‘That’s right.’ She looked surprised.
‘Then will you have your house-slaves search the rubbish pile for me? They’re looking for anything resembling a phial, or some container to put poison in. I still believe the hemlock mixture was carried into the bedroom in that pouch, and almost certainly not in that silver flask. If your slaves find anything unusual, have it put aside for me.’
‘With pleasure, citizen.’ Priscilla smiled. It struck me that – though she talked too much – she had a lively mind and now that her household was no longer under threat she was actually delighted to be asked to help. She beckoned to the donkey-boy, who had been lingering nearby. He came across at once. ‘Now see that you take this citizen the shortest way,’ she said to him. ‘If I find you’ve been taking detours, just to raise the fee, I’ll tell the magistrates – and I warn you this citizen has a wealthy patron, too, who knows how to make your life a misery. You understand?’
The boy looked sheepish but he said stubbornly, ‘I wasn’t going to cheat him. I’ll go the quickest way. But if he wants to get there for the fee that we arranged, we ought to go at once – give me a chance to earn some food today. I know you’ve promised to pay me later on – quite handsomely, I grant – but that’s all very well. I still need to eat and you can’t buy bread without real money in your hand. The baker doesn’t trade in promises. So, if you are quite ready, citizen?’
I signalled that I was and he set off at once, tugging his reluctant animal. There was nothing for it but to follow them. The donkey was a melancholy-looking specimen, all skin and ribs, and I feared it had the mange, so I consoled myself that perhaps it was as well that I was not to get my ride. But when we reached the eastern gateway to the town the urchin paused beside a mounting stone, and indicated that I should climb onto the creature’s back.
The only saddle was a patched and tattered rug, tied underneath the belly with a piece of hempen string. I climbed up, graceless and rather hesitant. I was accustomed to owning horses in my youth, but I scarcely went near one when I was a slave and it is many years since I have ridden anywhere.
This donkey was bony and bouncy compared to my fine steeds of long ago, and distinctly slow. But it was not displeasing to be on its back and although my toga billowed out and threatened to unwind, I very quickly got the hang of it. The donkey-boy was even more surprised than I was at my skill.
‘He seems to like you, citizen. Sit tight, and I’ll squeeze in ahead of you.’
I was certain that the donkey would refuse – it seemed recalcitrant in any case – but to my surprise it answered to the switch and we found ourselves swaying precariously along, not very quickly, but faster than on foot.
We must have presented a strange spectacle: a scruffy boy and a Celtic citizen with his toga half-undone, squashed together on a skinny donkey’s back. Certainly we did not go unremarked. Cart-drivers and riders who passed us on the way grinned and raised their whips in mock-salute and various land-labourers turned their heads to look.
The track – we had long ago turned off the Roman roads – swung uphill and down the valleys as the boy had said. In places it was barely wide enough to take a cart, but wheel-tracks in the mud were evidence that a wagon had indeed lurched past this way, and fairly recently. The presumed Paulinus and his wife were said to have a farm-cart, I recalled, and certainly the homesteads here were agricultural.
I began to wonder if my mission was a waste of time and this farmer and his family were not impostors, lured by the reading of the letter – as I’d thought – but exactly who they claimed to be, in which case all my careful reasoning fell apart and I had no other theory to advance. I would have liked to ask the donkey-boy about his previous mission to the farm, but he would have had to turn his head to catch my words, and such was the concentration required to stay on – particularly here, where the road was rough and steep – that there was really no opportunity for that.
At last the lad urged the creature to a stop, close to a clearing where there were several homesteads scratching a living from the land. ‘Here you are, citizen. This is the very place.’ He gestured with his switch.
I looked where he was pointing. Paulinus was a Roman citizen, from a patrician family and, although I had several times been told that he was not a wealthy man, I had expected something more like Lavinius’s estate, though on a smaller scale. This was a humble farm. The house was square and made of stone, as Roman dwellings generally are, and there was a land-slave working in the grounds outside, but there all resemblance to a normal villa ceased. There was no handsome court, no separate slave-quarters, no gatekeeper on watch inside imposing walls, just an enclosure made of piled-up stones, a single dwelling with a stable to the side and rows of turnips and cabbages behind, and a tiny orchard with chickens pecking free. There was a pig-byre just beyond the house, sharing a scruffy pasture with a cow and several piebald goats, while the entrance to the whole was guarded by a large dog on a chain. This was more on the scale of my own abode than anything more grand.
The donkey-boy was looking impatiently at me. ‘This is where I brought the letter, citizen, following the directions that were given me. Are you not getting down? I thought I was to leave you here, when I’d delivered you?’
I swung off my makeshift saddle, which swivelled under me and almost deposited me head-downwards on the ground. However, I managed to keep my balance and maintain my dignity, though I discovered that I ached in every limb. ‘And the man who lives here is called Paulinus?’ I said, with as much gravitas as I could muster.
He looked at me as though I were the donkey here. ‘That’s right, citizen. Or that’s what I was told. The letter was addressed to someone of that name, and when I brought it here, the slave I spoke to went and got him from the house and he came out personally and took it from my hands. Seemed very pleased to get it, from what I saw of him. Gave me a piece of bread and cheese for bringing it. Not the sort of greeting I usually expect, especially from proper citizens: generally they keep you waiting for an hour and then send a servant out to deal with you.’
‘So you’ll remember what he looks like?’ I said eagerly, glad to be making progress of a kind. If the description did not match what I had been told this morning by the slave trader, then the man who took the letter was not Paulinus.
‘Naturally, I do.’ The donkey-boy looked doubtfully at me. ‘You want me to describe him? It won’t be very flattering. He’s not a handsome man.’
I reassured him that he would not be punished for his words.
‘Well . . .’ The urchin dropped his voice, because the land-slave in the tattered tunic had come over to the pig and was feeding it something from a wooden pail, and it was possible that we could be overheard. ‘Tall and rather stooping, with a skinny face. Just a little balding, with protruding teeth. But he’s got a kindly smile, when he uses it. Took him a minute. Quiet voice as well. I thought he might be shy – if that’s not a silly thing to say about a Roman citizen.’
I was dumbfounded. The description matched exactly what I had already heard. ‘That is very helpful,’ I said untruthfully. ‘I’ll . . .’ But before I could complete the sentence the land-slave had looked up from his task and was calling out to us.
‘You have business with my master?’ He put down the pail and came over to the boundary wall, if you could call it that. The pile of stones at this point came no higher than his waist. His skin was tanned and wind-burned to an even darker brown than his coarse tunic and his leather boots, except where mud and grime had turned him to the greyish-black colour of his tousled hair.
‘I am looking for a man called Paulinus,’ I said. ‘I believe he was in Corinium yesterday.’
‘That will be my owner,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’ve come to the right place. He went to Corinium all right – took some goods to sell and went to the slave-market while he was in town. What do you want with him? We don’t very often get visitors round here. Is there some trouble with a bargain that he struck?’
I
shook my head. ‘There have been a couple of mysterious deaths,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘Someone that he knew was set upon and killed, and a slave was found dead this morning at the very lodging-house where your master stayed. I’m hoping he can help me with my enquiries.’
The land-slave rubbed his filthy hands across his filthy hair. ‘I don’t mean any disrespect but, who are you, exactly, citizen?’
‘My patron is Marcus Aurelius Septimus,’ I said, but his expression told me that the name meant nothing here. I tried again. ‘I am sent here by the bridegroom of one Audelia, who was a Vestal Virgin until recently, and by her uncle who is called Lavinius.’
He grinned. His remaining teeth were crooked, but only one was black. ‘Oh, I see. We know all about Lavinius – he’s quite famous around here. Refused to help my master when he applied to him for aid. Wanted to take the child to a healing shrine. You know about the daughter of the house . . . ?’ He saw my nod and went on, more soberly, ‘Fortunately this new wife has got a kinder heart.’
‘And I suppose that your master was offended, too, by the fact that Lavinius did not ask him to the wedding feast?’
That jagged smile again. ‘On the contrary. Quite relieved, I think. My master never liked Lavinius very much and now that he has married for the second time, this household is too busy with its own affairs to spend the time and money that would be involved in travelling all the way to Glevum for a feast. In fact it is as well you came today. Another day or two and you would be too late. He and his wife are leaving here to take the child to Gaul – there is said to be a healing spring there, which they want to try. Not that I suppose it will do any good – nothing else has ever helped her in the least – but Secunda’s brought a dowry with her, so they can manage it, and if he wants to use her money in this way, I say good luck to them. Anyway, you never know, the spring might do the trick.’
I looked around. ‘And what about this farm, the slaves and everything? Surely they will not just abandon it?’
‘They’ve found a fellow down the road who will look after it in return for a half-share of the crops, till they get back again. Or, if they do decide to stay in Gaul, he’ll buy it as it stands – but I think they only mean to be away for a half a year. I hope so. I have worked here since a child, and you couldn’t ask for better owners. Both this wife and the first. I would hate to see a change. But if you want Paulinus – that’s him coming now.’
He gestured to where a tall, thin, stooping man – slightly balding and with protruding teeth – was hurrying towards us across the pasture-field.
TWENTY-TWO
‘That’s him, citizen!’ a voice behind me said. ‘Exactly as I told you. Now that you’ve seen him, am I free to go?’
I had been so busy with the land-slave, I’d forgotten all about the donkey-boy. I dismissed him hastily and turned to meet the owner of the house, who was by this time at the gate. He muttered something to his land-worker, who picked up his pail and scuttled off with it. The master turned to me enquiringly.
‘You are Paulinus?’ I said foolishly. Short of a portrait or a statue, I could not have had a better picture of the man than the one that I’d been given. He was not dressed in a toga but in a stained green tunic belted at the waist, but otherwise he was exactly as I’d envisaged him, down to the furrowed brow and slightly anxious expression of surprise.
‘Paulinus Atronius Marinus, at your service, citizen. I am the owner of this smallholding. How can I be of help?’ His voice was soft and cultured and his Latin quite impeccable. The quiet insistence on his full three Roman names was a way of telling me he was himself a citizen, despite his working dress.
I answered him in kind. ‘Longinus Flavius Libertus,’ I replied, wondering why this commonplace exchange was sending me inward signals of alarm. ‘I have bad news for you. You are a friend and relative of Audelia, I think?’
He stiffened very slightly. ‘You bring us news of her?’ A tiny pause. ‘I trust her marriage was a great success?’
‘She never reached her marriage,’ I said solemnly. I told him briefly what we had discovered in the coach.
‘Beheaded! Dreadful!’ he said, with a shudder that could hardly have been forced. He closed his eyes as though he could not bear to think of it. ‘Poor girl – the gods know she did not deserve a fate like that. What will they do with her? I suppose the family will cremate the corpse?’ He peered anxiously at me. ‘I imagine that they’ll have to, although it’s incomplete?’
It seemed an odd question to a Celt like me: even those of us who are not actually Druids revere the head as more or less the dwelling of the soul. But of course the Romans have a different attitude. They see things the other way about – a headless body might create a restless ghost, stalking the world until it found the missing parts. ‘I’m sure her family will give it proper rites, and do their best to see that her spirit is at rest,’ I said, aware of sounding oddly sanctimonious.
‘I hope so, citizen.’ He gave the famous smile and I saw at once what the donkey-boy had meant. It quite transfigured him. ‘Perhaps you didn’t realize that I know Audelia well – did know her, I suppose that I shall have to learn to say. My wife and I went to the Vestal temple many times when she was serving at the shrine.’
‘You and your first wife, that was?’ I was still double-checking details in my mind.
‘Indeed.’ He raised an eyebrow, as if he were surprised. ‘You must have heard that I have lately wed again? Did they tell you how fortunate I am? I have found an angel not just to care for me but to look after my poor mute daughter too. I am a lucky man. But I forget my manners. You have come all this way to bring me this distressing news about my relative. Please come inside and have some food and drink before you leave. We don’t have dates and Rhenish wine, I fear, but we can offer you some home-made bread and cheese and water from the well.’ He smiled at me, the perfect picture of a Roman host. ‘Indeed I have already sent the land-slave in ahead of us to warn the household you are here and thus ensure a light refreshment is arranged for you. I am afraid you find us in a little disarray.’
‘I hear you are preparing to go overseas,’ I said, as he dragged the snarling dog away and tied it to a post.
He came back to hold the gate ajar for me. ‘How did you learn that?’ His look of astonishment was almost comical.
I explained about the land-slave and he smiled again. ‘Well, citizen, what my farm-servant says is true. We plan to leave as soon as possible.’ He escorted me up the stony path towards the doorway of the house, skirting piles of kindling wood and avoiding the wet garments, clearly washed and dyed, which were draped over bushes in the wind to dry. When we reached the threshold – no more than a single piece of stone placed where people would walk in and out on it – he stepped ahead of me and called in through the door. ‘Are we prepared? Our visitor is here.’
A woman-slave came hastening out at once, rubbing her hands against her tunic-skirt as if they had been damp. She was a tallish, unattractive female of advancing years. Her wan face was worn and mottled, cobwebbed with fine lines, and she had the doubtful darting eyes of someone who has learned – by hard experience – to distrust the world. Her curly hair, which she wore severely short, was dull and mousy grey and her mouth was clamped into a tight, suspicious line. However, her sharp expression softened when Paulinus talked to her and the look she gave her owner was an adoring one.
‘This is Libertus, Muta,’ she was told. ‘He is a citizen and will be our guest. Kindly show him in. I will change out of my dirty working clothes and join you very soon.’ He turned away towards the rear part of the house.
Muta bobbed me a stiff curtsy and led the way inside, through a narrow passage into a sort of waiting-room. Her form was generally sinewy and thin, but the swollen ankles which I glimpsed beneath the tunic-hem suggested a reason for her awkward gait. I could see exactly what Priscilla meant – this servant was no bargain, whatever price he’d paid.
The room was as ba
re as my own roundhouse at home: only a large wooden table and a brazier, a little household shrine set into a niche and – beneath a lone high shelf which held the household cups and bowls – a small amphora leaning on the wall and a few jars and storage-pitchers standing on the floor. The servant gestured to a small three-legged stool beside the table, where a bowl of curd-cheese and a crust of new bread had been set for me.
I sat down, rather awkwardly, while Muta picked up a brass water-pitcher from the floor and poured some into a handsome metal cup. She handed it to me without a word, and made a signal that I should start to eat.
‘Is your new mistress home?’ I ventured. I had hoped to meet Secunda and hear from her own lips that she was happy for her dowry to be squandered in this way. Besides, this silence was beginning to unsettle me.
The woman didn’t answer, just made a gesture to the inner door. Of course, I remembered, the poor thing couldn’t speak! I recalled that this was why she had been chosen for this house but that – unlike the daughter she was bought to serve – the woman could still hear.
I tried again, hoping to obtain at least a fleeting smile. ‘I hope that you are learning to be happy in your work? You will be a comfort to the daughter I am sure.’
‘It is no good talking to her, citizen. She cannot answer you.’
I turned to see the owner of the voice, and caught my breath. The woman at the inner door was singularly pale and far from young, but she was beautiful – one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She wore no trace of kohl or lampblack round her eyes and there was no stain of wine-lees on her lips or cheeks but, despite her pallor, she did not need any. Her skin was soft and flawless, like a piece of kidskin cloth, and her hair, which hung in tight ringlets from a central band (in a fashion favoured by an Empress long ago, but long since out of style), was palest faded gold. She wore a simple floor-length lilac shift and as she walked towards me, holding out her hands, I thought that I had never seen a person more ethereal and serene.
The Vestal Vanishes Page 21
