Requiem for a Slave (11 page)

He looked down his long, thin, bony nose at me. ‘You are aware of how much store he sets by it? Then you have a most peculiar way of demonstrating that! It has been treated most disrespectfully.’

So that was the trouble! Perhaps I should have guessed, since I knew how superstitious Pedronius could be. I sent up a quick prayer to whatever gods there were that my apparent disregard for his favourite deity would not be enough to make the tax-collector change his mind.

‘Of course,’ I babbled, ‘I can see he might consider it inappropriate for an image of Apollo to be transported in this way.’
Wheeled through the streets on a street-vendor’s barrow by a ragged turnip-man
, I meant, but I did not draw additional attention to the facts. ‘My own slave, I fear, was not available and it was the best expedient that I could devise.’ I tried the smile again. ‘Where is the fellow who delivered it? I promised him money when I got here myself.’

The disdainful eyebrows came down half an inch. ‘Citizen, that is unfortunate, but hardly my concern. You have a contract, and the price was fixed. If you were obliged to use the services of someone else and were thereby put to some expense, that is your own affair. But was it necessary to have him leave it outside the villa wall and not even send a message to say that it was there? If the gatekeeper had been a little less alert, it could have been stolen or damaged in some way – no doubt those forest bandits that we hear so much about would find a ready use for a sturdy handbarrow, if only to sell it in the marketplace.’

It was my turn to frown. ‘Left outside the wall?’ I was surprised at this, and slightly irritated with the turnip-man, but, on reflection, perhaps I was unjust. Manoeuvring that barrow with its fragile load over a mile or so of stony road would be no easy task but, as he promised, he had done that for me. If I was longer at the pie-oven than he had bargained for, perhaps he’d been obliged to leave and hurry home himself, since, like me, he would not wish to travel in the dark. He had assured me this villa was on his own route home, though he hadn’t mentioned how far out he lived. But, all the same . . . ‘He left no message? Not of any kind?’

‘The gatekeeper did think he heard a noise outside, which might have been a knock, but when he looked out through the grille he saw no one at all, only the barrow leaning up against the wall. Fortunately, he took a closer look and, knowing that a pavement was to be installed, he realized what it was. He had the wit to send and tell me it was there, so I ordered a pair of slaves to go and bring it in. They’ve put it in the stables, as I said before.’

‘This all happened in the back lane, then?’ I said, working out that this must certainly be true. ‘And no one saw a turnip-seller? Not at either gate?’

He looked at me impatiently. ‘Not that I am aware of. Were you expecting one?’ He said it with such obvious disdain that I did not press the point. It was enough that the mosaic had arrived and was safely at the house. Doubtless I’d hear the truth from Radixrapum very soon; he’d want his money, and he’d earned it too, though I was surprised that he had simply left the barrow here and gone. Had he – my mind was racing now – seen something unexpected to lure him down the lane? A band of rebels in that stand of wood? Or someone who might have been described as a green man?

I shook my head. More likely that a waggoner he knew had passed and offered him a lift.

The chief slave had seen my movement and took it for dissent. ‘You are deciding that it is too late to make a start?’

‘On the contrary, steward, I will get to work at once, if I could have a slave to bring me water in a pail. What about the land slave who helped me last time I was here? If you could spare him, he could lend a hand. It requires someone lively, but there is nothing skilled – just passing things and keeping mortar mixed and wet – and then there is a good chance that I can finish this tonight.’

He looked disapproving. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But the land slave you mention is away on loan. My master often leases servants – just for a day or two – to help defray their price, and that one’s helping a decurion today to move his kindling pile. And all the other servants have allotted tasks.’

Suddenly, I had another of my little inspirations. ‘There is a rear doorkeeper who is due to come off duty, I believe. He will be fit and strong. Do you think he could be spared? No doubt he wants to eat. But tell him I will give him a substantial tip.’ It is not uncommon for visitors to give gratuities to slaves, who try to save their slave price and buy their freedom back, but gatekeepers rarely get very much at all. I could afford a half-sestertius as Radixrapum wasn’t here, and I might learn something to the purpose from the man – and earn an ally in the house as well.

‘I’ll see if he is available,’ the chief steward said, meaning, of course, that such an arrangement was a favour on his part: the gatekeeper would come if he was told to come – a slave has little choice. ‘In the meantime, I’ll get your water sent and two of the garden slaves will wheel the barrow out to you. You go to the garden and they will meet you there.’

I made my way around the outside of the house to the area of walled garden where the altar was. It was a lovely place, a small secluded spot, with a terraced walk fringed by tiny hedges of sweet-smelling herbs and a collonade of pillars up which creeping flowers had been trained to grow. The Apollo statue stood at the farther end of it, in its own special niche, with a curved space in front of it where the plaque was to be placed, and a low stone bench on either side of it. Tucked under one of these was a stout hempen bag. I knelt and retrieved it, since it was my own. It contained the tools and mortar box that I had left behind the last time I was working at the site, ready for the task which now awaited me. I had prepared the area with a roughened mix to help the mortar grip, and given it the faintest tilt towards the back, so if my careful measurements had been accurate, I could hope that the linen-backed mosaic would slot into the space and I could quickly build the missing edge to fit.

I was still eyeing all this up when two large slaves appeared wheeling the barrow – with insufficient care. They were trundling it far too much upright and were in danger of unshipping the fragile load it bore. I realized what a task Radixrapum must have had in bringing it so far along the public road without mishap, although he was accustomed to handling it, of course. I spoke to them sharply and they laid it down, then shambled off again, just as my friend the gatekeeper appeared, carrying my water in a wooden pail.

He was looking anything but friendly now, in fact. He put the bucket down and stood a little bit apart. ‘I’m told I have to help you, though only Jove knows why. I won’t be any use. It’s not my job to carry water like a kitchen slave, and I don’t know anything about laying plaques.’

‘The job I want you for requires no special skill. But I wanted someone strong and only you could answer what I want to ask, so I requested you. You are supposed to be off duty, I’m aware. I wonder if a half-sestertius would help to compensate?’

A greedy little glint came into the brown eyes, and he said at once, ‘A half-sestertius, citizen? What can I do to help?’

He was surprisingly helpful for a man who’d never dealt with tiles before. He fetched a board for me to mix the mortar on – I had prepared the right proportions of wet lime and ground brick dust in my box – and he kept it stirring while I drizzled water in until I felt the consistency was right. Then he helped me cover the back of the mosaic with the mix and slide it carefully into place, linen uppermost. It fitted very well – you could already see the pattern showing through the cloth – and a row or two of plain-coloured tesserae all round would fill the jagged edge. I inserted a layer of mortar in the gap and began the careful work of putting in the border to complete the plaque.

He squatted down beside me as I worked, handing me the colours as I asked for them. ‘Never gave much thought to mosaic floors before. Wonderful when you see how it is done. What about the linen – will you scrape that off the top?’

‘Not for a day or two, until the cement is set,’ I answered. ‘Then it will soak off fairly easily. It will look well, I think.’ I glanced up from my work to steal a peek at him. ‘I understand that I owe thanks to you, because you saw it in the lane and realized what it was. That was observant and intelligent of you.’ I saw him preening slightly at my words, and I went on at once, ‘I expected my messenger to bring it to the house. The chief steward told me that you thought you heard a knock.’

He scratched his tousled head. ‘Well, not exactly that. Just a peculiar noise. I peered out through the grille but there was no one I could see, only an ox-cart going lurching down the lane.’

‘But you went out yourself?’ I set another border tile into the wet cement. Only a few more large ones and the job would be complete.

‘I heard the wagon pause. Naturally, I went outside to see if it was someone coming here, but the man was simply stopping to rearrange his load. He grumbled that there was something cluttering the lane, so, of course, I went round to investigate and found the barrow there. I hadn’t seen it come, and he had no idea. He hadn’t seen anyone else along the road, he said, except a young man taking rolls of woven cloth to Glevum on his horse.’

‘I see,’ I said, although I didn’t see at all. This seemed to disprove my theory about Radixrapum getting a lift home – unless the cart-driver wasn’t telling us the truth.

But, it seemed, there was nothing more to learn, so I concentrated on placing the last few tesserrae. When I had finished, I clambered to my feet. Tomorrow or the next day I would wash off the cloth and the god Apollo would have his naming plaque. It looked impressive even as it was. Pedronius should be more than satisfied, I thought.

I gathered my tools together in the bag and tied it to the barrow, together with the tray, using the rag I’d wrapped the pieces in. ‘I’ll leave this here,’ I said, ‘and take it back to town the next time that I come. But if a turnip-seller comes and wants the barrow back, then you should let him have it – it is his property. I only meant to hire it for an hour or two, but it looks as if he got a ride home after all – if not on the ox-cart that you noticed in the lane, then something similar – and doubtless that saved him a long walk in the hills. Speaking of which, it’s time I left myself.’ I fished into my purse and brought out a silver coin. ‘Here is the half-sestertius which I promised you.’

The gatekeeper took it and tried it in his teeth, then tucked it underneath his tunic belt. ‘I’ll take good care of your possessions, citizen, you may be sure of that,’ he murmured with a grin. ‘That is what I call a very handsome tip. If you call again, I would be pleased to help: I’m saving to buy my freedom, if I ever get a chance – just as the steward is, though it will cost him a lot more. With this contribution, I am almost halfway there.’ He picked up the handles of the barrow as he spoke. ‘So may Janus, the god of gates and gatekeepers, smile on you and bring you safely to your own door this night – and your turnip-man as well.’

And with that he took the barrow and wheeled it swiftly through the court, leaving me to make my puzzled way towards the gate.

Nine

The failure of Radixrapum to meet me at the house and receive his payment had one unlooked-for benefit for me. I still had a half-sestertius in my purse, and that meant that I could afford the unusual luxury of hiring horse-drawn transport for my journey home – an unexpected bonus, for which I thanked the gods. The sun was already getting lower in the west, and if I had been on foot, I should have been overtaken by darkness long before I got back to my little roundhouse and my worried wife. I was anxious to tell the family about the loss of Minimus, and, to tell the truth, I was glad not to be walking on my own. I am generally sceptical about the tales of rebels in the woods, but, in the circumstances, I was not feeling sceptical tonight.

I hastened to a hiring stables that I’d had dealings with before, where I knew that they kept a
cisium
for hire – a swift and lightweight gig for single passengers. The gig was there all right; the problem was to find a driver willing to undertake the trip at such an hour, since there was little possibility of a finding another fare for the return. But the proprietor of the stables owed me a favour, and, after some bickering as to price, a deal was duly struck.

The hire establishment was just outside the western gates, and I live to the south, but, of course, we could not take a horse-drawn vehicle through the streets till dusk, so we went the other way, taking the minor, gravelled road that skirted round the outside of the walls and joined up with the major road again beyond the southern entry to the town.

I had been hoping to ask questions of the sentry there, in case he’d seen anyone with an unwilling red-haired slave, but it was not possible. The main road back to town was already crammed with carts and wagons, lining up to try to get in through the gates and make deliveries. I should have known, of course. This happened every evening in the half-hour before the gates were closed, and there was always a jostling competition to be first, with quarrelling drivers wielding curses, fists and whips. No one was going to let a mere workman in a hired gig get through.

But going the other way the road was clear – a military Roman road is deliberately built with enough width for a century of soldiers to march down it eight abreast, which means two loaded wagons can also pass, with care, if they each put a wheel on the margin path. So there was little hindrance for a narrow gig. I was slightly regretful as we drew away, but my hope of learning anything was, in any case, remote. If rebel brigands had captured Minimus, they were unlikely to have walked him boldly through the gate – he would have struggled and drawn attention to himself. They were far more likely to have tied him up and smuggled him out hidden in some donkey-load or, it occurred to me, a handcart full of hides. So I sat back as the gig-man drove past the throng, and we were soon clear of the confusion and in open countryside.