Rosemary Rowe - The Legatus Mystery

At least, I thought, as I stepped out into the commercial hubbub of the forum, and began to make my way home through the busy streets, this time there had been no infernal wailing to speed me on my way.

So I was going home. And Gwellia would be waiting for me. I could still hardly believe it. After years of searching for the woman who had once been my bride, I had been reunited with her less than a month ago, and that was in Londinium. This was the first time I had left her alone in my little workshop-cum-apartment in Glevum, and I had been much longer than I intended. I found that I was worrying about her a little as I hurried back. Would she be anxious because I was late?

Ridiculous of course, but my heart gave a little skip; never, since I had been granted my freedom, had anyone but my slave Junio worried about me — except my patron, when he needed me. As I had said to Marcus, Gwellia was no longer legally my wife, but I found myself hurrying home like a new bridegroom as I turned into the little alley where my workshop lies.

I found myself looking at it with new eyes.

I rent a building in part of that straggling western suburb which has sprung up outside the city walls over the last hundred years. No fine Roman pavements or towering columns here, only a collection of ramshackle buildings huddled together along haphazard lanes, the gutters often running with filth and slime and the stinking mud from the river margins. Perhaps it is not the most congenial of places. But it’s my home, and I’m attached to it. The rooms are humble but adequate, the rent’s affordable, and — despite the presence of a tannery on one side and a candlemaker’s on the other — the place has never actually caught fire or collapsed, as other buildings in the area have been known to do. And my work had prospered. Some of the wealthiest men in Glevum had come here to order pavements — or at least sent their servants here on their behalf.

Why did I suddenly find myself needing to defend it to myself? Because it was not the situation I’d dreamed of for my wife. Ah, well! I picked my way down the alley, waved aside a turnip-seller and his donkey, and under the bold eyes of a woman hawking pies stepped over a large pile of dirt and rubbish in an entry, and came to the open shopfront which was mine. There was nobody about. I frowned.

I had expected my slave boy, Junio, to be attending customers.

‘Junio?’ I stepped over the piles of stone and tile which were my stock-in-trade, and went round the partition to the inner room.

And stopped. I would hardly have recognised the place.

The inner workroom had been scrubbed and swept. The dusty piles of coloured tesserae which usually lay in heaps around the floor had been scooped up and placed in what looked like brand-new baskets and my tools were now ranged neatly along the wall. The shelves in the alcove had been dusted and arranged, and the meagre contents — oil, candles, cheese and bread — looked even more meagre now. Even the table had been washed and the fire — which we’d had such trouble to ignite — had been damped down, the hearth stones had been swept of ash and something was bubbling in a clean pot on the embers.

The place was sweet and clean, and like a home again, although I shuddered to think how much effort it had cost — and how much precious water must have been fetched to do all this. And there was still no sign of anyone.

‘Junio?’ I hardly trusted my voice.

But he did not answer. Instead it was Gwellia who scrambled down from the makeshift space above, her hair full of cobwebs and her arms full of the reeds and rags which formed my customary bedding.

‘Is that you, Jun- Why, Libertus! Master!’ She looked around for somewhere to put down her load and made a sort of modest bob in my direction. It wrenched my heart. I hated this — yet it was a kind of progress in itself. When she first came back to me, she’d had a tendency actually to abase herself in my presence, as her previous owners had demanded. I’d persuaded her out of that, at least, and we’d come to this uncomfortable compromise. It was not a sign of slavery, she argued; many Roman wives greet their husbands in that fashion, and — since it made her comfortable — I’d reluctantly agreed.

She bobbed again. ‘Master, I was not expecting you so soon.’

That semi-curtsy still distressed me, when all I wanted was to take her in my arms. But I knew that would just embarrass her, so I said, ‘Where’s Junio?’ Suppressed emotion made me sound quite brusque.

She misinterpreted it as a rebuke. I saw the look of horror on her face. I’d forgotten how vulnerable she had become. I tried to soothe the hurt. ‘You have been very busy here,’ I said, more gently.

‘It was the rats, master. I found another nest of them down here. I thought. .’ She looked around helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, master. I wanted to make myself useful. Of course, I realise I had no right to touch your possessions or do any of this without your instructions.’

I reached out a hand and touched her arm. ‘But you have done exactly as I asked you to! I insisted that you were still effectively my wife, and you have attempted to behave like one. If I did not wish my habits to be disturbed, I should have instructed you to keep your place.’

She was still looking at me doubtfully. She looked so worn and timid standing there, and so proud of her handiwork, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the first time we cut tesserae again the dust would be as bad as ever.

‘You have done well, Gwellia,’ I said carefully. ‘And I am glad you got rid of the rats. But where is Junio? I left him here cutting tiles for a pavement. He should have them ready for delivery by now. Where is he? Off buying honey-cakes again?’ I was getting too indulgent with that boy, I told myself. He knew that a scolding was the worst he could expect, though many masters would have had him flogged — the maximum legal punishment was death — for leaving the premises except on business for me.

My attempt at teasing only made things worse. ‘Oh, master — husband.’ I could see confusion brimming in her eyes. ‘He has gone to the river for water.’ She glanced down at herself and rubbed her hands hastily on her tunic. ‘I am ashamed to greet you in this way. I had intended to clean myself when Junio came back. .’

‘And here he is, master,’ Junio said, poking his curly head round the partition. I sensed a certain wariness in his manner, although outwardly he was his usual cheerful self. ‘I have another water pail here.’ He came into the room and set it down — a misshapen hammered copper affair with a handle, which I had found once abandoned on a heap, and usually reserved for mixing mortar in. Now most of it had been chiselled clean and it was brimful of water — though not from the river, clearly, since there was no trace of mud in it. This must have come from one of the public fountains, inside the city gates. Junio had had a lengthy walk.

Junio attempted to read my face. ‘I am sorry, master,’ he began at last. ‘I didn’t know. .’

‘I left you here to look after the shop,’ I said patiently. ‘I don’t expect you to go off into the town without permission.’

Junio looked crestfallen, and gazed at the floor. It was Gwellia who spoke. ‘Don’t be angry with him, master. He thought to help me, that’s all. I know fetching water is usually a woman’s job. I was fetching it myself, at first, but he saw me struggling. .’

‘Are you telling me he volunteered? You must tell me what your secret is!’ I smiled. Junio has carried water to the shop for years, but usually he complains at every step.

Junio looked at me uncertainly. ‘Forgive me, master, what was I to do? I knew the lady was your wife, I saw she was having difficulties. .’