father-in-law fast approaching along the gravel walkway.
‘Probus!’
The man stopped. ‘Who let you in here?’
Evidently Probus had not mellowed with time.
At the reply ‘Claudia’, Probus’ mouth turned down as if he were refusing a loan to a potential client. ‘I don’t know what for,’ he said. ‘She’s sent for the investigators, you know.’
‘I came to see if I could help.’
For some reason this seemed to annoy Probus even further. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the gatehouse. ‘Out!’
‘On my way,’ agreed Ruso, indicating the walking-stick. ‘It’s just taking me a bit of time.’
‘If you’re not gone in a minute there’ll be men here to help you.’
Ruso said, ‘Sorry to hear about Justinus, by the way,’ but Probus was already striding towards the west wing, calling, ‘Claudia? It’s all right, I’ve got rid of him.’
Ruso paused, leaning on his stick, to watch Probus mount the steps and give Zosimus a perfunctory nod. Then he turned and picked his way along the path towards the gatehouse with a deliberate lack of haste. It was a small and not very satisfying form of rebellion.
He told himself that at least the steward’s insistence on waiting for orders would restrain Claudia’s urge to call in professional questioners. He supposed that was good news — for the staff, if not for him. As he approached the gate it occurred to him that he should have told somebody that Severus’ horse was being tended by the stable lad back at home. He would have to leave a message with the gatekeeper.
The gatekeeper’s dog was eyeing his approach with interest when he was surprised by hasty footsteps crashing through gravel and a voice he did not recognize calling, ‘Sir! Please, doctor, sir!’
A lanky youth in a grease-spattered tunic appeared from behind the gatehouse, halted, tried to decide what to do with his hands, finally clamped them behind his back and said, ‘I’m Flaccus, sir. I used to work in your kitchen.’
Ruso stared at him. Claudia had indeed owned a kitchen-boy called Flaccus, but not one like this. Claudia’s boy was small and cheery. This one had hands and feet that were much too big for him, an anxious face made out of sharp angles and a sprinkling of acne. Ruso leaned on his stick and decided he was getting old. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘How are you getting on here?’
‘Very well, sir, thank you.’ Having got that out of the way, the youth took a deep breath. ‘Cook said I should come and talk to you, sir.’
Ruso beckoned him away from the ears of the gatekeeper and the teeth of the dog. Safely behind an ornamental hedge that more or less concealed them from the house, he said, ‘To do with Severus?’
Flaccus nodded.
‘Speak up,’ he urged, warmed by the thought that the boy still trusted him. ‘What do you know?’
The boy looked alarmed. ‘Oh no, sir. I don’t know anything. Nobody knows anything. Cook says to ask what’s going to happen to us, sir.’
Ruso looked him up and down. Flaccus the little kitchen-boy, no longer cheery — and with good reason. By law, all the household slaves who had been under the same roof as a murdered master should be put to death for failing to save him — even if they could not possibly have helped. The Emperor Nero, notorious for much else besides, had once called in troops to enforce the execution of four hundred men, women and children whose only crime was to be owned by a man who had been done away with by one of their comrades. It was a lesson not easily forgotten.
Ruso suspected that the law might not apply when the victim was secretly poisoned off the premises — a crime against which his staff would stand little chance of protecting him — but that was a fine distinction unlikely to comfort a household in fear of their lives. He said, ‘Flaccus, I want you to think carefully about this. Do you think anyone here was involved in the death of the Senator’s agent?’
‘Absolutely not, sir!’
Of course not. What else could the lad say? ‘Did you see him on the morning he died?’
Flaccus looked uneasy.
‘I need to know exactly what happened to him that morning.’
The boy stared down at feet that overhung the ends of his sandals. His shoulders shifted uneasily. ‘Cook didn’t say …’ His voice trailed into silence.
‘Just tell me what you know,’ urged Ruso, silently cursing Nero and every long-dead member of the Senate who had agreed with him.
‘But I don’t know anything, sir. I was bringing in the firewood when Master Severus came in.’
‘Into the kitchen?’
Flaccus nodded. ‘Please don’t go asking them, sir. Cook will kill me.’
‘Just tell me what he did in the kitchen, and I won’t need to.’ Ruso hoped, for the boy’s sake, that this was true.
‘He just came for his breakfast. Bread and cheese and an apple.’ The boy looked up. ‘There wasn’t nothing wrong with it, sir. It was the same as what everybody had.’
‘Did he usually fetch his own breakfast?’
‘People are always in and out of the kitchen, sir. Cook gets fed up with it.’
‘And did he look well?’
Flaccus, clearly regretting ever admitting to remembering Ruso, said, ‘He never looked well, sir.’
‘Who was in the kitchen yesterday morning?’
‘Just the staff, sir.’
‘Nobody unusual?’
‘No, sir.’
Not wishing to imply a suspicion of the widow, Ruso tried, ‘How about Claudia or Ennia?’
‘Oh, no, sir!’ This, apparently, would have been a memorable event. Neither of these two had ever been seen in the kitchen before mid-morning.
Ruso frowned. This was not proving as helpful as he had hoped. ‘You’re sure he just had the same food and drink as everyone else?’
‘Not the drink, sir. He always has — had his own medicine. The cook mixes him up honey and rosewater. Just that, sir. Nothing that would do no harm.’
‘And nobody else drinks it?’
Flaccus shook his head. ‘No, sir. Well — not usually. But after Master Severus died, the steward came down to the kitchen and asked a lot of questions. And he made us all eat the food and share out the rest of the medicine. That’s how we knew Severus must have been poisoned. But nobody was ill.’
So Zosimus, the responsible steward, had been making inquiries of his own. Personally Ruso would not have risked poisoning the entire staff by sharing everything out, but presumably he had been hoping to force a confession. ‘Well, it looks as though he’s satisfied himself that none of you was involved.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Flaccus did not seem particularly cheered by this news. ‘But when Cook asked him what’s going to happen to us he just said we’ve got to wait for orders from Rome.’
‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ said Ruso. ‘Severus didn’t die under this roof. That may be a good thing for you, if not for me. But I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know what’s going to happen to any of us.’
Flaccus sniffed. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘What I do know is that it’s not going to be helped by listening to worrying gossip. Now go back to your duties and try to ignore anything you hear, because if none of us knows until we hear from Rome, nothing you’re told can be true, can it?’
The boy managed a wan smile. ‘No, sir.’
A sizeable gang of dingily attired visitors was rolling up the drive as Ruso left, presumably on the way to offer condolences to the grieving widow and sister. The gatekeeper’s face was impassive as he asserted that he couldn’t answer questions without permission from the steward, but his one eye was bright. Ruso suspected these were the most interesting couple of days he had had in a very long time.
