robbers had trampled all over them and left boot-prints on their heads.
I bought the story. He was clearly a sloppy workman, yet I found him free of guile.
How trusting, Albia! You ought to know how that works: the ‘honest’ suspect makes a small confession − to hide a bigger one.
Amethystus obviously came next. Taller and leaner, he carried his years better than Diomedes. It could have been because he had lighter work indoors, although I noticed he had more scars from punishment beatings. As he told it, his life was hard. He not only mopped marble and swept up detritus, he was constantly moving furniture, fetching and carrying, and being sent on errands outside the home, usually for heavy goods that, poor thing, he had to transport unaided.
He confirmed Diomedes’ story. These two were old cronies who often got at amphorae while they were standing unattended outside dining rooms; this pair had even been known to raid the stores, if they thought they could get away with it. On the night in question, in the free and easy atmosphere that followed the wedding, these unreformed wine-stealers had cheerfully managed to make themselves paralytic. Amethystus heard nothing. His only memory was of waking woozily to find everyone else running around in panic, with the master dead. Had they been sober, according to him, he and Diomedes would have given the intruders a good thumping.
I would have to ask my uncles about this: what penalty pinching fine wines carried for these slaves – and would their blind intoxication exonerate the drunks from their obligation to protect their master’s life?
Next I sent for Daphnus, to see whether as server at the feast he knew about amphorae being raided. Unsurprisingly, he did. I wondered if he had a tipple himself.
This tall young man was snappy and smart, the only one who had somehow obtained an ornament (a cheap amulet, hung on a thong) and better shoes than the general issue (probably his master’s cast-offs; they looked too big for him). He had oiled hair and he oozed ambition.
He was the first to check my role. ‘Are you the one who is going to get us off?’
‘That depends on your story, Daphnus, and whether I believe it. Even if I do, I shall need to pin the deaths of your master and mistress on somebody else before you can be reprieved.’
He looked crestfallen.
His work consisted of delivering refreshments to the family and visitors, and serving formally at table; when the chef was absent (the chef was among the staff sent to Campania), Daphnus even carved the meats, a task in which he considered himself an expert. He must have been indoors doing that when the two others siphoned off half an amphora, he maintained.
‘Would you have reported them, if you saw them do it?’
‘Oh yes,’ he assured me, unconvincingly.
He told me he wanted to make something of himself, gain his freedom, start a small business. If Polycarpus could manage that, Daphnus reckoned anybody could.
‘What do you think of Polycarpus?’
‘Complete crook. He came from nowhere, has no aptitude or skills. It’s all a big bluff. He gets other people to run around and do the business, then takes all the credit.’
‘Isn’t that what his job requires?’
‘Fair enough.’ Daphnus shrugged, as if there was no real animosity between him and the steward, only envy.
‘But he got on well with your master.’
I thought I detected a slight delay, before Daphnus agreed Polycarpus was held in good regard by Aviola.
Daphnus had ‘worked his rocks off’ at the feast, he said, so he claimed he knew nothing about the burglary because he had passed out from exhaustion in one of the slaves’ cells, with the door closed. The scribe, Melander, was with him. They only woke when Phaedrus hammered on the door and yelled that someone had killed the master.
‘Is Melander your special friend?’
‘He’s an idiot. But he’s my brother.’ Daphnus executed a big theatrical start, jumping back
I bought the story. He was clearly a sloppy workman, yet I found him free of guile.
How trusting, Albia! You ought to know how that works: the ‘honest’ suspect makes a small confession − to hide a bigger one.
Amethystus obviously came next. Taller and leaner, he carried his years better than Diomedes. It could have been because he had lighter work indoors, although I noticed he had more scars from punishment beatings. As he told it, his life was hard. He not only mopped marble and swept up detritus, he was constantly moving furniture, fetching and carrying, and being sent on errands outside the home, usually for heavy goods that, poor thing, he had to transport unaided.
He confirmed Diomedes’ story. These two were old cronies who often got at amphorae while they were standing unattended outside dining rooms; this pair had even been known to raid the stores, if they thought they could get away with it. On the night in question, in the free and easy atmosphere that followed the wedding, these unreformed wine-stealers had cheerfully managed to make themselves paralytic. Amethystus heard nothing. His only memory was of waking woozily to find everyone else running around in panic, with the master dead. Had they been sober, according to him, he and Diomedes would have given the intruders a good thumping.
I would have to ask my uncles about this: what penalty pinching fine wines carried for these slaves – and would their blind intoxication exonerate the drunks from their obligation to protect their master’s life?
Next I sent for Daphnus, to see whether as server at the feast he knew about amphorae being raided. Unsurprisingly, he did. I wondered if he had a tipple himself.
This tall young man was snappy and smart, the only one who had somehow obtained an ornament (a cheap amulet, hung on a thong) and better shoes than the general issue (probably his master’s cast-offs; they looked too big for him). He had oiled hair and he oozed ambition.
He was the first to check my role. ‘Are you the one who is going to get us off?’
‘That depends on your story, Daphnus, and whether I believe it. Even if I do, I shall need to pin the deaths of your master and mistress on somebody else before you can be reprieved.’
He looked crestfallen.
His work consisted of delivering refreshments to the family and visitors, and serving formally at table; when the chef was absent (the chef was among the staff sent to Campania), Daphnus even carved the meats, a task in which he considered himself an expert. He must have been indoors doing that when the two others siphoned off half an amphora, he maintained.
‘Would you have reported them, if you saw them do it?’
‘Oh yes,’ he assured me, unconvincingly.
He told me he wanted to make something of himself, gain his freedom, start a small business. If Polycarpus could manage that, Daphnus reckoned anybody could.
‘What do you think of Polycarpus?’
‘Complete crook. He came from nowhere, has no aptitude or skills. It’s all a big bluff. He gets other people to run around and do the business, then takes all the credit.’
‘Isn’t that what his job requires?’
‘Fair enough.’ Daphnus shrugged, as if there was no real animosity between him and the steward, only envy.
‘But he got on well with your master.’
I thought I detected a slight delay, before Daphnus agreed Polycarpus was held in good regard by Aviola.
Daphnus had ‘worked his rocks off’ at the feast, he said, so he claimed he knew nothing about the burglary because he had passed out from exhaustion in one of the slaves’ cells, with the door closed. The scribe, Melander, was with him. They only woke when Phaedrus hammered on the door and yelled that someone had killed the master.
‘Is Melander your special friend?’
‘He’s an idiot. But he’s my brother.’ Daphnus executed a big theatrical start, jumping back