‘It will be a huge affair, with a decorated bier, trumpeters, hired dancers and a sung dirge,’ Marcus said. ‘I have given the instructions. If we are going to do it, we will do it properly.’
I could not have escaped it — trailing along in the procession with the magistrates and dignitaries, the Vestal virgins, crowds of soldiers — horse and foot — and every citizen in the town. Always at the back, too, so that when the golden litter stopped (as it inevitably would) for fanfares and panegyrics, it would be quite impossible to hear a thing. Suddenly the prospect of this journey seemed much more attractive.
‘So,’ I said. ‘You have no idea who this body is? Or was?’
Marcus looked inscrutable. ‘I have some suspicions. The courier brought us this.’ From under the cushions at his side he produced a small parcel wrapped in linen cloth. He watched me as I opened it. It was a small glass bottle with a loop at the lip. A faint aroma of almonds still lingered about it.
If it was not the poison phial which had been stolen from me the day before, it was one most extraordinarily like it.
I stared at Marcus. He was grinning triumphantly.
‘The soldiers found it hidden in the ditch a little way from the house. Conclusive proof, do you not think, that this is our missing murderer?’
I did a little rapid calculation. ‘But surely this cannot be the same phial, Excellence. This was recovered yesterday, you say, halfway to Letocetum. But it was only yesterday afternoon that I was robbed. Egobarbus might have gone there, but he did not have the phial. It cannot have been in two places at one time.’
Marcus’s face fell. ‘You think there are two phials?’
The moment had come. I slipped a hand into my folds and untied the knotted cord about my belt. ‘Not two, Excellence,’ I said, sadly, producing the little bottle. ‘Three. I found this yesterday at Gaius’s house.’ I could see the questions forming, so I hurried on. ‘Of course, this phial has poisoned no one. It has not been opened. But I think I should go and identify this body.’
‘Very well. You had better return home and collect your slave. I have requisitioned a carriage for you. My driver will take you to the mansio.’ He got to his feet and motioned to the slave to show me out. ‘Now, excuse me, I have clientes to receive.’
The interview was over. I was dismissed.
Chapter Twenty-one
I shall gloss over the journey that ensued. I am getting too old to be joggled about the countryside, never mind doing it twice in three days. Suffice it to say that any bruises I had sustained in my fall in the alley were reinforced by the lack of springing, and that any threat of a chill after the funeral was redoubled by a dreadful river crossing, where the carriage wheel got stuck in a shallow ford, and Junio and I were obliged to clamber out and wade, with unpleasantly damp results for our footwear and lower garments.
I was glad I had forgone my toga for the occasion. The events of the previous day had taken their toll on my already pathetic garment. I reasoned that interviewing a freeman peasant did not require my formal badge of citizenship and I had sent Junio to the fuller’s with it before we set off, in the forlorn hope of having it cleaned and mended. Since even my long tunic and cloak were clinging damply to the backs of my knees, I blessed the gods at least for my decision. Marcus’s warrant and this carriage would give me all the authority I needed at the inn.
For once Junio’s company did not cheer me. He was miserably anxious himself. The further we got from the familiar roads around Glevum, the more nervous he became. He had been cast down since the stabbing of the fair-headed maid, and this journey seemed the final straw.
I could understand it. Places like Letocetum were merely names to him, and I doubt he would have been surprised if the road had suddenly vanished and we found ourselves galloping briskly into oblivion. Even I, who have travelled half the island (albeit most of it in chains), was sobered to reflect that Roman horsemen routinely cover fifty miles in a single day, and the army can do almost half as much as that on foot, with their heavy kit on their backs.
We were making for the mansio, an official inn and staging post, just such a day’s march away, where weary riders of the post could obtain fresh horses, travellers on official civil business could find a bath-house and accommodation, and even a contingent of marching soldiers could rely on food, water and a place to camp. I was looking forward to the food and water myself: it was long past midday by now, and I was beginning to understand why travellers complain of thirst.
We reached the place at last, a smallish building with stables and a large enclosure, situated near to a crossroads. It was the centre, not exactly of a settlement, but of a number of civilian farms and houses close enough to be in view. A grumbling servant sweated out to meet us, looking very doubtfully at my mere tunic and cloak.
I will say this for Marcus — the presence of his seal on a letter does wonders for the warmth of one’s reception. One glance at the document I carried, and the military innkeeper opened his doors as though I were a visiting tax inspector, and offered to fetch the soldiers who had retrieved the body. A small contingent of guards commanded by an octio, it appeared, were using the facility en route to Letocetum, and the grisly task had fallen to them.
I agreed that meeting the octio would be helpful, and a servant was dispatched to find him.
Meanwhile, Marcus’s letter continued to work its magic. The horses and the driver were taken off to be refreshed, while we were shown into a small but pleasant room with a central table, surrounded by stools, not couches, but comfortable enough. Cold meats and cheeses were rapidly produced and a hunk of fresh bread for each of us. Junio caught my eye. We would have lunched much more frugally at home.
They left us alone while we ate it, which we did sharing my knife and sitting companionably side by side — though, obviously, when the commander of the guard looked in a little later Junio leaped to his feet and tried to pretend he was behaving in a properly servile manner.
The octio looked at me severely. ‘We have retrieved the body again, for your inspection. . citizen,’ he added, after a pause.
‘Again’, I learned, because being an anonymous body without mourners (and therefore no one to pay for a funeral) the corpse had been flung on a cart, ready to be taken to the town and thrown — literally without ceremony — into the nearest paupers’ pit. In deference to my appearance, however, it had been brought back to the mansio and was now lying on a trestle in the entrance, awaiting my examination. I washed my hands in the bowl of water provided, brushed the cheese crumbs from my mouth and followed my guide.
It seemed to be my month for unpleasant sights. The body before me seemed to have bloated with the water, and some of the grotesquely wrinkled skin was beginning to hang loose on the bones. It had been dressed, as Marcus reported, in a pair of plaid trousers, but there was no retaining belt and the cloth had been stretched and torn as if stones had been stuffed down into it to weight the body. The face was brutal, even without the gruesome pallid swelling, and almost clean-shaven, but there were abrasions on the forehead and chin and a clump of short reddish hairs on the upper lip. The chest was badly abraded, too.
What drew my attention, however, was the hand which dangled, bloated and water-swollen, by its side. It was a squat, ugly hand, with curling red hairs still visible upon it, and a cluster of fine bronze rings — so tight they had cut into the flesh — on every finger but one. There was no ring upon the little finger, because the digit was wizened and misshapen. I might not have recognised the face, after that sojourn in the water, but I would have known that deformity anywhere.