A COIN FOR THE FERRYMAN
ROSEMARY ROWE
Copyright © 2007 Rosemary Aitken
The right of Rosemary Rowe to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2013
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 0513 1
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Also By
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Epilogue
About the Author
Rosemary Rowe is the maiden name of author Rosemary Aitken, who was born in Cornwall during the Second World War. She is a highly qualified academic, and has written more than a dozen bestselling textbooks on English language and communication. She has written fiction for many years under her married name. Rosemary has two children and also two grandchildren living in New Zealand, where she herself lived for twenty years. She now divides her time between Gloucestershire and Cornwall.
Also by Rosemary Rowe and available from Headline:
The Germanicus Mosaic
A Pattern of Blood
Murder in the Forum
The Chariots of Calyx
The Legatus Mystery
The Ghosts of Glevum
Enemies of the Empire
A Roman Ransom
A Coin for the Ferryman
To Joyce and Audrey,
who have encouraged me for so long.
Foreword
The book is set in the early part of AD 189. Most of Britain had been for nearly 200 years the most northerly outpost of the hugely successful Roman Empire: occupied by Roman legions, criss-crossed by Roman roads, subject to Roman laws and administered by a provincial governor answerable directly to Rome, where the increasingly unbalanced Emperor Commodus still wore the imperial purple – though his unpopular reign was soon to be brought abruptly to an end.
The Rome to which Marcus, in the story, is planning to return was not at this time a comfortable place. The Emperor’s excesses, capricious cruelties and lascivious lifestyle had become a legend throughout the Empire. The stories in the text concerning his taste for freaks and novelties (including the incident of serving up the dwarf) are derived from near-contemporary sources, and while this is of course no guarantee that these accounts are true, it does suggest that they were at least widely believed and circulated at the time.
Also attested is his fear of plots: an assassination attempt early in his career had made him suspicious of everyone surrounding him (with justification as it was later to appear) and a series of the most powerful men in Rome, including his chief advisers, had found themselves the victims of sudden paranoid distrust, stripped of power and executed (usually after a token trial, at which the Emperor himself officiated, of course). This had been the fate of successive holders of the prefecture of Rome – probably the most influential post in the Empire apart from the emperorship itself – leading to the promotion of others in their place. At the period when this book is set, the holder of the office was none other than a previous governor of Britannia, Pertinax, who in the story is a friend of Marcus’s.
Against this background of intrigue, Julia’s reluctance to travel to the imperial capital – one of the elements in the story – would have been quite justified. (I say ‘the imperial capital’ since Rome was not at this period legally called ‘Rome’. It had been restyled ‘Commodiana’ in honour of the Emperor, just as the names of the months had all been changed, so that each designation now derived from one of the numerous titles that he had given to himself, instead of from the pantheon of gods. This was not disrespect, he once explained, since he himself was a divinity: the living reincarnation of immortal Hercules.)
Of course for most of the inhabitants of Britain such political considerations were remote, and they were content to live their lives in the relative obscurity of provincial towns and villages. Celtic traditions, settlements and languages remained, especially in country areas, and one such Celtic farming household features in this tale.
Most towns, however, had adopted Roman ways. Latin was the language of the educated, and was widely used for trade (rather as English is in many places today), and Roman citizenship – with its legal, economic and social benefits – was the ambition of all. Citizenship was not at this time automatic, even for freeborn men, but a privilege to be earned – by those not fortunate enough to be born to it – usually by service to the army or to the Emperor, though it was possible for the slave of an important man to be bequeathed the coveted status, together with his freedom, on his master’s death. The son of a citizen was a citizen by right, as were those born free within the walls of a few specific towns (coloniae like Glevum, in particular) thanks to a recent imperial decree, but the huge majority of people did not qualify. To impersonate a citizen, when one was not, was still at this time a capital offence,
So, most ordinary people in Britannia were not citizens at all. Some were freemen, or freedmen, scratching a precarious living from trade or farm; thousands more were slaves, mere chattels of their masters with no more rights or status than any other domestic animal. Some slaves led pitiable lives, but others were highly regarded by their masters and might be treated well. Indeed, a slave in a kindly household, certain of food and clothing in a comfortable home, might have a more enviable lot than many a poor freeman struggling to eke out an existence in a squalid hut.
None the less, freedom was the dream of every slave, and there were various methods of achieving it – a process generally known as manumission. The most common way was through the master’s will – as in Libertus’s own case – but there were other methods too, several of which are mentioned in the text.
The most formal of these, vindicta – so called after the wand that was used in the ceremony, and from which our word ‘vindicated’ derives – was a complicated procedure: a fictitious lawsuit before the magistrates, claiming essentially that the slave was really free. The plea had to be brought by someone w
ho did not own the slave, and not contested by the man who did. (There is some evidence that slaves were notionally sold on, so that the master could bring the case on their behalf – as here – but there are differing opinions on this point.) Generally such cases were brought before the Praetor, but more senior magistrates – such as a governor (or Marcus, here) – might officiate. If a slave was under twenty, as Junio clearly is, he could only be manumitted by this method, and even then only for ‘sufficient cause’, such as outstanding service.
More informal – and less expensive – methods were available, and might be used where the manumission was not likely to be challenged under law, or where the slave had little value in the marketplace (as, for example, when she was a girl). These methods included a signed written statement that the slave was free; a spoken declaration of this in front of five witnesses – who must all be citizens; or by inviting the slave to join a formal dinner as one’s guest – as in the second manumission in the book.
Legally a slave had no possessions of his own, of course – although some servants were permitted to keep their tips and perks and even given a small peculium which they might save up to buy their freedom with. For a citizen, however, there was the question of estate.
The Romans set a great deal of importance on family lineage; it was almost a civic duty to produce an heir, and ensure a line of citizens to carry on the state. Many eminent Romans married several times, in the pursuit of sons, since ‘barrenness’ was generally presumed to be the female’s fault, and might be the grounds for a divorce, which was not in any case difficult under Roman law – although a woman, if she had not committed an offence, might carry her dowry away with her when she was divorced. That estate, though hers to use until she wed again, was not in general hers to bequeath, since she was not considered capable in law. Her possessions would revert to her nearest male relative if she died without a spouse.
Even for a male, bequeathing an estate was not always simple. In the absence of an obvious heir, it was not uncommon for a man’s will to be contested on his death, often resulting in expensive lawsuits. Unexpected claimants might arise from anywhere – including, in some cases, the imperial purse, which would seize everything automatically if the whole will failed. If a man could not produce an heir naturally, therefore, the law allowed him various methods of obtaining one. He might achieve one by adoptio, in which case he would fictitiously buy a male child three times from its natural father – thus ending the father’s jurisdiction over the boy – and then, in a collusive court case, claim before the magistrates that the child was his own and obtain a binding judgement to that effect; or he might ‘abrogate’ an heir – as in the story – where the young man had no known father living and entered into a contract on his own account. This meant that the candidate for abrogation must be free – a slave could not contract in this way – hence the double court case mentioned in the book.
Abrogation was only permitted where it would prevent the extinction of a family line, and the rules concerning it were very strict, although they seem to have varied somewhat at different times. No female could be abrogated, since that did not ensure the lineage. Originally, abrogation could only be approved by a special body based in Rome: but increasingly a system of imperial rescript came about (as in the book) thus allowing abrogation in the provinces.
The importance of lineage was also evident when a death occurred in a Roman family. Not only was the heir expected to perform the first crucial services for the dead – closing the eyes, calling three times upon the name of the deceased (thereby giving the spirit every chance to return), placing a coin in the mouth ‘to pay the ferryman’ for the journey across the Styx – but, once the body was prepared for burial, usually by paid undertakers, it was also the heir’s task to begin the lament, the wailing ululation which might last for several days, with different people taking turns at it. The body was then taken on a bier – often with accompanying musicians and paid mourners and dancers – to a funeral pyre, which had by law to be outside the town. It was traditionally accompanied on its final journey by the imago, the death mask, not only of the corpse, but of his most important ancestors – another demonstration of the significance of family line – while the relatives wore torn, dark clothes to show respect, and sometimes ashes from the altar rubbed on to their head and hair.
A part of the deceased, most usually a finger, was cut off and ceremonially buried in the earth, even when the corpse was to be burned; a pig was sacrificed, the gods were called upon and the body was consigned to the flames. Some authorities suggest that the old tradition of providing grave goods extended to the pyre, and that valued possessions were offered in the flames to serve the dead man in the nether world. When cooled the ashes were collected and buried in an urn, or the container was placed reverently in a special niche, where it could be visited on the anniversary of the death.
Afterwards a ritual cleansing was required, including the sacrifice of a young ram without a blemish on his coat, to ‘close’ a family death. There would be a funeral feast where tributes were read out, and sometimes solemn dancing and music was performed. On the anniversary of the death the relatives offered tributes at the grave, pouring food and wine to keep the soul alive.
Poor men, of course, could not afford such luxuries, but a proper funeral was an important thing and even slaves were often members of a funeral guild which would see that their bodies were decently disposed of with at least the minimum ritual required, to ensure that the ghost could rest in peace and was not required to walk the earth without a home.
Such superstition still played a major part in Roman life: every Roman householder began his day with due oblations to the household gods, every serious problem demanded a sacrifice, and proper care was taken to observe the rituals. On ‘inauspicious’ days – when the omens were not good – even the law courts did not operate.
Few days were less auspicious than 9 May, since that marked the beginning of the Lemuria, the second and more dangerous Festival of the Dead. In contrast to the first Festival, or Paternalia, (where the family brought gifts and homage to their departed loved ones every year) this was the time when the homeless, vengeful spirits of those who had died unloved – and had therefore not received a proper funeral – were thought to walk the earth. These ghosts were called the Lemures, and their festival was so ill-omened that the temples closed, marriages were forbidden, lawsuits ceased, and curious midnight rituals (as in the book) had to be performed in every house to keep the ghosts at bay. The ceremony outlined in the story is mentioned in a contemporary account.
The Romano-British background in this book has been derived from a wide variety of (sometimes contradictory) written and pictorial sources. However, although I have done my best to create an accurate picture, this remains a work of fiction and there is no claim to total academic authenticity.
Relata refero. Ne Jupiter quidem omnibus placet. (I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.)
Chapter One
I stood at the entrance to the huge basilica and sighed. In a moment I was going to have to walk the length of that impressive central aisle, with its massive pillars towering up on either side. I knew that all eyes would be upon me as I went. There are few things more impressive than a Roman ritual, and this occasion was as formal as they come.
Not that I usually have much to do with ceremonial, apart from the public sacrifices which all citizens are expected to attend; and even then – as a humble ex-slave and mosaic-maker – I am generally watching from behind a pillar, or some other inconspicuous position at the back.
Today, however, I was centre stage, dressed in my best toga, which was still giving off a whiff of the sulphur fumes in which it had been whitened specially for the occasion. (Fortunately the other cleaning agent – the urine collected in great pots from the households and businesses around – had been largely rinsed out of it by the fuller’s slaves who trampled the garment afterwards in clean water and fu
llers’ earth.) My wife had insisted on my having new sandals for the day, and also at her behest I had submitted to a painful hour at the barber’s shop – having my nose- and ear-hairs plucked, my cheeks rasped and my thin grey hair rubbed with bats’ blood and grease to stimulate its growth. I felt as scrubbed and polished as a turnip ready for the pot.
My appearance was as nothing, though, compared to the resplendent glory of the presiding magistrate. His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus sat enthroned at the dais end of the great basilica, flanked by a dozen other eminent officials and councillors – including an ambassador from Rome – and accompanied by a bevy of attendant slaves. His toga was woven of the finest wool, white as milk and boasting a purple border so wide that it put the lesser magistrates to shame. He had his favourite golden torc round his neck – a present from some Celtic vassal chief – an imperial seal ring on his hand and a wreath of fresh bay leaves anchored in his boyish curling hair, to signify his great authority.
And certainly he had authority. As the local representative and personal friend of Pertinax, the previous governor of the province, he had always been a person to be reckoned with; and now – since Pertinax was promoted to the prefecture of Rome, second only in importance to the Emperor himself – Marcus Septimus had become overnight one of the most powerful men in the entire Empire. This ceremony was the last over which he would preside before he journeyed to the imperial city to congratulate his friend, and it seemed the whole of Glevum had come out to stare.
People were jostling behind the pillars, elbowing and craning to get a better view. Even the official copy-scribes and account-clerks for the town, who usually worked in the little rooms which flanked the area, had given up all pretence of writing anything today and had come out of their offices to watch.
A trumpeter came forward and blew a long, high note. The crowd stopped fidgeting and there was a sudden hush.
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