A Prisoner of Privilege Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A selection of 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

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  A selection of previous titles in this series by Rosemary Rowe

  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 *

  DARK OMENS *

  THE FATEFUL DAY *

  THE IDES OF JUNE *

  THE PRICE OF FREEDOM *

  A PRISONER OF PRIVILEGE *

  * available from Severn House

  A PRISONER OF PRIVILEGE

  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 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Rosemary Aitken.

  The right of Rosemary Aitken 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

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8890-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-613-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0230-7 (e-book)

  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 Andrea, with love

  FOREWORD

  The story is set in Glevum (modern Gloucester) in early 194 AD, when Britannia was the most far-flung province of a Roman Empire still reeling from the events of the preceding year. Following the murder of the Emperor Pertinax – a previous governor of Britannia and the supposed friend of the fictional Marcus in this story – by his own Praetorian Guard, for failing to pay them the bonus they felt that they deserved, the Empire had been virtually auctioned off to the highest bidder. The successful bidder, Didius Julianus, having been installed, found to his dismay that (as Pertinax had claimed) there really was not sufficient money in the Imperial Purse. He did not long survive.

  From the outset there were counter-claimants to the purple, leading to a period of armed unrest – effectively civil war – with three other pretenders each being acclaimed as ‘true successors’ by their supporters, and each backed by several legions loyal to himself. Matters were resolved in early June when the geographically closest of the three, Septimius Severus, shockingly marched his forces to the very gates of Rome. Didius, abandoned by the Senate and the guard, attempted to negotiate, but he was executed and Severus duly proclaimed as Emperor.

  The two other claimants did not capitulate at once. Clodius Albinus, the Governor of Britannia, was bought off with the courtesy title, ‘Caesar and Co-Emperor of the West’, and a (worthless) promise that he would be next in line. Pescennius Niger, who would probably have been the choice of the majority, refused such compromise. He continued to call himself ‘Emperor’ (indeed, is described as such in many texts), issued coinage in his own name and renewed his armed struggle against the ‘upstart’ Severus. Pescennius was not finally defeated for another year, and at the time of this story, might easily have won and been generally acknowledged as the Roman Emperor that he claimed to be.

  It is against this background that the tale is set.

  The whole Empire was buzzing with division and distrust. The legions in Britannia had declared for Clodius, of course, and – doubtful of his current compromise – were regarded with considerable suspicion by the new regime. Meanwhile, public figures around the Empire were being denounced for anti-Severan sympathies (often anonymously) and – accused of treason – were stripped of goods and office, and either exiled or killed.

  This is the assumed fate of the old Commandant of the Glevum garrison, in this narrative, though there is no evidence of any such event occurring here. (Indeed, as has been acknowledged previously elsewhere, it is unlikely the fort at Glevum was by now much more than a guard and posting station for Isca to the west – though a late-second-century rebuilding of the fortified wall seems to counter the suggestion that it was no longer manned at all.) However, whatever the size and function of the garrison, it was ultimately under the command of Clodius. It can be imagined how the arrival of an alleged Imperial Spy would have inspired considerable alarm.

  The Laurentius of this story is an ex-Praetorian – a member of that military elite and Imperial bodyguard which had engineered the fall of three previous Emperors, and whose loyalty had been so publicly for sale. Now retired, he would have served an earlier Emperor, in this case the capricious Commodus. Severus had feared the power of the Guard so much that almost his first act was to dismiss them all – with a parting bonus, he was not an idiot – and replace them with trusted members of the legions under his command.

  Praetorians were in any case not popular. Generally of patrician birth, they were contracted for a shorter term, which – coupled with higher pay, better conditions, greater pension and retirement bonuses, splendid quarters and a tendency to be protected from actual combat in favour of guarding the Emperor in Rome – made them generally resented by the regulars. Meanwhile, their reputation for corruption and brutality made them feared and hated by the civilian populace. Laurentius, making no secret of his past, can hardly have expected a warm welcome in the town, although the garrison and council would be obliged politely to accommodate and entertain any traveller with an Imperial warrant for his stay.

  The council – or curia – includes Libertus in this tale. He has unwillingly become a councillor. He holds the rank of local duumvir – one of ‘two men’, as the ti
tle indicates, sharing a single magisterial post. (This was a very senior rank in Rome but in the provinces it would appear that such shared roles, even for humbler posts, were not unusual – perhaps because there were fewer candidates qualified to serve, outside the capital.)

  Libertus, having spent some years in servitude, not being of Roman patrician birth, and lacking the property qualification, should not strictly have been a candidate himself, but patronage could render such objections technical – and this is taken to have been the case, though Libertus is naturally anxious lest he be accused of holding a public post improperly.

  The property qualification, in particular, is of some importance in the narrative – and here I fear history has caught up with me. When this series of novels was begun there were few examples known in Glevum of town houses dating from the second century (and those are mostly ‘accounted for’ in other narratives). It was assumed, therefore – since we know that, outside Rome (where apartment blocks were mostly frequented by the poor) members of the knightly class were by now moving into flats – that this was the case in Glevum, for these narratives. (The whole colonia was relatively new, but private development was moving in, so recently-built apartments might have been much larger and more luxurious than the crumbling, crowded tenements of the capital.) However, the recent discovery of more fine pavements (under the bus station) suggests that there may have been another whole area of expensive private homes – and it is likely that a man like Marcus would have lived in one.

  But the series is fiction and must remain consistent with itself. Marcus continues to possess a flat in town, and property requirements are calculated from area, and not from the number of roof tiles as was the case in Rome. Thus Libertus meets the prerequisite for election by acquiring a sizeable apartment – albeit, only technically. His new role entitles him to a curial toga, with a stripe, for ceremonial use, but surrounds him with irksome prescriptions and taboos.

  Another civic role was that of aedile, such as the class-conscious Rufus who figures in this tale. Becoming an aedile in Rome was a traditional first step on the ladder of civil and political advancement, for those of undistinguished patrician birth. Provincial aediles were members of the local curia, entitled to special dress and privilege, and acting effectively as market police, which gave them oversight of people like the argentarius – the official money changer for the town.

  Argentarii were not members of the curia, indeed they were not often Roman citizens at all, though – since the position ensured acquaintance with the rich and powerful – they might hope to be nominated to that rank for ‘service to the state’. Members of an exclusive guild, which issued licences, they were much more than simple money lenders (though they could do that, too, at an official interest rate). They were contract brokers, auctioneers and even acted as a sort of bank, guarding money for their customers (which did not attract a fee) or lending it to others at interest (which did).

  The most public role, however, was – as the name implies – the changing and essaying of market coinage. Coin varied markedly across the Empire, but as long as it bore the Emperor’s face it was valid currency, though the argentarius might be required to value coins or even weigh them, as in some provinces the quantity of metal was debased. (The same was true of local gold and silver coins, which might be filed by the unscrupulous!) Even foreign coins could be exchanged, the value being calculated on the weight of gold, while an argentarius was also licensed to supply the necessary small change for the market-stalls. There was a fixed fee for each transaction, and a money changer could become a very wealthy man, though – since every member of the guild was jointly and severally responsible for the losses incurred by any other member – he was also likely to be educated, honest and astute.

  But at this period there were dangers in his trade. Pescennius Niger had been issuing coins in his own name for months. These might reach Glevum unobserved and circulate, though passing them on was a capital offence, along with falsifying coin or overstamping it – deemed treachery, like desecrating a statue of the Emperor. (Likenesses, in these pre-photographic times, had an almost mystic quality, like the famous wax death-mask images of ancestors which ‘attended’ high-class Roman funerals.)

  Holders of all these civic offices were, naturally, men. Although individual women might inherit large estates, they were excluded from public office, and a woman (of any age) was deemed a child in law. 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. Celtic women, like the Gwellia of this tale might have more freedom of expression than their Roman counterparts.

  The Britannia these folk inhabited was the most far-flung and northerly of all Roman provinces, still occupied by Roman legions, criss-crossed by Roman roads, subject to Roman laws, and administered – dangerously – by ‘Caesar’ Clodius Albinus, the Provincial Governor and one of the current claimants to the Imperial wreath. Around him life went on as usual. Latin was the language of the educated, people were adopting Roman dress and habits, and citizenship, with the precious social and legal rights which it conferred, was still the aspiration of almost everyone.

  At the perimeters there still were small groups of dissidents who refused to yield to Roman rule. They were often associated with Druid practices, such as the sacred groves adorned with the trophy heads of enemies – in spite of (or perhaps because of) the old religion being officially proscribed. However, there is no record of any rebel activity occurring as far east as Glevum, at this period.

  Glevum was an important town, built as a colonia for retiring veterans; and all freemen born within its walls were citizens by right. Most inhabitants, however, were not citizens at all. Many were freemen, born outside the walls, scratching a more or less precarious living from a trade. Hundreds more were slaves – 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. Indeed, some poor free families were constrained to sell their elder children into slavery in order to feed and clothe the rest, though they became the outright property of their masters and could be used at will, like Iliath in this text.

  For all classes, there were important rituals surrounding death. It was believed that, if these were not properly observed, unquiet spirits might return to walk the earth. Despite this slaves were often buried without any rites at all, unless the deceased had been a member of the Funeral Guild, which (for a regular subscription) would see that the proper rituals were observed – all matters integral to the narrative.

  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. Septimius Severus and events in Rome 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

  It was a misty day in Februarius, a little after the midday trumpet call. I had been at the meeting of the Glevum curia – perforce, as the newest and most reluctant of all town councillors – but I had been astonished to be met by a pageboy afterwards and summoned to attend my patron, here at the public baths. A little apprehensive too, since he could have nominated his villa, just as easily – he was certain to return there, and it was barely a thousand paces from my roundhouse gates.

  This must be some emergency, I thought, because this was a most unfashionable hour, when the women’s
session had barely ended for the day and any freeborn male with a quadrans in his purse can avail himself of the facilities.

  Later in the day, of course, it would not have seemed so odd. There is a saying that ‘the council meets officially in the basilica but does its business in the bathhouse afterwards’. I’ve never been a regular patron of the baths, so – until one of the new duumviri dropped dead and I was elected in his place – I had supposed that this referred to small groups meeting in the covered colonnade outside, where snacks and beverages are to be obtained and handsome young athletes, practising their sports, can be admired by those with a penchant for such things.

  Now, however, I was learning otherwise – though I still found it bizarre, broiling naked in the steam room with fellow councillors, discoursing on the subject of town drains, or meeting hopeful tradesmen, similarly attired, who wanted a contract replacing gutter tiles. Roman males (whose attitudes derive from army life, I suppose) are not much given to prudery, at least among their peers.

  Even so I was startled to find my patron now, lying on a massage bench, completely nude, in full view of any plebian who might happen by.

  ‘Ah, Councillor Libertus, there you are at last! I was beginning to fear that my messenger had not located you, and you had already left the basilica and were halfway home.’ Marcus Aurelius Septimus eased himself a little on the marble slab and turned his head to look at me, as the massage slave rubbed oil into his naked back.

  ‘Excellence!’ I murmured apologetically, and then said nothing more, not certain what more he would expect.

  Marcus was a man of high patrician rank, reputed to be related to the Imperial house, and a stickler for proper etiquette! Hence my predicament. I could not even kneel to kiss his hand without endangering what little dignity I had. I’d had to shed my clothes as I came in, of course, and – not having my bathing subligaculum with me – had only a thin, hired drying cloth to wind around my loins. It was embarrassingly small, I had to clutch at it to keep it up at all, and here in the massage area there was no steam or water to veil my nudity. But then, my patron was not wearing so much as a ring that I could kiss.