Rosemary Rowe - Murder in the Forum

Junio disappeared with a smirk, and reappeared a moment later with a platter, covered with a linen cloth, from which the most delectable smells were arising.

‘Oatcakes, master,’ Junio announced. ‘One of Marcus’s kitchen slaves is a Celt and she made them to her old recipe, especially for you.’

I pulled back the linen cover and could not stop myself grinning. I picked up an oatcake and sank my teeth into the delicious warmth. Better than any layered fowl, and not an ounce of fish pickle in sight.

‘I had a second idea,’ Pertinax said. He nodded at Junio again, and my slave vanished for a second time. This time when he reappeared I did not smile. Instead I felt an expression of foolish surprise dawn on my face.

‘A toga!’ I exclaimed. ‘A new toga.’ I glanced down at the pathetic garment I was wearing. ‘How did you guess?’

‘I saw you in the court,’ the governor replied. At that moment he was wearing a synthesis himself, a combination tunic and toga that rich men often adopt for social occasions, which saves hours of folding every time the owner dresses for dinner. Nevertheless, I was delighted with my toga.

‘And for my last boon,’ Pertinax declared, ‘I have a proposition to make to you. This Felix business has decided me. When I report this to the Emperor, as I am bound to do, I intend to ask him to release me from this posting — perhaps to send me to Africa as he was suggesting. Britannia is no longer safe for me — there are too many plots and counter-plots. I have already sent my wife and children into exile.’

‘Mightiness?’ I was disappointed. I was beginning to like this governor.

‘However,’ Pertinax went on, ‘before I leave, I propose to make a tour of all the cities of the province.’ He beamed at me. ‘And Marcus tells me that you have a burning desire to visit Eboracum. Well, your wish is granted. When I go you may travel with me, in my entourage.’

He was looking at me intently. I glanced around the room. Marcus was sipping at his goblet and pretending not to listen. Gaius and Octavius were discussing dowries for Phyllidia, who in turn was talking wedding plans with Julia Delicta.

I thought of my own wife, and a lurching cart, and a worn, lovely face in the rain. This was so kindly meant. There was a prickling behind my eyes, and I raised my hand to brush them. A passing slave, misinterpreting my gesture, ladled fish pickle onto my oatcakes.

I turned to Pertinax, blinking back the tears. ‘Thank you, Mightiness,’ I said. ‘That would be wonderful.’

After all, the man had saved my life. And it is never wise to argue with a powerful Roman.