The Ghosts of Glevum (8 page)

‘But how will you get back past the guards?’ I said.

She produced a small perfume jar from beneath her cloak. ‘I will show them this. I really mean to go and buy some oils. Lavender, my mistress says, to soothe her shattered nerves.’ She saw my concerned look, and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, citizen. She persuaded the captain of the guard that she was faint and ill, but it was her idea to furnish this excuse! But, if you will pardon me, I must go and do it now. I am already in danger of being gone too long. The guards will be suspicious otherwise. I will come again tonight at sundown and meet you here, to see if you have any news for us. I’ll find some excuse to get past the gate – or if that’s impossible I’ll come through the orchard and across the farm, the way you came last night. The soldiers are guarding the main gates, front and back, but they have not yet discovered there’s another way.’ She nodded at me cheerfully, wrapped her grey cloak more firmly around her and set off quickly down the track.

I watched her till she was swallowed up in mist, and then I went thoughtfully back to the roundhouse.

By this time the little household was awake and bustling. Kurso was fetching water from the stream, Gwellia was clearing the ashes from round the baking pot, and taking out the hot fresh oatcakes which had cooked perfectly amongst the warm embers overnight. Junio was busy too, attempting to brush the dried mud from my toga hems.

He looked up as I came in. ‘Here is Libertus, mistress, safe and well.’

I should have known that she would fear for me, but I had not thought of it. We had spent too many years apart: I had only recently found her again and I was not yet accustomed to her care. I gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Golbo was not in the dyeing hut. I went to look for him.’

She did not reply. She simply gave me a reproachful look which tore my heart.

When I began to outline what Cilla had said to me about the guards, however, her manner changed. When I had finished, she said urgently, ‘Husband, you are right in what you told the girl. You must go into the garrison, and see what your patron has to say. If he is guilty, persuade him to confess – confront him with all the evidence – otherwise you will end up before the courts yourself. And it won’t be comfortable exile for you. If you are found guilty of complicity in a thing like this – murdering a high-ranking legionary commander – you will be lucky if they let you choose your death.’

And then what would become of us? There was no need to speak the words. If I was condemned and ‘privileged to choose’ – which meant hemlock and a comparatively quick, dignified and painless death – or even if I was merely exiled with my patron, life would not be easy for my wife. Next winter it could be Gwellia out there in the woods, with only rags for warmth, trying to keep starvation from the door with pathetic little decoctions of wild flowers and leaves.

‘I shall go as soon as I have eaten,’ I declared. ‘This business is dangerous for all of us.’ But in fact, although Gwellia’s oatcakes smelt ambrosial, I could scarcely bring myself to take a single bite. It was all I could do to swallow the beaker of water which my slave had set for me.

Gwellia noted my distress, and assumed a wifely role. ‘Well, if you are going to see the garrison you’d better wear your toga,’ she said, patting my shoulder as she passed. ‘Your pavements will have to wait another day.’

I sighed. That was a further worry in all this. Mosaics do not make themselves, and by moving to live here, outside the city walls, I had already limited my working hours. Now it looked as if another day was lost. I sighed again.

Kurso came in with the pail and I permitted him to pour some water into a wooden bowl for me. I splashed my face and hands in that while Junio rubbed my freezing feet with a linen cloth and a scoop of Gwellia’s less caustic lye-and-ashes soap. (These days I reserved my Roman oil and strigil for the baths.) Then after the boys had eaten – their oatcakes and my own – Junio draped my toga, disguising the muddy bits as best he could, and he and I set off for the town, leaving Kurso to help Gwellia in the house.

Usually Kurso came to the town with me as well, to help cut tiles and to mind the shop, and went home in the afternoon when business was inevitably slack, but today I did not want to leave Gwellia in the roundhouse on her own. She had been asking for a female slave, I thought guiltily, but I had demurred, saying there were few good slaves available at this time of year. There hadn’t been captives from the borderlands for months, and slave-ships from other provinces didn’t often put to sea in winter storms. Besides, having been a slave myself, I didn’t care much for buying servants – but now I was beginning to wish I’d got one, all the same.

It was a long walk into Glevum, several miles, and the lane – though shorter than the military road – was always treacherous. Now, when last night’s rain had turned to ice, and the puddles and ruts were frozen underfoot, it was not only steep and rocky but slippery as well. Recent tracks showed where some intrepid horse and cart had passed, but we saw no sign of human life until we joined the major road, not far outside the city walls.

My business lay with the garrison, so I hurried to the nearest man on guard. ‘I wish to speak to your commander, urgently.’ I outlined who I was and what I wanted there.

He looked me up and down, and for a moment I thought I would be turned away, but ultimately my toga won respect. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, citizen, but I’m afraid your slave may have to wait outside.’

‘I could go to the workshop, master, and await you there,’ Junio said.

‘A good suggestion,’ I agreed, and Junio trotted off.

It seemed a long time before anybody came, but finally an escort was found for me, and I was shown to the commander’s house. There I was ushered into his private waiting room, which, as in all such military establishments, was handsomely proportioned but uncomfortable and chill. After another lengthy wait – I suppose that is what waiting rooms are for – I was attended by a military secretary with a nervous tic. I explained my errand once again.

‘I have come to ask permission for an audience with my patron, His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus, whom your commander is holding under guard. There will be no objection to that, I am sure. Even prisoners in the common jail are sometimes permitted visitors, and Marcus is a personal friend of his.’

‘Wait here, citizen. I’ll see what I can do,’ the fellow said, and disappeared again.

This time the wait was so extremely long that I was beginning to become concerned. I remembered that Balbus had wanted my arrest, and for a moment I feared that I had walked into a trap. I was seriously contemplating walking out and attempting to make a run for it when the fellow with the nervous tic came back.

‘Your pardon, citizen, your request has been denied. Commander Protheus has instructed me to tell you that your patron Marcus is detained in comfort in the house, and that the commander will see that he is well treated. However, there is a question of a plot against the state, and in those circumstances a prisoner is not permitted visitors.’

‘A plot against the state?’ I forgot myself sufficiently to stand up and raise my voice. ‘But . . .’

‘Those are the standing orders of the Emperor,’ the secretary said, taking a step backwards as though I’d threatened him. ‘It’s not my decision, citizen. Guard,’ he called to a soldier beside the outer door, ‘kindly escort the citizen outside.’

‘But . . .’ I protested, in genuine dismay. ‘There must be some mistake. My patron is a very powerful man, of noble birth. He is related to the Emperor . . .’ That last point was not, in fact, entirely proved. There are hundreds of Aurelians in the Empire, and not all of them are of Imperial blood. But rumour had always said that Marcus was, and, since he had never denied it, it seemed worth mentioning. As a lever, I had never known it fail.

It failed now.

‘You heard him, citizen.’ The guard from outside had come in by this time, and to my alarm had drawn his sword. ‘Out. Now. With me. And no argument, or you’ll find you’re locked up in here yourself. Then you can talk to your precious patron all you like.’

‘I’m sorry, citizen,’ the secretary bleated. His cheek was twitching really badly now.

‘Now, are you going to move?’ the soldier said. ‘Or am I going to have to make you move? And don’t think for a moment that I won’t. You haven’t got a fancy patron to protect you now.’

It was then that I realised just what deep trouble we were in. Marcus’s name, which up to now had always opened every official door and afforded me protection in all kinds of ways, had lost its power overnight. Even his friend the commander was refusing help, though he was obviously attempting to look after Marcus as best he dared.

I was marched at sword-point out into the street.

Not only marched at sword-point but thrust into the road with such a heavy hand against my back that I almost stumbled to the ground. If I was not so obviously a citizen, I believe I would have had a kick to help me on my way. Even a passing turnip-seller stopped to stare.

I recovered myself, straightened my toga, and walked off into the drizzle with as much dignity as I could muster, trying to decide what to do. I had been so sure of meeting Marcus, and discussing things with him, that I really had no other plan. I am accustomed to working on his authority, but from here on I was clearly on my own.

As if to illustrate my gloomy thoughts the drizzling rain turned suddenly to a determined shower. There was a little temple to the local river god nearby: not a large place, but it had a portico, and I hurried – together with the turnip-seller and a half a dozen other passers-by – under the shelter of its columns. I huddled up against a plinth and tried to think.

There was one obvious strategy to try, except that I sadly lacked the wherewithal. The purse that I carried at my belt, although containing all the money I possessed, was woefully light. My few miserable silver coins might have been enough to purchase information from a tavern-keeper, or buy a few extra moments with Marcus from a willing guard (which was why I had taken the precaution of bringing them) but I would need a good deal more than that for any serious attempt at bribery. Official doors were closed behind me now, and it would take a very wealthy man to prise them open even a crack.

But I had to do something for my patron if I could. The charge of murdering Praxus had been bad enough, but this new twist was more serious again. Suspected of a plot against the state! I could not, for the moment, see how Praxus’s death could be conceived of in this way, but I am not an expert in the law. Perhaps because his new appointment was an Imperial one, or simply because he was commander of the local force? Balbus would presumably know: not only was he schooled in civil law, but he must be familiar with military law as well – after all he had a brother who was a senior officer in Gaul and a candidate for senatorial rank in Rome. So there must be some legal foundation for the charge, or Balbus would never have permitted it. The cost of failure was too terrible – Marcus was an influential man.

If the case held, on the other hand, there were great rewards. A plot against the state was effectively three crimes at once, and any informant bringing a successful case was entitled to a share of the guilty party’s estate. I could see why Balbus would resort to it – or Mellitus, or anybody else.

As well as straightforward treachery, there was
maiestas
– offence against the Emperor’s majesty – one of the most effective tools for bringing any senior figure down. Also, since Commodus had officially declared himself a god, there was sacrilege as well. Any one of those crimes might carry the penalty of death, even for a man of high birth like my patron – or at the very least exile to a waterless island, which often came to the same thing. And our beloved Emperor was not noted for his clemency, especially towards those whom he suspected of plots against himself.

And it was all my fault. Why, oh why, had I opened my big mouth? If it had not been for my ‘perceptive observations’ the death of Praxus would surely have passed as an unhappy accident. Unfortunate for Marcus, as the host – acutely politically embarrassing – but nothing like as dangerous as what had happened now. And for the life of me I could not see how anyone but Marcus had had an opportunity to kill Praxus at the feast.

I was so wrapped in my own thoughts that I paid scant attention to the cloaked figure on the pavement opposite, not even when he stepped down from the kerb and headed towards our little group huddling underneath the portico. There was really no room for anybody else but still he came, picking his way fastidiously across the paving of the road, where the rain was already splashing up around his hems, and elbowed his way into what little space there was. There was a general murmuring but that was a military cloak and no one was disposed to make a fuss. I too kept my head down and shuffled up a bit, and it was not until he dropped his hood that I looked up in earnest and his eyes met mine.

It was the little secretary I had seen earlier.

I half opened my mouth to speak to him, but before I could utter a word he gaped at me, looked away, pulled his cloak-hood up again and was hastening away into the rain with the tic in his face twitching like a newly landed fish.

After a startled moment, I went after him. He was so keen to get away that I was sure he knew something he didn’t want to tell. He was a younger man than I was, and he was hurrying, so he had reached the Apollo fountain outside the fish market before I managed to catch up with him.

‘Officer!’ I panted, as I reached his side. He did not deserve the title, but a little courtesy never went amiss.

He stopped. I thought for a moment he would hurry off again, but he simply stood there in the rain and refused to meet my eyes. ‘What do you want? Why are you following me about?’ he said.

I did not manage an answer straight away – I was out of breath – but he scarcely gave me time in any case before he was saying with a righteous air, ‘If it is about your patron, there is nothing I can do. I told you what the garrison commander said.’