The Legatus Mystery (8 page)

We were under Minerva’s disapproving stare again, but this blatant piece of temple gossip stopped me in my tracks. I braved the goddess’s anger long enough to say, ‘But surely . . .? I heard he was slave-manager of an estate?’

‘Oh, certainly he was,’ Trinunculus replied. ‘He has his
pilleus
– the freeman’s cap – and his certificate to prove it. But how did he become the manager? He is no ordinary slave. He can do more than read and write his name – he knows the orators: and it is rumoured that he can ride a horse, play an instrument, even quote the Greek philosophers. How did he learn to do all that? It’s clear he wasn’t born on that estate. So was he born a slave at all? That’s what I want to know.’

I looked at him. ‘I was captured into slavery myself,’ I said, with some feeling. ‘I can understand why any man would avoid talking about it – or about the life he had to leave behind. Or he may have been the pet slave of some wealthy man. He is good-looking enough, and some of them are taught all sorts of things to be companions to their masters. If you had risen to wealth and dignity wouldn’t
you
avoid talking about your humble beginnings? And what other explanations are there? That he sold himself into slavery to clear a debt? Or was sentenced to it, to atone for a crime? Neither seems likely, for a man who made his master’s fortune, and rose so high in his esteem.’

I had not meant to speak so sharply. Even to me it sounded like a rebuke. ‘What made you question it?’ I asked more gently.

The young priest looked abashed. ‘It is only that he has such skills. And once when we were talking, he mentioned Aquae Sulis. Not casually, but as if he knew the town. Then when Scribonius pressed him, he tried to change the subject – said that he had been there with his master once.’ He glanced at me. ‘And most of all, I’ve noticed when he dons his robes he does not seem to have a brand. Or ever to have had one, if you see what I mean.’

I did see. I have unhappy memories, not only of the branding on my back, but of the painful surgery when it was removed. There is a deep scar on my shoulder to this day. All the same, I shook my head.

‘Not every master brands his slaves, Trinunculus. And as for Aquae Sulis, his story may be true. After all, as manager he was engaged in trade. He must have travelled to many towns.’

‘You may be quite right, citizen. And as I say, it is not in Meritus’s nature to confide. Not like Hirsus, for example, who will talk about his wretched childhood to anyone who will listen. Now, he
was
a pet slave, though never to a man. He was given to his owner’s grandmother – her lucky talisman, she said. She was a superstitious woman – always consulting oracles – and mean as a tax-collector, by all accounts. But she promised him his freedom when she died, and a handsome pension with it. Hirsus had hopes of settling down – there was an attractive slave he knew, apparently, whom he hoped to buy and free and set up a household with.’

‘But his mistress broke her promise?’

Trinunculus laughed. ‘Not at all. Her will set him free, with a substantial sum. But he had to wait a long time to collect it. The old woman lived to an astounding age – outlived all her sons and daughters – she must have been quite eighty-five when she died. Yet she would never part with Hirsus while she lived. And then, of course, it was too late. The slave he had fallen in love with had been sold on, and at forty-five Hirsus was getting to be an old man himself.’

‘He must have inherited a goodly sum and used it well, to have been made sevir here.’

‘His investments flourished, certainly. The gods were smiling on him, he believed.’ Trinunculus grinned. ‘Though it is my belief he was just extremely cautious. He’s like a woman in his ways sometimes. The old lady had him from a child, and instilled in him such a fear of omens that he will hardly change his sandals without consulting the auguries.’

‘I thought all you priests were much the same in that?’ I said. Foolish! I meant it lightly but I saw the young priest flush. He had seen my words as a rebuke, again. I tried to repair the damage. ‘Scribonius, for example, is a stickler for the rules. Why is that, do you think? You said that he felt he had to prove himself.’

Too late. Trinunculus had put a halter on his tongue. ‘I talk too much,’ he said. ‘It is a fault of mine. The pontifex has had occasion to rebuke me for it before now. I am sorry, citizen, I have already said too much. I was accompanying you to the gate, I think.’ He drew his robes around him, and walked purposefully on.

I did my best. I walked beside him, cajoling, flattering, urging. I even found myself pleading that, as a Capitoline priest, it was his duty to assist the governor – and I was the representative of his representative. To no avail.

‘My duty as a priest,’ Trinunculus replied, in a sing-song voice, ‘is to save my tongue for sacred purposes, and not to talk about my fellow priests.’ The little speech was obviously a formula, and I guessed that the high priest had obliged him to repeat those words many times as part of a penance. And that was all I could get out of him, all the way across the courtyard to the gate.

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 . . .’

‘My back . . .’ Gwellia said helplessly.

Of course. I regretted my teasing instantly. I had seen her naked shoulders, and I knew the scars of cruel whip marks they bore, where an angry mistress had once had her flogged till bone and muscle had been laid bare. Gwellia still moved one arm with difficulty. I had a sudden vision of Junio, watching the woman I’d searched for all these years, seeing her struggling with the water pots – and my heart was filled with love for both of them.

For a moment I found myself deprived of speech: there seemed to be something in my throat.

‘I am sorry, dear master, if I’ve done wrong,’ Gwellia said earnestly. ‘But the boy had finished his cutting. Besides, while he was working I couldn’t clear the room . . .’ She glanced at me, and added with a smile, ‘I have tried to keep everything separate. All the colours in different baskets. And do not worry where I got those from. I found a denarius under all the dust. It had gone down between the floorboards. It paid for all the rushes and to spare.’

‘No doubt a coin from the Phrygian steward, master?’ Junio said. He glanced up at me slyly but swiftly returned to staring at the floor. He has a witty turn of mind, but I have strict rules about not mocking the customers.

But I had seen his lips twitch, and in spite of myself I was half laughing too. Of course I knew what he was alluding to. The Phrygian had been the particularly pompous and patronising household steward of a patrician customer of mine. He had visited us, with all the condescension of a god descending, and pulled out a purse to pay his master’s bill – with such a flourish that he scattered the contents. That had punctured his dignity. He had sworn by all the furies that he had lost a coin, but we had never found it – though Junio and I had spent an entertaining half-hour watching him scrabble for it in the stone chippings.