A Roman Ransom Page 13

  The ‘poor Libertus’ had a mocking tone, but my patron seemed oblivious of any irony. He nodded. ‘Anything you say, of course. Just as long as we get Julia safely back.’ He gestured to the doctor. ‘Come! We must cleanse our hands and make libations to the family gods before we eat. Libertus, we shall see you in the morning. After the bulla rituals, of course. The priest assures me that for the best results we should begin those at first light: we have consulted all the calendars and tomorrow is fortunately a propitious day. I wish that you were well enough to attend yourself. However, we shall see you afterwards and you can talk to Myrna then. In the meantime, try to get some sleep.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I did not trust anything the doctor offered me, so I ignored his honey and water mix and had a sip or two of Junio’s soup instead. It had been an enormously long day for me, and I was tired after all the exertions of the questioning. In fact I was surprised to find how very weak I felt. I lay back on my luxurious pillows in the comfort of the bed, and – knowing that Junio was nearby on guard – permitted myself to close my eyes again.

  My sleep was fitful, though, and full of dreams. Several times I jerked back into wakefulness, worrying over the problems of the day, and wishing that Gwellia was safely by my side. I felt as if I’d scarcely slept at all, but I must have done, because before I knew it the first light of morning had crept across the court and was throwing a soft glimmer in through the window bars.

  At the same time I was aware of movement in the colonnade outside. I raised myself on my elbow and saw that the door was slightly open and two garden slaves were already busy on the path outside sweeping the leaves and dust away with brooms of bundled sticks.

  I raised myself a little higher still. ‘Master?’ That was Junio, already up and moving, although I had not heard him stir from the sleeping mat which had been placed beside my bed. ‘You are awake, then? Do you wish to rise? They are making preparations for the bulla ritual.’

  He pushed the door a little more ajar, and I could see that the court was full of industry – slaves with water jars were sprinkling drops to keep the dust at bay, others were scuttling about with coal and kindling wood, or carrying perfumed water to the master’s suite. Two maidservants were moving among the flower beds, selecting the most aromatic herbs and leaves.

  ‘They will put them on the altar to the household gods,’ Junio told me in a whisper. Though himself a Celt, he was raised in a Roman household as a slave and delights to tell me of the customs he saw then, as though I had never encountered them myself. ‘Now, I have brought an extra tunic and I’ve found a cloak – a warm one with a hood. Do you want me to help you into them? Even if you merely sit there on the bed, it will give you more authority when you interrogate the nurse.’

  I nodded. I had thought the same – although when he came to offer me his arm, it took a surprising effort to stagger to my feet, and I had to sit down again quite heavily. By degrees, though, he slipped the tunic over me and strapped my sandals on. With the woollen cloak around me I felt warm and cosseted – but more like a man again; after a few moments I gave a sign and, with his help, I contrived to stand and take a few tottering steps towards the door.

  I stood at the door of the sleeping room and felt the morning air against my face. It was cool and misty, but the freshness of the day – after the stuffy smokiness of the heated room – was as sweet as Junio’s hot mead had been. I gulped a few, intoxicating breaths.

  The doors were open all round the colonnade – all the rooms in the court led off it, as they generally do in houses of this type – and from where I was standing I could see into the main block of the house, the central area where the atrium was and where the altar to the household gods was kept. The niche itself was hidden from my sight, but I could see that the chief priest and Marcus were already in the hall, together with the medicus and the senior slave of the house, who was holding out a phial (obviously the ashes from the temple yesterday) and preparing to pour the contents on to the altar. Servants were scurrying around with trays of sacrificial food, and lurking in the shadows was a man I recognised, with some surprise, as a silversmith whose Glevum workshop was not very far from mine.

  ‘He brought the bulla, then?’ I said to Junio.

  ‘A little earlier, while you were still asleep. He did well to get it here in time. Look, here is Marcellinus – with the handmaidens. And the servants have brought a burning brand to light the altar fire. The rituals are about to begin.’ He looked at me. ‘You’re not proposing to attend yourself?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not this time. It will be a drawn-out affair if I am any judge. And anyway, without my toga, I am not dressed for it.’

  I remembered the first ceremony very well – the naming day is a great occasion in a Roman child’s life. I was one of the invited guests, and thus had been privileged to bring a metal trinket (bought at some expense) to add to the chains of tinkling charms which are traditionally placed round the baby’s wrists and legs to entertain him as a kind of rattle during the ritual. Marcellinus was then only nine days old (as custom dictated boys should be), but he was very good and hardly cried at all – even when a strange man in incense-perfumed clothes (the high priest, who had been called in to officiate) took him from his father’s arms and muttered over him, before slipping the gold bulla round his neck and then seeking an extra benediction from the gods by passing the new-named infant through the sacrificial smoke.

  There had been copious sacrifice, of course, and a sumptuous feast afterwards for all the witnesses, with baby and parents dressed in splendid robes throughout. This hurried substitute, without his mother present and with no important visitors, seemed a sad affair by comparison. Apart from the medicus and the silversmith, only the household slaves were there to witness the event – and not even all of them, since some still had duties to perform elsewhere.

  I moved back to the shelter of the entrance to my room, where I was out of sight, before anybody glanced up and spotted me. In my state of health I did not welcome the idea of standing shivering in the atrium while lengthy prayers and blessings were tunelessly intoned – even if the chief priest of Jupiter himself was chanting them.

  ‘Bring me that stool from beside my bed,’ I said to Junio, ‘and I will wait here in the doorway for Myrna when she comes.’

  But Myrna didn’t come. Most of the household servants were in the atrium, and it was very quiet in the garden now, except for the chanting from the atrium, and the pungent smell of burning sacrifice. Eventually it was Porphyllia who appeared, hurrying from the kitchens with a tray on which were a bowl of cold cooked apple and piece of bread, and a cup of the dreaded oxymel. This, evidently, had been prepared for me.

  ‘Would you like some breakfast, citizen? I was told to bring you some since you were clearly up. The doctor has said that you can have this today.’ She offered me the tray. ‘Go on,’ she urged, as I showed signs of pushing it away. ‘Marcellinus had some of the fruit earlier. It’s perfectly delicious . . . that is . . .’ She turned scarlet and clapped her fingers to her lips.

  ‘You tasted it yourself?’ I said.

  She nodded ruefully. ‘Only a tiny little bit. I spilt it on the way. I know I shouldn’t – but it looks so good . . . Don’t be angry with me, citizen.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘If you recommend it, I will have it too. In fact, you have given me an idea. There are not many of your normal jobs to do at the moment, I think you said, while Julia isn’t here?’

  She nodded doubtfully.

  ‘Then you can be my food-taster,’ I said. It was quite safe, of course. Once it was known that one of Julia’s slaves had been appointed to the task, it would be pointless to try to poison me. ‘Marcus promised I should have one, and you’ll do very well. I’ll ask him about it when he comes.’

  ‘Oh, citizen. Would you really? That’s wonderful.’ She was gazing at Junio with sparkling eyes. The poor lad would not thank me for employing her, I thought, but I did have
other reasons of my own. Porphyllia was a natural chatterbox, and I was certain that I could learn a great deal about the house from her.

  I sent her off, delighted. I shared the bowl of fruit with Junio, and – when she was safely out of sight – he slipped out and made a private oblation of the honeyed vinegar on the garden beds.

  I became aware that the chanting from within the house had stopped, and the smell of charred herbs and feathers was beginning to disperse. The winter sun was well into the sky by now, and it must have been at least the second hour, but there was no sign of Myrna. Nor – for a long time – of anybody else.

  At last Marcus, resplendent in his finest toga, and weighed down with jewels – obviously put on for the bulla rites – emerged into the courtyard with a worried air. Two of his house slaves were escorting him, but he brushed past them and came straight across to me. I struggled to my feet and would have knelt as usual to kiss his hand, if he had not motioned me to sit.

  ‘So the wet nurse hasn’t yet arrived,’ he said, by way of greeting. ‘I’ll send somebody to the house for her. You shall see her immediately she comes.’ He sounded grim. I would not care to be Myrna when she turned up, I thought. ‘You slept all right, I trust?’ he added.

  I nodded awkwardly and pressed my lips against the outstretched hand. ‘I have been waiting for her here. The bulla ceremony went off without a hitch?’

  He frowned, as if he had to recollect, and then said wearily. ‘There was one moment when we were alarmed: the chief priest almost dropped the flask of oil before the sacrifice. That would have been serious, of course – we should have had to start the rituals again – but fortunately he recovered and we avoided that.’ He was answering my question but there was something wrong. I could tell it by his face.

  I tried to think of something bright and comforting to say. ‘So Marcellinus has a bulla round his neck again?’

  A nod. ‘This time I hope it will remain there until he turns fourteen and is old enough to be a man!’ He was talking too quickly, and his tone was forced. I noticed he refused to meet my eyes.

  ‘Is there some new problem, Excellence?’ I ventured.

  He turned and looked at me. He had been moving restlessly up and down the colonnade, but now he halted at my bedroom door. ‘Libertus, come inside. I need to talk to you.’

  I was alarmed. Marcus wished to speak to me alone, and it was clearly something very serious. I feared the medicus had done his worst.

  However, it was not an invitation that I could easily refuse. With Junio’s help I limped into the room again, while Marcus left his other servants just outside the door. That made me feel uneasy, but my patron made me more uneasy still by motioning me to sit down on the bed, while he sent Junio outside for the stool – a most unusual happening indeed. It is one thing for Marcus to squat down on a stool when the man he is talking to is ill; quite another when that man is dressed and seated like an equal. My patron is a stickler for proper protocol.

  But today he was more concerned with other things – and this interview was not the doctor’s doing, it appeared. ‘Libertus,’ Marcus burst out, ‘I have news for you. My page has just returned. You remember that he went to Glevum overnight?’

  I nodded, wondering what this was leading to.

  ‘Then you will remember what else he was to do this morning on his way?’

  I did, of course. ‘Call at my roundhouse and accompany my wife?’ I looked round, feeling a broad smile crease my face. ‘She’s here, then? Where is she? Can I talk to her?’

  Marcus carefully avoided looking at my face. ‘That is just the problem. There was no one at the house.’

  Despite my heavy woollen coverings I felt a tide of coldness running over me, starting at my feet and rising to my hair. Gwellia, missing! Whatever I’d imagined, I had not expected that.

  Marcus cleared his throat. ‘Try not to be alarmed. It may be nothing, after all. She did not know the page was going to come, and she might have set off to come here on her own . . .’ He trailed off.

  ‘In that case she would have been overtaken on the road.’ My lips framed the words, but little sound came out. My throat was suddenly constricted and my heart beat fast. ‘Where is the page?’ I said.

  ‘He’s waiting in the ante-room. I’ll have him brought to you.’ Marcus nodded towards Junio, who disappeared to fetch the page at once. My patron turned to me, making a helpless little gesture with his hands. ‘Libertus, we don’t know that anything is wrong. She may have gone off to pick up kindling – or anything at all. She had her slaves with her. That is encouraging. A woman attended by her slaves is much safer from’ – I was sure that he was going to say ‘attack’, but he changed it hastily – ‘anything at all that might befall.’

  ‘You know the slaves are with her?’ I was almost sharp. I was beginning to understand how Marcus must have felt when he found that his wife and child had disappeared.

  His Excellence looked sheepish. ‘Well, that’s what we presume. At all events there was no one in the house. But here’s the page. He’ll tell you about it. Pulcrus, tell the citizen what you found.’

  The young man ran a hand across his hair, adjusted his tunic at the neck and seams and gave a self-important little cough before he spoke. I’d many times smiled at his vanity before, but this morning I could have shaken him. All this preening self-conceit when my poor Gwellia was missing! I strove for self-control.

  ‘Well?’ I prompted. ‘What have you to report? You rode up to my house and found the lady wasn’t there – and then what did you do?’

  Pulcrus looked aggrieved. ‘Nothing. What was there to do? The place was clearly empty. The fire was out, the floor was swept and everything was neatly put away. I went up to the door and called, but no one came. I stuck my head round the other doors – there was a dyeing house and some sort of sleeping space – but there was nobody there either so I came away.’

  ‘There was no one in the garden or with the animals?’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Not that I could see. Or if they were, they must have been completely deaf. I shouted loud enough, but there was not a sound, except the chickens squawking in the coop.’

  ‘Pulcrus, be less insolent to the citizen, or I shall have you whipped.’ Marcus’s voice was cold.

  But I was trying to visualise the scene. ‘So there was no sign of any struggle in the house?’ I said. ‘And she didn’t leave a note of any kind?’

  ‘Not as far as I could see.’ Pulcrus was looking sulky now.

  ‘And the fire was completely out, you say?’ That was unusual; it took a long time to create a spark to light another one. ‘And yet the chickens had been shut up for the night? That’s what you’re telling me?’

  ‘It seems so – and that’s really all there is to tell.’ Pulcrus turned towards his master with a smirk. ‘Except that the ransom bag had vanished from the tree – I did stop and check for that.’

  ‘Then go! Wait in the servants’ room again – I may have need of you.’ Pulcrus flounced off, and Marcus turned to me. ‘What do you make of it? Like Julia, it’s almost as if she left the place by choice. Only my wife disappeared alone and Gwellia took the slaves.’

  When I recalled it afterwards, I realised that this was the first time I had heard my patron admit that Julia might have left the villa of her own accord; but I was too wrapped up in my own concerns to register it then.

  I shook my head. ‘But if Kurso left the chickens in the coop, it sounds as if he expected to be back. He would not leave them without food for long.’

  My patron was standing close to me, and to my surprise he reached across and patted my shoulder with his jewelled hand. It was an awkward, fleeting gesture which came uneasily to him – Romans are not given to contact as a rule – but I understood that he meant to signal sympathy.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is nothing we can do for now but wait.’ He looked at me. ‘What do you think, Libertus? Have you any theories at all? Do you suspect this is connected to th
e kidnapping?’

  I was too deep in misery to think at all. I said, ‘I suppose it must be.’

  ‘Old friend, you don’t know anything that you’re not telling me?’

  I raised my head, which had been in my hands, and stared at him. ‘Of course not, Excellence.’

  ‘The doctor thinks you do. And certainly the situation’s odd.’

  I didn’t follow him. I was only thinking about Gwellia. ‘Odd, Excellence?’

  ‘Why should the kidnappers change their methods, suddenly? Writing on a tablet instead of bits of bark?’

  I shrugged. ‘Ran out of bits of bark, perhaps? Who knows?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sure it’s more than that. Philades is right. That last message was completely different. It ignored the arrangements that had been asked for earlier, and, though it was scrawled untidily, it was better written too. You think that someone different may have written it? Or dictated it, perhaps? And why have they suddenly seized Gwellia – if they have? Libertus, think! This may affect you, too.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said unhappily. ‘One of the problems with this whole affair is that it seems to have been cleverly executed – the abduction is still a mystery to me – and the plans meticulously laid. Then suddenly everything is changed – the child’s return, the note thrown over the wall with new demands. And why should they want Gwellia? I can’t be blackmailed for a ransom price.’ I sighed. ‘I don’t understand. Perhaps it is intended to make us more confused.’

  Marcus was on his feet again by now and running restless fingers through his hair. I knew just how he felt. I could feel the cold despair run up my spine every time I thought about my wife. If the kidnappers were hoping to create anxiety, I thought, they could not have done it more successfully.

  I was about to say so to my patron when there was a tap upon the door.

  ‘Master?’ It was Pulcrus, all self-conceit again. He bowed. After that earlier reproof for insolence, he was especially pompous now. ‘Forgive me for intruding. A mounted messenger has come here, from the garrison . . . Something that occurred just after I had left.’