Rosemary Rowe - A Coin for the Ferryman

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 fullers’ 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.

‘In the name of the Divine Emperor Commodus Antoninus Pius Felix Exsuperatorius, ruler of Commodiana and all the provinces overseas. .’

There was a little snigger from the assembled company at this, and a muffled jeer or two as well. People had become accustomed to the titles Commodus gave himself — the Dutiful, the Fortunate, the Excellent — and even when he declared himself to be a god, the reincarnation of Hercules (instead of decently waiting until he died for deification, like other emperors), few of his subjects really minded very much. Renaming all the months in honour of himself had not had much effect; unless there was imperial business to be done, most people conveniently forgot and went on using the familiar names. But this latest whim, of changing the name of mighty Rome itself to ‘Commodiana’, was a step too far. Somebody was bold enough to hiss ‘For shame!’ and was carried off struggling between a pair of guards. The fellow would pay dearly for his impudence, no doubt.

The herald looked discomfited at the interruption, but went on manfully, ‘This special court is now in session. Let the first supplicants approach the magistrates.’

It was my cue. Slowly I walked up between the crowds towards the central group. I was carrying a ceremonial wand, and my sandals were ringing on the patterned floor. The air was still full of the sacrificial smoke from the official offering on the imperial shrine, and the light struck slantways from the high windows overhead. It illuminated the official inscriptions carved in stone, the vivid red and ochre of the semicircular ‘tribunal’ alcoves at each end — with their wall paintings of simulated drapes — and the life-size statue of the frowning Emperor. It was intended to be awesome, and I was duly awed.

However, I made my way to stand before my patron, in the place which the chief petitioner always occupied. ‘I bring a petition against Lucius Julianus Catilius in the matter of a slave he claims to own,’ I muttered. A little frisson ran around the room. Lucius Julianus Catilius was the visitor from Rome.

The man in question looked at me impassively but rose with dignity, and came down to stand beside me in front of the dais on which he had so recently occupied a chair. The fashionable magnificence of his cloak and shoes, and the width of his aristocratic stripe, which rivalled Marcus’s own, brought a gasp of admiration from the onlookers. Lucius Julianus was a patrician through and through: smooth, tall, silver-haired, with a hooked nose and an air of permanent disdain.

I had met him only once before, and that was this morning on the forum steps, when he had used an age-old formula to buy my slave from me for the minimum possible amount. He acknowledged me now with a distant nod, and an arch of his aristocratic eyebrow.

His Excellence Marcus Septimus looked unsmilingly at me. ‘You are Longinus Flavius Libertus?’ he enquired, as though I were a stranger, and not a trusted confidant who had been under his personal protection for years.

I made the expected obeisance, cleared my throat and agreed that this was indeed my name. I even remembered not to look behind me as I spoke. I knew what I would see if I did so: the slave in question, my servant-cum-assistant Junio, standing behind me like a sacrificial lamb between two self-important officials of the court.

He was dressed in a humiliating fashion now, I was aware — no tunic, only a loincloth wrapped round his waist, his feet bare and a sort of conical slave cap on his head. It was the sort of thing I’d never asked of him in all the years since I acquired him. I had him from the slave market when he was very young — how old, exactly, he did not know himself. He might have been six or seven at the most, but he was so small and underfed and terrified that I’d taken pity on his plight and parted with some coins. Not many, even so. I think the slave-trader was grateful to be rid of the pathetic little wretch. I wonder what he would have thought to see the strapping, tousle-haired young man walking dutifully behind me in the basilica today.

It had proved the best bargain that I had ever made, I thought. Junio had been the most faithful of attendants and he was intelligent besides: quick to learn and adept at helping me with my designs in my mosaic workshop in the town. He had slept on a mat beside my bed and served my every need. And now it was all over. He was my slave no more.

Lucius Julianus identified himself and then said in his well-bred Roman tones, ‘It concerns the matter of the slave named Junio, here present. Let Marcus be the judge.’

Junio came forward between the two of us and prostrated himself at Marcus’s feet, as if to kiss his sandals. He did not rise but stayed there on hands and knees.