His right arm, I thought. I did a swift calculation. The dagger blow that killed Quintus had been delivered slightly upwards and to the right. Surely that would be most easily inflicted by a left-handed man? It was hard to be sure. Quintus had presumably been reclining on his couch when the blow was struck, so he could have been attacked from any angle. Besides, few Roman citizens would be left-handed — any such tendency was schooled out of them early. The Roman army did not tolerate ‘sinister’ infantrymen — they spoiled a formation, and left vulnerable gaps in a phalanx — and a similar prejudice ran through polite society. Soldiers and schoolboys learned very quickly, if not to be right-handed, at least to be ambidextrous.
I looked at Flavius. He was supporting himself on his left arm and unconsciously holding his pie in his right hand, but, as in the case of Lupus and the wine, that told me nothing. It is considered polite in most Roman circles for a man to eat and drink with his right hand, and to reserve his left for more intimate duties.
Flavius was looking at me expectantly. I said quickly, ‘You have known Councillor Lupus a long time?’
‘He is ex-Councillor Lupus, now,’ Flavius reminded me, with a certain relish. ‘That is why he hated Quintus Ulpius so much. That and some argument over that secretary of his. He was telling me about it in the garden — though I confess I was scarcely paying attention. You wouldn’t have done so either, in my place. Listening to Lupus rehearsing his miseries is a famously tedious business. And that is why it is difficult to answer your question, citizen. I have known him, from a distance, for many years, but I have, shall we say, avoided his acquaintance.’
‘You did not need his support in the curia?’ I suggested. Most men with large estates would court a magistrate, however tedious, if it would assist them to gain contracts and avoid taxes.
He was unabashed by this. ‘Naturally, I sent him tribute if it was expedient,’ he said, ‘but I had other friends on the council. Quintus Ulpius was one of them, until this business with Julia. You heard about that?’
I was on dangerous ground here. ‘I heard that she had been your wife,’ I said carefully.
Not carefully enough. ‘Had been my wife!’ he snorted angrily. ‘She should still be my wife! By Jupiter, Greatest and Best, she was promised me by her father, Gaius Honorius, when I lent him money to buy a forest. As soon as she was old enough, he said, and sure enough, the day she was twelve he brought her to my house, and gave her a handsome dowry into the bargain. And now, of course, I’ve lost that too.’
‘A manus marriage?’ I said. I was surprised. That form of legal wedding was almost obsolete, but if that was the case, Flavius certainly had a claim. Of course his bride was very young — we Celts do not usually marry off our daughters while they are still such children — but twelve is the legal age under Roman law, and it is always fashionable, among the socially aspiring, to do in Britain as they do in Rome. In any case, her youth made no difference. In a manus marriage, the wife legally passed into her husband’s power, and so did her property. She might even have been fictitiously ‘bought’ by her husband, in front of the magistrates, in which case she was undoubtedly his. ‘Can you prove that?’
He shook his head. ‘There was no legal ceremony. And I cannot prove “usage”, either — Julia was too clever for that. She has made a point of sleeping away from home for three successive nights every year — so she has avoided legally passing into my family. She claims ours was a free marriage, and therefore she can leave it when she chooses. Her father would have supported me, but he died of a fever years ago, and her brother became her official protector. He has never liked me. He made no secret of it — he was always encouraging her to run home, and I’d have to send after her and woo her back.’ He looked at me mournfully. ‘Great Jupiter the Mighty, I’d have sought a divorce myself twenty times over if Julia were not so beautiful.’
Or so rich, I thought uncharitably.
Flavius, though, had not finished his complaint. ‘The things I had to promise! I tell you, citizen, I spoiled that woman. I allowed her to go to the baths every day, during the women’s hours, though it costs twice as much for a female: I let her have pets, and visits to friends, and yearly outings to the theatre: I even permitted her to learn an instrument and play at banquets which I gave. What more could a man do? And still she was not satisfied.’
I was trying to imagine what Gwellia would have said if I had confined her to such dubious pleasures, but I managed to smile encouragingly.
‘You know, she used to complain of my breath, and I spent a fortune on sweeteners to please her. Liquorice root, ginger, dried fennel — I tried everything. I even used ground dogs’ teeth and honey to polish my teeth, but still she grumbled that I smelled of fish pickle and old wine. And then of course she met Quintus. After that she never came home again. I believe he went to a sorcerer and had her charmed away. Well, he needn’t think he can get away with it. There are laws against things like that.’
There were. The picture of the soothsayer flitted across my mind. ‘And that is what you came here to see him about?’
‘Of course it is. Or perhaps I should say “was”.’
‘I see.’ I looked at him for a moment. ‘Then what was it you wanted Rollo to do for you?’
I have never seen a man’s expression change so quickly. The smile faded, and he turned whiter than my toga. ‘Rollo?’ he stammered. His distress was so dramatic that I wondered for a moment if it had been caused by the pie. ‘How did you know about that?’
I smiled, in what I hoped was an inscrutable fashion. ‘A courtyard has ears,’ I said. I sounded like a rune-reader evading an answer, but I did not wish to implicate the page. Flavius obviously didn’t know that Rollo had spoken to me. ‘So,’ I went on, ‘what have you done with the boy? Where have you sent him?’
I was not expecting an immediate reply. I was prepared for hedging and evasion, but I was not prepared for Flavius’s startled look.
‘But citizen,’ he said, in surprise. ‘If you have informants, surely you must know. I asked Rollo to call on me last evening, but he did not come. I wanted him to take a message, it is true, but he never arrived. I supposed that Julia had learned about it, and forbidden him to come.’
‘You wanted him to take a message?’ I repeated.
‘A message, a letter. To Julia. Isn’t that what this inquisition is about?’
‘You wrote to Julia?’ I said. I was surprised. It is not usual for a man to send letters to another man’s wife, especially not when he is a guest in the same house. But then, I remembered, Julia had refused to speak to Flavius. I was interested to know what this famous message had said. ‘Where is the letter now?’
‘It was nothing. It is not important now. I have destroyed it.’ He picked up the goblet of watered wine from the table and swallowed the contents at a gulp.
‘Destroyed it?’ That was unlikely. Writing materials are too precious to destroy.
‘Erased it, then,’ Flavius conceded sulkily.
So it had been written on a wax tablet, I thought. That was interesting. Probably a small writing block, folded in two halves and fitted with a lock and hinge so that the message was private. Just the sort of tablet on which someone had scratched the words ‘Remember Pertinax’. I was suddenly very anxious to see it.