Rosemary Rowe - The Ghosts of Glevum

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.