The Price of Freedom

by Rosemary Rowe

I was amused to see that Scarface had worked that out himself, because the smirk had vanished and the long-suffering air was back. ‘Naturally, citizen. Whatever you command. If you would be good enough to wait?’ He set off scowling in the direction of the archway opposite.

  I waited, though a little nervously. What could the mansionarius want? He would hardly require me to delay, merely to enquire if I’d enjoyed my stay. Then an uncomfortable notion came to me. True, I was not a member of the military class but, as Marcus’s representative, surely no one was expecting me to pay? If so, there was going to be some real embarrassment – my patron had not given me sufficient wherewithal.

  I was still considering how – if necessary – I could get them to send the bill to Marcus (and how he was likely to react, when he learned that he was paying, not the basic rate, but for luxury lodgings and the commander’s special meal) when Scarface reappeared.

  ‘The mansionarius is free to see you now. I am to take you to him and assist you with your luggage – if you require my help.’

  ‘I would be glad of it.’ I gave him a sweet smile. ‘The large one’s heavy.’

  It was awkward too, as I had cause to know, but he picked it up with practised ease (born of marching carrying a heavy kit, I suppose) and tucked my toga-package underneath his arm.

  ‘This way, citizen!’ and he led the way out, through the arch, into what was obviously official quarters at the back. The mansionarius was sitting in a little room at a handsome table-desk, scribbling something on a sheet of bark-paper. The door was open and he looked up as we approached, waved the orderly to put my parcels on the floor and rose to meet me with a courteous bow. There was no smile this morning, though – indeed, he looked concerned. I steeled myself for an outrageous bill.

  ‘I trust that everything was to your satisfaction, citizen?’

  I glanced at Scarface, who was hovering at the door. ‘I will be sure to commend you to his Excellence.’ I was about to add that any bill should be sent in that direction, too, when the mansionarius interrupted me.

  ‘In that case, citizen, I’m sorry that I have to spoil the last moments of your stay. But there’s been unpleasant news. I know that your intention is to travel south, so I feel must tell you what I might otherwise be tempted to conceal, at least until the army have found the men responsible.’

  I frowned. ‘The affair at Uudum?’ News of the tax collector’s death was certain to have spread, but I had expected the gossip to be all about the gambling and the shame. ‘That was reported to be suicide. Are you suggesting that there might be other “men responsible”?’

  The mansionarius looked puzzled, then gave me a grim smile. ‘Ah, that publicanus who hanged himself! A dreadful business, gambling with the tax – and, of course, you’re on your way there to investigate. Your driver was boasting of it, to the stable-slaves. But I wasn’t talking about that unfortunate affair. This is something much more pressing, I’m afraid. An Imperial rider has arrived this morning with alarming news. The fact is, there’s been a traveller found dead on the road.’

  ‘A person of importance?’ It would have to be, of course, for the authorities to take an interest. There are so many corpses to be found beside the country roads that little official attention is generally paid – especially in the winter, when supplies are scarce: every year there are dozens of the poor who succumb to age or cold or hunger or disease. (Matters, of course, are different in the town – there corpses are disposed of in the common pit before they stink and become a threat to public health.) ‘Not another tax official, by all the gods?’ I added.

  ‘Nothing so exalted,’ the mansionarius said. ‘A curial servant by the look of him. A courier perhaps, since he was discovered miles from anywhere, though he’s been half-stripped and beaten, and if he had a horse, it’s gone.’

  ‘That might have been the motive for the attack, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps!’ He gave me a curious look. ‘But I would be failing in my duty if I did not warn you that there may be thieves about, and urge you and your driver to take especial care. Rebels possibly, from the condition of the corpse …’

  ‘Druids?’ I heard the quaver in my voice. So that was it! I am a Celt myself, but the thought of Druid rebels made my blood run cold.

  Everyone in Glevum knew about these men. Celtic outlaws, who still refused to recognise the rule of Rome, operating out of caves and forest hideaways – ambushing convoys to obtain supplies and generally harassing the conquerors. Most had embraced Druidism, the forbidden religion (even if – like me – they were not born to it) as a defiant act, and had taken to making a ritual exhibition of any soldiers who fell into their hands. They took no prisoners, though they might permit one person to survive, to stagger half-witless to the nearest garrison burbling of terrible atrocities: victims were not simply killed, but hacked to death, beheaded, and dangled naked from the trees – to be mocked by spectators and pecked at by the crows – while their heads were ritually hung on oaks in sacred groves, as trophies and grisly sacrifices to the gods.

  This was the unenviable fate of this poor courier, it seemed. I sympathised, of course – but that was not the reason I was being told. Civilians, too, might meet a grisly death if they were perceived as allies of the occupying power. By wearing a toga, for instance – the very badge of the Roman citizen – and driving in a fancy Roman gig, with a cargo of more togas and expensive golden plate! Not to mention carrying a Latin document identifying the bearer as the representative of the most important Roman magistrate for miles! Never mind that I was a Celtic nobleman by birth, I could not have advertised myself more totally as a potential target for any lurking rebel with murderous intent.

  ‘Druids?’ I repeated, quavering.

  The mansionarius looked solemnly at me. ‘I’m afraid that’s what it looks like, citizen. The body has been … well, let us say, it’s not been left intact.’

  Mutilated, then, exactly as I’d feared. And I was about to drive that very route myself. ‘But I thought the army had dispersed the rebels now?’ I blurted, as though argument would alter anything. ‘Forced them to melt off into the Silurian forests to the west?’

  ‘And so they largely have. There’s been no attack like this for moons. But – I tell you from experience with the Quadi in Germanica – wherever Pax Romana is forcibly restored, there are always one or two pockets of resistance that remain, and a few determined malcontents who carry on the fight. And this looks like rebel work. Only Druids mutilate a corpse like that. Besides, who else would want to murder a curial courier? A person of no particular account, except that his owners were Roman councillors? He could not have been carrying anything of value, or there would have been a guard.’

  Not necessarily, I thought, remembering Acacius Flauccus’s attitude to that, but I said nothing except, ‘When did this happen?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s not altogether clear. The Imperial rider was alerted by a goatherd on the road, early this morning while he was riding here. The boy had found the victim lying in a ditch and recognised the uniform as an important one – but it is not clear how long the body had been there. Not very long he thinks – it’s hacked about so it is hard to tell.’

  ‘No other witnesses at all?’

  ‘Our rider could not stop to make enquiries, the Imperial Post must get through urgently. He just dismounted and made a swift inspection of the corpse. At first he was inclined to seize the boy and bring him in on suspicion of the crime, but he quickly recognised that it was rebel handiwork, so he left him there on guard and galloped on to report all this to me, while he paused to change his horse. He’ll alert the garrison at Glevum when he gets there, too, of course. All local legionary outposts will be notified, and security increased.’

  I was following a different train of thought. ‘You say the goatherd recognised the uniform as an important one? The victim wasn’t stripped?’

  ‘No cloak or shoes, apparently – but a slave disc round his neck. The goatherd couldn’t
read it, but the rider did. Identified the wearer as “Venibulus, the servant of Silvanus Publicus, the councillor” with the usual instructions to send him back, if found. Presumably from Glevum, though we can’t be sure. Though clearly a town that’s big enough to have a curia. Unless …?’ He looked enquiringly at me.

  I was frowning slightly. Silvanus Publicus? Wasn’t there something that I should recall? I mentally rehearsed the names of councillors I knew. I shook my head. ‘I can’t enlighten you. Though that does not mean he’s not a member of the Glevum curia. I do not know them all.’ (I was acquainted with very few of them, in fact, apart from the ones that I’d had dealings with, or those that Marcus entertained from time to time. Doubtless as a duumvir, I’d soon know them all too well.) ‘But thank you for your warning. We shall take especial care. Unfortunately, though, we’ll have to journey on. I am commissioned by my patron to investigate this suicide at Uudum, among other things.’

  He gave me that peculiar sideways look again. ‘That is the very reason why I wished to speak to you. Word is being sent to Glevum, as I said before – but meantime I shall have to check on this report and send a party out to search the countryside, to see if there is any trace of where these rebels went. But I have limited resources.’ He dropped his gaze and fiddled with the ink-flask on his desk. ‘I’m told that you assist your patron with unpleasant incidents and have a reputation for noting things which might otherwise be missed – and that you have dealt with rebel raids before.’

  ‘How …?’ I began, but the words died on my lips. Victor had clearly been bragging to the mansio slaves again. I would have words with him about it, I thought bitterly.

  But the mansionarius was speaking. ‘Would you be prepared to travel with my men and advise them of any indications you observe?’ He looked up, hopefully. ‘It would have the advantage of giving you an armed escort, too.’

  Put like that it was a difficult proposition to refuse. So it was that a little later on, I ensconced myself and parcels safely in the gig, and waited while a pair of soldiers formed up either side, and an ox-cart was fetched from somewhere to bring the body back.

  The commander of this little band – a blond-haired auxiliary officer, who scarcely seemed old enough to be an optio – came up beside the gig to introduce himself.

  ‘My name is Hippophilus, citizen. I’ll be in charge of you. Please instruct your driver not to drive too fast, but allow us to form a phalanx round you at all times.’

  I boggled. I had expected cavalry – or horsemen, at the least. This was going to slow our progress very much, with the added disadvantage of the fact that the presence of the army made us more of a target for an ambush than we’d been before.

  Hippophilus – a curious nickname, since he had no horse – seemed to read my thoughts. ‘My men are trained fighters, fully armed and on alert. Do not worry, we shall march at military pace. It is for your protection. The road runs through miles of forest, south of here. A perfect place for rebels to attack.’

  How encouraging! And there were so few soldiers in the escort, too. But there was no escaping it. A barked command brought one last man to climb up on the cart, and I was actually relieved to see Scarface running out, and strapping on a sword. Not that he was likely to be much use in a fight – he was reaching retirement age and hampered by his wounds – but it was an extra pair of eyes, though it left the mansio without an orderly. Obviously this expedition was making huge demands on the available manpower of the place.

  ‘Ready, citizen?’ Hippophilus did not wait for a reply. He was already ordering his troops to march. The cart behind us lurched into motion, too.

  Victor raised his eyebrows expressively at me.

  ‘Just try not to run them over, or knock them in the ditch,’ I said. ‘And next time we stop somewhere overnight – be careful what you say! It’s your fault I’ve been co-opted into this patrol – you and your boasting!’

  ‘I’m sorry, citizen,’ he said but he did not look contrite. ‘I only told them what my master says of you.’ He flicked the reins and clicked his tongue to signal to the horse, and we were on our way.

  NINE

  Our party was now travelling at walking pace – or rather at a brisk, quick march. As Hippophilus had promised, he had his soldiers (since they were not carrying their kit) moving at the faster official rate and the following ox-cart was struggling to keep up with them. However, our gig-mare – accustomed to dashing everywhere as fast as possible – was unsettled and wayward at this change of pace. She skittered sideways, pawed the ground and kept throwing up her head as if in protest at our sluggishness, or perhaps she was nervous of the sharp pikes close to her. Either way, for a little while it took all of Victor’s skills to keep us on the road, but gradually he soothed the animal, and coaxed her to obey the rein and settle to a walk.

  Hippophilus was right about the countryside. A mile or two south of the mansio the farmsteads disappeared and we were deep in woods. Really deep – the forest hereabouts was very thick – with wisps of mist lingering among the trees where the thin winter sun had not managed to break through. The sort of place that any self-respecting rebel would choose for an attack. I was acutely aware that though our escort was well-armed and trained, the rebels were often just as handsomely equipped – with Roman weapons from patrols like ours, whose previous owners suddenly did not need them any more.

  It was not a comfortable thought and I found myself peering anxiously to either side. It was tempting to forget my promise to the mansionarius and simply order Victor to drive swiftly on. However, I managed to suppress my nervousness and remind myself that the place we sought – although said to be remote – must at least be closer than the next official inn, or the Imperial rider would not have made his first report to us. That meant that we should reach it in less than twenty miles.

  Supposing that we found the spot at all. I had begun to worry that it might be difficult, and we would have to spend time loitering to search. The roadside verges here were overgrown with ferns and brambles and the ditches full of fallen leaves, so a body half-concealed there might be hard to spot, especially in the mist. And no doubt the goatherd – if he had any sense – would have departed long ago.

  Or so I thought. In fact, the location would have been difficult to miss.

  We rounded a corner and there in a foggy dip, we knew we’d found the place. The goatboy was very much in evidence, as were his animals, which were roaming in a swarming gaggle up and down the road, and munching on the ghostly bushes half-visible either side. The result was a kind of living roadblock – quite as effective as the piles of wood and stones that the army is known to use.

  I say ‘effective’, because – to my surprise – discernible beyond the animals there was a group of people standing in the fog. Half-a-dozen early travellers, by the look of it, clearly impatient at the enforced delay: a pair of itinerant sellers of turpentine and pitch, a peddler with a mule, and what seemed to be a local peasant and his sons, who were armed with sticks and now fully occupied in guarding their laden farm-cart from the attentions of a couple of interested goats.

  The goatboy saw us coming and advanced out of the mist. He stalked into the roadway, planted his staff as though it were a spear and raised his hand to us, for all the world like a company commander halting an advance. He was thin, barefoot and ragged and not especially clean, and could hardly have been much more than twelve years old, but he had the swagger of a person twice his age. His pure effrontery was astonishing, but – amazingly – it worked. Hippophilus exchanged a startled glance with several of his men, but there was no roar of protest. He simply brought them immaculately to a stop. And then did nothing else but look at me.

  He obviously expected that I’d do the questioning. I was not prepared for this – usually the army like to be in charge of interrogations – but I murmured a command and Victor drew the gig up a pace or two ahead, where I could lean down and talk to the goatboy easily.

  ‘You’re the lad tha
t found the body?’ I enquired. That seemed an appropriate beginning to the interview. ‘The Imperial rider brought us word.’

  ‘That’s right, citizen.’ The Latin was appalling, but the sense was clear. ‘I was ordered to remain and guard the corpse till reinforcements came.’ He looked at our escort with an appraising eye. ‘Is that all they have sent?’

  ‘You were anticipating more?’ I asked him, switching to my native tongue. The local dialects are different from my own, but I can generally make my Celtic understood.

  The boy shot an appraising look at me. With my entourage I must have appeared Roman through and through, but I did have a Celtic birrus over my Roman dress. After a moment he relaxed and answered, in the same language. ‘The Imperial rider thought that rebels were involved and this—’ he used his staff to gesture to the ditch – ‘was some sort of official messenger. He said the murder was an outrage against the Roman state. I was expecting half a garrison.’

  From the gig I had a view of the spot he’d pointed to. The body was lying face down, halfway in the ditch, his bare feet uppermost. His arms and shoulders had been cruelly hacked about and his gold and purple tunic – the mark of a servant of the curia – was stained with blood and slashed from shoulder-seam to hem. No doubt the reason why the rebels hadn’t stolen it, I thought. The head was missing, which was as horrible as I’d expected it to be, and cutting into the plump flesh around the stump of neck a slave disc collar was plainly visible.

  I was glad of the excuse to avert my gaze from him, and look hard at the surrounding ditch instead, in case there was any evidence it might offer us – but if there had been trampled foliage (which might have indicated how many attackers there had been) the goats and their keeper – and no doubt the Imperial Post rider too – had tramped all over it. However, the muddy area below the body was stained with half-dried blood, as though there had been pools of it and they had seeped away – rather as a newly-butchered carcass in a market is hung up and left to drain out through the neck. I swallowed hard and looked away again.