The Legatus Mystery

by Rosemary Rowe

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

A deadly puzzle from the days of the Roman Empire... Libertus must uncover the sinister truth after a murdered body goes missing in The Legatus Mystery, the fifth thriller in Rosemary Rowe's gripping crime series. Perfect for fans of Simon Scarrow and Lindsey Davis. 'Cunningly drawn and the very devil to fathom until the final pages' - Coventry Evening Telegraph The murdered body of a visiting ambassador from Rome is discovered in the temple of the Imperial cult and once again freedman and pavement-maker Libertus is called upon to investigate. Events take a bizarre and chilling turn when the body disappears, and then unearthly wails are heard coming from the temple and mysterious bloodstains start to appear from nowhere. But Libertus is sure there is a more human explanation for the murder and he is to uncover still more unsettling events before the truth is finally revealed... What readers are saying about The Legatus Mystery : 'The pace of the series continues to build ' 'A cracking mystery laced with fascinating details of Roman life, and believable characters ' 'The best Roman series currently around just got better...'

Release date: April 11, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 324

Sample

‘Marcus Aurelius Septimus is here?’ I asked the attendant slave at Glevum baths, as I stripped off my cloak, sandals and tunic and stuffed them into one of the stone ‘dove-holes’ provided for the purpose.

The boy eyed me doubtfully. I could not blame him. I had come here without an attendant slave, my clothes were travel-stained and dusty, and I had not even been wearing a belt around my tunic. I scarcely looked like a Roman citizen, let alone a fit bath companion for the most important man in Glevum.

‘He is expecting me,’ I assured him, as I wrapped a linen toella around my nether parts. It was not obligatory – indeed many men visit the baths without wrapping themselves in anything – but a humble pavement-maker like myself can hardly meet the personal representative of the provincial governor of all Britannia dressed only in his own drooping skin. Besides, if I knew Marcus, he would be at this moment sitting in the caldarium, the hot room where he sometimes came, like other influential Romans, to conduct business and meet acquaintances. To my thin, fifty-year-old Celtic posterior the stone seats in the caldarium soon seem uncomfortably hot, and I knew I might find myself very glad of the protection of my towel.

In the absence of my own slave, I slipped the bath attendant a quadrans to watch my clothes.

The boy took the coin. It seemed to loosen his tongue. ‘His Excellence is here all right, and his attendants with him. He’s been here all the afternoon, with no end of important people coming to see him – I think something special is going on. That slave watching his clothes has been waiting there for hours.’

He gestured towards a servant boy in a bordered tunic who was sitting with patient boredom in a nearby niche, keeping guard over a pile of neatly folded garments on a bench. It was a necessary precaution. Many a fine citizen has left the baths – here as in every other city – with a poorer cloak than he arrived in. One or two unfortunates have even been known to lose the ‘bath tunic’ (which most people wear under their cloaks when travelling to and from the baths) with humorously embarrassing results which have been the topic of town gossip for weeks afterwards. But Marcus’s garments were more than usually worth stealing – even from here I could see the wide purple border of his toga. Marcus was very conscious of his patrician status, and famously wore that cumbersome badge of citizenship even to the baths.

‘You’ll find His Excellence in the hot room,’ the bath boy said.

I nodded, and began to make my way in the direction of the warm pools and the tepidarium. Little time for me to linger there – I should have to plunge almost immediately into the caldarium.

‘I hope you’re right about his wanting to see you,’ the boy called after me. ‘He doesn’t take kindly to being unexpectedly interrupted at his ablutions.’

He hardly needed to tell me that. I had been extremely surprised by the messenger myself. Normally, when Marcus wants me – often at the most inconvenient hour – he summons me to come to his apartments or to his official rooms, where he can keep me waiting in comfort. But here? Marcus may regard a visit to the baths as an excellent opportunity to discuss affairs, but usually with patrician friends and town dignitaries, not a mere mosaic-maker like myself. Roman citizen I might be – indeed I was born a nobleman in my own tribe – but I was also an ex-slave and a tradesman, and the gulf between myself and Marcus was as great as that between me and the bath-house attendant himself. Without the most explicit instructions I would never have dared to come to seek my patron here. What was so critical that he had sent for me?

Perhaps he was irritated that I had not called on him at once, the night before, when I had returned from a journey to Londinium. That was a worrying possibility. Indeed, I should probably have done so, had we not come home to all the usual time-consuming problems created by prolonged absence – damp blankets, reluctant firewood and the discovery that a large rat had made his home in the bedding – and had consequently slept until long after sun-up. At least – I comforted myself as I hurried through the tepidarium and entered the caldarium, where the hot steam gushed out to meet me – here in Britannia a rich man’s protégés, his clientes, are not expected to attend him flatteringly at dawn every morning, as they are in Rome.

I need not have worried. Marcus greeted me cordially enough. ‘Ah, Libertus! I have been waiting for you. Come in. Welcome.’ He raised himself a little on one elbow and blinked at me benevolently through the steam. He was elegantly draped in a long swathe of blue linen towel, and wore a pair of thick-soled bath slippers against the heat of the floor. He was looking wonderfully bronzed and relaxed. Although his short blond curls were plastered to his head and his handsome young patrician face was slightly flushed, he seemed otherwise unmoved by the temperature. He held out a languid hand for me to kiss.

I was not altogether sure of the protocol. How does a mere ex-slave mosaic-maker – however much of a citizen he may finally come to be – greet his patron with dignity, draped only in a skimpy towel? I made a swift bow over the hand, an equally swift grab for my wrappings and sat down gratefully on the lower bench he indicated, lifting my bare feet clear of the floor. Marcus’s bath slippers were not merely for show. Glevum caldarium is not as hot as some, but the tiles still left my soles stinging.

I was ready with apologies, but Marcus waved them aside. ‘Libertus my old friend, it is a long journey to Londinium, even for a younger man. Days of travelling are wearisome. Naturally I forgive you for any lapse of courtesy.’

I was on my guard. When Marcus calls me his old friend it is almost always because he wants my services and, since he was elegantly pointing out how magnanimous he was being, I had an uncomfortable feeling that this was no exception. On the other hand, perhaps he genuinely wanted my news. After all, I had been the guest of the Roman governor, Pertinax, who was Marcus’s particular friend and advocate. (Even patrons may have patrons of their own.) ‘You are gracious, Excellence,’ I said.

‘I hear you were of great service to the governor,’ Marcus said approvingly.

I murmured something suitably deprecating. ‘A mere matter of a dead corn officer . . .’ but Marcus made an impatient gesture.

‘Of course, of course – he has told me all that in his letter.’

On reflection, I should not have been surprised. The imperial post, carried at top speed by a single man on horseback, is obviously faster than a man in a carriage. Marcus would have heard the news from Londinium days ago. And he had ‘forgiven me’ for failing to call on him. So it was some other matter on which he wished to see me. Knowing that Marcus refused to ‘insult me’ by ever offering me money for my service and advice, I fervently hoped that the reason for this meeting was not the ‘something important’ which the bath slave had mentioned. I had been away from Glevum for almost a month, and the store chests and shelves in my humble workroom and garret were depressingly empty.

Marcus fixed me with a vague smile. An attendant, dripping perspiration in his tunic, brought him a dipper of cool water from the apse at the door, and Marcus buried his face in it.

I, however, did not merit this luxury, and in the circumstances it would be disastrously impolite of me to move. I squirmed a little on my bench. It was hot, even through the linen. I was already beginning to turn pink-faced and wilt like a limp leaf. Whatever Marcus wanted, I thought, I hoped it would be quick.

‘And you have not only been helpful to the governor, Libertus,’ Marcus said, wafting away the steam as he spoke. ‘I have received a communication from Rome. The Emperor is minded to be pleased with you, for your part in uncovering that plot against his life.’

‘I am honoured, Excellence,’ I said faintly, feeling the sweat prickle down my back. But it was cold sweat now rather than a product of the heat. The Emperor Commodus is an erratic man – or god, I should say, as he regards himself as a reincarnation of Hercules and requires to be addressed accordingly. He is also fanatical about his safety, and sees plots everywhere: often with reason, as my investigations had proved. However, his favouritisms are notoriously as short-lived as they are violent, and any man who attracts imperial attention – for whatever reason – is sooner or later bound to wish that he had remained safely anonymous. I obviously dared not say so, however. Commodus is reputed to spend a fortune on his spies, and there were no doubt paid ears and eyes even in this provincial bath-house.

Marcus nodded, and looked thoughtfully at the slave with the water pot. He was as well aware of the dangers as I was. ‘As a result of your actions,’ he said, with every outward evidence of satisfaction, ‘His Imperial Mightiness has deigned to honour our city. There is to be a special service of thanksgiving at the Imperial birthday celebrations.’

Since he was officially a god, of course, Commodus’s birthday was a religious feast day, and on that date every citizen was expected to attend and take part in a sacrifice in honour of the Emperor – as the army did every day of the year. The Imperial cult had been introduced in the time of Augustus – a kind of declaration of loyalty and a celebration of the power of Rome – and all the emperors since then had joined the pantheon after death, but Commodus had not even waited to die before declaring himself a deity.

I nodded, and Marcus went on. ‘We are to be treated to a visit from the highest-ranking Imperial priest in all the province, who will conduct the sacrifices at the temple and lead the services. Naturally there will have to be commemorative games, and special celebrations.’ He sighed.

I understood the reason for that sigh. Birthday celebrations for a god were likely to prove a very costly business.

‘It is a great honour for the city – and for me personally of course,’ Marcus added, glancing at the slave. ‘There will even be an ambassadorial visitor from Rome – an imperial legatus to represent the Emperor. I think I know the man – a certain Fabius Marcellus Verus – used to be commander of a legion, when I lived in Rome.’ There was a small annexe to one side of the hot-room, a sort of open-ended cubicle with a raised stone slab in the centre. Marcus got up suddenly, and occupied it, still talking to me over his shoulder as he went. ‘Fabius’s arrival in the city will coincide with the departure of the governor. You know of course that Governor Pertinax is leaving these islands? He has been appointed governor of the African provinces.’

‘So he told me, Excellence,’ I said, shifting on my seat and hoping that my buttocks were not cooking. Because Marcus was a close friend of the governor, he was obviously proud to give this sign of his association with him. I did not add that all Britannia must have heard the news by this time: I had been told the same thing – with embellishments – by an innkeeper, a night watchman and a beggar, among others, on the road back from Londinium.

‘There are to be farewell rituals for that, too, of course,’ Marcus said. He arranged himself on the slab as the slave stood by. It was probably cooler in the cubicle, I thought; it was further from the furnace. He raised his head again. ‘I thought – a small commemorative piece perhaps? In honour of both these memorable occasions.’

I breathed again. So that was what Marcus wanted! A mosaic in a hurry – that explained this extraordinary summons. And it made financial sense for him, one memorial piece instead of two. It was just a month to the Emperor’s birthday – I began to make calculations in my head. With the help of Junio, my servant-cum-assistant, I thought that I could manage. ‘It would be a privilege, Excellence,’ I said.

‘What I had in mind,’ Marcus said dreamily, allowing the slave to rub him with a little olive oil from a flask, ‘was something a little different. A commemorative shrine – in one of the public spaces perhaps: a statue of Hercules of course, in honour of the Emperor, but mosaic on the wall and in the niche itself.’ He gestured towards the flask invitingly, but I felt that adding oil to my flesh would only result in fried Libertus, and I shook my head in what I hoped was a suitably respectful manner.

Marcus waved the slave away and went on outlining his design. ‘Blue and white and yellow, that would be the thing. Tiles rather than stone, I think, and a design of birds and dogs worked into the frieze? Pertinax is fond of hunting. I’ve seen the sort of thing I want, in Rome, though I’ve never seen one in Britannia. Could it be managed, do you think?’

I was asking myself the same question. A simple floor mosaic was one thing. I had developed many techniques to speed the work. But a curved niche? That was something new.

‘Only the finest materials, of course,’ Marcus went on. ‘And fine workmanship. I can find somebody else, naturally, if you do not feel you can . . .’

Without undue arrogance, I doubted that. There are few men in Glevum with my skills. If Marcus wanted this mosaic, I should have to do it – as he knew. Besides, I needed the money, as he no doubt also knew.

‘I should be honoured to attempt it, Excellence.’ I mopped my dripping forehead and tried to look as eager as a man can when he is streaming with sweat and coming to a slow boil.

There was a pause. Marcus gestured to the slave, who busied himself with a strigil, scraping combined oil and sweat from Marcus’s oiled body – and taking the dirt with it.

I waited – it would have been inexcusable to go – until Marcus wrapped himself back into his towel and came back into the main caldarium. In a moment, I knew, he would go next door and take a cold plunge before being massaged with perfumed oil and having his nose-hairs pulled. I only hoped that I had been dismissed by then.

He sat down upon his bench again, and looked at me. ‘Well then, the commission is yours. Though, of course, I know you have additional responsibilities now. Pertinax tells me you found your Gwellia. I hope that has been satisfactory?’

Gwellia. The wife that I had lost for twenty years and who now had miraculously been restored to me. Junio had found her, in the hands of a slave-trader, and Pertinax had purchased her for me as a reward for my efforts. Even now it was almost more than I could comprehend. I glanced at Marcus. He was smiling indulgently.

I swallowed. Marcus wanted this mosaic badly. This was probably a good moment to ask a favour. ‘There is something I would like to ask you, Excellence, in that regard.’

He inclined his head. ‘Go on.’

Sweat was still streaming into my eyes. I outlined my request.

Marcus sat suddenly upright. ‘Marry her, Libertus? I don’t understand! You already own the woman. What more do you want?’ He was tapping one bronzed thigh as he spoke, I noticed.

I recognised the gesture. My patron was impatient. I fidgeted uncomfortably on my own hot bench opposite.

‘I simply don’t see the difficulty,’ Marcus persisted.

I sighed. Impossible to explain to a wealthy Roman. I flapped at the clouds of steam, miserably aware of how hot and pink I was, and tried to peer at Marcus. ‘It is a difficult position, Excellence. Of course, our marriage was automatically dissolved when we were captured and sold as slaves.’ I thought of that once lovely face, now so tired and strained and worn. ‘She is no longer legally my wife.’

‘Of course she isn’t! Slaves are not permitted to be married to anyone.’

‘Exactly, Excellence! That is why I am asking you to help me. I can’t marry her again, without first arranging to have her freed.’

Marcus understood that, of course. As the highest-ranking magistrate in the colonia, he knew the intricacies of the law better than I did. What he could not comprehend was why on earth it mattered. I owned the woman, as he said – and could therefore summon her to my bed as often as I pleased.

He said as much now, with a laugh. ‘You Celts are too indulgent with your womenfolk. Too indulgent by half. If a woman won’t come to your bed willingly, beat her till she does – that’s what my father used to say.’ He spoke with cheerful confidence. Marcus was young, handsome and powerful, and until his recent marriage the most beautiful women in Glevum had queued up to offer him favours. ‘Though goodness knows what she expects in that department, Libertus – you’re not young. Still, you’re not bad-looking and you’re in fair shape for your age.’

I smiled. It was certainly not a question of unwillingness. It was true, there had been some reticence at first – on both our parts – but reconciliation had been all the sweeter for the wait. But now . . . ‘Excellence, it is more a matter—’

I was going to say ‘of the dignity that she deserves’, but the words were never uttered. A young man had burst into the steam room and flung himself to the tiled floor at Marcus’s feet. He was – remarkably – still half dressed, in the distinctive tunic of a temple slave, and the steam was already dampening the cloth and settling in little droplets on the metal of his clasp.

‘What is the meaning of this intrusion!’ Marcus was angry. He got to his feet and so – rather groggily – did I, to the anguish of my feet and the great relief of my posterior.

‘Most honoured Excellence! A thousand thousand apologies. I bring important news.’ The man had not moved from his position, and already the moisture was beginning to course down his face and drip from his nose and chin.

‘Very well,’ Marcus said, and the man struggled to his feet.

‘I come from the senior Sevir Augustalis,’ he blurted, ‘Meritus, high priest of the Imperial cult in Glevum. He sends his humble greetings to your Excellence . . .’

‘Never mind all that,’ Marcus said testily. ‘What’s the news?’

‘Citizen, there was dreadful moaning in the temple earlier – not even the High Priest of Jupiter knew what was causing it. Then Sevir Meritus went into the inner sanctum of the shrine at noon, to read the auguries.’ The messenger looked at us wildly. Suddenly he blurted, as though he had forgotten his carefully prepared text, ‘The long and short of it is, there was a body in there on the floor. A body in rich civilian clothing. And oh, Excellence . . .’ he threw himself back on the floor as if by humbling himself he could somehow undo the horror of his words, ‘judging by the documents that the priest found in his belt, it seems to be the body of an imperial embassy.’

An imperial ambassador! I caught my breath.

‘Dear Jupiter!’ Marcus was visibly shocked. ‘The last time anything happened to an imperial legate to Britannia . . .’

He did not finish, but we all knew what he meant. It was a story to frighten children with. The legate and his two bodyguards had been set upon and brutally murdered, apparently by marauding wayside thieves. All three had been hacked into pieces and left for the wolves – all for the sake of the bag of silver they were carrying. Parts of the bodies had never been recovered and there were terrible reprisals in the town concerned. So much so, legend said, that one tribal elder who witnessed the slaughter called down the vengeance of the gods on all things Roman – and instead brought a dreadful vengeance on himself. They’d half flayed him, bound him to a stake, and wheeled him in – still breathing – to the arena beasts, for daring to defy the word of Rome.

And all this was under the previous emperor, Marcus Aurelius, who was famously just! What his unpredictable son might do to Glevum in the same circumstances was too horrible to contemplate.

I glanced at Marcus. He had turned pale. ‘Of course, Excellence,’ I said nervously, ‘that earlier incident was further south, and put down to displaced Iceni. The Romans have never trusted the Iceni, ever since the revolt of Boudicca.’ It was a forlorn attempt at comfort. Marcus knew the likely consequences as well as I did.

He shook his head, and then moved with a sudden alacrity which would have made a battle-charger look sluggish. ‘Come on,’ he said, jumping up from his bench, and leading the way out of the room. ‘There is no time to be lost.’

I followed him – there was nothing else to do – and the temple slave trotted obediently after us.

Marcus was in a hurry. He ignored the tepid pools in the adjoining room and made his way directly to the frigidarium, where he launched himself instantly into the cold plunge. The temple slave glanced at me uncertainly.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I could hardly back out of this without looking foolish. I handed the slave my towel and, closing my eyes, followed Marcus into the pool as boldly as I could. The shock of that sudden immersion would have made a statue squeal, but the temple slave was watching me and I controlled myself, only emitting the faintest of gasps.

The cold water was reviving, however, once I caught my breath again. Marcus was soon out of the pool, waving aside the proffered massage (to the chagrin of the massage-slave, who’d been hoping for a tip), and a moment later we were all striding back to the changing room. Marcus’s attendant was still patiently sitting guard over my patron’s clothes. There was no sign of the boy I had paid to look after mine.

‘Quickly!’ Marcus barked to his slave, and allowed himself to be swiftly dried and draped elegantly in his toga while I dabbed at myself ineffectively with my damp towel. I was still trying to come to. . .