Dark Omens Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Previous Titles in this series by Rosemary Rowe

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Previous Titles in this series by Rosemary Rowe

  THE GERMANICUS MOSAIC

  MURDER IN THE FORUM

  A PATTERN OF BLOOD

  THE CHARIOTS OF CALYX

  THE LEGATUS MYSTERY

  THE GHOSTS OF GLEVUM

  ENEMIES OF THE EMPIRE

  A ROMAN RANSOM

  A COIN FOR THE FERRYMAN

  DEATH AT POMPEIA’S WEDDING *

  REQUIEM FOR A SLAVE *

  THE VESTAL VANISHES *

  A WHISPERING OF SPIES *

  * available from Severn House

  DARK OMENS

  Rosemary Rowe

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Rosemary Rowe

  The right of Rosemary Rowe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Rowe, Rosemary, 1942- author.

  Dark omens. – (A Libertus mystery of Roman Britain ; 14)

  1. Libertus (Fictitious character : Rowe)– Fiction.

  2. Romans–Great Britain–Fiction. 3. Slaves–Fiction.

  4. Great Britain–History–Roman period, 55 B.C.-449

  A.D.–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8299-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-462-1 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To Owen and Beryl

  FOREWORD

  The story begins in Glevum (Roman Gloucester, a prosperous ‘republic’ and a colonia for retired soldiery) on New Year’s Day AD193. The Kalends of January was perceived as a time of new beginnings and – as today – an occasion for good resolutions and wishes for good luck, as well as little offerings to the two-headed god Janus, for whom the month is named. Everyone did an hour or two of token ‘work’, thus inviting fortune in the year ahead, and visited neighbours (as the tale suggests) for the exchange of good wishes and symbolic sweetened gifts.

  This particular Kalends, however, was a new beginning in more ways than the citizens of Britannia could have realized. Their province was, as it had been for two centuries by now, the most far-flung and northerly outpost of the Roman Empire: occupied by Roman legions, criss-crossed by Roman roads, subject to Roman laws and administered by a provincial governor answerable directly to Rome – and thus ultimately to the Emperor himself. The man who had worn the imperial purple for the last twelve years was (to give him the full list of titles he’d bestowed upon himself) Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus Augustus Herculeus Romanus Exsuperatorius Amazonius Invictus Felix Pius, a megalomaniac who was by this time increasingly deranged, and whose lascivious lifestyle and capricious cruelties were infamous. Hated by many, he was fearful of his life, imagining conspiracies on every hand, in consequence of which he was popularly said to have ‘spies in every house’.

  However there was obviously cause for his mistrust since he was assassinated just around the time the story starts. There are many versions of exactly how and when he met his death – a popular myth (on which the film Gladiator was based) suggests that he was murdered at the New Year Games, in which he had certainly intended to take part, as he prided himself on his gladiatorial prowess, and exaggerated claims as to the numbers he had killed and the variety of animals that he had put to death – though detractors claim that his human opponents had been armed with wooden swords against his metal one, and the creatures had been helpfully dosed with opium.

  Another account suggests that he was wounded by a poisoned blade, at a rehearsal bout the day before the games.

  Most experts, however, are now agreed that he was murdered at his home on New Year’s Eve – though (rather like Rasputin) he proved difficult to kill. It is likely that his sister had already ineffectually attempted to poison him that night, which he survived by vomiting his dinner up again, and he was finally strangled by an athlete-slave, with whom he used to practise wrestling, though even then there is dispute about whether this happened in his bed or at his bath. (Think Roman baths here, with plunge-pools, steam-rooms and a scrape-down afterwards, not a modern tub of soapy suds.)

  It seems that differing rumours were circulating from the start, though all shared the central fact that Commodus was dead. The strength of his unpopularity can be gauged from the fact that the senate instantly declared that he was a public enemy (damnatio), denied him funeral, and tried to expunge his name from monuments. The ex-governor of Britannia, Pertinax – patron and friend of the fictional Marcus in this story – was nominated as successor and acclaimed within hours.

  News spread like wildfire, as such things always do, and one ancient writer makes the boastful claim that ‘news had spread to all parts of the Empire before the Agonalia’ – the major festival of Janus and Fortuna on the ninth. Given the time of year and the condition of the roads, this frankly seems unlikely, but for the purposes of the story it is taken to be true – though even here it is assumed that later (written) confirmation would have been required, and it is the arrival of this which sparks the riot in the book. There is no evidence that there were actually disturbances of this kind in Glevum and though fragments of an outsized stone figure were unearthed during excavations in the mid-twentieth century, there is nothing to suggest that it depicted Commodus or that it was deliberately destroyed. However, public demonstrations are attested in several places elsewhere in the Empire, including the pulling down of statues of the fallen Emperor.

  Nor is there any evidence that the weather at the time was especially severe, in the way depicted in the book, although the effects described are b
ased on genuine accounts of other bitter winters experienced elsewhere. Travel on icy roads was difficult. Dorn, a town which is mentioned in the text, was a small but significant settlement at the time, a centre for the gathering of tax, but is now a mere hamlet, scarcely mentioned on the map, a mile or two from Moreton-on-the-Marsh. Glevum was a much more important town: its historic status as a ‘colonia’ for retired legionaries gave it special privileges, and all freemen born within its walls were citizens by right. However, this coveted status, though it conferred prestige and legal rights, was no guarantee of wealth, and those who gained the rank merely by this accident of birth might well be struggling – like the farmer Cantalarius in the tale.

  Most inhabitants of Glevum, however, were not citizens at all. Many were freemen, born outside the walls, scratching a more or less precarious living from a trade. Lucius, in the story, is a successful example of this type of man, with a flourishing import-export business at the docks, but others – like the tanner – led less salubrious lives. Hundreds more were slaves – what Aristotle once described as ‘vocal tools’ – mere chattels of their masters, to be bought and sold, with no more rights or status than any other domestic animal. Some slaves led pitiable lives, but others were highly regarded by their owners, and might be treated well. A slave in a kindly household, with a comfortable home, might have a more enviable lot than many a poor freeman struggling to eke out an existence in a squalid hut.

  Power, of course, was vested almost entirely in men. Although individual women might inherit large estates, and many wielded considerable influence within the house, daughters were not much valued, except as potential wives and mothers, whereas sons were the source of pride. Indeed, a widow of a rich man who produced no surviving male might well be seen as a lucrative speculation for a prospective groom, who would then have rights to use the profits from her dowry (and inheritance) as his own, though she was entitled to the capital if he divorced her later on. A woman (of any age) was deemed a child in law, and lacking a father or male relative, would need a guardian. (Marriage and motherhood were the only realistic goals for well-bred women, although trademen’s wives and daughters often worked beside their men and in the poorest households everybody toiled.)

  People of both sexes and from all walks of life were much concerned with omens at this time – though, as the story suggests, women were viewed as the more superstitious sex. Roman gods had temples in every major town and public attendance at some rituals – including the Imperial Birthday feast – was compulsory. Curse and prayer tablets were regularly offered at the shrines, as surviving examples indicate, and there were special officials at the temple whose function was to consult the auguries, or read the entrails, and ensure that sacrifices met the approval of the gods. The slightest deviation from proper ritual could mean that the offering was void and the entire ritual must be begun again, for fear of offending the Roman deities.

  Most townspeople had recognized the Roman gods by now, but all the same a number of local gods survived, and were openly worshipped by their followers, often in conjunction with the Roman ones. In fact, the authorities officially declared quite a number of these Celtic deities to be manifestations of some member of the Roman pantheon – often Mars Lenis, as in this narrative – and the sacred places and shrines were recognized and adopted accordingly. Of course, a few rebellious souls still clung to ancient ways and followed Druid customs, though only secretly: the sect had been formally outlawed by the state because of its practice of human sacrifice, and the hanging of the severed heads of enemies (including Romans) as a grisly offering in the sacred groves of oak. (This was the ‘forbidden religion’ at this period: the few Christians – and it appears there were some in Glevum at the time – were regarded with a mixture of contempt and tolerance.)

  The rest of the Romano-British background to this book has been derived from a variety of (sometimes contradictory) pictorial and written sources, as well as artefacts. However, although I have done my best to create an accurate picture, this remains a work of fiction, and there is no claim to total academic authenticity. Commodus and Pertinax are historically attested, as is the existence and basic geography of Glevum. The rest is the product of my imagination.

  Relata refero. Ne Iupiter quidem omnibus placet. I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.

  ONE

  I spent the first part of the Kalends of Januarius in my mosaic workshop in the town – just as everyone in any kind of business always did. After all, the dual-faced deity is the first to be called upon in any invocation of the gods and anything you wish to have his blessing on should – according to custom – be conducted a little for his benefit on the first day of the year.

  Not that I was really doing any work. My adopted son and I were wearing togas, for one thing, in honour of the day – and that is not a garment which allows much in the way of physical exertion, as any unconsidered move is likely to bring it snaking down in unfolded coils around your feet, quite apart from needing laundering at the slightest smudge. So we two were simply making a pretence at sorting out the stocks of coloured stone while my two young red-headed slaves swept down the floor and tended to the fire.

  ‘Happy Kalends!’ That was the surly candle-maker from next door, popping his head around the inner door with a traditional gift of honeyed figs. Even he had managed to fix a smile upon his face today. ‘I shan’t say “of Januarius” – in case one of your servants is an Imperial spy.’

  That was unlikely, as he full well knew. The boys had been a gift to me from my patron, Marcus Septimus, one of the wealthiest and most important magistrates in all Britannia, who had bought them several years ago to be a matching pair. However, they had grown at vastly different rates, which rather spoiled the visual effect, and Marcus had been happy to pass them on to me in return for a service I had done for him.

  My neighbour knew that, and he spoke in jest – and I replied in kind. I got to my feet to greet him, saying cheerfully, ‘I can never remember what we’re supposed to call the months, these days! So go on calling it Januarius, after the god of doors and new beginnings, by all means. Everybody does. After all, Janus is unlikely to be flattered by the change, and to offend him might be just as dangerous as to offend the Emperor!’

  My neighbour shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure of that! Gods can be propitiated with a sacrifice, but Commodus …’ He tailed off, uneasily. ‘Be careful, citizen. A spy in every household – that is what they say. I wouldn’t take the risk.’ He took the New Year honey cake my slave held out for him, looked furtively around him and scurried from the shop.

  Junio laughed. ‘He always was suspicious! But you can hardly blame him, can you? Have you heard the latest tales? They say that Commodus ordered the execution of a whole town because he thought that someone in it looked at him askance! And you know that he served up a roasted dwarf to entertain his friends …’ He broke off as there was a tapping at the outer door. ‘Another visitor!’

  It was not altogether a surprise. We’d had a dozen people making calls on us today. Welcome ones, of course. The feast of new beginnings is a traditional time for wives to plan improvements to their homes – such as fresh pavements for the dining room – and many a husband will send his steward round that day with seasonal gifts of sweet-tasting food or small-denomination coins, and a casual request for me to call. (Not that every such enquiry will guarantee a customer, but it is a rare year when I do not get one profitable contract out of New Year’s Day.)

  So it was easy enough for me to wear a hearty smile and be very careful that all my words were ‘sweet’ today, as tradition demanded. This, of course, is supposed to ensure a full twelve months of sweetness afterwards, just as the little gifts are said to do. I am a Celt, and not a follower of Roman gods myself, but I had already collected several honey cakes and figs, and dispensed a few small tokens in return.

  So when this new caller came into the outer shop, this time dressed in a magisterial toga w
ith a purple stripe, I hurried round the partition to greet him with my broadest smile. It is rare that people of quality come out here to this muddy northern suburb outside the city walls (generally they send their servants to bring us New Year tokens and messages to call) so I was especially hearty as I greeted him.

  ‘Janus’s blessings for the Kalends, citizen,’ I cried, extending both hands in welcome, although I did not recognize the face.

  He ignored the gesture and stared stonily at me. He was clearly not a young man – perhaps only a few years younger than I was myself – but he wore the decades easily, as only a man of private wealth can do. He was well-fed, with a polished look, his hair close-cropped and unnaturally black – the shiny colour that only comes from using dyes of leech and vinegar – and his face was pink and scraped from barbering.

  ‘Blessings indeed! We shall have need of blessings if this threatened snow sets in.’

  ‘Snow?’ I was startled. This was serious. The top floor of the workshop had burned out years ago, and my new home was at least an hour’s trudge away – built on a piece of land my patron had granted to me, a tiny fraction of his out-of-town estate.

  It was miles through the forest to the roundhouse where I lived, and the ancient path was treacherous and steep: not a track to follow when it was slippery and the rocks disguised by snow. There was another route, along the military road, but that was half as long again and far more exposed to bitter winds – quite enough for a pedestrian to die of cold; indeed several people did so every year. If it was threatening a blizzard it was time to leave at once.

  My visitor assumed that my concern was for him. He nodded. ‘It’s come up suddenly. It’s most unfortunate. And here am I, more than two-score miles from home!’ He looked me up and down, clearly contemptuous of what he saw, though I was wearing my best toga and it was newly cleaned. Up to that moment I had felt well-dressed and smart, but the scrutiny was making me aware of the worn places on the hem and my own unfashionably greying beard and hair as he added curtly, ‘Are you this Libertus that I have heard about?’