I could see what he meant. It was smaller and lighter than the usual gig – which made it less robust – but the speed of progress was astonishing. So fast in fact that I could manage no reply, so there was little further conversation after that.
Inevitably we lurched and bounced a lot, but Victor was as good a coachman as he claimed, and avoided the worst irregularities in the road, so travel was more exhilarating than exhausting – to start with, anyway. There were even built-in ‘comforts’ for the passenger – stout supports to cling to, a backing to the seat and provision for that cushion if required – though comfort in a moving vehicle is relative, at best. The flimsy awning, in particular, was not a great success. It swayed alarmingly, showering us with the raindrops it was supposed to save us from, but fortunately the drizzle largely stopped and, though we threw up muddy water as we passed, that did not reach us in the gig. (Although several roadside stallholders were badly drenched, I fear.)
But I could see why Marcus had been so impressed. We were out of the environs of the town and trotting past the fields of the terratorium (the extensive farm that produced provisions for the garrison) far more quickly than I thought was possible – though, admittedly, that was also because other travellers moved aside, in deference to Victor’s striking scarlet uniform, which marked him as the servant of a citizen of rank.
Even when we reached a contingent of soldiers on the march, there was no question of our taking to the verge to let them pass, as any normal citizen would be required to do. The centurion merely glanced at the unusual gig and Victor’s uniform, and moments later was ordering his men to halt and form two ranks, one on each side of the road, while we went bowling down the middle like a triumphant general. I had been ready with the warrant, but there was no need for it.
Victor seemed unmoved by all these tokens of respect, but it was strange to find them accorded to myself – though I’d witnessed them before in my patron’s company, and Marcus regarded them as no more than his due. I was getting a glimpse of what life was like for high-born citizens. And for officials like duumviri, perhaps? A tempting notion, but I put the thought aside and concentrated on simply hanging on, as we swooped along.
After a little, though, the first elation of fast progress ebbed and the journey became, like any other, an ordeal of jolting bones and jarring teeth. But there remained one consolation in the speed – it was not long before we reached the nearest mansio.
It was still full daylight, too, when it came into sight, though a dull glow in the west showed where the setting sun was hidden by the clouds. I feared that Victor would drive past and hope to reach the next establishment before darkness fell, but to my relief he pulled up at the gate.
‘Better to stop here and not become benighted on the road,’ he said, as though he read my thoughts. ‘And we have been moving very fast. The horse will be improved by rest and sustenance.’
‘And so will I,’ I told him, feelingly, though I was a little anxious about presenting myself – a mere civilian tradesman – at a military inn, in spite of the permit I was clutching in my hand.
I need not have been concerned. Our reception was respectful. The merest mention of my patron’s name, as Victor dropped down from the gig to hold the horse, was enough to have the sentry scurrying inside, and a moment later the mansionarius himself come bustling out.
‘Greetings, citizen!’ He was a short, fat, red-faced fellow in a burnished uniform – an army officer of course, but clearly one no longer used to marching very much. He glanced briefly at the warrant that I held out to him, but it appeared to be a mere formality. ‘You are a client of Marcus Septimus, I see? Welcome to our little mansio.’ He fussed about while I dismounted from the gig, ignoring Victor, who gave me a conspiratorial wink.
I rescued the awkward parcels from underneath the seat. They were something of a struggle – especially Marcus’s, which was both extremely heavy and difficult to hold – but I refused the offer of an orderly to help. ‘I’ll manage,’ I said staunchly, as I followed the mansionarius inside.
‘I hope you will be comfortable here,’ the man went on, as we passed through a compact but bustling stable yard. ‘This is only a simple roadside staging-post and inn, scarcely bigger than one of the mutationes …’ He paused, looking at me sideways to make sure I understood.
I did. The modesty was false. He was clearly proud of his small establishment. I was only a civilian, but I knew what mutationes were – barely more than little stable-stops where imperial couriers could snatch a meal and change a tired horse. These places were essential to the Imperial Post – with them a good rider might make two hundred miles a day – but they were hardly advertisements for hospitality.
I realised that a compliment was expected. ‘Though – unlike them – you do have beds, I hope?’
It was idiotic but he laughed as though I’d made a splendid jest. ‘Ah, citizen, we do indeed! We’re quite well-appointed, in a modest way! Though other inns have more facilities – for instance there is no bathhouse here. But we offer the basics, as you’ll agree, I hope. This way, citizen.’
He set off and I followed him again, this time through a corridor into a larger court, where a series of small rooms led off on either side. One door stood open, showing a narrow mattress-bed within, a stool to sit on, a table for one’s lamp and a mat where a slave could bed down at one’s feet.
It might be basic but it looked inviting to my travel-weary bones – and a staircase gave promise of more accommodation above. I glanced at the mansionarius, expecting to be shown into the room, but instead I was ushered firmly on.
‘I’ve put you on the west side, citizen, and I’ll have a brazier brought – much better to have heating at this time of year – and I’ll have an orderly attend you with clean water for a wash and arrange for the kitchen to provide you with a meal. There is a dining area, but perhaps you would prefer to have the food sent to your room?’
I murmured that I was content to eat in the refectory like anybody else.
‘Then this is where you’ll find it, citizen.’ He flung open a door, revealing a long, low cluttered area, with a long central table and stools on either side. Another visitor – a citizen of importance by the narrow purple stripe – was sitting at the far end by the fire, scooping what looked like porridge from a bowl. He looked up without interest and went back to his meal. No reclining called for here, I noted with relief. I nodded. ‘Splendid,’ and was ushered out again.
‘If there is anything further you require, you have only to ask. Send the orderly to me and I will personally ensure that your request is met.’ The mansio-keeper was almost bobbing, in his desire to please. He led the way to a wider door at the far end of the court, where he made great play of producing a large key and opening the lock. ‘I hope that you’ll be comfortable here.’
I shook my head, not in disagreement, but astonishment. From previous experience of military inns, I’d had a clear idea of what I might expect: stabling for our animal, food and bedding for my slave, and very much the amenities that I’d glimpsed elsewhere – a clean straw mattress, blankets and refreshment – for myself. So a room with decorated walls, a luxurious frame-bed, large storage chest and comfortable stool was a complete surprise.
‘You’ll find rugs and pillows in the big chest opposite. Will this be to your satisfaction, citizen?’ He looked slyly at me, then blurted suddenly, ‘If so, I hope you’ll tell his Excellence as much?’
Was he hoping for promotion to a larger mansio, perhaps? ‘It’s beyond my expectations. I’ll tell my patron so,’ I assured him and he went off, gratified.
Marcus himself could scarcely have enjoyed more luxury! I took off my birrus, sat down on the bed and looked around the room, still puzzled at such provision in a tiny mansio. So when the promised orderly appeared soon afterwards, bearing the washbowl, I ventured to enquire.
‘To what do I owe such amazing opulence?’
He raised a brow at me. He was a tall, spare fellow w
ith a lugubrious face and an air of being ill-used by the world. The legs beneath the faded red tunic were lean and muscular, and livid scars across the tanned skin of his cheek and arm suggested battle-wounds. An auxiliary soldier, withdrawn from active service, I surmised, and disappointed by this rural posting to an inn. His voice was gutteral. ‘We always keep a special room prepared,’ he murmured, moodily. ‘All mansios are supposed to have one, for the Emperor, if he should happen by.’
‘Surely that isn’t likely?’ I’d visited military inns before, but never heard of that.
He gave me a pitying glance. ‘Of course not, citizen, and it is generally ignored, especially in little places such as this. But the provincial governor paid a visit once, apparently, and arrangements had to be hastily prepared. He wasn’t pleased and he reported it. This room has been kept ready ever since, in case some other travelling dignitary arrives. It could happen, I suppose. It’s rumoured that an Imperial legate may soon be visiting the Glevum area.’ He handed me the napkin so I could dry my face. ‘But as to why they’ve given it to you …?’ He let the sentence hang.
I understood, now, perfectly. ‘I’m representing my patron, an important patrician whom the legate’s visiting,’ I said, pacifically. ‘I hold his warrant requesting “all assistance” on the road. And the same goes for my coachman, I assume. I see there is a slave mat. Is he to sleep here too?’ I was divesting myself of my outer garment as I spoke.
‘Oh, you mean the driver of the gig?’ He spoke as if such people were beneath his dignity. ‘He’s been given a bed-space in the stable block where he can keep an eye on both the horse and cart. Someone has already taken him some stew, I understand – and there’ll be something else for you in just a little while.’
I nodded. Army ‘stew’ is generally porridge with bits of meat in it – what I’d seen the other diner spooning up, in fact – sustaining, but not designed to tempt the appetite. If Marcus’s warrant meant a better meal, I would not complain. ‘I plan to eat it in the public room,’ I said.
He raised his eyebrows at me in surprise. ‘Do you intend to put your toga on again? I could help you drape it on, if you desire. Or perhaps you have another you’d prefer to wear?’ He looked meaningfully at my parcel as he spoke, and I saw that Titus’s toga was emerging from the folds.
I’d not considered the need to dress up formally, but clearly – if I was to be favoured with a special meal – I would have to demonstrate such poor pretentions to rank as I possessed. Perhaps I should have eaten in my room – but it was too late now. I briefly considered the toga candida, but then I shook my head. I dared not stain it so early in the trip.
‘What I have is quite sufficient,’ I replied, allowing him to wind me into the awkward thing again. ‘Now, perhaps you’d lead the way. Supposing that it is a convenient time for me to eat?’
‘But what about your parcels, citizen? Is there nothing of value that you need to guard? And that warrant, too, perhaps?’
This was a problem that had not occurred to me. One does not expect to be robbed in an official mansio. Though perhaps the man was right. Marcus’s present, for example, was likely to be gold – and therefore well worth the attention of a thief.
‘We could of course provide a guard for it,’ the man went on. ‘I could do the job myself. I’m sure that if you ask the mansionarius …? Shall I take the message that you request a man to watch?’ He hardly waited for me to accept before he hurried off – so eagerly, that I was convinced that this was what he’d been planning all along. I wondered what other, less pleasant, duties he’d been spared.
I had scarcely time to spread my birrus out across the stool to dry, and find the promised bedding from the chest, before the door was tapped and opened and the orderly was back, now sporting a breastplate and brandishing a spear.
‘I don’t know how you come to deserve it, citizen, but the mansionarius has ordered the kitchen to serve you his own intended meal. I am to escort you to the dining area, and then keep watch on your possessions while you eat.’
He said this with relish, confirming what I’d thought. I made no comment, merely nodded and permitted him to escort me back to the refectory, though it would not have been remotely difficult to find it for myself.
The previous occupant had disappeared by now, and the place beside the fire was set for me instead. A plate and knife had been provided, and a serving-slave was standing by to serve the food for me. I tried to chat to him, in vain – years of servitude had taught him not to gossip with the guests – and after a few monosyllables in reply, I gave it up and turned my full attention to the food.
Clearly the inn-manager did not spare himself. There was a plate of delicious hare-meat stewed with leeks, accompanied by a hunk of army bread, which – washed down with a beaker of sour watered wine – more than satisfied my appetite. The mansionarius himself came in to ask if all was well, bringing a taper as it was getting dark.
‘Refreshing, citizen?’ he queried as I raised the beaker to take a final draught.
I could have wished for a different kind of drink – the memories of yesterday were all too clear – but I feared to be discourteous. ‘That was splendid, thank you very much.’ Tomorrow I would ask for water, I assured myself, as he ushered me across the court back to my room again. (Those who merit the Imperial room can’t be allowed to move without attendants – I was learning that.)
I did not need an escort to remind me where my quarters were. Scarface was standing self-importantly outside, leaning on his weapon, and he leaped to open the door for me. The promised brazier was glowing cheerfully and a taper was already burning in a holder on the wall.
‘I had them light that for you!’ Scarface was standing at the door. ‘Couldn’t have you groping in the dark.’ Evidently he’d now appointed himself my special guardian – and would no doubt expect a hefty tip as a reward.
I dismissed him, to his evident dismay, and shut the door again. I was suddenly and utterly exhausted by my day – though probably the recent wine contributed. I just had time to take my outer garments off and lie down on my fancy Roman bed before I fell into a deep and instant sleep.
EIGHT
I was wakened the next morning by a strident trumpet-call. Stirring, no doubt, but I was not expecting it and I leapt out of bed with a rapidity which would have astonished my good wife. Perhaps it should not have startled me – this was a military establishment, after all – but I had not anticipated that a tiny roadside mansio would sound the dawn buccina, like a full-scale garrison. But this one evidently did.
The brazier had burned down overnight and the Emperor’s lodgings had grown distinctly cold. Since I was already – unintentionally – on my feet, I threw my cloak around me (fortunately it was largely dry by now) and opened my door to look outside, onto the central court. The dawn was cloudless, and in the chilly morning light there was the trumpeter himself returning to his quarters, carrying his curved bugle underneath his arm. He paused politely when he caught sight of me.
‘Can I be of service, citizen? You’d like an orderly, perhaps, to bring a light repast and help you wash and dress?’
I murmured that I would and – not long afterwards – my guard of the night before appeared, in full parade-kit and jamming on his helmet as he came. He did not look glad to see me. Obviously he’d just completed dawn parade and I had interrupted his breakfast plans.
‘You wanted something, citizen? I’ve been assigned to you again.’ The words themselves were not uncivil, but Scarface could not have sounded less enthusiastic if he tried.
I told him what I wanted – washing water and a little food and drink – and he went morosely off to fetch what I required. Then with his assistance I quickly washed and dressed (in a toga, this morning I decided, since it wasn’t raining now, and I wanted to look official when I arrived at Uudum.) Then, after a hurried meal of fruit and bread, declared that I was now ready for the road. Scarface made no attempt to assist me with my cloak, so with a flouris
h I picked it up myself and threw it round my shoulders, saying briskly, ‘Now, how can I find my driver and the gig? I imagine that they are already at the gate awaiting me.’
‘They are indeed, citizen, and have been for some time.’ Scarface gave me a thin-lipped, mirthless grin. ‘But the mansionarius would like to speak to you before you leave. A matter of considerable importance, he says. So if you wouldn’t mind delaying your departure till he’s free? He’s occupied at present with another visitor.’
He could have told me this before, of course, and saved me from bolting my breakfast quite so fast, but I tried to react to the news with dignity. ‘In that case I’d better let my driver know.’
That little grin again. ‘He’s already been informed.’
Scarface was being deliberately unhelpful, though doing nothing of which I could actually complain – probably because I’d refused his services last night. No doubt he had been hoping for a handsome tip (and perhaps a dispensation from fatigues today) for standing guard till dawn.
I summoned up a little smile of my own. ‘Please tell your superior to let me know when he is free, and I will be delighted to come and wait on him. His office will be more convenient than here, I’m sure, and I expect the mansio slaves will want to clean this room.’
No doubt the mansionarius would have come to me, but I was not sorry to find a task which took Scarface somewhere else, instead of having him smirking at me from the door. It was slightly inconvenient for him, of course – first to take my message to the senior officer, and then return to escort me back to him, when the moment came. At which point he’d be obliged to assist me with my parcels, too.
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