Previous Titles in this series by Rosemary Rowe
THE GERMANICUS MOSAIC
MURDER IN THE FORUM
A PATTERN OF BLOOD
THE CHARIOTS OF CALYX
THE LEGATUS MYSTERY
THE GHOSTS OF GLEVUM
ENEMIES OF THE EMPIRE
A ROMAN RANSOM
A COIN FOR THE FERRYMAN
DEATH AT POMPEIA’S WEDDING *
REQUIEM FOR A SLAVE *
* available from Severn House
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This first world edition published 2010
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2010 by Rosemary Aitken.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Rowe, Rosemary, 1942–
Requiem for a Slave. – (A Libertus mystery of Roman Britain)
1. Libertus (Fictitious character: Rowe) – Fiction.
2. Romans – Great Britain – Fiction. 3. Slaves – Fiction.
4. Great Britain – History – Roman period, 55 B.C.–449
A.D. – Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9′2-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-041-8 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6877-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-217-8 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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For Bryndis
Contents
Author’s Foreword
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Foreword
The story is set in AD 190, at a time when a large part of Britain had been for almost two hundred years the most northerly outpost of the hugely successful Roman Empire: occupied by Roman legions, criss-crossed by Roman roads, subject to Roman laws and, in theory at least, administered by a provincial governor answerable directly to Rome.
However, the identity of the governor at this period is a matter of debate. Helvius Pertinax, the previous holder of the post (and the supposed friend and patron of the fictional Marcus Severus in the book) had recently been promoted, first to the African Provinces and later to the exceedingly important consular post of Prefect of Rome, making him one of the most powerful men in the Empire. The name of his immediate successor is not known. One theory is that several candidates were selected and then unselected by the Emperor, leaving power temporarily in the hands of important local magistrates and military commanders: several previous books in this series are based on this premise. However, it is possible that, by the time of this story, Clodius Albinus had been appointed, if not actually installed. (The date of his induction is not known, but he was certainly provincial governor by the end of 192 and had clearly been in post for some time by then.) This book, therefore, postulates the presence of a governor again, although the name of the new incumbent is not specified.
There is no such doubt about the identity of the Emperor. The increasingly unbalanced Commodus still wore the imperial purple, despite his lascivious lifestyle, capricious cruelties and erratic acts. (He had renamed all the months, for instance, with names derived from the honorific titles that he had given to himself, declared himself the reincarnation of the god Hercules – and therefore a living deity – and announced that Rome itself was henceforth to be retitled ‘Commodiana’.) Stories about him barbecuing dwarves and having a bald man pecked to death by sticking birdseed to his head are probably exaggerated, but the existence of such rumours gives some indication of the man. He was widely loathed and dreaded, but he clung tenaciously to power. Fearing (justifiably) that there were plots against his life, he maintained a network of spies throughout the Empire, including the notorious ‘speculatores’, who, although originally mere imperial scouts (as the name suggests) had become effectively a private execution force, ready to strike against suspected enemies.
Apart from personal enemies, there were historic foes. In Britannia, most of the quarrelsome local tribes had long since settled into peace (the Iceni revolt, for instance, had been put down over a century ago), but there were still sporadic clashes to the north and west. Among the red-haired Silurians and the warlike Ordivices, in particular, the spirit of their defeated leader, Caractacus, and his heroic two-year resistance to Roman rule, lived on – if only, at this date – among a few marauding bands. The army had taken steps to suppress this discontent, creating special ‘marching camps’, where legionary and auxiliary forces were kept in tented camps ready to move quickly against insurgent groups, and, as the text suggests, most of the inhabitants had bowed to Roman rule. But then, as now, there were small groups of dissidents who refused to yield and, from forest hideouts, mounted occasional assaults (against military supply trains, in particular) though certainly none as far east as Glevum. There is no evidence of actual rebel activity at the time this tale is set, but records speak of recent ambushes, and the western border remained a byword for unrest until the end of the century.
This is the background of civil discontent against which the action of the book takes place. Glevum (modern Gloucester) was an important town: its historic status as a ‘colonia’ for retired legionaries gave it special privileges, and all freemen born within its walls were citizens by right. This was more than just a form of words. Citizenship at this time was very highly prized. Celtic languages, traditions and settlements remained (as suggested in the story), but Latin was the language of the educated, people were adopting Roman dress and habits, and citizenship was the aspiration of all. Apart from its social and commercial status, it conferred upon its owner precious legal rights such as protection against the harshest punishments and the right to trial by a senior magistrate, with final appeal to the Emperor himself.
Most inhabitants of Glevum, of course, were not citizens at all. Many were freemen not born within the walls (and the interpretation of that law was very strict: birth within the ‘sub-urbs’ did not qualify). Such men did not enjoy the social and legal rights of town-born men, but were drawn by the commercial opportunity: the turnip-seller, stallholders and tanner in the book are examples of this stratum of society, each scratching a more or less precarious living from his trade. Even so, they were the lucky ones, as hundreds more were
slaves – what Aristotle once described as ‘vocal tools’ – mere chattels of their masters, to be bought and sold, with no more rights or status than any other domestic animal.
Some slaves led pitiable lives, but others were highly regarded by their owners and might be treated well. Not all slaves were the possessions of the rich. Tradesmen (like the tanner) frequently kept slaves, sometimes in surprising numbers, to labour in their workshops. The work was often hard and dangerous (the description of the tannery is based on contemporary sources and is quite typical) but the owner had a vested interest in his labourers, who were generally certain of at least a modicum of food and clothes and somewhere dry to sleep. A slave in a kindly household, in a comfortable home, might have a more enviable lot than many a poor freeman struggling to eke out an existence in a squalid hut.
Over this mixture, the town council ruled. As a colonia, Glevum had a high degree of responsibility for its own affairs (local tiles of the period describe it as a ‘republic’), and local councillors were therefore men of considerable power. They were also, by definition, men of wealth, like Quintus in this tale. Candidates for office were obliged by law to own a property of a certain value within the city walls, and, as the text suggests, they required a private fortune in support. Any councillor or magistrate (and many men were both) was also expected to contribute to the town by personally financing games, fountains, statues, and even drains – while at election time enormous sums were spent, though the donor might expect to gain a little in return, in service or in kind, from the contractors and tradesmen to whom they gave the work.
Power, of course, was vested almost entirely in men. Although individual women might inherit large estates and many wielded considerable influence within the house (like the tanner’s wife and Gwellia in this narrative), daughters were not much valued, except as potential wives and mothers, although sons (as in the story) were the source of pride. Females were excluded from public office, and a woman of any age was deemed a child in law.
The Romano-British background to this book has been derived from a variety of (sometimes contradictory) pictorial and written sources, as well as artefacts. However, although I have done my best to create an accurate picture, this remains a work of fiction, and there is no claim to total academic authenticity. Commodus and Pertinax are historically attested, as is the existence and basic geography of Glevum. The rest is the product of my imagination.
Relata refero. Ne Iupiter quidem omnibus placet. I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.
One
I was hurrying back to my mosaic workshop in the town, my mind on the important customer I had arranged to meet, when I stopped short on the street. I had caught sight of something which should not have been there. A street-vendor’s tray! It was leaning against a pile of sorted stones outside my door. I heaved a heavy sigh. Not only was it likely to mark my precious stock – it was not so much a tray as a greasy piece of wood with an even greasier leather strap to hold it round the neck – but I was uncomfortably aware of what its presence meant. Lucius the pie-seller was at my shop again.
It was the fourth time in as many days, and no amount of hinting seemed to warn him off. My own fault, of course. I’d been too soft with him the first time he called, when I not only purchased one of his appalling pies but gave him a worn-out tunic out of pity for his plight.
I should have known better, especially about the pie. I had tasted Lucius’s wares before, but I persuaded myself that they could not be as bad as I recalled. This ‘example’ was worse, if anything, clearly fashioned, as usual, from whatever ingredients he could rustle up for a few quadrans when the market stalls closed down: the questionable leavings from the butchers’ blocks, a few squashed turnip leaves and the final sweepings from the miller’s stones, more grit than flour – and those were only the things I could identify. The result was horrible. Even the dogs I fed it to when he had gone refused to finish it.
And here he was again, no doubt in the hope of tempting me to more. But this time even pity would not sway me, I resolved. I did not want him lurking around the shop like this; he was little better than a beggar and would horrify my wealthier class of customer, though one could not help feeling sorry for the man. He was so ugly, for one thing: a dreadful scar had puckered half his face and he had only one good eye – the result of an accident years and years before, when his pie-maker father had been careless with the sparks and reduced himself to ashes together with the house. Lucius had been badly burned himself, but somehow the brick-built oven building had survived, and while his mother struggled to nurse him back to strength, she scratched a meagre living selling pies.
She still baked them for him nightly, in that same freestanding oven outside the dismal hovel which was all the home they had, but now it was he who hawked them around the streets. Amazingly, he often sold them all. They were warm and inexpensive and they didn’t smell too bad, and in a big colonia like Glevum there was always someone passing through who hadn’t tried one yet.
Besides, Lucius was so humble, and his one good eye had such a hangdog look, that even hard-headed locals like myself occasionally weakened and purchased another of his wretched wares. A few of the more sympathetic among his customers felt sorry enough for him sometimes to let him have broken and discarded things they didn’t want themselves – cracked bowls, chipped goblets, crusts of mouldy bread, or bits of cast-off clothing (as I’d done myself), odd broken sandals or a patched and faded cloak. Nothing of any value, as I assured my wife, but without them he would probably have perished in the cold.
My much-mended ancient tunic, fraying round the seams and with a stain from plaster halfway round the hem, was hardly the most remarkable of gifts, but the pie-seller had been embarrassingly tearful in his thanks and had pulled it on at once, over the filthy rags that he already wore. No doubt that garment too would soon reach the same sorry state, but in the meantime it looked quite well on him. It fitted him not badly when it came to length, though he was rather thinner than I have ever been, and the looseness of the front neckline drew attention to the scar. However, he was clearly thrilled with the effect and capered off in it. He had shown his continued appreciation since by arriving at my workshop every afternoon to offer me the last pie on his tray.
‘And it’s no good my telling him I haven’t any change,’ I’d grumbled to Junio, my adopted son, the day before. ‘He only insists that I take it as a gift.’
Junio gave me his cheeky sideways grin. He had been my slave for many years before I freed him and adopted him, and he still took liberties. ‘It serves you right for being over-generous. He’s only trying to repay a debt.’
‘And whose fault is it if I was over-generous?’ I muttered sheepishly. It was true that I had been in expansive mood. Lucius had turned up with his confounded pies a moment after we’d received the news that Junio’s young wife had just been safely delivered of a son. ‘Perhaps pride in being a grandfather did make me profligate. But you rushed off to make a sacrifice yourself. Isn’t that impulse very much the same?’
‘That was my obligation to the deities, to thank them for my son. Lucius’s obligation is to you. He regards you as his patron now and he’s bringing you his dues.’
I sighed. I hadn’t thought of it, but it might well be true. If Lucius saw me in that light, no wonder he kept appearing at my workshop door: A ‘client’ is expected to attend his patron’s home each day and offer any service in his power, and in return he is entitled to expect support. It was flattering, but I wasn’t sure I wanted clientes to sustain.
‘Well, we’ll have to persuade him otherwise,’ I answered crossly. ‘I can’t have Lucius taking up my time. My own patron will soon be coming back from Rome, and I have this new order for a pavement to fulfil by then.’
Junio knew when to let a matter drop. ‘The pavement that Quintus Severus is commissioning, to go in the entrance of the basilica? It’s to be in honour of your patron, isn’t it? So he will want it
finished by the time that Marcus comes.’
‘Exactly. Quintus isn’t satisfied with being chief decurion; he’s hoping to be recommended for the Imperial Court.’
Junio grinned again. ‘And Marcus is related to the Emperor, of course. Or so the rumours say.’
I frowned at him. It was not wise to be irreverent where Marcus was concerned. My patron had long been the most important magistrate in this whole area of Britannia, but he was one of the most influential men in the whole Empire these days, now that his friend and patron Pertinax held the Prefecture of Rome. And the Emperor has ears and eyes in the most unlikely spots, even in a far-flung colonia like Glevum. ‘Marcus has never denied the claim,’ I said reprovingly. (He’d never confirmed it either, but I didn’t mention that.) ‘So treat him with respect. And Quintus Severus also, when he comes. After all, as senior town councillor he’s virtually in charge while Marcus is away – apart from the commander of the garrison, of course.’
‘The decurion’s coming here? I thought you would have taken the patterns to his house?’
I was not surprised he asked. I had a range of patterns, ready laid on cloth, and we often took them to a client’s home in my little handcart so that wealthy customers could make a choice in comfort.
But I shook my head. ‘Quintus wants something special. Marcus attending Neptune: Marcus in a wreath, and the god atop a dolphin with a trident in his hand, and a border of agapanthus and birds around the side. In honour of my patron’s successful sea voyage, he says. I volunteered to sketch it, but he opted to come here. I’m expecting him tomorrow, around the seventh hour.’
Junio looked doubtful. ‘Then I shall not be here, Father, to show respect or otherwise. Tomorrow I have to go and make arrangements with the priest and order a bulla for Amato’s naming day.’
Of course, I had forgotten the necessity for that. Junio had been raised as a slave in a Roman family, and he took for granted all the ritual of the naming of a child. I was born a Celtic nobleman, seized by pirates and taken as a slave, and only formally received my Roman name at thirty years of age, when my high-ranking master died and bequeathed me freedom and the coveted rank of citizen in his will. There had been no bulla and naming day for me (or for Junio either, since he was born in servitude), but my grandson was a Roman citizen by birth and was entitled to all the proper rites. ‘Of course you do,’ I said.
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