Rosemary Rowe - Enemies of the Empire

‘A civic banquet in your honour, Excellence? Here in Venta? Tonight?’ I stared at my wealthy patron in dismay.

I had never wanted to come to this remote tribal civitas in the first place. Two days of jogging and jolting in a heavy carriage along military roads is a punishing experience for ageing bones (and at fifty my bones are already far more aged than most) even when every hoofbeat does not take you nearer to the wild, forested outskirts of the Empire, where not only are there the usual hazards of brigands, wolves and bears, but there is always the entertaining possibility of a rebel ambush and a disaffected Silurian sword through your vitals.

Besides, I had left a wife and slaves at home, to say nothing of a new and lucrative commission for a memorial pavement for a fountain at the baths, bequeathed in his own honour under the will of a recently departed wealthy local citizen and councillor. But when His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus — personal representative of the absent governor and my personal patron and protector — invites you to attend him on an official visit to the border legion at Isca, on the western frontier of the province, to say ‘I’m sorry, I’d prefer to stay at home’ is really not a possibility.

So here I was, draped in a wilting toga, travel-stained and sore. And we had not reached our destination yet, only a mansio — a military inn and staging post — at Venta Silurum, the local capital, with the prospect of another day’s travelling in view. ‘Tonight?’ I said again.

The last thing I wanted now was a wretched civic feast, where I would be expected to eat too much rich Roman food, drink too much Roman wine and endure not only eulogies about my host, but endless tributes to my patron too. And there would be tributes. Marcus is rumoured to be related to the Emperor and, until the new imperial governor arrives, is ruling this part of Britannia by depute. No dinner host would dare omit some appropriately fulsome homage as part of the after-dinner entertainment. It could go on for hours.

Marcus misinterpreted my anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, Libertus, my old friend, but I’m afraid the invitation was for me alone. I’ve been asked to accompany the chief magistrate and open the local assizes in the morning, too. It’s a bore, but it is an honour, naturally — lictors and processions, and all that sort of thing. Still, I’m not really expected to preside at any trials. There are no serious cases to be heard — nothing the local civitas authorities can’t handle perfectly. We should be able to set off again by noon. Till then, I’ll have to leave you at the mansio — no doubt our friend the optio here will take care of you.’

He nodded towards the youthful officer who was currently commanding this establishment: newly promoted by the look of him. His armour was so burnished it half dazzled you, and his dark hair was so severely cropped it looked like stubble corn. He was bristling with self-importance and eagerness to impress and was so overawed by my patron’s presence here that he had come in person to bring us the dinner invitation from the messenger, and was now waiting by the door for some reply, his round face screwed into an earnest frown.

At Marcus’s word he leapt towards us, almost tripping over his sandal-straps in his desire to help, ‘Of course, Excellence. I’ll have my cook prepare some food for this citizen at once. .’

I flashed him my most ingratiating smile. ‘Just bread and cheese would please me very well,’ I said. I have eaten in a mansio before. There is always cold food for passing messengers, in a hurry to deliver the imperial post, and I wanted to avoid the stodgy bean and oatmeal stew on which the ordinary Roman army seems to march.

I need not have worried. The optio gave me a suspicious look and said, ‘There is also some roast pork with fennel that you can have. We were preparing for His Excellence’s coming.’

I nodded. A legionary soldier on the move has to prepare his own food, by and large, but in a mansio a common kitchen is the rule. No doubt the duty cook had done his best, expecting the arrival of the great, and I would be the one to profit by this effort at producing an exotic dish. I only hoped the cook was adequate. ‘That would be delightful,’ I replied, and was rewarded by a frosty smile.

‘In that case,’ Marcus said, rising to his feet and addressing the optio, ‘you may tell the messenger that I accept. I shall retire to the bath-house and prepare. You can send two of my personal slaves to attend me there.’ The young officer hurried off, and my patron turned to me. ‘Libertus, my old friend, I shall leave you to your meal.’ He extended a ringed hand for me to kiss. ‘It is unfortunate, but there it is. One must do one’s civic duty, after all.’

‘Of course, Excellence,’ I murmured, making a deep obeisance and trying not to smile. Marcus is a much younger man than I am, and born and bred to Roman ways. Given the choice between a mansio meal, however carefully prepared, and being guest of honour at a lavish feast with good wine and slaves and perfumed dancing girls, I knew where his preference would lie. The prospect of an official procession, with cheering spectators and all the pomp of office, would not displease him, either. However, I did have a little sympathy. I knew, better than he did perhaps, what it was like to be obliged to go where one would prefer not to be. ‘Don’t worry about me, Excellence. It’s been a tiring day.’

He patted my shoulder as he left the room. ‘And you’ll be glad to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight.’

It was not quite the truth, I thought, as I struggled to my feet when he had gone. Now that I had an hour or two of daylight to myself, I had perversely decided on a little expedition of my own. Silurian gold and silver is famous everywhere — beautiful beaten work in sinous Celtic shapes — and it occurred to me that this was a perfect opportunity to acquire a silver cloak clasp for my poor abandoned wife. I knew that she had always wanted one. She had been unhappy at my leaving on this trip, although she understood the need as well as anyone and had tried to hide her feelings with a smile.

‘Well, you will have to go, since Marcus wants you to, but I shall count the nights till you return again. It is such an inconvenient moment too, with that big commission for the fountain at the baths, and poor Junio with poison in his foot. I don’t like you travelling without a slave.’

Junio, my workshop apprentice-cum-personal slave, had stepped upon a piece of jagged glass: his foot had swollen very nastily and although he was improving rapidly, it was obvious that I would have to leave him at home. ‘Better if Junio stays here to mind the shop. He can produce some preliminary sketches for the memorial pavement, perhaps.’ I have been teaching Junio the trade, and he has a talent for it. ‘That way we can contrive to keep the contract for the job, and you can continue to treat his foot with herbs. If he recovers, get word to me and I will send for him. In the meantime, no doubt Marcus will provide me with a slave.’

And so he had. The lad was waiting for me in the anteroom, right now, with all the rest of Marcus’s retinue: Promptillius, a dough-faced fellow with a foolish smile, who doubtless did his best and spoke when spoken to, but a poor substitute for my own impudent Junio, who often seemed to know what I required even before I’d thought of it myself, and whose comments and sharp understanding were a joy.

I thought of sending for my borrowed servant when the optio returned, which he did a moment afterwards, but my doughy-faced attendant was already at his heels. However, being Promptillius, he offered no remark but simply stationed himself politely at my back — which I have always found an inconvenient place for slaves, since one has to twist round to talk to them. I had mentioned this fact to him several times, but to no avail. Promptillius had been trained since birth in Marcus’s house, and he invariably forgot.