The Price of Freedom

by Rosemary Rowe

  Scarface was still attempting to regain his dignity by pulling his now-tattered tunic down behind, but Victor had understood what I was driving at. ‘Venibulus wore a silken sash-belt, a fine expensive thing. You think …?’

  ‘The goat might easily have eaten it,’ I said. ‘Though I wonder why the rebels did not steal it when they could – after all, they took his cloak and shoes.’

  Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps he took it off – tried to hide it somewhere, in the hope he might escape and rescue it. He was proud enough of it and of that clasp as well—’

  He was interrupted this time by Hippophilus, who had come striding back to me, accompanied by his men. ‘Citizen? I have had my troops examine the verges further on – especially the muddy areas – but if there were ever footprints or trampled foliage it has all been obscured by the meanderings of the goats. And as the evocatus will have told you, none of the so-called witnesses can help.’

  I looked at Scarface. An evocatus, then! A legionary who had served his time or otherwise been honourably discharged (because of those wounds perhaps?) but had chosen to enlist again. Volunteering as a veteran – only to be sent on special duties to an inn! No wonder Scarface wore a disillusioned look.

  Hippophilus was still worrying about the witnesses. ‘You’re sure that I should not arrest them and take them to the inn? We could arrange to have them interrogated properly. I should like to have something to take back and report.’

  ‘I think not,’ I replied. ‘I would have been surprised if they had noticed anything. These rebel bands exist by hiding in the woods and they are very skilled at it.’

  ‘As the army knows too well,’ the optio agreed. ‘But, since there are no traces, what else can we do? I suppose that we could search a little further on. The rebels, like any horsemen, will no doubt use the softer verges, to save their horses feet – but there have been others walking this way since. Not least those wretched goats.’

  ‘I think that you can let the witnesses depart – except the goatherd. I suggest that you detail someone to keep an eye on him – until he gets to Glevum, anyway. Just to make sure he’s really what he seems. The vigilance need not be discreet – suggest the guard is for his own protection on the road. Your evocatus, possibly – it seems he has a natural affinity with goats.’

  Scarface turned scarlet and seemed ready to protest, but I forestalled him.

  ‘The boy says he’s going to market to try to sell his goats. Make sure that’s all he does. Do not alarm him, but watch him carefully – and pay attention to any people that he meets.’

  ‘You heard that, Evocatus,’ Hippophilus put in, making it clear that he was in command. ‘The boy may be a spy. Report to the Glevum barracks, if you discover anything, before returning to your post. They will be able to respond more swiftly than our little group.’

  ‘You are on detachment from the Glevum garrison?’ I said. It should have been obvious – it was the nearest full legionary post – but it had not occurred to me. ‘Mention my name to the commander there, if you do report to him. He will see that my patron hears of this.’

  ‘It shall be done, citizen,’ Hippophilus replied. ‘The lad may be working with the rebels, after all. I suppose he is a Celt. Well, my man shall watch him like an eagle and we may find out.’

  The evocatus, as I must call him now, was looking mollified – satisfied that there was proper work to do. He glanced towards the goatboy who was now across the road attempting to coax one of his younger she-goats from a tree. For the first time since I’d met him, Scarface grinned at me. ‘Permission to call in at the mansio on the way, and find another tunic, citizen?’

  He had addressed me rather than his supposed superior. I looked at Hippophilus who gave a tiny nod.

  ‘Permission granted,’ I said soberly. ‘But keep the boy in sight.’ Then, because I could not resist the urge to preen, ‘And while you are in Glevum you might care to call on the Priest of Mercury, and tell him that we have found the body of his slave. If he doubts you, show him this as proof.’ I handed him the silver ram’s-head as I spoke. ‘It’s a valuable thing, so take good care of it. Tell the priest that he can have it when he reclaims his slave – he’ll no doubt wish to make arrangements for the disposal of the corpse. But your instructions are first to take the body to the mansio.’

  Hippophilus’s ruddy face had fallen in gratifying surprise. ‘I heard that you were clever with deductions, citizen—’ he glanced at Victor – ‘but I never guessed that it would lie within your power to work out the identity of a headless corpse. And so quickly too. You are quite sure of this?’

  ‘The goatboy found the belt-clasp near the corpse, and that – together with the slave disc – convinced me of the facts. You may report it to the mansionarius when you return. You might even suggest to him, with my compliments, that goat meat might make a pleasant addition to the kitchen stores – I’m sure our goatherd would be pleased to sell you one.’ I turned to Victor. ‘And now, I think it’s time for us to be on our way. And they—’ I gestured to the ‘witnesses’ – ‘should be allowed to leave.’

  Hippophilus nodded, and began to bark commands. The army sprang to action, with a speed and efficiency that was commendable. Two men fetched a wooden ladder from the ox-cart at the rear and (aided by the driver who’d been watching all this while) began to load the body onto it. Two others waved the waiting travellers on along the road, while Scarface went over and murmured to the boy – who shook his head at first, then looked at me and shrugged.

  ‘I don’t need protection,’ he called across – in Celtic. ‘I’m in more danger from rebels with a Roman soldier at my heels. But I hear you’ve ordered it, so I suppose there’s no escape. At least this skinny fellow can help me drive the goats.’

  I smiled. Scarface had taken on more than he supposed.

  ‘Ready, citizen?’ Victor had already taken back the reins, and now he helped me up onto the gig. ‘All this has taken quite a time. We shall need to hurry if we hope to reach Uudum in time to do anything today – and then you’ll want to speak to the guard-post before dark, to find our accommodation for the night. That will take us most of the daylight that there is – even supposing we don’t run into rebels on the way.’

  He climbed up beside me and with a flick of his wrist he urged the gig-mare into an easy stride.

  ELEVEN

  We drove in jolting silence for a little while, both watchful lest the rebels might still be somewhere near. However, by now there were beginning to be other travellers on the move – men with donkeys, women driving geese and wagons full of wood. We even met a salt cart lumbering past (I wondered if it belonged to my projected Celtic host!) and a group of soldiers making road repairs – so the risk of ambush diminished all the time. Then, at last, we left the woods behind and found ourselves in open countryside, where land-slaves were toiling in well-tended fields, smoke billowed from the chimney openings of poor men’s makeshift shacks, and a group of little roadside stalls clustered round the entrance to some ancient farm.

  Victor turned to me, and we exchanged a grin of pure relief.

  ‘It can’t be far to the next army staging post,’ I said.

  I meant to be encouraging, but I’d sparked a new concern. ‘Dear gods,’ he muttered. ‘And I learned from the mansio stable boy that the road to Uudum branches off before we come to that.’

  We stopped to ask directions from one stall-keeper, an aged Celtic woman wearing faded plaid, and bent almost double with infirmity – or rather, Victor stopped and let me do the questioning. She proved, ironically, to be offering fresh goat’s milk to weary travellers and her shrewd eyes looked astonished at my enquiry.

  ‘Well, citizen, if you’d driven another half a mile you would have seen it for yourselves. Just around that corner,’ she gestured with the hand that held the pail. ‘The route follows a very ancient track, with lots of turnings off, but it’s a proper military road these days. So stick to the paving and you can’t go wron
g – Uudum is the last place that it serves. Would you be wanting a drink, now, to see you on your way?’ She smiled, showing gums and two remaining teeth.

  I nodded – partly out of pity for her age and partly to reward her for the information we’d received – and we each drank a measure from the battered metal cup she dipped into the pail and handed up to us.

  My doubts must have been written on my face. ‘Cleaner than the water from the stream, and more sustaining too,’ she told us, as we wiped our creamy lips. ‘Fresh-milked this morning.’ Then, to my astonishment, she named a shocking price – I should have asked before we drank, of course – and I parted with another four dupondii. If I went on like this I’d have no small coinage left.

  Victor raised an eyebrow at me as we drove away. ‘She may be old but she is still as wily as her goats! Which reminds me – do you really think that goatboy might have been a rebel spy?’

  ‘One cannot be too careful,’ I replied. ‘Though, I rather liked the boy and I hope he’s innocent. But there’s something troubling about this whole affair.’

  ‘I suppose his presence was a little too convenient. Goats which helpfully trample everywhere, and obliterate completely all tracks? To say nothing of the way he kept us talking there – and incidentally stopped the other road-users as well?’ He looked thoughtfully at me. ‘Might that be a distraction to allow the rebels to escape?’

  I had not taken Victor for a thinking man, and I was impressed. ‘It had occurred to me,’ I told him truthfully. ‘That’s why I arranged to have him watched.’

  Victor nodded. ‘I heard you talking to Hippophilus. And I suppose we only have the goatherd’s word for anything. It may be that his parent isn’t frail at all, but a bandit rebel – the boy admits that his family’s dispossessed!’ He gave an appreciative whistle through his teeth. ‘I knew your reputation, citizen, but you’ve excelled yourself.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing of the kind. You have drawn the obvious conclusions for yourself. Though there is one deduction which I’ll confidently make – that you speak a little Celtic, as you clearly do. I did not translate that information for the troops!’ I was surprised, in fact. Most slaves in Roman households are born to servitude, and have spoken nothing but Latin all their lives. ‘You could have asked for those directions for yourself.’

  Victor turned scarlet and gave a short embarrassed laugh. ‘I understand a good deal more than I can speak, these days, though at one time it was my mother tongue – I was sold into slavery when I was young,’ he said. ‘Like that poor young idiot we just saw lying dead. Another thing that he was boasting of the other day – as if it is a privilege to be freeborn and poor, and sold to slavery to pay the family’s debts.’ He shook his head. ‘But here’s the turning that the crone was talking of!’ He urged the gig around it as he spoke.

  It was a good road, as the milk-seller had said though, as a minor route in difficult terrain, barely more than regulation width, with scarcely any verge on either side as we followed it down a narrow valley between tall wooded hills. It might have been a pretty journey if the weather had been fine, but the mist was clinging to the hilltops here, and the morning sun had given way to heavy cloud, so the general impression was of gloominess and grey – especially since there were few other travellers about.

  We followed the direction of a little stream, which we crossed and recrossed twice on sturdy wooden bridges, each of which had military guard posts to one side, but we were not challenged. Perhaps Victor’s splendid uniform and the fancy gig were enough to have us nodded through, though it might have been simply that we were clearly carrying no goods so there was no question of being asked to pay the military toll (which would presumably have swelled the coffers of the tax office that we were heading for).

  There was increasing evidence of Roman presence, now – one or two fine villas on the hills and even a cluster of tombstones by the road, though most of the dwellings here were humble ones, including one little group of Celtic roundhouses like mine, inside a palisade, with women spinning at the doors, and incurious ducks and pigs roaming their small enclosure as we passed.

  The leaden sky did not permit us to estimate the hour, but – judging by my stomach, which was beginning to notice that I hadn’t eaten since my hurried snack at dawn (apart from a few sips of goat’s milk, which hardly qualified) – it must have been late afternoon before we reached the outskirts of a proper settlement, surrounded by an ancient earthwork and a ditch. Here there was a sentry on the bridge, and Victor slowed the gig and once again permitted me to do the questioning.

  ‘Have we arrived at Uudum, soldier?’ I enquired – in Latin now, of course.

  The sentry was a wiry fellow with a thin impassive face, and muscles in his arms and legs that stood out like knotted ivy-strands. ‘This is Uudum.’ He planted his pike in front of us and stared boldly, first at me – wrapped in my Celtic birrus – and then at Victor and the high-status gig. ‘What is your business here?’

  I produced my warrant. ‘I believe,’ I said, with would-be dignity, ‘that you’re expecting me. I am here at the request of Marcus Aurelius Septimus, the chief magistrate of the Glevum fiscal area, to enquire a little further into the death of his tax collector here.’ I was not entirely certain of this claim, but it sounded convincing.

  And it had the right effect. The guard glanced briefly at the document. ‘Ah, you are the citizen Libertus? You must be a person of some significance. We’ve had two separate messengers about you, in the last two days. Wait here a moment, and I’ll fetch the man in charge.’ He disappeared inside the little building to the side and returned, after an uncomfortable pause, accompanied by an older, stouter man – clearly the duty officer of this watch party – who swaggered out in armour so polished you could see your face in it. He did not look as friendly as I might have wished.

  His greeting, though not quite discourteous, confirmed my impression of unease. ‘Citizen Libertus. Welcome to Uudum. I am the principalis here. You wish to interview Acacius’s chief slave, I believe?’ The words were clipped and there was a suggestion of disdain – clearly he held himself in very high esteem.

  ‘And to view the body of the suicide, if possible,’ I said, trying an ingratiating smile.

  ‘So I understand,’ he answered, with arched eyebrows and a disapproving tightening of the lips, ‘although I confess that I’m surprised. The fellow has been dead for several days. I would have been glad to see the corpse disposed of speedily. I do not want his spirit haunting us.’

  ‘You had arranged a funeral?’ I hazarded.

  A curt nod answered me. ‘The man had no family living to consult and there’s no local burial guild for tax collectors, as there is for slaves. I arranged a simple military affair – well away from town, of course – to get the corpse cremated with minimum delay. And to allay potential trouble too – there is anger against Flauccus from the local tax payers, some of whom have skimped to pay the rates he gambled with.’ A sigh. ‘But we have deferred the funeral, since you’ve requested it, though I’d be glad to have permission to recommence as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have occasioned you delay,’ I murmured, peaceably. ‘But clearly the loss of the tax revenue is of concern to everyone. To yourselves, not least. A large proportion is assigned to army purposes, I think?’

  But he did not thaw. ‘I do not see how an inspection of the corpse will help?’

  ‘Merely to ensure that it was a suicide, and that he was not in fact strangled and hanged by someone else,’ I said. I could see from his face that the possibility had not occurred to him, so I gently pressed the point. ‘A disappointed creditor perhaps? And my master is concerned to know what gambling was involved – what was Acacius betting on, how often and with whom.’ I looked at him blandly, with an enquiring smile. ‘You could not advise me on that subject, I suppose? You probably know the local gambling scene as well as anyone.’

  He gave me a thin smile. He knew what I was hinting at, of cours
e. Gambling on dice or board games is forbidden nowadays (except at Saturnalia when normal rules do not apply), but Romans love to bet and soldiers are famous for loving it the most. And no one believes their claims that the stakes are merely chips of wood, though these worthless tokens do ensure that no coins change hands – when anyone is watching!

  ‘We do not mingle with the civilian population very much.’ The answer was skilfully evasive, but probably the truth. ‘And we don’t have local games or circuses where betting is allowed. So I can’t enlighten you. Perhaps Acacius’s steward can help in that regard. I’ll have him brought to you.’

  ‘Brought?’ I glanced towards the guard house in surprise. Every such building has a holding cell. ‘I understood you’d thrown him into jail?’

  ‘We have him under lock and key,’ the man corrected me. ‘Uudum is not big enough to have a proper civic jail, and there is no provision for keeping prisoners here, for any longer than an hour or two – after which they generally agree to pay their fines or are given a flogging and moved on somewhere else.’

  ‘And in the case of Loftus?’ I enquired.

  ‘One of the Roman landowners has taken charge of him. There are some cells out at his villa that we sometimes use. He had them built for storage, but they are useful for petty thieves and disobedient slaves: we rarely have more serious criminals to deal with, hereabouts. Uudum is generally a law-abiding town.’

  I nodded. Poor Loftus would not have had a comfortable few days. I could imagine the makeshift prison very well, because I’d once suffered in such a cell myself: small, airless cubicles without a window space, where the unfortunate might find a pile of straw (at best) to keep him from the cold and damp of walls and floor, while he was fettered wrist and ankle to heavy iron rings. Sometimes a prisoner could not even move his hands to eat, but was obliged to snuffle in his food bowl like a pig, to get whatever scraps his captors chose to fling at him. (Supposing that he could move at all and had not been flogged to within an inch of death. Official torturers are skilled at stopping just in time.)