The Ghosts of Glevum (7 page)

Golbo looked at me in misery. ‘That’s just the trouble, citizen. My owner sent me to the spring himself.’

I stared. ‘Marcus?’

‘Well, not in person, naturally – he was at the banquet with his guests. But he sent the message all the same. It was quite precise. I was to go at once and fill the pail, because the banquet was drawing to a close, and guests might wish to use the vomitorium before the litters took them jogging home. It’s not an unusual request. He does the same thing each time there’s a feast – except that tonight it was a little earlier, and he was displeased with me, it seems. I don’t know why. I tried to keep the room as clean as it usually is.’

‘But you didn’t question the order when it came?’

Golbo looked more wretched than before. ‘In any case I wouldn’t question it. And the message was brought by one of Marcus’s own slaves.’

‘One of his own slaves? You are quite sure of that?’ My mind was racing now. Of course, there is always the possibility of treachery, but in general the loyalty of Marcus’s household is beyond doubt, and his servants would defend him to the death. We had seen that demonstrated that very night.

He nodded. ‘I am quite sure of that. There
were
slaves in the villa who had come in from my master’s town apartment in Glevum especially to help to cook and serve the feast – I might have been mistaken about them. But this wasn’t one of them. This was a villa slave, called Umbris. I know the man. I was there when Marcus first acquired him – a present from a wealthy visitor.’

I nodded, though it was not a name I knew. Marcus has a multitude of slaves but I would have remembered that one, I was sure. Obviously one of Marcus’s little jokes. The name derives from shadow, and is not a lucky one – except for a household slave perhaps, where silence and unobtrusiveness are desirable. Marcus had a sense of humour sometimes, when it came to naming slaves.

‘So Umbris was . . .’ I was going to say ‘a bribe’, but altered it, ‘. . . a gift?’

Golbo nodded. ‘One among many, citizen. Many of us were.’

Of course, that was likely to be true. A man in Marcus’s position scarcely needed to go out and purchase slaves from the shifty dealers in the town. The villa was no doubt full of similar ‘donations’, living and inert. There were always people trying to climb up the social scale who were only too eager to offer His Excellence anything he sought – in hopes of some little favour in return. I returned to a more profitable line of questioning.

‘What kind of man is he?’

‘My master thinks very well of him. He works hard and drives others hard: I cannot tell you more about his character than that.’ Golbo gave a rueful laugh. ‘Citizen, he is a senior slave. He works the dining room and I’m a bucket-boy – he’s never deigned to address a word to me, except to give me orders, like tonight. But I could point him out to you. He’s . . .’

‘Husband!’ Gwellia’s voice from behind me cut across his words. ‘I beg you, leave this till the morning now. You are soaked through to the skin. You must remember you’re no longer young.’ I turned. She was standing in the doorway of the hut. ‘You’ll be no help to your patron if you’re ill in bed.’

I nodded. It was true that I was chilled and shivering. ‘Very well, Gwellia, my dear. No doubt you’re right. But what about the boy?’ My plans of sheltering him overnight and producing him triumphantly in the courts were all in ruins now. This testimony would seal Marcus’s fate.

‘He’ll have to find somewhere else to go.’

‘My dear wife . . .’ I protested. It was not like Gwellia to be hard-hearted in this way.

She softened a little, as I knew she would. ‘Or he can stay here by the fire if you insist. But not inside the house. He is a runaway, Libertus, and I refuse to have him under my roof.’ She saw my look and added urgently, ‘Husband, it is you I’m thinking of. Junio has been telling me what happened at the villa earlier – and I’m concerned. It seems to me that, with your patron in the cells, the guards would be only too happy to press charges against you. If they find you harbouring a runaway, they will have all the evidence they need – and what will happen to this household then?’

She could hardly have mustered a stronger argument, but I still demurred. ‘But if Golbo stays out here . . .?’

‘You can say that he came in here to hide without your knowing it – which after all is no more than the truth. That might be some kind of defence. If he’s in the roundhouse, there will be no possible excuse. Oh, Libertus, please do come inside. There is obviously something serious afoot. If anyone comes searching here tonight, it’s better that they find us in our beds.’

This was so manifestly true that I complied. ‘You are right, of course. Very well, I’ll come with you now. Golbo, you can stay here by the fire, where at least you can be warm and dry tonight. There’s clean water in the big bowl by the door, and a pile of fleece. Lie on it and pull some over you. Tomorrow we must think where you can go.’ And what we should do about your testimony too, I thought, although I didn’t speak the words aloud.

And then, at last, I did submit to Gwellia’s urgings and went back into the house, where I allowed my weary slaves to undress me, sponge down my muddy clothes and legs, and help me to my welcome bed of reeds. Then they wrapped me in a woollen blanket and tiptoed away, leaving me to Gwellia and my thoughts.

I couldn’t sleep. Gwellia invited me to talk, but the more I turned the events of the evening over in my head, the less sense any of it made to me. It was Gwellia, in the end, who voiced the thought that I could not allow myself to think.

‘Husband,’ she whispered, when I had rehearsed the same thing for the twentieth time, ‘has it occurred to you that Mellitus could be right? Perhaps it was your patron who pushed Praxus in the bowl. What other explanation can there be?’

‘I don’t know!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yet surely there must be one. I don’t believe for an instant that Marcus murdered him.’ But when I came to consider all the mounting evidence I had to admit the possibility, though I couldn’t bear to contemplate it for long. That is why I didn’t sleep all night, and why – as soon as the first light of chilly dawn broke through the sullen clouds – I slipped away from my still sleeping wife, pulled on my sandals and a woollen cloak, and went out to find Golbo in the hut.

But I was too late. Golbo wasn’t there.

I searched the whole enclosure – behind the woodpile, in the chicken-house, even under the holly branches in the grain pit – but there was no sign of him. I went out to the steep rocky lane which ran past the house, but there was nothing to be seen, only the hazy outlines of the trees looming at me through the misty murk. No trace of footprints, either, on the frosty earth.

I was still there, gazing intently at the road, when a voice hissed, ‘Citizen?’ startlingly close to me. I whirled round to see a cloaked figure detach itself from the white-grey haze of the woods.

‘Golbo?’ I said, but it was not the boy. In the dim half-light I recognised the lumpy maidservant who had fetched Junio to me the night before.

‘It’s Cilla, master,’ the girl said, still whispering. ‘Golbo has not been found.’ She came up close beside me and went on, ‘Be careful, citizen, we may be overheard. There might still be searchers on the roads. The lady Julia, my mistress, sent me to find you here, as soon as it was starting to be light. She says to tell you that the guards took ten slaves – the ones who were holding torches – as hostages last night. They marched them off into the town for questioning, along with Marcus and the doorkeeper.’

My heart, which was already lower than my still damp sandal-straps, sank even more at this. Marcus was an important man, with wealth and influence: he would be locked up in the garrison – probably in the commander’s house, in case he proved to be innocent in the end. But everyone knew what such ‘questioning’ would mean for all the rest. The servants would be tortured until they ‘remembered’ something significant – who had sent the orders to the colonnade, for example, or where Golbo had gone – whether or not the events they confessed had ever actually occurred. Over the years I have attempted to dissuade Marcus from employing such techniques, since I was once a slave myself with no civic rights of any kind.

However, it was Marcus who was now under arrest, and lesser magistrates – presumably Balbus in particular, since he was now the most senior of those left – would be looking for the ‘truth’ as quickly and ruthlessly as possible, to minimise their own political embarrassment. The routine and perfectly legal torture of a few slaves was hardly likely to trouble them.

Now I had a moral problem on my hands. If I found Golbo, should I take him to the authorities? Or should I give them his testimony in any case and hope to save ten other innocent slaves from hours of agony – at the end of which, one could be almost sure, somebody would break down under the anguish and invent evidence against Marcus.

I was debating this when Cilla spoke again. ‘That is not the only reason why I’ve come. My mistress sent me to warn you, citizen. One of the serving girls overheard a conversation in the court. Balbus was arguing that they should send guards for you – he says you were the first to leave the banquet hall, and you probably helped my master in his task, because Praxus was too big for one man alone to overcome. He said he saw you standing by the corpse, holding a heavy brass pot in your hand, and that you’d almost certainly used it to hit Praxus on the head so that Marcus could more easily hold him down.’

I felt a chill run down my back, colder than the freezing morning air. It was true, I had been holding such a pot, and there would be half a dozen witnesses to that. Of course, I had not hit Praxus, I’d simply used it to retrieve the wreath, as any of the torch-bearers would testify – but if Cilla was to be believed these were the very slaves who were at this moment being flogged and questioned at the jail. When the Romans scourge you, you are inclined to remember anything they wish.

‘Balbus wanted me arrested by the guards?’ I repeated foolishly. ‘But surely only Mellitus could sanction that?’ Praxus’s bodyguard, like that of any military commander of high rank, would have been personally hand-picked from the legions under his control, responsible for his safety and answerable to him alone. These men had come with Praxus a few days ago, when he arrived from Gaul, and until alternative orders came they were not officially attached to anyone. A high-ranking official of the Empire, such as Mellitus, might co-opt them for some official role, but a mere local decurion like Balbus would need agreement from the ordo first, and probably the co-operation of the garrison as well, however many high-ranking brothers he might have in Gaul.

Cilla nodded. ‘I think he hoped that Mellitus
would
sanction it, and perhaps he will, if the master does not confess. I don’t suppose my owner will do that, citizen. Not when he is innocent of the crime.’

I rounded on her sharply. ‘You know that? That he is innocent?’

The plump plain face puckered. ‘Well, I thought . . . naturally . . .’ She was gazing at me in disbelief. ‘Surely, citizen, you do not suppose . . .? My master would never dream of such a thing.’

‘Of course not,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I only hoped that you might have had some proof, so that I could declare it to the magistrates and have him freed. Supposing that anyone would listen to my plea.’ It occurred to me that without my patron’s influence that might be difficult to bring about.

She looked at me. ‘The new high priest of Jupiter might help you there, perhaps. He’s had no time to get involved in local politics, but he has dined at the villa once or twice. He has a theory that Governor Pertinax will be the future Emperor of Rome. Said he had read it in the stars. My mistress was very entertained. But if he believes that, surely he would help?’

I smiled wryly. If the high priest sincerely thought that Marcus might be an Imperial favourite one day, no doubt he would be anxious to assist – once he was certain that Marcus would be freed. It is always useful to have friends at court. However, remembering that self-important little man, I could not see him risking a confrontation with real-life authorities without the most compelling evidence – whatever omens he purported to believe.

I said gently, ‘If we could show Marcus to be innocent, perhaps. Unfortunately, although we think he didn’t do it, it will be hard to prove. All the outward circumstances seem to point to him.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Almost as if it was
designed
to look as if my master murdered him.’

‘Indeed,’ I said – although, on reflection, that was not entirely true. If anything, it had been designed to look like an accident, until an idiotic pavement-maker had opened his big mouth and suggested otherwise.

‘I will go into the garrison,’ I said, ‘and see if I can have a word with Marcus, privately. The garrison commander is a friend of his, and I’ve had dealings with him in the past. I doubt if I’m in any danger yet and Marcus may know something which will help to prove the truth. If I discover anything, I’ll come to the villa and tell Julia at once.’

Cilla shook her head. ‘Until my master is at liberty, it may not be as easy as all that. Better to meet me secretly tonight and I’ll take word. The house is under guard. There are fresh soldiers posted at the front gate now – that’s why I feared there might yet be another search for Golbo by and by.’

‘But you got out?’ I was thinking about Julia and her slaves, virtually helpless prisoners in the house.

‘I told them I was going to fetch some oils for my mistress, and they let me go. The soldiers are not interested in women’s purchases. There is an old woman in a hut not far away who makes such remedies. My mistress buys one from her now and then: they are far cheaper than the ones in Glevum market – and just as good, she says.’

I nodded. I knew the poor wizened crone myself. Her husband had been a prosperous miller, till he crushed his hand, but now they were forced to scrape a living where they could, sleeping in a makeshift hut among the trees. She made her ‘remedies’ from berries, roots and herbs, while he bundled twigs for firewood and sold them in the town. Gwellia and I had sometimes bought some kindling ourselves, simply out of pity for their plight.