Rosemary Rowe - The Fateful Day

Perhaps it was my own fault that I got involved in this affair. It was none of my business who was calling at my patron’s country house. But since I knew that Marcus was away — gone to Rome, in fact, and likely to be gone for several moons — when I saw the expensive private carriage standing at the gate, I thought it only fair to warn the occupants. Marcus had left only a few slaves to run the place — his wife and son had moved back to the town-house in Corinium while he was gone: she was expecting a second baby soon, so it was risky to go with him, and this way she’d be closer to a midwife if need be. So, I was only trying to be helpful, or so I told myself. Of course, there were still gatekeepers and slaves to pass on this kind of news, but to be honest — given the magnificence of the equipage — I was hoping that there might be a few quadrans in it for my having taken the trouble to explain.

As it turned out, I could not have been more wrong. I have wished a thousand times since that I’d not happened by.

It was mere chance that I was in the area at all. It was only because I’d gone out on my newly acquired mule to look in at some additional new farm fields that my patron had bought, quite close to his existing property but further down the lane. The land had been allowed to run down dreadfully for years — the previous owner being short of funds — but Marcus was now full of plans for it and since I’d been instrumental in the purchase of the place, he’d left me to supervise the work.

‘I’ll speak to the commander of the garrison and you can send me a message with the imperial post from time to time,’ he told me loftily, the day before he went. ‘Let me know how things are getting on. I’ve left orders for the land-slaves to grub up all the ruined crops and try planting a few grapevines in their place. Other farms round Glevum have had good results with them, but I’m afraid my slave-master is rather sceptical and thinks the plants won’t prosper in the cold. Far too damp out here, he told me openly. He will do as I’ve instructed him, of course, but his heart’s not in the task and I think he would be gratified to find that he was right — so I need a trusted pair of eyes to keep a watch on things.’ He put a ringed hand on my shoulder with a smile. ‘And naturally, I thought of you, Libertus, my old friend. You only live a mile or two along the lane, and there’s no one else that I would trust as much.’

This was intended to be flattering, of course, but it was not quite the honour which he seemed to think it was. The round trip was considerably more than ‘a mile or two’ and the task necessitated my going out there almost every day in addition to attempting to ply my trade in town. I have a mosaic workshop to maintain, and every hour it took me to ride out to the farm and back was an hour of laying pavements which was lost to me — and it also meant that I was obliged to hurry home each day in order to get out there before the daylight failed. Besides, the land slave-master was a new man, whom I didn’t know, and I did not think my presence would impress him very much.

But one does not argue with a powerful patron like Marcus Septimus Aurelius, especially when he’s a personal friend and favourite of the brand-new Emperor. So there I was, in the encroaching dusk, spurring on my skinny mule as fast as possible, when I saw this carriage at my patron’s villa gate.

I could hardly have missed it, even in the dusk. It was extremely large — a handsome covered travelling coach with heavy leather springs and it was facing towards me, its four fine horses stamping and snorting in the cool evening air of spring. The fancy oil-lamps at the corners had not yet been lit, but all the same I could see how elaborate the conveyance was: the shafts and wheels were painted red, its wooden panels gilded, its side-posts decorated with elaborate ivory figurines, and it was completely blocking up the lane. I was obliged to stop.

I shambled my faithful Arlina to a stop, looked up at the driver and was about to speak, but before I could say anything at all, the shutters at a window-space were dropped, the curtain was thrust back and a florid, frowning face leaned out and looked at me.

‘What are you doing, gawping, you stupid piece of scum?’ The voice was every bit as unpleasant as the words. ‘Get that wretched animal off the track at once. It is late and we are wanting to depart and you are in our way!’

The injustice of this outburst was almost breathtaking — it was not my poor animal that was blocking the road — but of course it was not prudent to protest as much; a man of such obvious wealth and status was not someone to cross. No doubt there was a broad patrician stripe around the toga that I had glimpsed. So I fixed an obliging, foolish smile upon my face and said, with careful courtesy, ‘I merely stopped to warn you, citizen, that if you hoped to find His Excellence Marcus Septimus Aurelius at home, you will be disappointed. He has gone to Rome — to congratulate his long-time friend and patron, Pertinax, on his elevation to the Imperial purple.’

Actually, that wasn’t quite the case — Marcus had gone to see the Emperor, it is true, but more to warn him of the dangers of the role than to congratulate him on his rise to power. Pertinax, he’d told me, was too honest for the job: it would never occur to him, for instance, to offer bribes to the Praetorian Guard as Commodus had done, and therefore (since the praetorians were officially responsible for protecting the Imperial Person) his life might quickly be in jeopardy if they felt that they could replace him with someone who would pay what they believed to be their due. However, that was not something that I wished to share with this unpleasant visitor.

The florid face set in a scornful scowl. ‘Gone to seek preferment in the Imperial Court?’ He gave a furious snort. ‘Why in Dis was I not informed of that? I’ve made a wasted journey, and at this time of night. Someone will pay for this. You, if you’re not careful. Get out of my way, you son of Celtic swine, or I’ll have my horses trample over you.’ And before I could answer he had slammed the shutter down and thumped the carriage as a signal to depart.

I just had time to swerve the mule aside before the driver raised his whip. The horses moved away and a moment later the whole heavy vehicle was trundling down the lane, gaining speed until it disappeared in clouds of dust — much of which settled on Arlina and myself.

I was distinctly shaken. Another instant and there would have been an accident — to the horses and carriage as much as to myself — and it was obvious that the driver of the coach had feared the same. I had glimpsed his face as he urged the horses on — white, set and terrified — but determined too: there’d been no hesitation in obeying the command. Florid-face was clearly not an owner to thwart or disobey.

I shook my head and turned Arlina round, abandoning my visit to the fields for the night. I would go first thing tomorrow, I promised inwardly — before I even set off for my workshop in the town. That wasn’t what I’d promised Marcus that I’d do, but it might even be presented as a clever move: the land-steward would not expect me at that hour. My visits up till now had been, perhaps, far too predictable. Besides, although the little incident had happened very fast, it had caused me a delay and I could persuade myself that it was getting too dark to proceed. Mostly, however, it had given me a fright.

So I was not sorry to get home to my roundhouse and my wife, and the delicious stew she had prepared for me. The pair of red-haired slaves who had come back from town with me, but had already preceded me indoors, were waiting with warmed water to rinse my hands and feet and the kitchen slave had put a pot of spiced, honeyed mead to warm. Relaxing in the pleasures of my simple home, I soon forgot the horrid little incident. Or tried to, anyway.