Yet my host had borrowed heavily to build this residence – in an attempt to seem more Romanised. I shook my head.
Paigh misinterpreted. ‘I’m afraid there is no possibility of retreating now.’ He ushered me swiftly up the steps and through the vestibule, nodded at the suave-looking steward in the hall, and led me straight into the ‘atrium’. It was a proper atrium – just as Marcus tells me that they have in Rome – built with the centre open to the skies, and a small impluvium collecting water from the rain and the gutters on the roof. Doubtless in Rome, where I understand that it is warm, such a feature is an appealing one, but here in Britannia it was simply dank and wet, especially at this season of the year. More statues stood around on every side. I don’t pretend to be an expert about art, but as a pavement-maker I know a little about stone, and most of this was marble, fairly crudely worked, as if quantity, rather than the quality of work, had been the preoccupation of the purchaser.
But we did not linger there. Paigh hastened me into the triclinium beyond, where an early prandium had obviously been served, but now the dining tables had been moved away and three men were reclining on the couches, at their ease.
They were a strange assortment – very different in age and rank: two aging men in togas – the small and wizened one I took to be the groom; the other, tall and sallow, in a garment of a whiteness to rival Titus’s, had a bandaged hand and an air of discontent. The third and youngest, an impressive-looking man of middle years, was obviously my host. He was not dressed in plaid, as I’d expected, but in an exquisite full length tunic dyed a vibrant green. However he did wear the traditional gold torc around his neck, and with his height, fair hair and long moustache he looked magnificent.
I moved towards him, conscious of my lowly dress, ready to bow, but Paigh hissed ‘Kneel!’ at me.
I did as I was bidden. ‘My Lord Darturius.’
He held out a hand, weighed down with heavy rings. ‘Ah, so you come at last! I hear you bring a document from Marcus Septimus?’
It was not the greeting I had been hoping for, but I gestured to Paigh and he presented his master with the writing-tablet, expressly exhibiting the seal on the tie. Darturius held it rather gingerly, as though unaccustomed to handling writing-blocks, whereupon the second diner – the tall, pinched fellow with a sallow face – came hurrying to his aid. He glanced at the contents but did not look at me.
He nodded as he returned the document. ‘Merely confirmation that this is the man. I regret the slight delay. He was following us in a separate vehicle and must have missed the tide. I am glad to see that he has actually arrived.’
I gazed up at him, surprised. He spoke as if I ought to realise who he was, but to the best of my knowledge I’d never seen the citizen before. But then the explanation came to me. ‘You must be the councillor, Crassus Posthumous,’ I said, bowing my head in recognition of his rank. ‘The mansionarius said that we might catch you on the road. I did not realise that you were coming here. But I am glad to see you. I have much to thank you for.’
He looked at me coolly, a flicker of cold amusement in his eyes. ‘Fellow, the time for jest is past. Crassus Posthumous has been dead this half a moon. I am the citizen Libertus, pavement-maker of Glevum, and client of that same Marcus who dispatched you here – as you are well aware.’
TWENTY-FIVE
If Jove had felled me with a lightening bolt I could not have been more shaken. For a moment I was too shocked and stupified to do more than gaze at this imposter, open-mouthed – and when I collected myself sufficiently to try to leap up and protest, Darturius’s firm hand thrust me down again.
‘How dare you rise till you’re instructed to!’
‘But my Lord Darturius, there is some mistake. I am not a slave, I am a Roman citizen, and I have never seen this man—’ A savage slap across my face sent me sprawling backwards on the floor.
It came from my so-called namesake. He had only used his left, undamaged hand, but it was an expert blow. ‘You heard him, gentlemen. Exactly as I warned. His own words condemn him.’ He gave me a contemptuous little smile. ‘The penalty for trying to escape from slavery is forehead branding and a flogging, at the least – but impersonating a citizen is a capital offence. And this wretch is guilty of both crimes at once. I submit that he is worthy of instant punishment – at the discretion of his new master, naturally.’ He bowed in pretended deference to Darturius.
‘Well, slave, have you anything to say? You have caused us so much trouble with your antics on the way, that if I did not hold your donor in such high regard, I would be tempted to sell you straight to the galleys or the mines. But as you are intended as a wedding gift, I suppose that I must accept you with the best grace I can.’ The Latin was fluent and grammatical, but it was over-formal for talking to a slave, reminding me that Darturius was a Celt at heart.
I took a gamble, and answered in my native tongue – a strategy which (as you know) had served me well before. ‘My lord,’ I told him, ‘You are misinformed. This man is not Libertus, as he claims to be. Do not trust what he pretends. If you cannot read my travel warrant for yourself, have the other citizen decipher it for you. That will explain my status, and it bears my patron’s seal.’
To my amazement, he was furious. ‘You try my patience, slave. Of course I am capable of reading messages. You wish to hear what Marcus has to say?’
He seized the writing block and read the Latin words aloud. ‘Greetings, in haste, from Marcus Septimus. This is the steward that I promised you. He is astute and capable, but very devious. Keep him in submission and he will serve your daughter well, but keep good watch of him. If he offends, or is not suitable, do as you wish with him.’
I stared at him, wholly unable to believe my ears. I almost snatched the tablet from him, but some instinct held me back – fortunate, as I would certainly have earned another blow – and in any case the false ‘Libertus’ handed it to me, saying with a sneer, ‘See it for yourself. If you can read, that is. As a steward, I presume that you have learned?’
I took it from him, still incredulous. But there it was, scratched firmly in the wax, exactly as Darturius had said – though not written in my patron’s hand, of course. But underneath it was the imprint of his seal, repeated on the wax cartouche which still dangled insecurely from the ribbon-tie. For a moment I could not understand how this could be, though it explained my treatment of the night before – everything made sense if they had believed I was a slave, valuable but likely to escape, so not to be ill-treated but to be secured.
Then I realised how this had been done. Someone had heated up the wax – very carefully so as not to obliterate the imprint of the seal – erased the old message and inscribed the new. And there was only one moment when that could possibly have been – at the former mansio, when I was being massaged by that slave, while I believed my possessions were safely under guard. Presumably this false Libertus was to blame, claiming then to be Crassus Posthumous and sending me doped wine which ensured that I would sleep till he was gone – I should have guessed there was something unnatural in all that sleepiness – though I could not see what he hoped to gain by that. Or, even less, by claiming to be me.
But, I realised with a sinking heart, it was going to be very hard to prove the contrary. An Emperor may have his likeness on a coin, and rich men have images and statues made, but what evidence does a common tradesman have of his identity? Especially when he bears a letter actually saying that he’s someone else? It is not a problem one often has to face.
In Glevum, surrounded by people that I knew, there would be no difficulty – one appeal to Marcus and the matter would be solved. He would disavow the letter and confirm my rank and name. But here were only strangers, who either now believed I was a slave or – in one case – claimed to know I was. The only people who might verify the truth were days away and anyway – given the so-called message I had brought myself – no such an appeal was likely to be made.
‘I have a companion who co
uld vouch for me,’ I bleated, though I realised there was no hope of help from there. Trinculus had been compromised as well. All evidence of his rank and status had been stripped from him and his word was no more likely to be believed than mine. Moreover, I had just condemned him by my words. If I was supposed to be a would-be fugitive and he was my companion and associate, he was by that fact himself a criminal. And his predicament was even worse than mine, as the false Libertus instantly made clear.
‘A deserter from the army, my Lord Darturius. He gives his name as Trinculus, I understand, though that is not the case. When discovered, he was posing as a guard, claiming to be travelling under orders from his superiors. But I think you’ll find his sword-belt, which is being held with his effects, proves that he is nothing of the kind. The buckle reveals his true identity.’
I gasped. All this was just a lie. Trinculus had been introduced to me by the tesserarius himself. There could be no question of his being someone else. It is true that soldiers of a foreign unit, like his Dacian alia, all wear belts of a particular design, often with their name etched in the buckle-back. And certainly his armour was a piecemeal affair, so he might have bought a Dacian belt from someone else, but if the buckle bore a different name he would have been obliged to grind it out – and how could he have come by a deserter’s belt? I shook my head. If Trinculus was really wearing one, then somebody had exchanged it while his back was turned – also during the massage at that mansio, no doubt. No wonder he’d had trouble yesterday with the buckle-hole.
I was about to say so, from my position on the floor (though at the risk of punishment) when the bridegroom, who had been listening to all this from his dining couch, interrupted with an irritated cough. ‘A deserter, do you say? Then what’s he doing here, Darturius, by all the gods? He should be handed to the authorities.’ His voice was high and cracked with age but still imperious. He did not deign to rise.
It was the false Libertus who replied – a breach of etiquette, since he was of lower status and had not been the one addressed. (I would have known better, in his place, but he was apparently in mine, and seemed oblivious!) ‘He was allowed to travel here at my request, on the understanding that we will hold him till they send for him. It was inconvenient to leave him at a mansio, where he could not be securely under guard.’
‘Then I suggest that you lock him up, Darturius – I imagine you have facilities for that?’ The older man addressed himself directly to his host, scrupulously treating my namesake with disdain. ‘And perhaps this tiresome steward, too – he may be valuable, as everybody claims, but I’m not sure that I wish to have him working in my house. Though that might affront the donor, I suppose. A powerful magistrate, I think you said?’
Darturius nodded. ‘One of the most important men in all Britannia. And personally involved in licensing the salt.’
I squeaked. I could not help it. ‘Then he isn’t in disgrace?’ It was the only glimmer of good news that I had heard for days.
Darturius looked contemptuously at me. ‘Disgraced! He’s entertaining a personal legate from the Emperor as we speak, I understand.’ He turned to the imposter with a smile. ‘I sent a message to him yesterday, to tell him the good news that you’d arrived – and of course to thank him for his gift – and no doubt we shall have an answer very soon, with all the latest news. He’s honoured me with several communications recently. I hear he was delighted that you’d solved that suicide – and saved the curia from needing to replace the tax.’
The eyes of the imposter flickered in my direction, momentarily, but he answered airily enough. ‘Oh, the facts were evident enough, when one knew where to look.’ I would have liked to bite his legs for his presumption – they were close beside my face – though I did not, of course.
‘Don’t be so modest, citizen,’ Darturius replied. ‘Your patron thinks most highly of your abilities. He will miss you sorely while you are in Gaul.’
‘Gaul?’ I was turning into Echo, the unhappy nymph doomed to repeat the last words she had heard. And like her, I’d spoken without intending to. In doing so I risked another blow – it was not my place to speak.
But my imposter simply turned a chilling smile on me. ‘Gaul!’ There was no mistaking the triumph in his voice. ‘His Excellence has asked me to attend to some urgent business there, and citizen Gnaeus—’ he gestured to the groom – ‘has been good enough to promise to find a ship for me, and a captain who will brave the winter seas. It will be expensive, naturally – but Marcus is most generous in providing for such things.’
I looked at him with loathing – not least because I knew my patron to be extremely careful with his gold, but I was learning better than to speak. It was Gnaeus who interrupted with a sneer.
‘Another good reason for not offending him, I suppose. Which means the steward stays. Or rather – since he is intended as a gift to Aigneis – perhaps she should decide? So if your slave could fetch her?’
Darturius said simply, ‘Paigh!’ and my guide, who had been standing behind me all this time, bowed himself out and hurried from the room. ‘Stand up then, steward,’ Darturius went on. ‘Let your new owner have a look at you.’ When I hesitated he aimed a kick at me. ‘Quickly too, or I shall have you flogged.’
There was no help for it. I scrambled to my feet and closed my eyes, inwardly seething, but resigned to having my muscles felt, my teeth inspected and my body scrutinised. I have been subject to such indignities before, when I was offered at the slave market. This time, at least, I knew what lay in store.
It was not as humiliating as I feared. I was obliged to let the old man peer into my mouth, to ensure that there was no decay, and squeeze my arms to see how strong I was. But just as he seemed about to lift my tunic-hems (to check that I carried no disease) the inner door was opened and the girl came in, accompanied by Paigh – though not by any handmaiden, to my surprise.
She was not what I expected. For one thing she was older than the average bride – at least sixteen, I guessed. She was a big girl – taller than the groom – and more than ‘young and shapely’, she was very amply curved. Her face was striking – with intelligent blue eyes and dimples round the mouth – though too determined to be truly beautiful. Her long golden hair was already dressed in braids, as if in preparation for the wedding day, but there was no suggestion of a veil and none of the pretended modesty that Romans prize so much.
‘You called me, gentlemen?’ She held her head aloft and walked with dignity, unafraid to look directly at every person in the room – even at me – though all of us were males. Her dress was conventional enough – a floor-length tunic, made of finest wool and dyed a pinkish rose – but it was bound around her figure with gold silken cords, which (since she wore no covering stola as a married woman might) emphasised and drew attention to her buxom charms. Her bridegroom was a lucky man, I thought.
He seemed to think so, too. He was looking at her with unashamedly lascivious eyes, but for convention’s sake he pretended a reproof. ‘Aigneis! Have you no shoulder cloak, at least? There are strangers present. I shall expect more decorum after we are wed.’
She turned to smile at him. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and clear – an attractive trait, in women, I have always thought – and her Latin was impeccable. ‘And you shall have it, Gnaeus, when I am your wife. But for the moment I am under my father’s potestas, and my immediate duty is to him. So when he summons me to come, I do so instantly, regardless of my dress.’
Her groom looked disconcerted by this bold reply, which would have seemed impertinent on any other lips, but which she offered with a charming smile, as though simply stating facts. He looked at her father, but Darturius seemed more pleased than otherwise.
‘Aigneis has always been obedient – in all important ways.’ Despite the ambiguity, he spoke the words with pride. Clearly he doted on this wayward girl. And so, I realised with a shock, did Paigh – who had gone to stand behind his master now and, obviously thinking that he was unobserved,
was gazing at Aigneis with adoring eyes. He saw me looking and coloured to his ears.
I must be getting old, I told myself. I should have realised how the matter stood, from the way he’d spoken of her earlier. How must he feel about this wedding then? And what did Aigneis think?
My thoughts were interrupted by the mention of my name. ‘Citizen Libertus.’ I glanced round instantly, ready to reply, but of course the lady was not addressing me. She was speaking to the sallow man. ‘Citizen Libertus?’ she repeated, with more emphasis. ‘You have a slave to show me, as I understand.’ She spoke as though she hated the idea.
This time the imposter seemed to recollect himself. ‘Ah, forgive me, lady! My thoughts were otherwhere.’ He waved a hand at me. ‘This is the steward my patron promised you …’ He went on, giving an account of my supposed abilities and flaws.
But for a moment he had betrayed himself. He had not responded to the name. And Paigh had noticed. I saw it in his face and in the almost imperceptible movement of the head with which he signalled something to the girl.
Darturius clearly had not noticed anything. ‘I know that I had promised to lend you Paigh,’ he said, placing a fond hand upon his daughter’s arm. ‘But that could not be for long – only until he’s worked out his father’s debt. While this slave is an outright wedding gift to you, quite an honour coming from his Excellence. A proper steward who is clearly skilled. However, there are disadvantages. He also has a history of being troublesome – perhaps the reason that Marcus chose to pass him on. Gnaeus felt that you should choose whether to accept the gift or not.’
My heart was sinking as I watched her face. She had been promised Paigh – who had doubtless schemed for weeks to ensure that this occurred – and it clearly was something she herself would much prefer. So I would be sold on as a non-entity, probably to labour in the mines, since I had been given a reputation as a liar and a would-be runaway, which would not endear me to a private purchaser.
The Price of Freedom Page 22
