Rosemary Rowe: Requiem for a Slave

I was hurrying back to my mosaic workshop in the town, my mind on the important customer I had arranged to meet, when I stopped short on the street. I had caught sight of something which should not have been there. A street-vendor’s tray! It was leaning against a pile of sorted stones outside my door. I heaved a heavy sigh. Not only was it likely to mark my precious stock — it was not so much a tray as a greasy piece of wood with an even greasier leather strap to hold it round the neck — but I was uncomfortably aware of what its presence meant. Lucius the pie-seller was at my shop again.

It was the fourth time in as many days, and no amount of hinting seemed to warn him off. My own fault, of course. I’d been too soft with him the first time he called, when I not only purchased one of his appalling pies but gave him a worn-out tunic out of pity for his plight.

I should have known better, especially about the pie. I had tasted Lucius’s wares before, but I persuaded myself that they could not be as bad as I recalled. This ‘example’ was worse, if anything, clearly fashioned, as usual, from whatever ingredients he could rustle up for a few quadrans when the market stalls closed down: the questionable leavings from the butchers’ blocks, a few squashed turnip leaves and the final sweepings from the miller’s stones, more grit than flour — and those were only the things I could identify. The result was horrible. Even the dogs I fed it to when he had gone refused to finish it.

And here he was again, no doubt in the hope of tempting me to more. But this time even pity would not sway me, I resolved. I did not want him lurking around the shop like this; he was little better than a beggar and would horrify my wealthier class of customer, though one could not help feeling sorry for the man. He was so ugly, for one thing: a dreadful scar had puckered half his face and he had only one good eye — the result of an accident years and years before, when his pie-maker father had been careless with the sparks and reduced himself to ashes together with the house. Lucius had been badly burned himself, but somehow the brick-built oven building had survived, and while his mother struggled to nurse him back to strength, she scratched a meagre living selling pies.

She still baked them for him nightly, in that same freestanding oven outside the dismal hovel which was all the home they had, but now it was he who hawked them around the streets. Amazingly, he often sold them all. They were warm and inexpensive and they didn’t smell too bad, and in a big colonia like Glevum there was always someone passing through who hadn’t tried one yet.

Besides, Lucius was so humble, and his one good eye had such a hangdog look, that even hard-headed locals like myself occasionally weakened and purchased another of his wretched wares. A few of the more sympathetic among his customers felt sorry enough for him sometimes to let him have broken and discarded things they didn’t want themselves — cracked bowls, chipped goblets, crusts of mouldy bread, or bits of cast-off clothing (as I’d done myself), odd broken sandals or a patched and faded cloak. Nothing of any value, as I assured my wife, but without them he would probably have perished in the cold.

My much-mended ancient tunic, fraying round the seams and with a stain from plaster halfway round the hem, was hardly the most remarkable of gifts, but the pie-seller had been embarrassingly tearful in his thanks and had pulled it on at once, over the filthy rags that he already wore. No doubt that garment too would soon reach the same sorry state, but in the meantime it looked quite well on him. It fitted him not badly when it came to length, though he was rather thinner than I have ever been, and the looseness of the front neckline drew attention to the scar. However, he was clearly thrilled with the effect and capered off in it. He had shown his continued appreciation since by arriving at my workshop every afternoon to offer me the last pie on his tray.

‘And it’s no good my telling him I haven’t any change,’ I’d grumbled to Junio, my adopted son, the day before. ‘He only insists that I take it as a gift.’

Junio gave me his cheeky sideways grin. He had been my slave for many years before I freed him and adopted him, and he still took liberties. ‘It serves you right for being over-generous. He’s only trying to repay a debt.’

‘And whose fault is it if I was over-generous?’ I muttered sheepishly. It was true that I had been in expansive mood. Lucius had turned up with his confounded pies a moment after we’d received the news that Junio’s young wife had just been safely delivered of a son. ‘Perhaps pride in being a grandfather did make me profligate. But you rushed off to make a sacrifice yourself. Isn’t that impulse very much the same?’

‘That was my obligation to the deities, to thank them for my son. Lucius’s obligation is to you. He regards you as his patron now and he’s bringing you his dues.’

I sighed. I hadn’t thought of it, but it might well be true. If Lucius saw me in that light, no wonder he kept appearing at my workshop door: A ‘client’ is expected to attend his patron’s home each day and offer any service in his power, and in return he is entitled to expect support. It was flattering, but I wasn’t sure I wanted clientes to sustain.

‘Well, we’ll have to persuade him otherwise,’ I answered crossly. ‘I can’t have Lucius taking up my time. My own patron will soon be coming back from Rome, and I have this new order for a pavement to fulfil by then.’

Junio knew when to let a matter drop. ‘The pavement that Quintus Severus is commissioning, to go in the entrance of the basilica? It’s to be in honour of your patron, isn’t it? So he will want it finished by the time that Marcus comes.’

‘Exactly. Quintus isn’t satisfied with being chief decurion ; he’s hoping to be recommended for the Imperial Court.’

Junio grinned again. ‘And Marcus is related to the Emperor, of course. Or so the rumours say.’

I frowned at him. It was not wise to be irreverent where Marcus was concerned. My patron had long been the most important magistrate in this whole area of Britannia, but he was one of the most influential men in the whole Empire these days, now that his friend and patron Pertinax held the Prefecture of Rome. And the Emperor has ears and eyes in the most unlikely spots, even in a far-flung colonia like Glevum. ‘Marcus has never denied the claim,’ I said reprovingly. (He’d never confirmed it either, but I didn’t mention that.) ‘So treat him with respect. And Quintus Severus also, when he comes. After all, as senior town councillor he’s virtually in charge while Marcus is away — apart from the commander of the garrison, of course.’

‘The decurion’s coming here? I thought you would have taken the patterns to his house?’

I was not surprised he asked. I had a range of patterns, ready laid on cloth, and we often took them to a client’s home in my little handcart so that wealthy customers could make a choice in comfort.

But I shook my head. ‘Quintus wants something special. Marcus attending Neptune: Marcus in a wreath, and the god atop a dolphin with a trident in his hand, and a border of agapanthus and birds around the side. In honour of my patron’s successful sea voyage, he says. I volunteered to sketch it, but he opted to come here. I’m expecting him tomorrow, around the seventh hour.’

Junio looked doubtful. ‘Then I shall not be here, Father, to show respect or otherwise. Tomorrow I have to go and make arrangements with the priest and order a bulla for Amato’s naming day.’