Rosemary Rowe - The Ghosts of Glevum

I had forgotten that. ‘nonetheless,’ I said, ‘I saw those people come and go. I still believe that Golbo — is that his name? — came here.’

Julia nodded. ‘You are quite right. The poor lad did come here. I think he hoped that I could shelter him.’

‘And did you?’

‘He changed his mind. He told me what had happened, then took fright and ran away. I’m not surprised.’

‘Did you attempt to stop him?’

She looked at me. ‘I did not. He has a legal right to flee, you know, if he fears ill-treatment.’

‘Ill-treatment at his owner’s hands,’ I said. ‘And only to another patron, then.’

She shrugged her lovely shoulders. ‘I know. All the same, citizen, I let him go. I didn’t have the heart to have him chased and caught. Especially when I saw what those guards had done to our other poor slave in the colonnade. Hacked him to death for attempting to defend his master, although the poor boy was doing no more than his duty. Golbo had prepared me for the sight, but even so I was shocked when I saw just how cruelly they had hewn him down. No wonder poor Golbo was so terrified. He was just obeying orders too. He was instructed to refill the pail, he said, and he went to the nympheum to get water as he was told. But he was afraid that he’d be killed for saying so — and more, that he would betray Marcus if he did.’

I frowned. If Marcus had sent the bucket-boy away, then things looked bad for him. Was that why he’d been uneasy earlier? I almost asked Julia to reiterate, but Junio seized the opportunity to speak.

‘Killed? Hacked to death? Master, what has been happening here? I heard that there had been an accident and Praxus choked to death. But no one said anything about violence to the slaves, only that Marcus had been obliged to go down with the guards, to take the body back and explain to the commander of the garrison what had occurred.’

‘That is one way of putting it,’ I said, mentally applauding the discretion of Marcus’s messenger. ‘More accurately expressed, Marcus has been formally accused of homicide. Praxus’s death was not an accident.’ I gave him a brief outline of events.

‘Great Mithras!’ Junio exclaimed. He was clearly shaken: he did not often swear on Roman gods. ‘Then, master, you are in danger staying here. By your own account you were the first upon the scene, and if Marcus did order the bucket-boy away, and then called on you, it might seem that you were an accomplice to all this.’

Julia rose to her feet again at this. ‘He is quite right, Citizen Libertus. I should have thought of that myself. It was ill-judged of me to bring you here at all. It is important that you go — and now.’

‘But madam, I cannot go and leave you here.’

‘You can. You must. I am a mere woman, and neither Mellitus nor Balbus will take account of me — at least for now. I will send a message to your house. Through Cilla, whom you know you can trust. In the meantime I will find out what I can. Between us we will find some way to set my husband free. Listen. I can hear footsteps in the house. Go — go now. May all the gods protect us.’

Junio murmured in my ear. ‘Don’t go through the front part of the villa. Come through the rear gate — the way I came. I’ll show you the way. Quickly, master, I can see their lights.’

So could I. There was already a glimmer in the passageways. I bent to kiss the lady Julia’s hand and then, still tugged at by my slave, disappeared as silently as possible into the darkness towards the outer wall. It was extremely difficult to see our way, and we made the little gate beside the shrine only a moment before the search party of guards came clattering out into the court.

It is not easy to walk across an unfamiliar farm in misty darkness, especially hampered by a toga and without a light, but that is what I was now obliged to do. Marcus’s villa, like most Roman country homes, backed on to the farmland and woods which made up his estate, and the little gate of the new wing gave out on to the orchard, thence to a muddy field and only then into the woods beyond. Mercifully the extension to the house was fairly new, so the orchard had just been fully walled and the guard geese were not yet in place. We did stumble over an ill-tempered sleeping pig, and disturbed a mangy and marauding fox, but there was no cacophony to alert the house and no one came shouting after us.

At last, after what seemed like several hours of slithering and sliding over our sandal-tops in mud, we stumbled into the welcoming shadows of the wood. It was cold and slippery and wet, and twigs and bracken snatched at us as we passed, but very soon there was at least a path. We struggled on — the detour had taken us miles out of our way — until we reached the road, and finally, muddy, wet and exhausted, we saw the roundhouse looming through the murk, the smoke from its welcoming fire seeping through the roof. There was the glimmer of a tallow taper too, and it was no surprise to find that even at this hour my wife Gwellia was up, awaiting my return.

‘Libertus, husband!’ she exclaimed, as soon as I had stooped to pass under the thatched entrance and into the house. ‘Where have you been? And what has happened to your toga and your shoes? Kurso’ — she motioned to the kitchen slave — ‘bring your poor master water and a stool. You’ll find both in the dye-house, where I was dyeing cloth.’

Kurso, whom I had acquired by accident some months before, gave me one of his worried looks and hurried off. He was still so nervous that he hardly spoke — at least to me, although I’ve seen him chatter happily to Junio, and Gwellia finds him indispensable. He had been savagely mistreated by an owner once, and had learned to move backwards more quickly than forwards from an early age.

I watched him go scuttling out into the night, towards the dye-house that my wife had spoken of — another woven wattle hut nearby, in the same enclosure and much like the one we were in, even to the central hearth, except that it was on a smaller scale. It housed Gwellia’s spindles, fleece and looms, and — as I was well aware — an iron vat of some evil-smelling dye. My wife was adept at the ancient crafts, and even now was weaving me a cloak in the traditional Celtic plaid of our old tribe, but I had insisted that the dyes be kept elsewhere and ordered that the dye-house should be built. Much as I love our little home I have spent too long in fine Roman buildings, with windows and partitions everywhere, to sleep in comfort in the same room as a smelly steaming vat of decaying vegetation and hot wool.

Fortunately, once the materials are cut, a skilled group can weave a small hut in a day, and Kurso had shown an unexpected aptitude for mixing daub and waterproofing walls. Within our fenced enclosure Gwellia had a small thatched henhouse now, as well, so we had eggs, and plans for some beehives and raised foodstores too, instead of the holly-pits we used at present. A proper little Celtic dwelling place.

After the events of the past few hours, it seemed a haven of relief, and I was contemplating all this with a smile and allowing Junio to unlace my soggy sandals when Kurso reappeared — without the stool and water — and uncharacteristically burst into speech at once.

‘Master! Mistress! There is somebody there!’

I looked at Junio, who was kneeling at my feet and now glanced up in alarm. He said, before I could frame the words, ‘The guards?’

Gwellia said, ‘What guards?’ but Kurso shook his head.

‘Not guards. It seems to be a boy — a slave. He’s terrified. He’s hiding in there by the fire, and won’t come out. He wants to talk to you.’

‘Golbo!’ I said — a fraction ahead of Junio this time. ‘Leave my sandals, Junio. I had better go and speak to him.’