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He nodded. ‘I understand. Although, if it was a murder, I do not know even now exactly how the thing was managed.’

I grinned. ‘Neither do I,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Though I intend to find out. But Phyllidia was right about one thing. I am perfectly sure that Octavius didn’t do it.’ The expression on his face was comical, and I gave him a swift bow to disguise my smile. ‘And now if you will excuse me, magistrate, my master awaits me.’ And before he could prevent me I had opened the door, let in the page, and made my way downstairs. I glanced into the atrium. Tommonius was still wailing dutifully.

There were still no slaves in evidence, and I did not stay to look for one. I had meant what I said to Gaius. Marcus would have been impatient long ago. It pleased me, however, to say, ‘Good afternoon and thank you,’ to the astonished doorkeeper before allowing him to open the door and see me out.

Outside there were still a few long-suffering mourners waiting. I threaded my way through them and set off walking briskly. I did, though, take a moment to make my way reluctantly to the waste-pile. Marcus ought to see that moustache, I felt — if that indeed was what it was.

But I could not find it, not even after poking around diligently with a stick. For a moment I was despondent. Perhaps it had been a tail after all, and some animal had dragged it away to gnaw on. I scratched around a little deeper, and came upon something which might have been another fraction of the same. Part of the other side of the moustache, perhaps?

I picked it up dubiously. It was even smellier than the other, and I devoutly wished for a piece of stout leather in which to wrap my find. I could find no such thing, however, and I was obliged to content myself with a piece of old stained linen which I could see, just out of reach upon the heap. I availed myself of my stick, and scratched it closer.

As I did so, however, something caught my eye, and I abandoned all thought of delicacy. Wrapped in the piece of linen was another little blue glass phial, exactly like the one I already held.

Except that this one was empty and smelled of almonds.

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.