Rosemary Rowe - The Chariots of Calyx

But Superbus had not become dishevelled simply by questioning people who were too frightened to talk. ‘And then?’ I prompted.

‘And then,’ he said, in an affronted tone, ‘when I was just about to give up and come away, a big fat Celt in plaid trousers and a tunic came up behind me in an alley. Grabbed me by the shoulder, pushed me against the wall, and wanted to know why one of the governor’s slaves was hanging around asking questions about Eppaticus.’ He looked at me resignedly. ‘I imagine that he recognised my tunic borders. The palace servants are well known in the market.’

I nodded, rather guiltily. I had guessed something of the kind. ‘And what did you tell him?’

A strange expression crossed Superbus’ face, a mixture of self-congratulation and defensiveness. ‘I told him I was interested in buying one of the slaves.’

‘Well done, Superbus!’ I said, with more surprise than was altogether tactful. It was a more quick-witted strategy than I’d expected from him. It was entirely plausible for one thing — senior slaves in important households sometimes did have slaves of their own. It was more for status than anything, and in that case buying from someone like Eppaticus — selling old and worn-out slaves at a knock-down price — might well look like a better proposition than paying full price at the slave auction. ‘What did the man say?’

Superbus looked uncomfortable. ‘He wanted to know how much I was willing to pay. I didn’t want to offer a price, but he insisted, and in the end I suggested a figure. A very low one, of course.’

I winced. Under Roman law agreeing a price is tantamount to fixing a bargain, and Superbus seemed to have bought himself a slave, sight unseen. I could only imagine what kind of broken-down, or even diseased, individual he would find himself in possession of, and how he would provide for such a creature here in the palace. Most slave-owning slaves are very senior in the household hierarchy.

‘So you have acquired a slave?’

He swallowed. ‘Not yet, citizen. That is what enraged the Celtic gentleman. I didn’t have the money with me.’

‘Even though he picked you up by your tunic and shook you till your teeth rattled?’ I suggested.

Superbus nodded.

‘Then you have had a lucky escape,’ I said. ‘Now he will have to provide the goods in order to demand the money, and you will be able to escape from the bargain.’ I grinned. ‘Unless of course you want to buy a slave.’

I meant it as a jest but Superbus coloured, and I realised that his quick response had not been due entirely to cunning.

‘In any case,’ I went on, ‘you wouldn’t want one of those Eppaticus was selling. They were last month’s commodity, you said, so by this time he’ll only have the leftovers that no one else wanted to buy.’ Superbus looked so chastened at this observation that I hurried to change the subject. ‘Did you discover, by the way, whether he ever dealt in grain?’

Superbus’ face fell still further. ‘I am sorry, citizen. It did not occur to me to ask.’

I smiled. ‘Perhaps that is just as well. If Eppaticus is edgy about questions, as it seems that he is, asking about the grain trade might have been distinctly dangerous.’

‘You think my assailant was Eppaticus, citizen?’

‘I don’t think so, from your description,’ I said. ‘The most striking thing about Eppaticus is his height. And he did not wear trousers. More likely one of his attendants. But not a man to trifle with, all the same. Fortunately he won’t come looking for you here — the palace guard would soon see him off. Just make sure you keep away from the market for a while — in fact, it might be better if you did not leave the palace at all. A pity. I had hoped to send you to find the jeweller who made this necklace for Annia Augusta.’ I took out the bloodstained article from my pouch, still wrapped in its piece of protective linen. ‘Never mind, I will send it to Pertinax and ask him to despatch someone else to make enquiries.’

Superbus nodded, and withdrew, still hobbling. I finished my meal, and entrusted the necklace to the table-slave, who promised to deliver it to the governor with my request. When I joined Junio on the steps of the palace, he had already collected my few possessions for the journey.

The next few hours passed in a dreadful dream. Pertinax had been as good as his word, and an imperial gig was waiting to transport us. Gigs are a light, swift, open form of transport, and can rattle along the cobbled roads quicker than any closed carriage ever invented. On the other hand, any open carriage is at best a draughty affair, even if there is not a stiff breeze blowing, and ‘rattle’ is the operative word. We bounced and lurched northwards the whole long afternoon, through a countryside busy with agriculture. None of the wild lands that surrounded Glevum, here. Little hamlets had sprung up around the road for miles, and even when these had been left behind, much of the woodland had been cleared, and every valley seemed to have its little farm — sometimes a Roman villa, sometimes a Celtic roundhouse — each with its own assortment of animals, crops and fields of next year’s grain.

On we plunged, terrifying ox carts and mule waggons as we passed, swaying wildly up hills and still more wildly down them, while I clutched my narrow wooden bench with both hands and Junio crouched miserably at my feet.

And then, just when I thought that I could endure it no longer, we stopped at little mansio , an official staging post. But not for long. Time enough to change the horses and swallow a welcome drink of watered wine, and off we went, to repeat the whole bone-juddering experience again.

Even so, it was dark before we got to Verulamium. There was a brief argument at the gatehouse before they would admit us, but a glimpse of the governor’s seal and warrant, even by the uncertain light of a flaming torch, was enough to have the guards change their minds in a panic, and not only let us in, but organise stabling for the horses and have Junio and me escorted personally, and with fulsome apologies, to the commander.

Verulamium, like the capital, has maintained a small garrison-fort inside the town ever since the Boudicca uprising more than a century ago, and it was there that we were taken. The commander was in the praetorium having a supper party in the privacy of his home, but the official seal worked its charms again, and he did his best to offer hospitality at the garrison. I have a dim memory of being seated on a wooden stool beside a fire, and given a hearty meal of warm army bean-stew and coarse brown bread, before I was shown to a small, sparsely furnished chamber in the barracks, usually reserved for passing messengers.

A small brazier and an oil-lamp were promised, but I stretched out on the clean bunk bedding at once, pulled a blanket over me, and, with my young slave lying in another bunk at my feet, had closed my eyes and was fast asleep before anyone had time to return with the expected items. It had been an exhausting day.

Even so, one image haunted my sleep. The floor in Caius Monnius’ study had been lifted, and in my dreams I could see clearly what I had only glimpsed in those few moments before I had been interrupted. The secret hiding place beneath the floor was crammed almost to bursting with bags of silver coins. I did a rapid calculation. There must have been five thousand denarii at least: that is to say, at current market rates, roughly twenty thousand sesterces.

‘What was it doing there?’ I murmured as I slept. ‘And what becomes of Annia’s theory now?’ But my lost Gwellia, who always stalked my dreams, only smiled mysteriously and vanished like smoke before I could touch her with my hand.