The Ghosts of Glevum

by Rosemary Rowe

  ‘Husband,’ she whispered, when I had rehearsed the same thing for the twentieth time, ‘has it occurred to you that Mellitus could be right? Perhaps it was your patron who pushed Praxus in the bowl. What other explanation can there be?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yet surely there must be one. I don’t believe for an instant that Marcus murdered him.’ But when I came to consider all the mounting evidence I had to admit the possibility, though I couldn’t bear to contemplate it for long. That is why I didn’t sleep all night, and why – as soon as the first light of chilly dawn broke through the sullen clouds – I slipped away from my still sleeping wife, pulled on my sandals and a woollen cloak, and went out to find Golbo in the hut.

  But I was too late. Golbo wasn’t there.

  VI

  I searched the whole enclosure – behind the woodpile, in the chicken-house, even under the holly branches in the grain pit – but there was no sign of him. I went out to the steep rocky lane which ran past the house, but there was nothing to be seen, only the hazy outlines of the trees looming at me through the misty murk. No trace of footprints, either, on the frosty earth.

  I was still there, gazing intently at the road, when a voice hissed, ‘Citizen?’ startlingly close to me. I whirled round to see a cloaked figure detach itself from the white-grey haze of the woods.

  ‘Golbo?’ I said, but it was not the boy. In the dim half-light I recognised the lumpy maidservant who had fetched Junio to me the night before.

  ‘It’s Cilla, master,’ the girl said, still whispering. ‘Golbo has not been found.’ She came up close beside me and went on, ‘Be careful, citizen, we may be overheard. There might still be searchers on the roads. The lady Julia, my mistress, sent me to find you here, as soon as it was starting to be light. She says to tell you that the guards took ten slaves – the ones who were holding torches – as hostages last night. They marched them off into the town for questioning, along with Marcus and the doorkeeper.’

  My heart, which was already lower than my still damp sandal-straps, sank even more at this. Marcus was an important man, with wealth and influence: he would be locked up in the garrison – probably in the commander’s house, in case he proved to be innocent in the end. But everyone knew what such ‘questioning’ would mean for all the rest. The servants would be tortured until they ‘remembered’ something significant – who had sent the orders to the colonnade, for example, or where Golbo had gone – whether or not the events they confessed had ever actually occurred. Over the years I have attempted to dissuade Marcus from employing such techniques, since I was once a slave myself with no civic rights of any kind.

  However, it was Marcus who was now under arrest, and lesser magistrates – presumably Balbus in particular, since he was now the most senior of those left – would be looking for the ‘truth’ as quickly and ruthlessly as possible, to minimise their own political embarrassment. The routine and perfectly legal torture of a few slaves was hardly likely to trouble them.

  Now I had a moral problem on my hands. If I found Golbo, should I take him to the authorities? Or should I give them his testimony in any case and hope to save ten other innocent slaves from hours of agony – at the end of which, one could be almost sure, somebody would break down under the anguish and invent evidence against Marcus.

  I was debating this when Cilla spoke again. ‘That is not the only reason why I’ve come. My mistress sent me to warn you, citizen. One of the serving girls overheard a conversation in the court. Balbus was arguing that they should send guards for you – he says you were the first to leave the banquet hall, and you probably helped my master in his task, because Praxus was too big for one man alone to overcome. He said he saw you standing by the corpse, holding a heavy brass pot in your hand, and that you’d almost certainly used it to hit Praxus on the head so that Marcus could more easily hold him down.’

  I felt a chill run down my back, colder than the freezing morning air. It was true, I had been holding such a pot, and there would be half a dozen witnesses to that. Of course, I had not hit Praxus, I’d simply used it to retrieve the wreath, as any of the torch-bearers would testify – but if Cilla was to be believed these were the very slaves who were at this moment being flogged and questioned at the jail. When the Romans scourge you, you are inclined to remember anything they wish.

  ‘Balbus wanted me arrested by the guards?’ I repeated foolishly. ‘But surely only Mellitus could sanction that?’ Praxus’s bodyguard, like that of any military commander of high rank, would have been personally hand-picked from the legions under his control, responsible for his safety and answerable to him alone. These men had come with Praxus a few days ago, when he arrived from Gaul, and until alternative orders came they were not officially attached to anyone. A high-ranking official of the Empire, such as Mellitus, might co-opt them for some official role, but a mere local decurion like Balbus would need agreement from the ordo first, and probably the co-operation of the garrison as well, however many high-ranking brothers he might have in Gaul.

  Cilla nodded. ‘I think he hoped that Mellitus would sanction it, and perhaps he will, if the master does not confess. I don’t suppose my owner will do that, citizen. Not when he is innocent of the crime.’

  I rounded on her sharply. ‘You know that? That he is innocent?’

  The plump plain face puckered. ‘Well, I thought . . . naturally . . .’ She was gazing at me in disbelief. ‘Surely, citizen, you do not suppose . . .? My master would never dream of such a thing.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I only hoped that you might have had some proof, so that I could declare it to the magistrates and have him freed. Supposing that anyone would listen to my plea.’ It occurred to me that without my patron’s influence that might be difficult to bring about.

  She looked at me. ‘The new high priest of Jupiter might help you there, perhaps. He’s had no time to get involved in local politics, but he has dined at the villa once or twice. He has a theory that Governor Pertinax will be the future Emperor of Rome. Said he had read it in the stars. My mistress was very entertained. But if he believes that, surely he would help?’

  I smiled wryly. If the high priest sincerely thought that Marcus might be an Imperial favourite one day, no doubt he would be anxious to assist – once he was certain that Marcus would be freed. It is always useful to have friends at court. However, remembering that self-important little man, I could not see him risking a confrontation with real-life authorities without the most compelling evidence – whatever omens he purported to believe.

  I said gently, ‘If we could show Marcus to be innocent, perhaps. Unfortunately, although we think he didn’t do it, it will be hard to prove. All the outward circumstances seem to point to him.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Almost as if it was designed to look as if my master murdered him.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said – although, on reflection, that was not entirely true. If anything, it had been designed to look like an accident, until an idiotic pavement-maker had opened his big mouth and suggested otherwise.

  ‘I will go into the garrison,’ I said, ‘and see if I can have a word with Marcus, privately. The garrison commander is a friend of his, and I’ve had dealings with him in the past. I doubt if I’m in any danger yet and Marcus may know something which will help to prove the truth. If I discover anything, I’ll come to the villa and tell Julia at once.’

  Cilla shook her head. ‘Until my master is at liberty, it may not be as easy as all that. Better to meet me secretly tonight and I’ll take word. The house is under guard. There are fresh soldiers posted at the front gate now – that’s why I feared there might yet be another search for Golbo by and by.’

  ‘But you got out?’ I was thinking about Julia and her slaves, virtually helpless prisoners in the house.

  ‘I told them I was going to fetch some oils for my mistress, and they let me go. The soldiers are not interested in women’s purchases. There is an old woman in a hut not
far away who makes such remedies. My mistress buys one from her now and then: they are far cheaper than the ones in Glevum market – and just as good, she says.’

  I nodded. I knew the poor wizened crone myself. Her husband had been a prosperous miller, till he crushed his hand, but now they were forced to scrape a living where they could, sleeping in a makeshift hut among the trees. She made her ‘remedies’ from berries, roots and herbs, while he bundled twigs for firewood and sold them in the town. Gwellia and I had sometimes bought some kindling ourselves, simply out of pity for their plight.

  ‘But how will you get back past the guards?’ I said.

  She produced a small perfume jar from beneath her cloak. ‘I will show them this. I really mean to go and buy some oils. Lavender, my mistress says, to soothe her shattered nerves.’ She saw my concerned look, and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, citizen. She persuaded the captain of the guard that she was faint and ill, but it was her idea to furnish this excuse! But, if you will pardon me, I must go and do it now. I am already in danger of being gone too long. The guards will be suspicious otherwise. I will come again tonight at sundown and meet you here, to see if you have any news for us. I’ll find some excuse to get past the gate – or if that’s impossible I’ll come through the orchard and across the farm, the way you came last night. The soldiers are guarding the main gates, front and back, but they have not yet discovered there’s another way.’ She nodded at me cheerfully, wrapped her grey cloak more firmly around her and set off quickly down the track.

  I watched her till she was swallowed up in mist, and then I went thoughtfully back to the roundhouse.

  By this time the little household was awake and bustling. Kurso was fetching water from the stream, Gwellia was clearing the ashes from round the baking pot, and taking out the hot fresh oatcakes which had cooked perfectly amongst the warm embers overnight. Junio was busy too, attempting to brush the dried mud from my toga hems.

  He looked up as I came in. ‘Here is Libertus, mistress, safe and well.’

  I should have known that she would fear for me, but I had not thought of it. We had spent too many years apart: I had only recently found her again and I was not yet accustomed to her care. I gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Golbo was not in the dyeing hut. I went to look for him.’

  She did not reply. She simply gave me a reproachful look which tore my heart.

  When I began to outline what Cilla had said to me about the guards, however, her manner changed. When I had finished, she said urgently, ‘Husband, you are right in what you told the girl. You must go into the garrison, and see what your patron has to say. If he is guilty, persuade him to confess – confront him with all the evidence – otherwise you will end up before the courts yourself. And it won’t be comfortable exile for you. If you are found guilty of complicity in a thing like this – murdering a high-ranking legionary commander – you will be lucky if they let you choose your death.’

  And then what would become of us? There was no need to speak the words. If I was condemned and ‘privileged to choose’ – which meant hemlock and a comparatively quick, dignified and painless death – or even if I was merely exiled with my patron, life would not be easy for my wife. Next winter it could be Gwellia out there in the woods, with only rags for warmth, trying to keep starvation from the door with pathetic little decoctions of wild flowers and leaves.

  ‘I shall go as soon as I have eaten,’ I declared. ‘This business is dangerous for all of us.’ But in fact, although Gwellia’s oatcakes smelt ambrosial, I could scarcely bring myself to take a single bite. It was all I could do to swallow the beaker of water which my slave had set for me.

  Gwellia noted my distress, and assumed a wifely role. ‘Well, if you are going to see the garrison you’d better wear your toga,’ she said, patting my shoulder as she passed. ‘Your pavements will have to wait another day.’

  I sighed. That was a further worry in all this. Mosaics do not make themselves, and by moving to live here, outside the city walls, I had already limited my working hours. Now it looked as if another day was lost. I sighed again.

  Kurso came in with the pail and I permitted him to pour some water into a wooden bowl for me. I splashed my face and hands in that while Junio rubbed my freezing feet with a linen cloth and a scoop of Gwellia’s less caustic lye-and-ashes soap. (These days I reserved my Roman oil and strigil for the baths.) Then after the boys had eaten – their oatcakes and my own – Junio draped my toga, disguising the muddy bits as best he could, and he and I set off for the town, leaving Kurso to help Gwellia in the house.

  Usually Kurso came to the town with me as well, to help cut tiles and to mind the shop, and went home in the afternoon when business was inevitably slack, but today I did not want to leave Gwellia in the roundhouse on her own. She had been asking for a female slave, I thought guiltily, but I had demurred, saying there were few good slaves available at this time of year. There hadn’t been captives from the borderlands for months, and slave-ships from other provinces didn’t often put to sea in winter storms. Besides, having been a slave myself, I didn’t care much for buying servants – but now I was beginning to wish I’d got one, all the same.

  It was a long walk into Glevum, several miles, and the lane – though shorter than the military road – was always treacherous. Now, when last night’s rain had turned to ice, and the puddles and ruts were frozen underfoot, it was not only steep and rocky but slippery as well. Recent tracks showed where some intrepid horse and cart had passed, but we saw no sign of human life until we joined the major road, not far outside the city walls.

  My business lay with the garrison, so I hurried to the nearest man on guard. ‘I wish to speak to your commander, urgently.’ I outlined who I was and what I wanted there.

  He looked me up and down, and for a moment I thought I would be turned away, but ultimately my toga won respect. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, citizen, but I’m afraid your slave may have to wait outside.’

  ‘I could go to the workshop, master, and await you there,’ Junio said.

  ‘A good suggestion,’ I agreed, and Junio trotted off.

  It seemed a long time before anybody came, but finally an escort was found for me, and I was shown to the commander’s house. There I was ushered into his private waiting room, which, as in all such military establishments, was handsomely proportioned but uncomfortable and chill. After another lengthy wait – I suppose that is what waiting rooms are for – I was attended by a military secretary with a nervous tic. I explained my errand once again.

  ‘I have come to ask permission for an audience with my patron, His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus, whom your commander is holding under guard. There will be no objection to that, I am sure. Even prisoners in the common jail are sometimes permitted visitors, and Marcus is a personal friend of his.’

  ‘Wait here, citizen. I’ll see what I can do,’ the fellow said, and disappeared again.

  This time the wait was so extremely long that I was beginning to become concerned. I remembered that Balbus had wanted my arrest, and for a moment I feared that I had walked into a trap. I was seriously contemplating walking out and attempting to make a run for it when the fellow with the nervous tic came back.

  ‘Your pardon, citizen, your request has been denied. Commander Protheus has instructed me to tell you that your patron Marcus is detained in comfort in the house, and that the commander will see that he is well treated. However, there is a question of a plot against the state, and in those circumstances a prisoner is not permitted visitors.’

  ‘A plot against the state?’ I forgot myself sufficiently to stand up and raise my voice. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Those are the standing orders of the Emperor,’ the secretary said, taking a step backwards as though I’d threatened him. ‘It’s not my decision, citizen. Guard,’ he called to a soldier beside the outer door, ‘kindly escort the citizen outside.’

  ‘But . . .’ I protested, in genuine dismay. ‘There must be some mistake
. My patron is a very powerful man, of noble birth. He is related to the Emperor . . .’ That last point was not, in fact, entirely proved. There are hundreds of Aurelians in the Empire, and not all of them are of Imperial blood. But rumour had always said that Marcus was, and, since he had never denied it, it seemed worth mentioning. As a lever, I had never known it fail.

  It failed now.

  ‘You heard him, citizen.’ The guard from outside had come in by this time, and to my alarm had drawn his sword. ‘Out. Now. With me. And no argument, or you’ll find you’re locked up in here yourself. Then you can talk to your precious patron all you like.’

  ‘I’m sorry, citizen,’ the secretary bleated. His cheek was twitching really badly now.

  ‘Now, are you going to move?’ the soldier said. ‘Or am I going to have to make you move? And don’t think for a moment that I won’t. You haven’t got a fancy patron to protect you now.’

  It was then that I realised just what deep trouble we were in. Marcus’s name, which up to now had always opened every official door and afforded me protection in all kinds of ways, had lost its power overnight. Even his friend the commander was refusing help, though he was obviously attempting to look after Marcus as best he dared.

  I was marched at sword-point out into the street.

  VII

  Not only marched at sword-point but thrust into the road with such a heavy hand against my back that I almost stumbled to the ground. If I was not so obviously a citizen, I believe I would have had a kick to help me on my way. Even a passing turnip-seller stopped to stare.

  I recovered myself, straightened my toga, and walked off into the drizzle with as much dignity as I could muster, trying to decide what to do. I had been so sure of meeting Marcus, and discussing things with him, that I really had no other plan. I am accustomed to working on his authority, but from here on I was clearly on my own.