THE GHOSTS OF GLEVUM
Rosemary Rowe
Copyright © 2004 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.
eISBN: 978 1 4722 0510 0
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Also by
Praise
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
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
Acclaim for Rosemary Rowe’s Libertus series:
‘A brilliantly realised historical setting dovetails perfectly with a sharp plot in this history-cum-whodunnit’ Good Book Guide
‘The Libertus novels are among the best of the British historical detectives. The characters are well formed and the plots leave you guessing while giving you enough hints and clues to grip your attention’ Gloucestershire Life
‘The character of Libertus springs to life. A must for anyone interested in Roman Britain’ Paul Doherty
‘Lots of fascinating detail about what the Romans ever did for us . . . History with an entertaining if murderous twist’ Birmingham Post
‘Rowe has had the clever idea of making her detective-figure a mosaicist, and, therefore, an expert in puzzles and patterns. Into the bargain, he is a freed Celtic slave, and thus an outsider to the brutalities of the conquerors, and a character with whom the reader can sympathise’ Independent
‘Superb characterisation and evocation of Roman Britain. It transports you back to those times. An entirely compelling historical mystery’ Michael Jecks
‘Libertus is a thinking man’s hero . . . a delightful whodunnit which is fascinating in the detail of its research and the charm of its detective team’ Huddersfield Daily Examiner
‘Cunningly drawn and the very devil to fathom until the final pages’ Coventry Evening Telegraph
To John and Maria, with much love
(and thanks to Eric, who knew about eels)
Foreword
The Ghosts of Glevum is set in the winter of AD 187. At that time most of Britain had been for almost two hundred years the northernmost outpost of the hugely successful Roman Empire: occupied by Roman legions, criss-crossed by Roman military roads, subject to Roman laws and taxes, and ruled over by a provincial governor (now Pertinax) answerable directly to Rome where Commodus still wore the Imperial purple and ruled with an autocratic and capricious hand. In fact, the Emperor’s debauchery and excesses were renowned, and he had become so unpopular that there was continuous rumour of unrest. Following an attempt by his sister to assassinate him early in his reign, Commodus was particularly savage in his treatment of conspirators, as suggested in the novel.
The existence of Pertinax – and his promotion to the African provinces at about this time – is historical, although there is no reliable evidence to show the precise date of his departure or, interestingly, the name of his successor. In the absence of accurate information here, the story postulates that no immediate appointment to the post was made, and that Pertinax continued to maintain nominal control over both provinces at once, using local appointees until a new governor could be installed. This is entirely speculative, of course, and probably unlikely, but such an arrangement is not impossible and there are historical precedents elsewhere. The division of the province of Britannia into two for administrative purposes (suggested here as a temporary expedient) is not known to have occurred at this time. It was, however, a suggestion attributed to Pertinax by some authorities, and the arrangement was in fact implemented sometime early in the third century. (Thereafter the two regions had separate governors, so that by AD 219 Paulinus is described in an inscription as ‘Governor of Britannia Inferior’.)
Official authority within the province was divided between local, provincial and Imperial government, which all existed side by side throughout the period. Glevum (modern Gloucester) where the story is set, was a colonia – one of only a handful of such high-ranking cities in the province – and was effectively a self-governing city-state, founded as a retirement settlement for wealthy veterans, and enjoying such wealth and status that any freeman born within the walls was automatically a Roman citizen. A chief magistrate and councillor, such as Balbus, represented the local tier of government and would necessarily have been a person of considerable influence and wealth. Indeed, the term of office for the highest magistrate was usually restricted to a year or two, largely because the cost of tenureship – which included the provision of civic works and games – was recognised as cripplingly high.
In addition, each province had a procurator (or, in the case of smaller regions, a sub-procurator) such as Mellitus. These were Imperial appointees, responsible directly to the Emperor, but otherwise effectively autonomous. They were the chief fiscal officers, entirely responsible for the financial administration of the province, and although extremely influential were generally disliked, probably because they were responsible for tax. Their co-operation was nonetheless essential to local government.
There were also the military authorities. The army in the second century was commanded by two different kinds of men: career soldiers, such as centurions, who were professionals; and the legatus legionis of each force, a senator or would-be senator, for whom a short period of military service was a necessary part of a political career. These so-called ‘senatorial officers’ wer
e drawn from wealthy families and generally appointed by the provincial governor (who was the commander-in-chief of the army in his province) often as the result of representations from relatives or patrons. Once adopted in this way, a bright senatorial officer could expect swift promotion, appointment as soon as a vacancy arose, and a seat on the Roman senate in a year. Under Commodus, however, there was a dearth of willing candidates, especially for the legions in Britannia where there had been some disturbance and unrest, for which the officers were penalised. The pay of senior officers had recently been increased, and some of the existing senatorial officers – in particular those with real military prowess – seeing little hope of satisfactory political advancement in Rome under the increasingly unstable Emperor, elected to extend their tenure, sometimes for years, and held a variety of commands. Praxus, in the story, may be seen as one of these.
All these powerful men were Roman citizens, naturally. Citizenship – with its social, economic and legal advantages – was not at this time an automatic right, even for the freeborn. It was a privilege to be earned – by those not lucky enough to be born to it – only by service to the army or the Emperor, although slaves of important citizens (like Libertus) could be bequeathed the coveted status, along with their freedom, on their master’s death. Power, of course, was invested almost entirely in men. Although women could be classed as citizens and might wield considerable influence, even owning and managing large estates, they were excluded from civic office. Indeed a woman of any age remained a child in law, under the tutelage first of her father and then of any husband she might have.
However, most ordinary people lacked the distinction of citizenship. Some were freemen or freed-men, scratching a precarious living from a trade or farm; thousands more were slaves, mere chattels of their masters, with no more status than any other domestic animal. Some slaves led pitiable lives, though others were highly regarded by their owners: indeed the lot of a well-fed slave in a kindly household might be more enviable than that of many a freeman struggling to eke out an existence in a squalid hut, like some characters in the narrative.
Even below the slaves, however, there was another tier – the outcasts of society, who had no official status, home or name. The present story hinges on the intersection of two social worlds: that of the politically powerful and that of this underclass, which was politically powerless and had no rights at all. Its existence can be deduced, in particular, from the accounts of trials and lawbreaking. It is clear that old, ill and injured slaves were sometimes jettisoned and turned on to the streets, since legislation repeatedly attempts to outlaw the practice. Equally, the existence of the law forbidding a slave to run away (except to another master to seek sanctuary), and the severity of the punishment if he did, suggests that there were those who attempted it. It is also evident from contemporary accounts that there were thieves and vagabonds, that beggars often frequented the tombs beside the road, and that freak children who escaped the normal fate (of being exposed at birth until they died) were sometimes dragged around the fairs and exhibited by travelling showmen for a fee. There is some information (as to age, injury and sex) to be derived from common burial pits, but history has left us little evidence as to how such people lived, so the narrative in this regard is purely fictional.
The use of apparently modern nicknames such as ‘Fatbeard’ and ‘Bullface’ is historically apt. Such names were so commonplace that many eminent Romans are known by them today, rather than by their more official names. Caligula, for instance, means ‘Little Boots’, while Agricola was nicknamed ‘Farmer’ by his troops.
The Romano-British background to 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 and convincing picture, this remains a work of fiction and there is no claim to total academic authenticity.
Relata refero. Ne Iupiter quidem omnibus placet. (I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.)
I
It had been a long banquet. Course after course of exotic food, all disguised to look like something else. The final offering had consisted of a sow and nine suckling piglets, one for each member of the highest table, all made entirely of sweet almond bread and carried in on an enormous wooden plate by an equally enormous Nubian slave. That had earned a round of spontaneous applause, although it proved better to look at than to eat. Now the remains were being cleared away, the acrobats and jugglers had finished, and a dozen slaves were bringing out fresh bowls of watered wine. Loquex, an elderly poet, was ushered in to read.
I sighed. I knew his eulogies of old. Interminable banalities in lamentable verse. I was rather surprised that he had been engaged for such an important occasion, but of course it had all been organised rather hurriedly. Perhaps no one else was available. Loquex was almost overcome by the solemnity of the honour. He produced a depressingly large and densely written scroll of bark-parchment, and cleared his throat.
‘Marcus Aurelius Septimus, just and fair
Has hooded eyes and curly hair,’
he began – or words to that effect. (It is impossible to convey the full banality of the original Latin.)
In the obscurity of a corner, I shifted uneasily on my banqueting couch. Others, placed nearer the centre of the room, were forced to endure this without fidgeting. I looked at our host, the Marcus Aurelius Septimus in question: the provincial governor’s personal representative, and by far the richest and most influential man for miles around. He was also my patron, so I knew him well, and I could already see the look of resignation glazing those ‘hooded eyes’, and detect frustration in the way that he was fingering the seal-ring on his hand. It was his own fault, of course; he had engaged the wretched local poet in honour of our two distinguished guests.
Loquex was just turning his attention to them:
‘Gaius Praxus came from Gaul
He’s very brave and very tall . . .’
Someone on the second highest table – I think it was Balbus, the chief town magistrate, whose brother was rumoured to have served with Praxus’s force – sniggered, but thought better of it and changed it to a cough. I had every sympathy. Of course, this poem was thrown together hastily for this evening, but Loquex did seem in even worse form than usual.
I glanced at Praxus – or Gaius Flaminius Praxus, to give him his full three Latin names. He was tall, one could not deny, but it was not the first word which would spring to mind. Praxus was tall in the way that – say – a small mountainside is tall and he was brave in much the same way – massive, unflinching and immovable, and about as impervious to anything as trivial as pain.
He was reclining at Marcus’s right-hand side, in the place of honour, where he was the first to be served with everything – as well he might. Praxus had recently been transferred from northern Gaul to find himself, pending the arrival of the new provincial governor, the senior officer commanding most of the Roman forces on the western borders of Britannia, including the garrison at Glevum.
This mountain of a man was improbably dressed in a skimpy pale blue synthesis – that fashionable dining robe which was a combination of toga and under-tunic – and wore a floral banqueting wreath lopsided around his head.
The effect was utterly incongruous, but Praxus looked no less menacing for that. However, his square-boned face had for a moment lost its scowl and softened to a glazed expression of amused contempt, but whether that was the effect of the verse, or of Marcus’s excellent Falernian wine, it was – at this distance – impossible to tell.
Loquex was just settling into his stride:
‘And on the left is Mellitus, of course –
Who also earns our thanks and our applause.’
I heard a little ripple run round the room at this, and not just at the dreadful quality of the verse. Loquex had clumsily contrived to draw attention to the fact that Mellitus – the name means honey, but there was nothing remotely honeyed about his
character – had been placed on Marcus’s left-hand side, in second position to Praxus as it were. Mellitus would not care for that. I recognised him: a wizened little sub-procurator based in nearby Corinium, and the local expert on taxation and finance. He was famous for his grasping hands and shrewd intelligence and had been a guest here once before. At that time Marcus had made an enormous fuss of him, but tonight was obviously different and Mellitus had been demonstrating his discontent by ostentatiously eating and drinking hardly anything, and greeting all the entertainments with a stony face. Now the unfortunate implication of the verse made matters worse. The sharp eyes narrowed more than ever and the thin lips pursed. It was an awkward moment.
Marcus, however, had seen an opportunity and risen to his feet. Taking his cue from ‘our applause’ he began to clap enthusiastically. I took the hint and did the same, and one by one the other guests joined in.
Loquex coloured, paused, and bowed – delightedly at first, but every time the claps and shouts slowed down Marcus began another round (‘Well done Loquex! What a splendid attempt!’) and after a few moments the poet understood. With a look of disappointment he put his scroll away, and – still bowing – allowed himself to be escorted from the room.
Gaius Flavius, the old ex-councillor seated next to me, gave an approving grunt. ‘Well, let’s hope that’s the last of the entertainments for the night, so the important people can retire to do some serious drinking, and the rest of us can decently go home.’ He sighed. ‘I’m glad that I’m too unimportant to be part of that. It’s obvious that those three aren’t going to get along.’
His voice was not loud, but he spoke into a hush, and I was afraid that everyone would hear. He was drawing startled looks from everyone, as it was, by motioning to a slave to fill his cup, and draining it at a gulp. That was shocking behaviour, especially on a formal occasion such as this, but he seemed oblivious. I realised uneasily that he’d drunk a great deal of sweet watered wine with the dessert and the alcohol was loosening his tongue.
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