Rosemary Rowe - A Roman Ransom

I felt a rush of helpless gratitude. I was aware of being extremely tired, and the effort of concentration was draining me. However, far from leaving me alone, Marcus was moving to kneel down by the bed. That was so amazing that it made me smile. I have never known my patron bend the knee to any man, even the provincial governor himself, yet here he was grovelling on my roundhouse floor. It was a sign, I thought vaguely, of how distraught he was and possibly of how unwell I’d been.

‘Libertus,’ he was saying urgently, ‘don’t you slip away as well.’

‘Don’t touch him, Excellence.’ The physician’s voice was sharp. ‘Forgive me, but you are getting far too close. There is still a chance of plague. I would be failing in my duties as a medicus if I did not beg you — require you — to move back.’

Even in my drowsy state I understood how dangerously daring that remark had been. I heard my patron give a shocked intake of breath, but — unwillingly — he did get to his feet. However, he could not let the matter pass without rebuke.

‘Medicus, you overstep the mark. You only came into my employ a couple of days ago,’ he grumbled. ‘The fact that I paid you handsomely to leave the service of the household where you were before does not give you the authority to speak to me like that. If there are orders to be given, I will issue them. Is that understood?’

A lesser man might have retreated and apologised, but the medicus was made of stronger stuff. ‘You have given me authority to protect your well-being,’ he said. ‘If you set a man to guard a town, you would call him a traitor if he failed to warn you of danger on his watch. I am merely doing the same thing for your health.’

Marcus snorted and I held my breath, expecting an outraged outburst, but there was none. My patron simply did what he was told and retreated to the safety of the fire.

‘I am grateful to you for your understanding, Excellence,’ the medicus was saying in that high-pitched voice of his. ‘What would the province do if you fell ill yourself? Now, you engaged me to bring the pavement-maker to himself again, and I have done so with some success so far. But, if you wish me to continue with the task, then we should leave him now. Not only for his own sake, but for yours as well. This roundhouse is a draughty, smoky place — and whereas he, as a Celt, is doubtless used to it, you, Excellence, are manifestly not. You have been continually coughing and your eyes are red. I recommend that you return at once to the comfort and warmth of your own home. I will keep my litter here, and follow you as soon as possible.’

Marcus grunted briefly in consent, and turned to Gwellia. I was drifting softly, but I heard him murmuring, ‘Would it be a good idea, do you suppose, to transfer him to the villa when he is well enough? It would be much easier for you to care for him — we could put him in a proper Roman bed, in one of the heated rooms, perhaps, where there is a hypocaust underneath the floor. My kitchens could try to tempt his appetite. I am sure that he would recover far more quickly there, and the medicus would be on the spot.’

What the physician might have thought of that, I do not know. I simply heard my wife begin to say ‘You are most thoughtful, Excellence. .’ and then stop as there came the sound of running footsteps at the door.

‘Excellence!’ It was the voice of Junio, my curly-headed slave. Usually he slept beside my bed, saw to my needs and acted as assistant-cum-companion in my workshop in the town, but in my illness he’d been banished from my side and it seemed that he’d been keeping watch outdoors. Now he sounded breathless and upset. ‘Excellence, forgive my interrupting here. There is a messenger at the gate for you. One of the servants from your country house. I am to bring you this at once.’

‘What is it?’ Marcus said.

‘This letter, Excellence. It was delivered to your villa a little while ago — though no one quite knows when. One of the gate-keepers found it left inside the porch — it seems it had been thrown there by a passer-by.’

‘What does it say?’ Marcus’s voice was strained.

‘They have not opened it. It is a makeshift thing — simply a piece of folded bark, addressed to you in charcoal on the front. The lettering is poor — it might be anything. But it is tied up with a strip of lilac cloth — it seems to have been torn from something, by the ragged edge, but — see — it is embroidered with gold thread. Your servants thought that you should see it as it is. The handmaidens are sure that it’s your wife’s. She was wearing a lilac stola the day she disappeared.’

‘Let me see it. More lights here.’ I could almost hear my patron trembling. He moved towards the fire, where the light was best. The medicus and Gwellia both went to him, taking the oil lamp and the candle to assist. There was a silence. I tried to raise myself up on my arm again, and this time I succeeded, more or less.

‘It’s from her hem. I’ve seen her wear the garment many times. And look, there is a lock of hair inside the cloth. That is hers too, if I am any judge. And this small downy lock is from the child.’ He wrapped the curls inside the cloth again, and placed it reverently inside his toga, beside the other in the pocket pouch he wore. Then he unfolded the piece of tattered bark.

‘What does it say, Excellence?’ I asked him quietly.

He turned to me, and even in the firelight I could see that he was close to tears.

‘It says, “If you wish to see your wife and son again, ensure that Lallius Tiberius is set free.”’

At these astounding words there was a little hush, during which I found that I was — for the first time — wide awake, but before I could say anything at all, the doctor asked the question that was on all our lips.

‘Who is Lallius Tiberius?’ he said.

‘Obviously some criminal who is in custody and now awaiting trial.’ My patron was struggling to keep his voice under control. ‘In fact, now I come to think of it I seem to know the name — though not in connection with any case of mine.’ As representative of the outgoing governor, Marcus was the senior judicial figure in this whole area of Britannia. Only the most important cases — or those involving the most wealthy citizens — were tried by him, although of course he could be called upon to arbitrate if the need arose.

The medicus was making himself busy as my patron spoke, officiously moving a little table which I kept in the hut and placing it at the bottom of my bed. ‘I too have heard the name — or something very like it, anyway. But for the moment I can’t think in what connection it arose.’ He turned to Gwellia. ‘A bowl and water, here.’

Marcus ignored him and pursued his train of thought. ‘I remember! I’ve seen it on the lists for civil trial in one of the minor courts. But I did not preside at the introductory plea. One of my junior magistrates must have heard the accusation and ruled that there’s a case, and it will come before the appointed judge on whatever the temple tells us is the next propitious day. After the ides, I expect. It won’t come before me, even then — merely some elder citizen agreed on by plaintiff and defendant, with a legal officer to see fair play.’

‘But surely it must be something serious,’ the doctor said, taking the basin which Gwellia brought to him. ‘For his supporters to have taken such a desperate step.’

Marcus was staring at the piece of bark, turning it over in his hands. He sounded mystified. ‘Yet I’m quite sure it’s not. I can’t remember what the charges are. Some question about money, I believe — setting on someone in the street and robbing him. Enough to bring him up before the courts. I doubt if I should have noticed his name at all, except that he attempted to escape during the preliminary hearing — the one to establish that there was a case to answer — and there was an application that he should be held in custody until the proper trial could be heard. At his accuser’s own expense, of course.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know who is at the bottom of all this, and who could have sent the note. Clearly it wasn’t Lallius himself, since he is presumably still locked up in the cells. It must be his supporters, as the doctor says. But what do they think it has to do with me?’