The Price of Freedom

by Rosemary Rowe

  ‘On second thoughts, perhaps I’d better give that to your guide. I should not like to see it disappear into the marsh.’ He snatched it from me and gave it to the youth, who placed it in his shoulder-pouch without a word. The bear-grin reappeared. ‘No doubt there would have been a little accident, but I’m too clever to allow that, as you see.’

  And that was all. The guard had turned his back and was now ignoring us, conspicuously talking to the inn-slave with the pail. I took a step towards him, but was tugged urgently away by the young Celt who had propped his spear against the wall and produced from his knapsack a length of hempen rope. As I watched he tied one end of it securely round his waist and was making signals that I should raise my arms.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Must, must,’ he urged, impatiently.

  ‘I am a free man and I will not be bound,’ I answered, using my native tongue. ‘I am not a prisoner, I am a citizen and your master – I assume Darturius is your master? – is expecting me.’

  He looked at me a moment, with a puzzled look, then his face relaxed and he replied in the same tongue, ‘As to your being a Roman citizen, that’s none of my affair. You look and sound exactly like a Celt. But certainly my master is expecting you. Though you need fear no harm from me. This rope is to guide you and keep you on the path. The route is dangerous at this time of day. If you should slip or lose your footing and be overtaken by the waves, I have a means to pull you safely back before the mud can suck you down. And believe me, traveller, you might well be glad of it. Two or three strangers are drowned here every year.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, humbly. I raised my arms obediently and allowed him to affix a loop around my waist. The action required him to pull back my cloak, and my tunic slipped from my shoulder.

  ‘You had a slave brand here?’ he said, as he replaced my cloak. The tone was casual, but I thought I detected a hint of fellow-feeling in his eyes.

  ‘Once!’ I saw an opportunity to gain – if not a friend – at least a sympathetic listener, so I gave him a quick outline of my life, stressing that I was a chieftain in my tribe, before I was captured and sold to slavery. ‘I was freed by my last master who had me taught a trade and also bequeathed me the rank of citizen – so I had the brand removed.’ I hazarded a smile. ‘But I heard the guard describe you as a slave – so I assume that you were a victim of something of the kind yourself. Though you seem to bear no brand?’

  I phrased this carefully, in an attempt at tact. Celts have slaves, of course, especially nowadays – but rarely fellow Celts. Unless the status was inherited (and the lack of a slave brand here suggested otherwise) traditionally such slaves were captives, spoils of war, but the guide was far too young for that. There’s not been tribal conflict of that kind for many years – not since the Pax Romana was enforced.

  The youth was not offended. ‘I’m not a slave by birth. I am bound to Darturius in payment of a debt. He even calls me Paigh.’ The last word was bitter. ‘Paigh’ – meaning payment – bore a grudge. That might be a useful thing to know if things did not go smoothly when we reached the house.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Trinculus enquired, piteous with fright. ‘And why is he tying you?’

  I hurried to explain the dangers (though not translating the rest of what was said) and Trinculus, once he understood, was positively anxious to be secured himself.

  ‘It is as well that my patron did not come himself,’ I said, speaking in Latin for Trinculus’s sake, as Paigh expertly knotted the rope around his frame, avoiding the weals and bruises where he could. ‘He would not have willingly submitted to this indignity.’

  Paigh shot me a look as he tugged his knot to test it would not slip. ‘Like yesterday. Two other visitors – they want to take their coach. No good tell them it would down in mud. But in the end …’ He gestured at his club. ‘I make them understand.’ He gave a final tug and stood up, satisfied. ‘Now we ready, go.’ He shouted this in the direction of the guard, who came across at once.

  ‘Before come quick the tide!’ the soldier hooted, laughing immoderately at his own wit. He used his spear to shepherd us outside onto the road and turned to me. ‘Farewell, my so-called citizen. And your famous soldier-slave!’ He raised a horizontal arm in mock salute. ‘Quickest, quickest so no death by swim!’ And, still laughing heartily, he closed the gate on us.

  I looked apprehensively towards our guide. Where was he taking us? There seemed to be nothing but the empty road and the lonely salt marsh stretching out towards the sea.

  But Paigh was smiling cheerfully. He turned to Trinculus who, under the bruising, was pale with pain and fright. ‘Come quick, while dry the way!’

  With that he marched straight across the road, and began to lead us firmly out towards the marsh.

  TWENTY-THREE

  There was a clear track – though it had not been visible from the road – a causeway of baulks of timber driven down into the mud, leading through the reeds and swamp across the inlet to the headland opposite.

  Paigh looked at me, and said in Celtic, ‘Don’t you wish to take your shoes off first?’

  I glanced at the slimy causeway, on which weed was flourishing, and decided that wet leather would be a wiser choice. I shook my head, and we moved on again. But we had not gone a hundred paces before the reason for the question, and the need for haste, became alarmingly – and abruptly – obvious.

  Ahead the way was being lapped by water either side, where a moment earlier there was only glistening mud, and further on again the causeway was disappearing as we watched. With each incoming wavelet (and every ongoing step) the visible track was getting narrower, until very soon there was no dry ground at all and we were wading ankle-deep between little muddy islands of seagrass and tall reeds. I glanced uncertainly at Paigh.

  ‘The river – or the tide, I suppose – is running very fast. And it’s carrying so much salt and sludge with it, that soon it won’t be possible to see which way the causeway lies,’ I said, implying that I was ready to retreat and concede that our crossing would have to be delayed, but our guide continued to stride confidently on, only pausing now and then to sound the water with his spear.

  ‘Don’t worry, traveller. I can take my bearings from those rocks—’ he indicated some which were only half-submerged – ‘and from the buildings on the headland opposite.’ He gestured vaguely, but I could not make out what he was pointing out.

  But a moment later I had other things to think about. I lost my footing on the slippery timbers – which I could no longer see – and found myself treading into sucking mud which tried to hold me fast. I could not withdraw my leg, and my panicked efforts to free it only made it worse, until I toppled entirely from the track. For a moment I had a vision of a dreadful death – sinking to my neck and drowning slowly as the waters rose, aware but totally unable to extricate myself. But the swift reaction of our guide, shouting to me to spread my weight onto the line allowed me to haul myself forward while he reeled me in. I was sincerely grateful for the rope, as my foot came free and I scrambled back to solid ground again.

  I did, however, lose my sandal in the mire, and was obliged to hobble from there forwards with my right foot bare. I contemplated – too late – pulling off the other shoe to match, but for one thing I did not have Paigh’s hardy, hardened soles (treading on sharp shells was bad enough, but sinking into slimy weed was truly horrible) and for another he would not let me pause.

  ‘Too dangerous. People who linger can be taken by the tide and if I lose the markers we may wander from the path – and you’ve already witnessed how the mud can suck you down. And here the rising water is deeper than it looks.’ To illustrate he raised his sounding-spear and brought it down a little to one side, changing his grip to hold it near the prongs: it went so deep it almost disappeared. Paigh turned and grinned at me. ‘So let us press on quickly, there is not much time.’

  I needed no persuasion after that and nor did Trinculus, who had understood even without my hav
ing to translate. He was clearly terrified. He was in any case at greatest risk, since he was the smallest of us all – barely the four cubits which is the army minimum – and the water, which had almost reached my knees, was in danger of lapping to his thighs.

  I was becoming concerned for him, in fact. The tide was moving even quicker now, and – though in general he had surprising strength for such a skinny frame – his recent beating had clearly weakened him and the surge seemed likely to pull him off his feet. Paigh noticed too and made urgent signs to him to shorten the length of rope that connected him to me, but the boy seemed incapable of understanding what to do, so in the end I did it: winding the slack around my hand and binding him so close that I could hold his arm. After that he clung desperately to me.

  His weight against me made my clumsy stumbling worse and I was really anxious now. Only Paigh seemed unconcerned. He went on ploughing doggedly ahead, and I suddenly realised that by degrees we were gaining on the flow and the water was down around my calves again. For the first time since my sandal-loss I dared to raise my head and look about to find that we had almost reached a beach and the headland was rising just ahead of us. And on it there was evidence of life. A smudge of smoke was rising to the sky and a range of buildings was clearly visible – centred around a handsome villa in the Roman style, though the huts and outbuildings surrounding it were of the Celtic type, being mostly round and thatched. Clearly this was the Darturius estate.

  I was about to say so, when I trod on something very sharp. I glanced down, automatically, to find that I had trodden on a shell – which I could see, because the water was only reaching to my ankles now. Relieved, I loosed the loop of line that I held in my hand, whereupon Trinculus promptly slipped off the causeway and sat down in the mud, almost pulling me over with him as he fell.

  As we pulled him, dripping to his feet, I said quietly to Paigh, ‘Surely there are other ways of getting to the house? I can’t believe all visitors are forced to wade like this. And how, for instance, do you manage for supplies?’

  The young Celt grinned, as he led us to dry land and loosened us from the rope. ‘Well, it is largely a question of when you choose to come. When the tide is at a stand we sometimes use a boat – though a coracle is not generally suitable for transporting passengers. Especially more than one!’

  I nodded. I had once been forced to travel in a coracle and it was not an experience I was eager to repeat. The thing was flimsy and unstable and threatened to capsize if I so much as stirred. I’ve never been so certain that I was going to drown – until today, that is. ‘So it’s easier to walk?’

  ‘You can drive a cart across, if you choose your time with care. That, of course, is how we move the salt.’ I must have looked astonished because he laughed aloud. ‘At the lowest tide it’s possible to walk across, dry-shod. Or one can ride a horse, if one possesses such a thing, like our visitors of yesterday. At some seasons one can even cross and have an hour or more to spare, but not, I fear, at this time of the year or this phase of the moon.’

  ‘But in between the household is marooned?’

  ‘Not quite. If need arises, or the weather’s terrible, we can go inland. There are other properties the far side of the rise. Both of them have better tracks than ours – though these are prone to flooding in the winter months. Unhappily for you, they do not lead this way – they are ancient ways that wind for miles and do not meet the military road. But they converge at Portus Abonae and the owners permit us to use them, sometimes, in return for salt.’

  ‘For salt? They don’t produce their own?’ I’d forgotten for the moment the need for licences.

  Paigh clearly hadn’t; he gave me a wicked look. ‘Not officially, in any case. But we can refine it properly and they cannot. Besides, my master’s lands are closest to the sea, so we get the best results. As you can see.’

  He gestured with the hand that held the fishing-spear and I realised that fringing the track ahead of us, on either side, were areas enclosed within a series of stone banks. From a distance I had taken them for fields, but on inspection I could see that the area was full of shallow pools, clearly the ‘salt ponds’ Marcus had spoken of.

  I stopped, interested to deduce how it was done. The ponds were clay-lined, by the look of it, constructed to allow the flood to enter them through sluices in the banks. Presumably this would slowly filter down, or else evaporate, leaving brine behind – I could see where that was drained off into a lower pit behind and the whole process was repeated several times.

  I’d never seen a saltern, though I’d heard of them. I called to my bruised and dripping friend. ‘See, Trinculus. This is where they make the salt.’

  It was an attempt to distract him from his woes, but to my surprise he seemed as interested as I had been, even standing on a projecting stone to get a better look. ‘Salt pans,’ he announced, as he got down again. ‘They have these things in Dacia, near where I was born. But here it must be difficult to do. In Britannia there’s not a lot of sun – it must be hard to get the salt completely dry.’ He had babbled this last in eager Latin – addressing it to Paigh.

  I translated and the Celtic servant laughed. ‘Tell the lad we do not even try. When the brine is really strong we scoop it out, strain it into metal vats – we call them salt pans, too, confusingly – put them in a kiln and light the fire. That dries it beautifully. And refines it too.’ He sounded half-amused. ‘You could not sell the product if you simply dried what’s here – there’s too much sediment and broken shell in it.’

  I explained all this in Latin, rather glad that Trinculus had asked, so I had not accidentally betrayed my own (much greater) ignorance. ‘But it’s a living for your master?’

  Paigh nodded. He had taken a pair of soft shoes from his pack and was now perching on the bank to put them on, having dried his legs a little with his tunic-hems. ‘And a good one too.’ The shoes were of a Celtic kind I recognised, cut from a single piece of leather, rounded at the toe and pulled tight by leather thongs. He rolled his trousers down, and secured the laces round his legs. ‘With sufficient profit to provide him a new kiln. And just look at the fine new villa he has built.’

  ‘Expensive,’ I agreed.

  Paigh laughed sourly as he coiled the rope into the bag. ‘Folly, I would call it, but Darturius is ambitious socially. He always wanted to have a Roman house, even if that meant he had to borrow heavily. He put up half the saltern as surety, but he’s not a total fool. When his partner dies it will revert entirely to him.’ He stood up and, grasping his fishing spear again, indicated that we should start walking up the hill. ‘This marriage of his daughter Aigneis seals that beyond a doubt.’ He sounded almost bitter, suddenly.

  ‘Meaning that’s she’s marrying the man who owns the debt?’ I said. I signalled to Trinculus to walk ahead of us, sensing that Paigh was quite content to talk.

  ‘Exactly so, my friend. And since she is his only marriageable child (he has another daughter but she is only six) both parties hope there will be issue very soon.’

  So that explained the strange alliance which had puzzled me. Not a love-match, as I had correctly guessed, but a way of securing the business for the family. ‘I hear the bridegroom is no longer young,’ I ventured, hoping for a smile. ‘It is to be hoped that he can still oblige.’

  The slave shot me a look. ‘He’s old enough to be her grandfather. But he’s a widower and lonely and has no living heirs. His wife and children died in Aquae Sulis of the plague. And he’s a Roman citizen, of course, so on her marriage Aigneis will take that rank, and any children will be born to it – something her father wanted, but could never have achieved. And if she’s left a widow – as one might expect, provided she survives the birth of any heir …’ He tailed off, with a shrug.

  I nodded. As a widow with the rank of citizen and a handsome dowry to her name, next time she might have the liberty to choose. ‘She is handsome?’

  He raised laconic brows at me. ‘Young and shapely, and that co
unts for much. But she is too clever for a woman, so her father says, a little too determined and indulged and, having no mother to instruct her, insufficiently adept at the spindle and the loom.’

  Wilful, plain and spoiled, by the sound of it. No doubt her family had despaired of finding her a husband nearer her own age. ‘So this wedding is probably a splendid thing all round?’

  ‘You can judge that for yourself. You’ll see her very soon.’ His tone was suddenly business-like and brisk. ‘Tell the boy to hurry, we are almost at the house and my instructions are to take you to my master straight away.’

  I gazed at him in horror. ‘But I have lost a shoe. My tunic’s dirty and my cloak is wet. I can’t greet my host like this. Give me a chance at least to have a wash and …’ I was about to say ‘and change’ but I realised that was now impossible. I shook my head. ‘I had a parcel of clean clothes back at the inn, but they would not let me bring it – thought it would be a hindrance while we crossed, perhaps. In the meantime perhaps a garment could be found for me? And even shoes, perhaps?’ I was almost doubtful about asking this. Celtic hospitality would demand that any need was met, even if Marcus’s name no longer earned respect.

  Paigh gave a mocking bow. ‘Indeed! And is there anything further you require?’

  I nodded at my little fellow traveller, who was trailing wretchedly along ahead. ‘Well, perhaps the same for Trinculus, too? I am prepared to pay for that. I have a little gold.’ I rattled the purse which I still carried at my belt. ‘And there would be a small reward for you.’

  Trinculus had recognised his name and glanced round hopefully, though he’d been excluded from the conversation until now. But Paigh’s whole attitude had changed and he was looking grim. Perhaps I’d insulted him by mentioning the gold, though I had meant it kindly. I assumed that he was saving to repay his father’s debt and secure his freedom as soon as possible.

  He was eyeing Trinculus rather doubtfully, as if considering what could be found to fit. ‘Something could be managed for him, I expect. It would look respectful, and it could do no harm, I suppose. Though it will be a servant’s tunic, that is all.’