It was a clumsy phrase and our host had realised it. I could see that he was wavering. I cast my winning dice. ‘If he is a pavement-maker, let him show his skill. There are marble clips aplenty lying in the yard – let him set them to a pattern and show you how it’s done.’
I had expected that this challenge would cause the man unease, but he simply gave that chilling smile again. ‘I would be glad to do so, Lord Darturius,’ he said. ‘But I fear that I cannot. As you know, I have an injured hand.’ He waved the bandaged appendage as he spoke.
I felt that surge of furious rage again. ‘I don’t believe him. He has wrapped his hand on purpose. It is too convenient.’
‘You doubt me?’ My name-thief startled me by looking smug. ‘Then see it for yourself.’ He began unwrapping the binding from his hand. He did it carefully, as though it caused him pain – although he had shown no signs of it before. I watched, dismayed, as he eased the cloth away. ‘Convenient?’ he sneered. ‘Or are you going to claim that I did this purposely?’ He held the hand aloft.
It was horrible to look – clearly badly burned.
Darturius looked at me uncertainly. ‘Well? That seems genuine enough.’
I nodded, speechless with defeat. There was no more I could offer.
But the imposter had another trick in store. ‘I fear I cannot meet your challenge, slave,’ he said, with careful emphasis upon the final word. ‘But if Darturius would like to see a sample of my work, I have one with me for business purposes. I hope to find commissions while I am in Gaul.’ He gestured to the page still standing at his back. ‘Rebind my hand for me.’ And then, imperiously, to Paigh, ‘Fetch my servant, have him bring the samples here.’ The young Celt hurried off.
While the page was bandaging, Darturius turned to me saying, in Celtic, ‘If he can produce mosaics, you have not proved your case. I confess that I would prefer your story to be true – the fellow is presumptuous and ill-bred, but he has the advantage of the documents, and official seals must be honoured …’ He broke off as the dark-haired slave came hurrying in.
I was right in my suspicions, this was the massage-slave. I was now sure my warrant-tablet had been tampered with. But again, it was impossible to prove, and of course they would deny it. I simply said aloud, ‘I’ve seen this man before.’
‘Of course you have,’ my namesake said at once. ‘We were escorting you, until that final mansio, when your gig lagged behind us and so missed the tide. My Lord Darturius, how much longer must I endure this insolence? I am Libertus – and my servant has the proof. Show him, Maximus.’
Maximus! It was the name of a beloved slave of mine, now dead, and I was certain that the choice was quite deliberate – and new. I’d wager anything that his servant had not answered to it long. However a man is entitled to call his slave by any name he likes – and change it at a whim – and it is a common name for servants, anyway, so there could be no complaint. But the theft of my poor dead attendant’s name made me more angry than the misuse of my own.
I was so busy fuming that I almost failed to see what the slave was taking from its leather packaging and holding out for Darturius to see. But when I realised, it made me cry aloud.
‘Those are stolen. They belong to me …’ I trailed off as I recognised where they’d been stolen from. They were the tiny hand-sized samples that I had prepared especially for Loftus to take back with him – all those days ago – so that Acacius Flauccus could select the pattern for his new bathhouse floor. And there was only one place where they could have been since then – among the items in the tax-collector’s house. Proof positive that these two had been there recently – and once I had seen this, of course it all made sense. These were the murderers.
The courier would have told them that I was on the way, and that I was coming to the wedding afterwards. Perhaps they had begun by simply trying to escape, but when – by chance – they learned that I was stopping overnight at the self-same mansio where they had already sought to hide, they saw an opportunity to evade the authorities – not briefly – but for life. My travel warrant would see them safe to Gaul, and once there they would simply disappear, living a life of luxury on the stolen tax money.
I frowned. Perhaps that did not quite explain things, after all. My travel warrant had been falsified, to say that I was this pretended slave. And then it dawned on me. Acacius Flauccus had a travel warrant too – of course he must have done. A proper warrant, given under seal – probably an impressive-looking scroll – identifying the bearer as a servant of the state, which would take the owner anywhere and make my prized wax version look insignificant.
‘Well?’ I realised that Darturius had been addressing me.
I shook my head and began to stumble out my tale, but the false Libertus interrupted me.
‘My lord, these accusations are ridiculous. Of course we were in Uudum – I solved the suicide. But these samples came from Glevum; I am taking them to Gaul. Unhappily I am due to go there very soon, and during Saturnalia all the courts are closed, so I cannot bring a formal charge against this man, or hand him over to the authorities. I will have to ask you to do that in my stead. In the meantime, make an end to this. Either find for him – and decide that I am lying when I show your proofs – or find that he’s the perjurer when he brings you none.’
‘I have no choice …’ Darturius began, but at that moment Paigh came in again and made a signal that he wished to speak. He approached his master and whispered in his ear.
Darturius nodded and looked round with a smile. ‘Perhaps we can put this matter beyond doubt. My messenger has just arrived from Glevum now. He has waited on Marcus Septimus at his country house on several occasions very recently, and he agrees that the real Libertus was once there as well, though he can’t – at this distance – describe what he was like. But we shall have him in. If he can identify either one of you, we shall have our answer. Will you fetch him, Paigh.’
‘He’s at the door,’ Paigh said, in Latin, and he showed in the messenger.
I almost cried out with relief. It was the sulky boy.
Darturius beckoned him. ‘Do not be afraid. We simply need your help. These men both claim to be Libertus.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘If you recognise anyone as the man that you have seen, tell us and there may be a reward.’
The messenger looked doubtfully at me and then at the imposter, but he did not speak.
‘You must remember me,’ I urged him. ‘I saw you at the villa, very recently. You were kept waiting in the atrium, while Marcus and his family were outside in the court. And a little later in the lane, you galloped past me when I was walking with my slave.’
To my dismay the courier shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, master. What he says may well be true, but I was only interested in the task I had to do. I was anxious lest I get benighted on the road – I didn’t pay attention to anybody else. I cannot pretend I recollect the face. Or that man either,’ he indicated the pretender as he spoke. ‘But this one,’ he pointed at the dark-haired slave, ‘I have seen before. In the slave room at His Excellence’s villa, I believe, although I can’t be sure of that. But certainly I’ve seen him – or someone very like. I hope that helps you, master?’
And of course it did. Darturius shook his head and turned to me. ‘A clever story, steward, and a bold attempt. You almost had me duped. But now, I fear, there is no help for it. You’ve made false accusations in front of witnesses and that is something which I can’t ignore. Despite the insult to his Excellence, I cannot permit my daughter to accept you as a gift. As soon as she is wed, I shall take you to the slave market myself.’
‘But there are other crimes, as well,’ the false Libertus said. ‘Being a runaway, impersonating a citizen, and refusing an order from a guest. All of which is proved. More than enough to call the torturers and have him flogged to death.’
Darturius looked at him with ill-disguised contempt. ‘I have said that I will sell him. And he will be punished for disobeying you, if you insist.
That is my decision, citizen. He was a gift to me, and if I choose not to formally accuse him further, that is my right as owner, I believe. This way he will have time and reason to repent.’
I was about to speak – hardly knowing whether to thank him or protest – but he held up a hand to silence me. ‘Enough. This is my daughter’s wedding-eve and I have spent sufficient time on other things. I must now go to her. You Paigh, take this miscreant away and lock him up – with his young companion, since there is no other cell. Tomorrow I shall dispose of him as well – by handing him back to the authorities. Citizen Libertus, make my home your own. I will have you called for cena. Until then, farewell.’
And with that he turned and left the room, followed politely by the messenger.
There was a silence, and Aigneis tiptoed in, from the inner corridor. ‘I have been listening,’ she murmured in her native tongue to Paigh. ‘So it was decided that the steward was a fraud?’
‘I am almost sorry,’ Paigh replied. ‘Except that it means that I shall be your attendant after all. In the meantime, I must lock this slave away.’
Aigneis shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m rather sorry, too. Gnaeus was most impressed by the way he served last night. And now he’s to be sold and will not be seen again. I suppose he has a name?’
I did not answer. What answer could I make?
‘Citizen Libertus?’ she insisted – not addressing me. ‘You were the one who brought him here. What does he answer to?’
The pretender looked startled and seemed to be considering a name, but it was his dark-haired attendant who replied.
‘He was to be your servant, call him what you like. Think of something interesting – Venibulus, perhaps. Now, if you will excuse us?’ He led his master out, followed by Aigneis and the little page.
I stood like an idiot, staring after them. And then – at long, long last – I saw what I should have realised hours ago, and the last pieces of mosaic slotted into place.
Too late! For there was no one I could tell. Even Paigh refused to listen. He was in a hurry to attend the rituals. He seized my arm and, despite my efforts to explain my thoughts, he hustled me out, down the steps and over to a hut, smaller than the dye-house where I’d been before. There, without another word, he pushed me in, locked the door and left me in the dark.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Trinculus was already in there; I could hear him whimpering my name. This was clearly the detention hut for wayward slaves. As soon as my eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, I groped my way over and huddled close to him.
‘Citizen? Thank all the gods you’re safe,’ he murmured, with such heartfelt relief that I felt touched – and guilty, too. I had been so busy with my own concerns that I’d scarcely thought of him. ‘They’ve not mistreated you?’
‘I have fared a great deal better than you have, I suspect,’ I replied. I might have been treated as a slave, but I was well-clothed, and last night had slept and eaten well – though I was hungry now. He’d been locked in semi-darkness all that time, probably with bread and water as his only meal – and from what little I could see, still in a skimpy Celtic tunic with my damp cloak over him. And it was unlikely that matters would improve.
I tried to cheer him, as much as possible, by pointing out the only merits of our present plight. The hut was dry and – though smelly and certainly not warm – there was none of the dank and stinking chill that many cells exude. There was even, when one was used to it, the faintest hint of daylight filtering through thatch. But he was not comforted.
‘What do you suppose they mean to do with us?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’ It was not entirely a lie. I knew but could not tell him – it would cause distress. Instead I changed the subject. ‘But I think I do know why we find ourselves in this predicament. Did they tell you that there’s a person here pretending to be me, and insisting that I am just a slave, sent as a wedding gift from Marcus to the bride?’
‘What!?’ I heard my companion gasp, and then – less tactfully, ‘but why? It’s not as if you were a wealthy man of rank.’
He had a point, of course. There were stories circulating all round the Empire, of people arriving at the Imperial court with false identities, claiming favours and high posts, because – with three different Emperors in a single year – there were so many newcomers in Rome that personal networks could no longer vouch for everyone. But this was different. ‘If I’d been more wealthy the ruse might not have worked. I’m just obscure enough. We are playing-pieces in a very clever game – played by one of the cleverest minds I ever met.’
I felt a thin hand in the darkness reach for mine. ‘So who is this imposter? And how could he pretend that he was you?’
‘He tampered with my documents and produced his own.’ I outlined my theory of when this had occurred.
‘You’re not suspicious of Crassus Posthumous? But why? You said that he was on the curia. Has he fallen out of favour, like your poor patron, and been trying to evade exile?’
I shook my head, although he couldn’t see. ‘I was wrong about my patron, he is safe and well. And this man was not a councillor at all. Just a slave from Glevum – though he had not always been a slave. I think I know his story. His father’s business failed – horses, I believe: my informant told me they could not be made to pay – and the whole family was sold to slavery to repay the debts. Freeborn Latins, too.’
Trinculus drew his hand away. ‘So how can he be here? If he were a runaway, the army would have heard – there is always a tremendous search – and even in Uudum we would have been put on alert. And how could I have figured in his plans? No one in Glevum has ever heard of me – though he might have some reason for selecting you.’
‘He didn’t. It was nothing personal,’ I said. ‘Simply that we happened to present ourselves. That is the nature of his cleverness – he can grasp an opportunity and make a plan at once, and then be quite ruthless in his pursuit of it. He has a talent for instant strategy, and a courage so reckless no one dreams what he has done. It was only when he gave a perfect description of the colonia to me, and I saw his damaged hand, that I realised who he was. He was right in one respect – he was wasted as a slave. He would have made a splendid general.’
Trinculus wriggled and I sensed that he had turned towards me in the gloom. ‘A damaged hand? So what, exactly, do you think he did?’
‘In the beginning,’ I said, ‘I think he simply saw a chance to “die” – and quite heroically – when there was a fire at his master’s house. I doubt he set the blaze deliberately – he could not have predicted how far and fast it spread – though once it started he may have encouraged it to burn: there was mention of vats of oil having been upturned. Either way, there were several people killed: some of the kitchen staff were never found, and three important guests were overcome by smoke – so he, the steward, rushed back in to “help” and perished in the act.’
‘But surely that was a noble thing to do?’
‘Only, of course, he did nothing of the kind.’ I laughed at his inability to grasp it, even now. ‘He had seen an opportunity to disappear, in such a way that there would never be a search. He feigned his death, of course. I think he found a body that was already dead – probably the kitchen slave who was “never found” – and dragged it to close to where the dead patricians lay. Then he put his own insignia on it and set the corpse on fire, having drenched it with oil so it would be entirely destroyed. I should have realised, when I first heard the tale, that something was amiss. How could the councillors be simply “overcome by smoke”, when the steward’s body – lying next to them, and coming afterwards – was burned away to ash?’
‘But everyone believed that it was him, because the ring survived?’ Trinculus had begun to understand.
‘More than that,’ I said. ‘I think it wore his slave collar as well. I believe he forced the drawer or cupboard where the keys were kept. As a steward he would know exactly where they were locked away. Probably t
he hiding-place was already well on fire, and that’s why no one thought to check the contents afterwards. I suspect he coolly braved the flames to seize the keys – certainly he burned his right hand horribly – so he could rid himself of the slave collar which betrayed his name and who his owner was.’
‘And paused in a burning building to put it on a corpse? You really think so, citizen? He would have run the risk of being killed himself.’
‘It can’t have been near the centre of the flames – the other corpses were not damaged by the fire, and by then the wind had cleared the smoke away. It took a cool head and utter ruthlessness,’ I said. ‘But after that he could rush out into the street by a side-gate and lose himself with ease. It was dark by then. Lots of people would be scurrying about – too occupied with trying to put out the fire to pay much attention to anybody else. And no one would be seeking him. He was – apparently – accounted for.’
There was a silence as Trinculus considered this. ‘I can see how that might work. But it was dangerous.’
‘He was not working entirely alone,’ I said. ‘He had the assistance of a relative – another slave – who caused a distraction by panicking the horse and letting it escape. It may be that the steward captured it and rode it out of town. They were good with horses. It was the family trade.’
‘So two of them escaped?’
‘Not then, but af—’I began – but my companion clutched my arm.
‘There is someone coming. Listen! Footsteps!’ He was whispering.
I listened, but my untrained ears could not detect what he had heard. The soldier, though, was right. A moment later there was a rattle at the door, the latch clicked open and a ray of light burst in – so bright and sudden that it blinded me.
When I had rubbed my eyes and half-regained my sight, I made out the figure who was standing there. It was the dark-haired slave, to my surprise, and he was carrying a bucket and a hunk of bread.
The Price of Freedom Page 24