'This was where they waited, Tiro, on this very spot, hidden in this recess, knowing he would come this way to answer the note from the woman Elena. They must have known what he looked like, well enough to recognize him from the light of the torches carried by his slaves, because they did not hesitate at all to spring out and begin stabbing him, here at the corner.'
I walked slowly towards the handprint. 'The first wound must have been somewhere in his chest or belly — I suppose they must have looked him in the face to be sure — because he had no trouble touching the wound, clutching it, smearing his whole hand with blood. Somehow he broke away. Perhaps he thought he could push this door open, but he must have fallen to his knees — you see how low the handprint is.' I glanced up the street. 'But the real slaughter took place there, in the middle of the street. Somehow he managed to scramble back to his feet and stagger that far before they overcame him.'
'Perhaps the slaves were trying to fight off the assassins,' Tiro said.
'Perhaps.' I nodded, though I could more easily imagine them bolting in a blind panic at the first glint of steel.
I bent down to examine the handprint again. The high, broad door gave a shudder and sprang outward, hitting me square in the nose.
'Here, what's that?' came a voice from inside. 'Another vagrant, sleeping in front of my shop? I'll have you beaten. Get on, let me open the door!'
The door shuddered again. I blocked it with my foot until I could stand and step safely aside.
A gnarled face peered from behind the door. 'I said, get on!' the man growled. The door swung outward in a wide arc, vibrating on its hinges, until it slammed against the wall beyond the cul-de-sac, completely covering over the narrow walkway where the assassins had hidden.
'Oh, not a vagrant,' the old man muttered, looking me up and down. I was still rubbing my nose. 'My apologies.' His voice carried not the least hint of friendliness or regret.
"This is your shop, sir?'
'Of course it's my shop. And has been since my father died, which was probably before you were born. His father's before that.' He squinted up at the sunlight, shook his head as if the brightness disgusted him, and shuffled back into the shop.
"You're only now opening the store?' I said, following him. 'It seems rather late.'
'It's my shop. I open when I'm ready.'
'When he's ready!' A voice shrieked from somewhere beyond the counter at the back of the shop. The long room was steeped in shadow. After the burning light of the street I stared into the gloom like a blind man. 'When he's ready, he says! When I'm finally able to get him out of bed and dressed is when he's ready. When I'm ready, he could say. One of these days I won't bother to get out of bed, I'll just He about like he does, and then where will we be?'
'Old woman, shut up!' The man tripped against a low table. A basket tipped over, and dried olives were scattered across the floor. Tiro stepped from behind me and began gathering them up.
"Who's this?' said the old man, stooping over and squinting. 'Your slave?'
'No.'
"Well, he acts like a slave. You wouldn't want to sell him?' 'I told you, he's not my slave.'
The old man shrugged. 'We used to have a slave. Until my stupid son freed the lazy bastard. That's who used to open the shop every morning. What's wrong if an old man likes to sleep late, if he's got a slave to open the shop for him? He didn't steal much, either, even if he was a lazy bastard. He should still be here, slave or not. A freedman has certain obligations to those who freed him, everybody knows that, legal obligations, slave or not, and right now is when we need him. But he's off in Apulia somewhere, got himself a wife. Give them their freedom and the first thing they want to do is go off and breed like decent folk. He used to open the shop. Didn't steal much, either.'
While he rambled on, my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. The shop was in a dilapidated state, dusty and unswept. Half the shelves and counters were empty. The wrinkled black olives Tiro had scrambled to retrieve were covered with dust. I lifted the lid of a clay urn and pulled out a dried fig. The flesh was spotted with grey mould. The whole room was permeated with the musty odour of a house long unused, pierced by the sweet, sour stench of rotted fruit.
'How would you know?' piped a shrill voice from the back of the shop. I could see the woman more clearly now. She wore a dark shawl and seemed to be chopping something with a knife, punctuating each phrase with a sharp blow against the counter. 'You don't know anything, old man, or else you can't remember. Your head's like a sieve. That good-for-nothing Gallius stole from us all the time. I'd have had his hands cut off for stealing, only then what use would he have been to anyone? You can't sell a slave if he hasn't got hands, and nobody'll buy a known thief except the mines and the galleys, and there's no money in dead flesh, as the saying goes. He was no good. We're better off without his kind.'
The man turned towards me and made a face behind the woman's back. ‘Well, then, are you here to buy something or to listen to the old woman talk nonsense?'
I glanced about, searching for something that looked reasonably edible. 'Actually, it was the signs on the door outside that drew my attention. The little symbols for fruits, grains…'
'Ah, Gallius did those, too. Just before my son freed him. He was a talented slave, even if he was lazy. He hardly ever stole from us.'
'There was one sign in particular I noticed. Unlike the others. Near the bottom of the door — the handprint.' His face hardened. 'Gallius didn't paint that.' 'I didn't think so. It looks almost like blood.' 'It is.’
'Old man, you talk too much.' The woman scowled and banged her knife against the counter. 'Some things are to be seen but not spoken of.'
'Shut up, old woman! If it were up to me, I'd have washed it off a long time ago, but you wanted it left there, and as long as it's there you can't be surprised if people notice it' 'How long has it been there?'
'Oh, months and months. Since last September, I suppose.' I nodded. 'And how—'
'There was a man killed in the middle of the street a rich man, from what I heard. Imagine, stabbed to death right in front of my shop.'
'After dark?'
'Of course — otherwise the door would have been open, wouldn't it? By Hercules — imagine if he'd come stumbling in here when the shop was open! There would never have been an end to the talk and the trouble.'
'Old man, you don't know anything about it, so why don't you just shut up? Ask the good man again if he came to buy something.' The woman kept her head bowed, like a bull's, staring at me from beneath her thick eyebrows.
'I know a man was killed, if you don't mind,' barked the old man.
‘We saw nothing, heard nothing. Only the gossip the next morning.'
'Gossip?' I said. 'Then there was talk in the neighbourhood. Was he a local man?'
'Not that I knew o£' said the man. 'Only they say some of the regulars from the Swans were in the street when they turned him over next morning and recognized his face.'
'The Swans?'
'A house of entertainments, for men. I wouldn't know anything about it myself' He rolled his eyes back in his head, indicating his wife, and lowered his voice. "Though my boy used to tell some pretty wild stories about the place.'
The knife banged against the counter with a special ferocity.
'At any rate, it happened some time after we closed up the shop and went upstairs for the night.'
'Then you heard nothing? I'd think there might have been screams, some other noises.'
The man started to answer, but the woman interrupted.
'Our rooms are at the back of the building. We don't have a window on the street at the front. What's your interest in the matter, anyway?'