The Legatus Mystery Page 2

  I, however, did not merit this luxury, and in the circumstances it would be disastrously impolite of me to move. I squirmed a little on my bench. It was hot, even through the linen. I was already beginning to turn pink-faced and wilt like a limp leaf. Whatever Marcus wanted, I thought, I hoped it would be quick.

  ‘And you have not only been helpful to the governor, Libertus,’ Marcus said, wafting away the steam as he spoke. ‘I have received a communication from Rome. The Emperor is minded to be pleased with you, for your part in uncovering that plot against his life.’

  ‘I am honoured, Excellence,’ I said faintly, feeling the sweat prickle down my back. But it was cold sweat now rather than a product of the heat. The Emperor Commodus is an erratic man – or god, I should say, as he regards himself as a reincarnation of Hercules and requires to be addressed accordingly. He is also fanatical about his safety, and sees plots everywhere: often with reason, as my investigations had proved. However, his favouritisms are notoriously as short-lived as they are violent, and any man who attracts imperial attention – for whatever reason – is sooner or later bound to wish that he had remained safely anonymous. I obviously dared not say so, however. Commodus is reputed to spend a fortune on his spies, and there were no doubt paid ears and eyes even in this provincial bath-house.

  Marcus nodded, and looked thoughtfully at the slave with the water pot. He was as well aware of the dangers as I was. ‘As a result of your actions,’ he said, with every outward evidence of satisfaction, ‘His Imperial Mightiness has deigned to honour our city. There is to be a special service of thanksgiving at the Imperial birthday celebrations.’

  Since he was officially a god, of course, Commodus’s birthday was a religious feast day, and on that date every citizen was expected to attend and take part in a sacrifice in honour of the Emperor – as the army did every day of the year. The Imperial cult had been introduced in the time of Augustus – a kind of declaration of loyalty and a celebration of the power of Rome – and all the emperors since then had joined the pantheon after death, but Commodus had not even waited to die before declaring himself a deity.

  I nodded, and Marcus went on. ‘We are to be treated to a visit from the highest-ranking Imperial priest in all the province, who will conduct the sacrifices at the temple and lead the services. Naturally there will have to be commemorative games, and special celebrations.’ He sighed.

  I understood the reason for that sigh. Birthday celebrations for a god were likely to prove a very costly business.

  ‘It is a great honour for the city – and for me personally of course,’ Marcus added, glancing at the slave. ‘There will even be an ambassadorial visitor from Rome – an imperial legatus to represent the Emperor. I think I know the man – a certain Fabius Marcellus Verus – used to be commander of a legion, when I lived in Rome.’ There was a small annexe to one side of the hot-room, a sort of open-ended cubicle with a raised stone slab in the centre. Marcus got up suddenly, and occupied it, still talking to me over his shoulder as he went. ‘Fabius’s arrival in the city will coincide with the departure of the governor. You know of course that Governor Pertinax is leaving these islands? He has been appointed governor of the African provinces.’

  ‘So he told me, Excellence,’ I said, shifting on my seat and hoping that my buttocks were not cooking. Because Marcus was a close friend of the governor, he was obviously proud to give this sign of his association with him. I did not add that all Britannia must have heard the news by this time: I had been told the same thing – with embellishments – by an innkeeper, a night watchman and a beggar, among others, on the road back from Londinium.

  ‘There are to be farewell rituals for that, too, of course,’ Marcus said. He arranged himself on the slab as the slave stood by. It was probably cooler in the cubicle, I thought; it was further from the furnace. He raised his head again. ‘I thought – a small commemorative piece perhaps? In honour of both these memorable occasions.’

  I breathed again. So that was what Marcus wanted! A mosaic in a hurry – that explained this extraordinary summons. And it made financial sense for him, one memorial piece instead of two. It was just a month to the Emperor’s birthday – I began to make calculations in my head. With the help of Junio, my servant-cum-assistant, I thought that I could manage. ‘It would be a privilege, Excellence,’ I said.

  ‘What I had in mind,’ Marcus said dreamily, allowing the slave to rub him with a little olive oil from a flask, ‘was something a little different. A commemorative shrine – in one of the public spaces perhaps: a statue of Hercules of course, in honour of the Emperor, but mosaic on the wall and in the niche itself.’ He gestured towards the flask invitingly, but I felt that adding oil to my flesh would only result in fried Libertus, and I shook my head in what I hoped was a suitably respectful manner.

  Marcus waved the slave away and went on outlining his design. ‘Blue and white and yellow, that would be the thing. Tiles rather than stone, I think, and a design of birds and dogs worked into the frieze? Pertinax is fond of hunting. I’ve seen the sort of thing I want, in Rome, though I’ve never seen one in Britannia. Could it be managed, do you think?’

  I was asking myself the same question. A simple floor mosaic was one thing. I had developed many techniques to speed the work. But a curved niche? That was something new.

  ‘Only the finest materials, of course,’ Marcus went on. ‘And fine workmanship. I can find somebody else, naturally, if you do not feel you can . . .’

  Without undue arrogance, I doubted that. There are few men in Glevum with my skills. If Marcus wanted this mosaic, I should have to do it – as he knew. Besides, I needed the money, as he no doubt also knew.

  ‘I should be honoured to attempt it, Excellence.’ I mopped my dripping forehead and tried to look as eager as a man can when he is streaming with sweat and coming to a slow boil.

  There was a pause. Marcus gestured to the slave, who busied himself with a strigil, scraping combined oil and sweat from Marcus’s oiled body – and taking the dirt with it.

  I waited – it would have been inexcusable to go – until Marcus wrapped himself back into his towel and came back into the main caldarium. In a moment, I knew, he would go next door and take a cold plunge before being massaged with perfumed oil and having his nose-hairs pulled. I only hoped that I had been dismissed by then.

  He sat down upon his bench again, and looked at me. ‘Well then, the commission is yours. Though, of course, I know you have additional responsibilities now. Pertinax tells me you found your Gwellia. I hope that has been satisfactory?’

  Gwellia. The wife that I had lost for twenty years and who now had miraculously been restored to me. Junio had found her, in the hands of a slave-trader, and Pertinax had purchased her for me as a reward for my efforts. Even now it was almost more than I could comprehend. I glanced at Marcus. He was smiling indulgently.

  I swallowed. Marcus wanted this mosaic badly. This was probably a good moment to ask a favour. ‘There is something I would like to ask you, Excellence, in that regard.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Go on.’

  Sweat was still streaming into my eyes. I outlined my request.

  Marcus sat suddenly upright. ‘Marry her, Libertus? I don’t understand! You already own the woman. What more do you want?’ He was tapping one bronzed thigh as he spoke, I noticed.

  I recognised the gesture. My patron was impatient. I fidgeted uncomfortably on my own hot bench opposite.

  ‘I simply don’t see the difficulty,’ Marcus persisted.

  I sighed. Impossible to explain to a wealthy Roman. I flapped at the clouds of steam, miserably aware of how hot and pink I was, and tried to peer at Marcus. ‘It is a difficult position, Excellence. Of course, our marriage was automatically dissolved when we were captured and sold as slaves.’ I thought of that once lovely face, now so tired and strained and worn. ‘She is no longer legally my wife.’

  ‘Of course she isn’t! Slaves are not permitted to be married to anyone.�
��

  ‘Exactly, Excellence! That is why I am asking you to help me. I can’t marry her again, without first arranging to have her freed.’

  Marcus understood that, of course. As the highest-ranking magistrate in the colonia, he knew the intricacies of the law better than I did. What he could not comprehend was why on earth it mattered. I owned the woman, as he said – and could therefore summon her to my bed as often as I pleased.

  He said as much now, with a laugh. ‘You Celts are too indulgent with your womenfolk. Too indulgent by half. If a woman won’t come to your bed willingly, beat her till she does – that’s what my father used to say.’ He spoke with cheerful confidence. Marcus was young, handsome and powerful, and until his recent marriage the most beautiful women in Glevum had queued up to offer him favours. ‘Though goodness knows what she expects in that department, Libertus – you’re not young. Still, you’re not bad-looking and you’re in fair shape for your age.’

  I smiled. It was certainly not a question of unwillingness. It was true, there had been some reticence at first – on both our parts – but reconciliation had been all the sweeter for the wait. But now . . . ‘Excellence, it is more a matter—’

  I was going to say ‘of the dignity that she deserves’, but the words were never uttered. A young man had burst into the steam room and flung himself to the tiled floor at Marcus’s feet. He was – remarkably – still half dressed, in the distinctive tunic of a temple slave, and the steam was already dampening the cloth and settling in little droplets on the metal of his clasp.

  ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion!’ Marcus was angry. He got to his feet and so – rather groggily – did I, to the anguish of my feet and the great relief of my posterior.

  ‘Most honoured Excellence! A thousand thousand apologies. I bring important news.’ The man had not moved from his position, and already the moisture was beginning to course down his face and drip from his nose and chin.

  ‘Very well,’ Marcus said, and the man struggled to his feet.

  ‘I come from the senior Sevir Augustalis,’ he blurted, ‘Meritus, high priest of the Imperial cult in Glevum. He sends his humble greetings to your Excellence . . .’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ Marcus said testily. ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘Citizen, there was dreadful moaning in the temple earlier – not even the High Priest of Jupiter knew what was causing it. Then Sevir Meritus went into the inner sanctum of the shrine at noon, to read the auguries.’ The messenger looked at us wildly. Suddenly he blurted, as though he had forgotten his carefully prepared text, ‘The long and short of it is, there was a body in there on the floor. A body in rich civilian clothing. And oh, Excellence . . .’ he threw himself back on the floor as if by humbling himself he could somehow undo the horror of his words, ‘judging by the documents that the priest found in his belt, it seems to be the body of an imperial embassy.’

  Chapter Two

  An imperial ambassador! I caught my breath.

  ‘Dear Jupiter!’ Marcus was visibly shocked. ‘The last time anything happened to an imperial legate to Britannia . . .’

  He did not finish, but we all knew what he meant. It was a story to frighten children with. The legate and his two bodyguards had been set upon and brutally murdered, apparently by marauding wayside thieves. All three had been hacked into pieces and left for the wolves – all for the sake of the bag of silver they were carrying. Parts of the bodies had never been recovered and there were terrible reprisals in the town concerned. So much so, legend said, that one tribal elder who witnessed the slaughter called down the vengeance of the gods on all things Roman – and instead brought a dreadful vengeance on himself. They’d half flayed him, bound him to a stake, and wheeled him in – still breathing – to the arena beasts, for daring to defy the word of Rome.

  And all this was under the previous emperor, Marcus Aurelius, who was famously just! What his unpredictable son might do to Glevum in the same circumstances was too horrible to contemplate.

  I glanced at Marcus. He had turned pale. ‘Of course, Excellence,’ I said nervously, ‘that earlier incident was further south, and put down to displaced Iceni. The Romans have never trusted the Iceni, ever since the revolt of Boudicca.’ It was a forlorn attempt at comfort. Marcus knew the likely consequences as well as I did.

  He shook his head, and then moved with a sudden alacrity which would have made a battle-charger look sluggish. ‘Come on,’ he said, jumping up from his bench, and leading the way out of the room. ‘There is no time to be lost.’

  I followed him – there was nothing else to do – and the temple slave trotted obediently after us.

  Marcus was in a hurry. He ignored the tepid pools in the adjoining room and made his way directly to the frigidarium, where he launched himself instantly into the cold plunge. The temple slave glanced at me uncertainly.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I could hardly back out of this without looking foolish. I handed the slave my towel and, closing my eyes, followed Marcus into the pool as boldly as I could. The shock of that sudden immersion would have made a statue squeal, but the temple slave was watching me and I controlled myself, only emitting the faintest of gasps.

  The cold water was reviving, however, once I caught my breath again. Marcus was soon out of the pool, waving aside the proffered massage (to the chagrin of the massage-slave, who’d been hoping for a tip), and a moment later we were all striding back to the changing room. Marcus’s attendant was still patiently sitting guard over my patron’s clothes. There was no sign of the boy I had paid to look after mine.

  ‘Quickly!’ Marcus barked to his slave, and allowed himself to be swiftly dried and draped elegantly in his toga while I dabbed at myself ineffectively with my damp towel. I was still trying to come to terms with what I’d heard.

  ‘An imperial legate,’ I ventured at last, pulling my patched tunic over my head and wrapping myself in my cloak. ‘Not . . .’ I hardly dared to form the words, ‘. . . this Fabius Marcellus that you mentioned earlier?’

  To my astonishment my patron shook his head. ‘I thought of that at first, but on reflection I don’t see how it can be,’ he said thoughtfully, holding his hands out of the way while his slave twisted one end of the toga-cloth into a belt, in the latest fashion. ‘In fact the whole thing is a puzzle. I received that communication from the Emperor only yesterday, and that was brought directly to me by the fastest messengers. Even if Fabius had left Rome at the same instant, he would still be several days away – and according to the letter he was not due to leave until the Ides.’

  I looked up from lacing my sandals. ‘But if it isn’t Fabius . . .?’

  Marcus’s slave was fitting elegant red shoes to his master’s feet. ‘That is the problem, Libertus. Of course the Emperor has a thousand messengers, and he can send them anywhere he chooses – but I can’t believe that there has been an imperial legation anywhere near Glevum without my hearing of it. If there was any formal embassy in Britannia I should have had word of his arrival as soon as he set foot on these shores.’

  He was right, of course. The Emperor is not the only man with spies. If this corpse was only impersonating a legatus, that altered everything. That act in itself would have merited the death penalty, and there would be no danger to the city. I breathed again.

  ‘So, Excellence,’ I said. ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘I must see this Sevir Augustalis,’ Marcus said. He turned to the temple slave. ‘Remind me, who was the priest exactly, before he took the wreath?’

  ‘He was a wealthy freedman, Excellence,’ the slave recited dutifully.

  Marcus snorted with impatience. ‘Obviously – since members of the Board of Augustales always are! I meant, how did this one come to be elected priest? Presumably the man had wealth, to join the Augustales in the first place. So where did the money come from? Always assuming he has any left, by this time.’

  Now that the immediate danger seemed to have receded, I could n
ot resist a grin. The expense of being a priest of the Imperial cult is legendary. The provision of games, festivals and votive offerings to mark the year of office have become obligatory, a kind of involuntary tax on the freedman chosen, so election to the post is a very dubious blessing. However, it is a certain route to civic distinction, and nomination – since the priest directly serves the Emperor – is not an honour that a man can easily refuse.

  The temple slave was looking doubtful. ‘I have heard that Meritus was formerly the estate-manager for a very wealthy man. He must have made a great success of it, too, because when his master died he bequeathed Meritus his freedom and a large part of the estate as a reward. Since then it has become an even bigger success. Or so they say. Charcoal, wool and timber apparently. Though I believe the real money came from metals, Excellence. Lead, iron and silver, and a little gold.’

  ‘Metals? I thought that all the metals locally were in the hands of Rome?’

  The temple slave shook his head. ‘I only know the rumours, Excellence. There was some disused mine on the land, it seems, but Meritus got a licence and started working it again – and has done very well out of it. There’s a good market for all these things in Rome. He even trades in artefacts these days, I hear, provided that the metal’s good enough. But of course that’s only gossip, Excellence. I’ve never heard him talk about himself.’

  I could believe that. Ex-slaves, especially those who have risen to a fortune, are not often anxious to talk about their humble origins.

  Marcus nodded. ‘I see.’

  The temple slave paused in the act of wrapping himself in his outdoor cloak again. He had not had the benefit of a cold plunge and a towel: his face was still scarlet, and his hair and tunic were looking dismally damp. ‘But surely you have met the sevir, Excellence.’