‘And the message on the wax? The steward is convinced it was his owner’s hand – he recognised his master’s writing-block.’
A thought was stirring in my befuddled brain, but before I could voice it Titus did so first, ‘And the steward can be trusted?’
‘Flauccus thought so,’ Marcus sounded sharp. ‘Loftus was the steward that he sent to me, asking for my recommendations for a mosaicist. On that occasion he was handling a large amount of gold, in relation to the purchase of the Glevum house. And – quite clearly – he did not make off with that.’
‘No sign of any shortfall in the price?’ Titus pointedly enquired. ‘Villas are expensive in this area. Especially ones that are already built.’
It was a sensible question, but Marcus waved it loftily aside. ‘Probably we’ll find that Flauccus overspent, and gambled money from the treasury to make it up. Besides if Loftus took the tax money, what’s become of it? And why not take the proceeds from the sale of slaves as well – which was in itself a considerable sum?’
‘And Loftus had that with him?’
‘So I understand, together with a tally of how he sold the slaves – proving that he’d been at the slave market since dawn. And that’s another thing. Why, if he was guilty, did he not disappear – instead of drawing attention to himself by rushing to the nearest house to ask for help, and – incidentally – to send us messages?’ My patron shook his head. ‘I think we must accept that Flauccus hanged himself for exactly the reason that he gave and – what’s more – that he planned it in advance.’
‘What has become of Loftus?’ I managed to enquire.
Marcus shrugged. ‘A prisoner in the nearest army post, I understand – there’s a small detachment guarding a river crossing quite close by. The man he ran to for assistance is a wealthy citizen, and he called them in – so, as well as sending messengers to us and raising the alarm, they seized the steward and took him in for questioning. No doubt a wise precaution – though I know my friend Libertus won’t agree with that – but I understand it has not yielded anything so far.’
He was right in thinking that I would not agree. I have often warned him of the uselessness of using torture as a means of arriving at the truth: often the victim will agree to anything, simply in order to make the torment stop. More can very often be achieved by the offer of reward for useful information.
But I was too depressed to argue and I simply shook my head and voiced the only question which occurred to me. ‘So what happened to the carriage?’
Marcus stared at me.
‘You said it had been seen to leave the property, and may have passed the sentry at the river crossing, too. It didn’t come to Glevum – as far as we’re aware. So where did it go?’
My patron shook his head impatiently. ‘It will no doubt be discovered abandoned in a lane – with the horses missing, I should not be surprised.’
It must have been the wine that made me still persist. ‘I wonder if Flauccus’s coachman was among the slaves he sold – or if someone else was hired to drive it on that day? I’d like to talk to Loftus, though it’s no concern of mine. And it’s too late now, in any case, no doubt.’
Marcus rose and placed one hand upon his chest, raising his other arm theatrically towards me, as though presenting me already to the curia. ‘Libertus, you make me proud that I’ve selected you to be a duumvir. Of course you must speak to Loftus, I’ll arrange it instantly – the messenger shall take a letter from me, at first light. I’ll see you’re given lodgings both in the town and on the way, and provide you with a warrant, given under seal, asserting your authority to question anyone and enter the premises where Flauccus used to live. If you discover anything, you’ll let me know at once.’
I had not meant to volunteer for anything like this. ‘But how would I travel?’ I bleated plaintively. ‘It’s much too far to travel on a mule and, though I have an ox, I don’t possess a cart. Besides, I’ve no idea where I’m supposed to go.’
Marcus – who was looking much less strained, I thought – came and took his place between us on the couch. ‘It’s a tiny place called Uudum, to the south and east of here – scarcely more than a few houses, a temple and an inn – it mostly exists as a tax-collection point.’ He took a handful of dried fruit and nuts and tossed it down his throat. ‘I’ll see that you have transport – my private gig, perhaps. A little faster than your ox or mule, I think!’ He laughed. ‘Speaking of which, it’s getting rather late. I’ll send a pair of servants to light your way back home. Can’t have our new duumvir savaged by the wolves! The messenger tells me he could hear them, in the dark. Now, just one last performance by the flautist, possibly?’
I nodded, and pretended to go on sipping wine while paying due attention to the little music-slave, whose repertoire was charming but too lengthy for my taste. But at last it was time for the slaves to fetch my cloak, bring my lighted lantern and Minimus to me and usher me out into the bitter night.
There were no wolves or bears, I’m happy to report – just a dismal drizzle and a rising mist. With Marcus’s slaves attending me, of course, I could not strip off my toga – I’d planned to carry it, when we were out of sight – but now I was obliged to wear it all the way.
When I got home, I found my wife already sound asleep in bed. She’d been engaged in dying wool all day, and there was only the sleepy kitchen slave awake to welcome me. I refused the spicy mead that he’d been keeping warm for me – I’d drunk too much already at the feast – and I was glad to simply sit and let the boy take off my cloak and shoes, unwind my mud-stained toga and bear it off to sponge.
I could hardly wait to lie down on the welcoming warm nest of reeds and skins. All the same, I slept indifferently – over-full and fuzzy-headed from unaccustomed wine. I dreamed that I’d become a duumvir and was at a public feast, but disgraced myself by dozing into my pickled jellyfish.
FOUR
Gwellia awoke me before the sun was up. She pulled the skins and woven covers back and shook my shoulder with a gentle hand. ‘Husband, remember you’re expecting someone in the shop today. A very important customer, you said.’
I opened one reluctant eye, glimpsed the candlelight and clamped it shut again. ‘A customer?’ I muttered stupidly. And then I remembered. ‘Oh him, he isn’t coming after all.’ I turned over and tried to snuggle back into the warmth.
‘Husband, I know you were feasting at Marcus’s last night and you probably have a throbbing head as a result, but you told me only yesterday that this man was due to come. A publicanus, I believe you said, on official business to the curia today, and you particularly asked me to make sure you were awake betimes, because he was likely to stay in Glevum overnight and come to see you early, before the magistrates convene. So I am doing as you asked.’
I grunted that there was no hurry after all.
My wife removed the coverings, more forcefully this time. ‘If you continue lying there, you’ll miss him when he calls. Daylight hours are shorter at this time of year and the roads are treacherous, so if you hope to gain that contract, you’ll have to move at once. Besides, I hope to finish that batch of dye today, and you won’t want to be here in the steam and smell. I’ve already sent the slaves to saddle up the mule.’
I forced my lids to open and tried to focus on my wife. She had clearly been out of bed herself for quite some time. The fire was burning brightly in the central hearth and the smell of cooking honeyed oatcakes filled the house. I gave a groan and shut my eyes again. These cakes are my usual breakfast and I am fond of them, but today the scent of baking made me nauseous. ‘I don’t feel well,’ I muttered and pulled the covers up.
Gwellia pulled them down again. ‘And both of us know why.’ She gave me an unsympathetic frown.
She was quite right, of course. I should not have imbibed so much of Marcus’s Rhenish wine. I’d lost a contract, been out-manoeuvered by my host – and now I had the headache, too, to blight my day!
‘Oh very well,’ I grumbled
and sat up reluctantly. Tenuis – the youngest of our slaves – was standing by my side, my tunic at the ready, and he helped me pull it on over the under-tunic I had worn to bed, but I waved away the bowl of water that he’d brought to wash me in. ‘I suppose I shall have to get used to feeling like this every day, if they make me duumvir,’ I muttered, reaching for my sandals as I spoke.
‘Duumvir?’ My wife was collecting up the hanks of wool she’d spun; a customer had partly paid me with a sheep, and it had been her chief preoccupation ever since. We had skinned it and roasted the most part in a pit, and she’d been busy making use of what remained – rendering the fat, drying and salting leftover strips of meat, making combs and soups and needles from the bones, and putting the leather into urine pots to cure. Now she was spinning and dyeing the fleece so she could weave. But I’d caught her interest. ‘A duumvir?’ she repeated, with a smile.
‘I detect that you are pleased,’ I muttered gloomily, ‘although I don’t know why. You don’t approve of Roman banquets much, but there’ll be lots of feasting to attend if Marcus has his way. Political chatter with people you don’t like and drinking too much wine. To say nothing of poor digestion from eating fancy food. Though perhaps I should be grateful for the prospect, after all. At least we will not starve for want of work. I was relying on a large commission from that customer today, but – as I already told you – that won’t be happening. I suppose I had better go and tell Junio as much.’
She paid no attention to the last remark and I realised she was beaming with delight. ‘A duumvir! That’s splendid, husband,’ she enthused, waving the slave away and stooping to do my sandals up herself. ‘I always said that you deserved some recognition from the town.’
‘I hope you still think so when you find that civic duties keep me away from you and busy with Roman business at all hours!’
‘How shall I know the difference?’ she enquired, with a grin. ‘You’re always at your patron’s beck and call in any case.’
I was reminded that I had yet to break the news to her about the latest task that I had somehow – foolishly – incurred. ‘Well, certainly I shall be so for a day or two,’ I said. ‘He wants me to go down to Uudum – where my erstwhile client lived – and talk to his household about what happened there. Probably tomorrow – there are things to be arranged.’
‘All the way to Uudum?’ She was frowning, suddenly. ‘So something serious has happened to your customer? I supposed that he had simply been delayed.’
‘Serious?’ I gave a hollow laugh – which made my own head spin. ‘You could say that, I think. I said he wasn’t coming – and that’s because he’s dead.’ She was looking doubtful, as though I might have dreamt the whole affair, so I told the story as clearly as my addled brain allowed.
‘By his own hand?’ she murmured.
‘It seems so,’ I agreed. ‘He left a note confessing what he’d done – gambling with the tax money and losing it – and a message came to Marcus, while I was there last night.’ Her doubtfulness had given way to consternation now, and I could not resist the opportunity to add, ‘Fortunate that I am not yet a duumvir. If I were a council-member now I’d have to help to make up the shortfall in revenue.’
Gwellia sat down beside me on the bed. This was clearly a new and shocking thought. ‘If you really do not want the office, husband – and I can see why you might not – there must be things that you can do.’
‘Such as what, by all the gods?’
‘You can’t defy your patron, that is obvious, but duumviri are generally elected, are they not? You’ll have to make election speeches to the populace. Simply tell them that you don’t feel qualified.’
‘Marcus has ways of circumventing that – he’s made that very clear!’
‘But the people are the ones who have to vote – and social standing is all they think about! Say that you are honoured by your patron’s confidence, but you’ve been in servitude and therefore feel unsuitable for such a noble task. That should do the trick. There are plenty of others who would like to take your place.’
Even in my befuddled state I saw that this was true! Titus might wave aside the fact that I was once a slave, but public opinion is another thing! There would indeed be election speeches – from the steps of the basilica itself – and though I lack Roman training in the art of rhetoric, when I have not had too much wine I can be eloquent. I would dissuade the town – politely – from acclaiming me, and there was nothing that Marcus could do to alter that. A simple, but effective strategy.
‘There are times when I don’t deserve you,’ I said, thickly to my wife. I tried to pull her to me but she shook me off.
‘Don’t be silly, husband. You’d have thought it out yourself, if your brains weren’t fuzzled by drinking all that wine! Now try and eat some breakfast and get off to the shop. It seems you’ve already lost one customer today, and – especially if you avoid election as you hope – we’ll still require to eat.’
I gave a sigh of protest. ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with the shop today,’ I said, shuddering at the thought of travelling anywhere.
‘Then you can chop some wood to feed the dye-house fire. I’ll have to keep the hut warm to help dry out the wool when this next batch is finished – and that will be the last. I would ask the slaves, but they’re not skilful with an axe. If you’re here, you will get it done in half the time.’ The thought of working with this headache made me groan aloud but she paid no attention. ‘So that’s decided. But if you’re not going to town, you’d better explain affairs to Junio,’ she said. ‘No doubt he’s already waiting for you at the gate.’
Junio, of course, is my adopted son, who works with me, minds the Glevum workshop when I am not there, and lives in the roundhouse enclosure next door to mine with his young wife and growing family. Generally we travel together into town – sometimes with me riding on the mule and Junio on foot – but always discussing the projects for the day. And he would be anxiously awaiting my arrival now, expecting to go and meet our customer before the courts convened.
I signalled to Tenuis to bring back the water bowl and to his amazement I plunged my head in it. That helped a little, and I struggled to my feet. I still felt slightly squeamish, and peculiarly detached, but I managed – at Gwellia’s urging – to take an oatcake with me to force down, as I struggled out to meet the dawn.
Last night’s cold wind had blown the rain away, but the rising sun this morning seemed unnaturally bright – though Junio did not appear to notice it. He was waiting on the corner of the lane, outside the gate to my enclosure, as he always did, wrapped in a hooded cloak. He greeted me at once.
‘Good morning, Father, you look terrible!’ was his cheerful salutation. ‘Are you not feeling well?’
I shook my head, and wished I hadn’t. ‘Too much Rhenish wine at Marcus’s last night.’
He laughed unsympathetically – and far too loudly, in my view. ‘Ah! The consequence of wine. Boiled snails and onions, that is what you need – I had to prepare them for my previous master when I was very young. Better than the fried canaries that his friends preferred. I’ll slip into the market for the ingredients and cook some up for you when we reach the workshop, if you like. Roman maladies require a Roman cure.’
The thought of boiled onions made my fragile stomach heave, and I made a face at him. ‘I’m not going to the workshop. There’s been a change of plan,’ I said, just as my slave Minimus appeared with Arlina, the mule.
‘A thousand pardons, master, I had trouble catching her.’
It was almost a pity to tell him that she would not be required.
He gave a rueful grin. ‘I wondered if you might not want her after all, given the gossip in the servants’ hall at Marcus’s last night. I was sure Acacius Flauccus was the man you were to meet, but the mistress told me to go and saddle up the mule, and it was not my place to argue.’ And he led the animal away.
‘Gossip?’ Junio enquired.
‘Marcus has no
notion of slaves as having ears! There was alarming news and he discussed it openly. But it isn’t simply rumour, I’m afraid.’ I told Junio what had happened at Uudum yesterday. ‘Marcus wants me to go down and investigate,’ I finished, ruefully. (I didn’t mention that I’d accidentally half-suggested it.) ‘As soon as possible, I rather think – certainly within a day or two, though it will take him a little time to make arrangements, I suppose.’
Junio sucked his breath in. ‘Great Minerva!’ he exclaimed. ‘All the taxes gone! Do you want me to come with you?’
I shook my head again – forgetting that this had an unfortunate effect. ‘Better if one of us is here to mind the shop, since we’ve lost a large commission …’ I let the words trail off, as a small figure came running towards us down the lane. One of Marcus’s pageboys, by the uniform – indeed, as he came closer, I recognised the face. It was one of the escort party which had seen me home last night.
‘Citizen, Libertus,’ he blurted breathlessly, as soon as he was near enough to speak. ‘I bring a message from his Excellence.’ He fell politely to one knee, though the lane at the corner is full of dust and stones.
I motioned to the lad that he could rise. ‘Tell me the message.’ I saw his doubtful look and said, reassuringly, ‘You can speak before this citizen, he is my son.’
The page glanced doubtfully at Junio’s work-tunic, but evidently decided that I must know my own son’s rank. He cleared his throat and recited – in sing-song fashion – the words he’d learned by heart. ‘Greetings from Marcus Aurelius Septimus. You are requested to call on him today.’
‘Again?’ I must have been fuddled to have spoken that aloud – one did not question Marcus’s requests. ‘Something further has arisen?’
The pageboy shook his head. ‘Citizen, I fear I cannot tell you more. His message was simply that he wanted you to come as soon as possible – no later than an hour from now, if that’s convenient.’
The Price of Freedom Page 4
