I stared at him, unable to believe what I’d just heard, but he went on – in the same neutral tone of unconcern, ‘My master sends you his apologies for the damage to your property.’ He paused, as if waiting for acknowledgement.
I was still reeling from the shocking news, but through a mist I heard myself enquire, ‘So why is His Excellence not to be informed about something that happened on his property?’
Dasypyges seemed a bit nonplussed – presumably he had no instructions as to what to say to that – but finally he blurted, ‘It is socially embarrassing for my master, I suppose. He’d no idea the owner was a citizen of rank. But the household made it clear that our host would be displeased, because you are His Excellence’s special protégé.’
I should have heard the sound of warning trumpets in those words, but I was still thinking about my poor dead slave. ‘Great Jove!’ I muttered. ‘What an appalling thing.’
He misinterpreted. ‘Exactly, duumvir. My master said he’d never heard such impudence – it was a marvel that he did not strike them too. Fortunately, his anger was enough to silence them, and after that they scurried to do as he required.’ He was speaking in a much less stilted way, and there was almost the smug vestige of a smile. ‘The corpse was moved at once, the place was purified, and the rest of the mess was being dealt with as I left. His Excellence will not be discommoded in the least, when he returns. There was a lot of blood, but luckily the fine rugs escaped.’
I was struck by a sudden painful thought. ‘Rastus is dead, and you’ve disposed of him? Before I was informed?’
‘Unfortunately so. At the time, we did not know that he was yours. But I come to offer compensatio. My master will be pleased to replace him instantly. He was at first inclined to offer one of his – he has escorts with him – but he decided otherwise. The boy was neither beautiful nor particularly strong and had no special skills, I understand. Replacing him should not be difficult.’ The condescension was dripping from his voice. ‘I believe there is a regular slave-market in the town. So would you prefer us to shop on your behalf – or would you rather select the substitute yourself?’
I am not by nature a very violent man and years of slavery had taught me – like my wife – to bear things silently. But for a moment, listening to these words, I was seized with a suffocating rage. If I’d been carrying my walking staff, I might have smashed it across that smugly smiling face. As it was, I roared and took an unwise step, raising my hands as though to grasp him by throat and shake him till he rattled – until little Kurso, who had been watching this, came rushing out to pull me backwards by the cloak.
‘Master, what’s the matter?’
I looked down at him in some surprise. I had quite forgotten him. ‘It’s Rastus,’ I managed. ‘He’s been … killed’ – I almost said ‘murdered’ – ‘by the master of this man.’
Kurso was frowning. ‘Killed? Rastus?’ There was genuine sorrow on the little face, although their paths had hardly crossed. ‘How did it happen?’
The courier said frostily, ‘An accident.’
It was said so swiftly that Kurso looked at me to see if I agreed.
I did so grudgingly. ‘If you can call it that! Killed by knocking him over with a blow so violent that he hit his head and died.’ But I had dropped my hands, which was as well for me.
I have thought about that moment many times. If Dasypyges had chosen to defend himself, there is not much doubt who would have suffered most. (Though it is likely he would merely have tried to parry me – it is a serious offence for a slave to strike a citizen, even if self-preservation can be proved.) And I might have earned myself a hefty fine – there are laws about deliberate damage done to property, especially that of a Roman senator.
As Kurso was at this moment just reminding me. ‘But master, for all that, you must not strike this man. He is the servant of a kinsman of the Governor – you told me so yourself! And the death of Rastus was not his doing – from what you say of it.’
He had made me pause, but I was still furious. ‘But it’s the way that Rastus is being spoken of, as if he were no more important than a broken pot, to be replaced with something more or less equivalent. As though a few denarii …’
‘But’ – Kurso was still tugging at my arm – ‘what more could you expect? Is that not exactly what the law requires?’
It was, of course, which merely added to my helpless rage. For a moment I did not trust myself to speak.
Dasypyges did it for me. ‘Exactly, slave. That is what I was attempting to explain. It was an accident – his shoes were slippery, as your owner himself seemed happy to accept – and the merest blow was enough to send him staggering. No one could have guessed the boy would hit his head against the marble table-edge, or – even if he did – that it would cause him much more than a bruise. But so the Fates decreed. My master was appalled when he learned what he had done – he had no idea that the owner was a citizen, far less a councillor.’
‘Did Rastus not say that he belonged to me?’ I found my tongue again.
‘He said his master was a tradesman of some kind – a pavement-maker, I believe it was. In fact, that was the only thing he would vouchsafe – that’s what made my master furious.’
I said nothing, suddenly envisaging the scene. Obedient young Rastus, refusing to disclose his message to anyone but Marcus, because that was what he had been told to do. Refusing to be bullied into disobeying me – and dying for his obstinate fidelity. I blinked away some most unRoman tears.
Dasypyges was not looking at me, anyway. He had turned to Kurso, who had found the courage from somewhere to respond, unasked.
‘And Rastus spoke the truth. Our master is a mosaic-maker in the town, and famous for his work – although he’s now a councillor.’
‘So we discovered, when it was far too late!’ Dasypyges directed his reply to me. ‘When we did, I was sent at once to make amends. I was actually quicker than I might have been, because I would have sought you first in town, but His Excellence’s gig-driver, who was waiting to be called upon, was able to advise me where you were. With his directions, I came directly here. And now I should return. Should I tell my master that you wish to come yourself, to the slave-market the next time it is held? If a suitable replacement can be found I am sure my master would be more than generous.’
I was about to tell him, in no uncertain terms, what he could tell his master, but I was interrupted by a cheerful shout. ‘Father! I was about to come and call on you.’
I swung round to see Junio hurrying down the ancient track. He had Arlina with him on the rein and was evidently just returning from a long day in town. He panted up to us. ‘Good news. I’ve obtained another contract for a bathhouse floor …’ He tailed off, looking from Dasypyges to me. ‘But Father, I see you have a messenger. And you look stricken. Is there something wrong?’
I was ready to murmur that this was my son, and therefore also a Roman citizen, but the courier had already worked this out.
He gave the faintest inclination of his head. ‘You are perceptive, citizen. I am indeed the servant of somebody of rank – no less a man than Hortius Valens, Senator of Rome. I bring sad tidings of an accident …’ He recounted the event, word for word as he’d related it to me.
Junio shot me a disturbed and searching look. ‘So it was Rastus, was it? I am sorry about that. I’d heard that a slave had been unfortunately killed, belonging to a member of the curia. I had no idea that it was one of yours.’
Dasypyges was frowning at him in astonishment. ‘You heard? From whom?’
Junio raised ironic brows at me. ‘I heard it from the tanner-woman from the shop next door to ours – though not quite in the form that you reported it.’
I nodded. I could have guessed as much. ‘The woman is famous for knowing all the news, and delights to pass it on. But she can’t have known the slave was mine – she’d have told you that, for sure.’
‘What I do not understand …’ Dasypyges had turned pale. ‘Is how she heard at all. It was only the household slaves who witnessed the event, and my master was threatening to beat them half to death, if any of them dared to breath a single word—’ He broke off, as Junio quelled him with a glance.
‘Then perhaps he should have threatened the funeral guild as well,’ my son replied. ‘I understand he brought the slave guild in? Surely he could see that they were bound to talk – when he was offering to pay the dues himself, if it could not be proved that they were up to date.’
Trust the tanner’s wife to have all the titillating details, I thought. But this was at least a glimmer of good news. Poor Rastus would have a decent funeral. ‘I paid his guild dues faithfully,’ I said, with some relief. ‘That will be on record, I am sure. I’ll go and claim him back, so we can lament, ourselves – and will gladly pay the extra for a private pyre and mourning women to accompany the bier.’
Junio shook a mournful head at me. ‘Father, I am sorry. It’s too late for that. The guildsman, from whom the woman heard the tale, was apparently boasting all around the town that the Senator had paid them double what they asked provided that the body was disposed of straight away and put on their pyre tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ I muttered – though I should not have been surprised. Tomorrow was the Ides – a festal day sacred to Jupiter, and it was unlucky to leave a corpse unburied on that date. ‘Then I cannot hope to be there. A man would need the swiftest horse and even then he’d be riding halfway in the dark.’ I glanced at Dasypyges – who appeared unmoved, although he would have to do exactly that, himself.
Junio realized how distressed I was at not even being able to attend the funeral. He took me to one side and spoke in a low voice. ‘Clearly it is now impossible – for either you or me. But I think that you should be at the slave-market yourself. Tomorrow is a public festival so it will not be held. But there should be one the next day – and you could be there, since there’s never a curial meeting on the postridie.’
I nodded, vaguely. The day after any public festival is partially ill-starred, so judicial courts and civil assemblies don’t convene, although ordinary citizens can do anything they please (unlike the holy day itself when everything shuts down). This Emperor’s official birthday date fell awkwardly this month, meaning that the council would not meet for several days.
‘You ought to be there at first light, though,’ Junio went on, ‘to find the best of what’s on offer at the slave-market. You know what Marcus says: you have to be there early to get the pick of them, before the other purchasers have skimmed the cream.’
He was quite right, of course. The stallholder was famous for his willingness to take early ‘private bids’, reserving his best wares for favoured customers. ‘Better go in tomorrow, then, you think?’ I said. I did not care a whit about replacement slaves, but I could see that Junio was trying to do his best for me. ‘Later in the day, perhaps, when the festive rites are done.’
‘We’ll go in together, if you like – and stay at your apartment, if you can find room for me. Then it would be easy to set out from there at dawn. Cilla can spare me, for one night, I’m sure.’ He looked enquiringly at me. ‘I assume you’d like me to accompany you?’
‘The flat will not be crowded,’ I agreed, thinking how much I would miss the gangly Rastus and his toothy smile.
‘Then that is our answer,’ Junio declared, turning dramatically to the courier. ‘I suggest that you take it to the Senator. My father accepts the offer of compensatio, acknowledges the cremation of his slave at Hortius’s expense, and – together with myself – will meet him at the slave-market at first light, the day after tomorrow. We’ll select a replacement, for which your owner undertakes to pay. Can you remember that?’
‘Of course!’ Dasypyges returned, and to prove it repeated the message word for word.
‘Then go at once before the daylight fails,’ my son replied.
The messenger leapt up into the saddle like an acrobat, raised a straight arm in salute, wheeled his horse and cantered off the way that he had come.
‘Perhaps I’ll you see you at the slave-market,’ he called, over his shoulder, as he disappeared. It was impudence, of course, speaking as though he were of equal rank with us, and my son and I exchanged a wry glance at his words – but none of us guessed quite how prophetic they would prove to be.