ‘Egobarbus’ had come from, if not where he had gone. But what had he been doing on the road to Eboracum? I was beginning to believe that my enquiries should lead me in that direction. The fact that the trail to my wife also pointed towards that city had, of course, nothing to do with my decision.
The other information I had gleaned was quite suggestive too. I should have a lot to report to Marcus. I was so satisfied with the outcome of my enquiries that I was halfway across the city before it occurred to me that I had entirely omitted to discover whether anyone at the gate had seen Zetso.
It was too late now. If I returned to ask additional questions I was unlikely to be actually arrested, but I had no doubt that the guard would treat me with — at the very least — the utmost circumspection. Obtaining further information from him would be like trying to prise the flesh out of one of Marcus’s oysters. And just as potentially dangerous.
I tried asking at the East Gate, where Zetso had collected me in the carriage, but I learned nothing. One of the guards was the handsome fellow I had seen flirting with Zetso the day before. I had hopes of him — I saw his eyes flash up at the description — but (perhaps because Zetso seemed to have fled the city) he became so belligerent and hostile that I very soon abandoned my attempt, and made my way back to Gaius’s house. There, I felt, there must be something that would shed light on this affair.
The queue of would-be mourners at the door was shorter now, and I was admitted quickly and without question. This time I did not wait for a slave to escort me, but made my way directly to the kitchens.
There were far fewer servants here than there had been on the night of the feast, only a handful of slaves stirring pots or basting meat over the charcoal fire while a pair of kitchen-boys chopped herbs on a marble slab. A couple of live chickens clucked in a coop by the wall, watched balefully by Gaius’s remaining dog, which was lying under the table, gnawing scraps.
One of the cooks abandoned his bubbling pan and came fussing over to greet me, wiping his fat hands on his ample tunic. ‘How can I assist you, citizen? We are busy with the grave-meats, as you see.’
I outlined my questions, but the slave shook his head. ‘I really cannot help you, citizen. There were so many servants brought here during the feast. I scarcely knew any of them, because they came from a dozen houses round about. There were so many slaves in the kitchen that we were tripping over one another, but I was so busy with my own sauces and dainties that I had no time to take much notice. I doubt I would recognise any of them if I saw them.’
‘Not even,’ I suggested hesitantly, ‘two big red-headed slaves?’
The cook smiled. ‘The attendants of the Celtic gentleman? Yes, I did see them. Great hulking fellows with hands like dinner salvers. They came down to wait in the ante-room. We were so short-handed with the extra wine, I even thought of asking them to help, but when I went to speak to them I could hardly understand a word they said. So I abandoned the idea. I didn’t want them creating embarrassment by serving the wine all wrong, pouring it out without mixing and filtering it. And they would have been useless in the kitchen.’
I could imagine that. Celtic cooking can be delicious — at least to my taste — but it has little in common with a Roman feast.
The cook shook his head. ‘I didn’t see where they went to afterwards. Waited to escort their master, I suppose. I did see him briefly, visiting the latrine.’
I nodded. That was possible confirmation of one of my theories, at least. I wondered if Egobarbus had taken advantage of such a visit to divest himself of his cloak. Supposing, of course, that it hadn’t been seized from him by force.
‘Ah yes, the latrines,’ I said. ‘I gather you have managed to correct the problem with the drains.’ It was an unnecessary question. The difference was already evident. The stench of rotting fish had largely dissipated.
The slave looked at me doubtfully.
‘Your master explained it to me. The piece of fish fixed there. .’
The cook grimaced. ‘It was more than that, in the event. I sent one of the boys down there this morning with a brush, and he found something else. It wasn’t just the fish — some sort of animal seems to have died down there. Perhaps the fish attracted it, and it drowned. The lad found the tail wedged into a crack. There was no sign of the rest of the creature — doubtless it had washed away or been gnawed at by others. You find horrible things in the drain-stream sometimes.’
‘A tail?’ I said. A strange hypothesis had occurred to me. ‘Only a tail? You are sure of that?’
He looked at me with distaste. ‘See for yourself. We threw it out into the alley this morning onto the midden-heap, together with the remains of the fish. I imagine it is still there. You can’t miss it. The length of a man’s span, hard in the middle and tapered. It looked like a tail to me. I didn’t examine it too closely.’
The idea of doing so didn’t appeal to me, either, but I could see no help for it. I followed the cook’s directions and went around to the side of the house where the stinking alley lay. In common with most of the houses in the colonia, Gaius’s residence presented only blank walls to the outside world, at least on this side, and — lacking a sufficiency of courtyards — the household waste was simply brought outside and abandoned in the narrower alleyways until rains or the occasional desultory street-cleaners carried it away. In the meantime, it lay there festering, a haven for scavengers of both the two and the four-legged variety. Even now something furry scuttled away at my approach.
I could see the item I was interested in on top of the heap. The smell of putrid fish almost drove me back, but I picked up a stick and hooked up the dripping object. It was too wet and disgusting to handle, but I examined it as best I could. It might have been a tail. It was the right length, and it had the same knotted, hairy look. On the other hand it might have been the hairs, twisted together and held with some sort of wax, that had once formed one side of a long drooping moustache.
The whole thing was sodden and filthy with slime, but it was possible to imagine that the colour might once have been red. I let it slide back on the mire-heap and picked my way back to the house. The scowling doorman let me in again and, sending a slave for a bowl of water to rinse my hands, I made my way to the triclinium.
I had hoped to have a quiet word with Marcus, but he was no longer there. There was someone else, however, a huddled figure on one of the couches, who leaped up at my approach as though a snake had bitten him.
‘We meet again, Octavius,’ I said.
He did not return my greeting, but sank down on the couch again in a despondent fashion. ‘I thought you were Phyllidia,’ he said, reproachfully.
Since that is not an easy confusion to make, there was little I could say to this. I said nothing.
Octavius seemed to realise that he had been discourteous. He essayed a smile. ‘Libertus, you startled me. I have been waiting a long time. Phyllidia sent for me.’
‘They found you at the inn?’
He coloured. ‘They did. I was looking for her. I had gone to her rooms. And before you ask, I didn’t steal anything.’
I looked at him in amusement. ‘I did not suppose you had. Is something missing?’
He sighed. ‘Not that I heard. But I was surprised to find you here. I hurried over at once, as soon as I had the message, but now I am here Phyllidia hasn’t come to see me. I must talk to her. Have you seen her?’
I nodded.
‘What did she say? Did she mention me? Have you told her what you told me, about. . you know. .’ he glanced about him like a spy in a Greek tragedy, ‘about. . Felix?’ He uttered the last word in a penetrating whisper, so penetrating that it must certainly have reached the ears of the slave, who chose that moment to enter with my washing water.