A Prisoner of Privilege Read online

  And I was already rather later than was probably polite, although – not finding him out in the colonnade – I’d rushed through the bathhouse with unseemly haste. I was almost afraid that I had missed him after all – but he must have been ahead of me throughout, because here he was back in the tepid area. (In Glevum, one returns here last of all, so that – having worked up a sufficient sweat elsewhere – one can be strigilled clean and take a quick, cold dip to close the pores before one leaves.)

  But what was the accepted form for greeting a superior when only a strip of fabric protects one’s modesty, and he himself is as naked as a slave for sale? I compromised by bowing slightly from the waist. ‘I hope I have not kept you waiting, Excellence.’

  ‘You’re here now, that is the important thing. I wanted somewhere to have a private word with you.’

  ‘Private?’ I glanced at the attendant who was pummelling his back.

  ‘One of my own slave boys,’ Marcus said. ‘Don’t worry about him. And I’ve arranged for a deaf-and-dumb slave to attend to you. So we can talk quite freely while we are being strigelled clean.’

  I stared. This was a new Marcus. Generally he thinks of slaves as human furniture and I have often had to remind him that they have ears and tongues. But his current caution was obviously wise. We were living in very troubled times.

  Something I’d just seen on my way to the baths today was a sign of that. Workmen with ropes and pulleys were busy in the square, removing the bust of Didius Julianus from its niche, to replace him with a hasty statue of the latest Emperor (who came from the African provinces and was said to have dark skin and fleshy lips, though that was not evident from the images, nor from the new coins issued in his name which had just begun to find their way into Britannia). And this was the fourth change of Emperor within the last twelve months!

  So when Septimius Severus had been officially proclaimed there was a feeling of general relief that the political upheavals might be at an end. But that had – emphatically – not turned out to be the case, because there were still two other pretenders to the purple – both of whom had claims as strong as his.

  One, Pescennius Niger, would probably have been the people’s choice. He was very popular, not just in Rome but throughout the Empire – from Dacia to Antioch, and had been proclaimed Emperor by his followers months ago, when Pertinax was killed. He had stubbornly refused to repudiate his claim, had issued coinage with his face on it, and was even now engaging Severus in active war.

  The other potential rival was our own Provincial Governor. Clodius Albinus had claims of lineage, having been adopted into the Imperial family, (just as Octavius Augustus had been) and commanded considerable support. He had only been persuaded to give up his claim – for now – by being given the courtesy title ‘Caesar’, the doubtful accolade of ‘co-Emperor of the west’, and the still more doubtful promise that he would be next in line. (Especially doubtful, because Severus had children of his own.)

  All of which meant that Severus certainly had paid informers everywhere. Especially in Britannia. And with reason, too. There were already local murmurings in support of Clodius, with the legions ready to mass on his account. So it paid to be very careful what one said, to whom.

  In fact the commander at our Glevum garrison, a shrewd and educated friend of Marcus’s who had been denounced for having Clodian sympathies, had recently been relieved of his command and – though recalled to Rome – had deemed it more expedient to disappear to Gaul. (Where he had landed safely, a smuggled letter said, except for the loss of his favourite hunting dogs and two precious manuscripts, which had not survived the trip. He would not, he wrote, communicate again for fear of betraying his final whereabouts.)

  And Marcus was his known associate! No wonder he was learning to be more discreet!

  My patron must have seen that I was hesitant, and gestured that I should occupy the vacant bench nearby. I lay down gingerly, still wondering what this summons was about, whereupon one of the public bathhouse slaves appeared at once to whisk off my little covering with a deft and practised hand. This must be the deaf-and-dumb attendant that was promised me.

  It still seemed improper to converse with His Excellence in this state, but I told myself that he had chosen both the time and place; he had a perfectly good private bath-suite in his country house, which we could both have reached within an hour or two. So this meeting was entirely of his own design. And I could hardly refuse an order from someone who was still (for now, at least) one of the most important men in all Britannia.

  So there was no escape. I too was about to be pummelled, oiled and scraped, and then obliged to take that chilly plunge. Not that I fear cold water, but I generally prefer a simple rub-down at the spring, using the Celtic lye-and-goosefat soap that Romans despise so much. I’d already had more baths in this last month than in my life before. One of the disadvantages of rank! I must be the cleanest Celt in Glevum, nowadays, I thought, as the bath attendant began to rub my back and I lay and waited to learn why I was here.

  I did not have long to wonder. ‘That letter that arrived in the curia today …’ My patron turned his face so he could look at me. ‘You heard it read, no doubt. What was your opinion, my old friend?’

  Old friend? That was ominous. Marcus only ever calls me ‘friend’ when he wants me to do him a favour of some kind – usually something which will take me from my trade for several days. I gave an inward sigh. I was rarely in my mosaic workshop these days, as it was – being a councillor left little time for that. I felt I was the prisoner of privilege, sometimes. But not even a duumvir can argue with a man of Marcus’s rank, and he was waiting for an answer; I could see his eyebrows arch.

  I made a non-committal noise, partly because the massage-slave was pressing on my lungs, and partly because I did not know what answer was required. I had heard the reading of the letter, naturally, but I’d not paid undue attention since it did not touch upon pavements, wells or aquifers, which were my areas of responsibility. (Though since Marcus had been presiding, as senior magistrate, it was not prudent to admit that I’d been daydreaming.)

  My grunt had clearly not been good enough. ‘Well?’ The eyebrows rose again.

  What I’d heard of the letter had seemed unremarkable to me. ‘Some private visitor from Rome, presenting his credentials to the curia and hoping for patronage and entertainment while he was in the town.’ Nothing at all unusual in that – it was a common practice for patrician visitors. ‘He is a person of good family, I assume.’

  ‘One could say so!’ Marcus sounded wry. ‘Laurentius Aurelius Manlius is a distant relative of my own. The youngest son of a half-cousin of Mother’s, I recall, though that branch of the family has fallen on hard times! His father lost a fortune on imported grain.’

  ‘I suppose that – as you’re a relative – it’s you he hopes to see? Though he writes that business brings him to Britannia?’

  ‘Business brings him to Britannia? Laurentius Manlius? The fellow never did a day’s business in his life!’

  ‘Then you think he might be hoping for a loan from you?’ I said. It would explain my patron’s obvious irritation with the man.

  Marcus snorted. ‘No one in his senses would come all this way, simply on the off-chance of a private loan. It would cost a fortune just to journey here – and in the winter season, too, when any normal captain keeps his ship safe in port! And then he sends that letter in advance instead of merely bringing it, like anybody else. By the Imperial post, what’s more. Does he think we have no power of reasoning at all?’ He signalled that the slave should cease to scrape his back and should set to work to clean his legs instead. ‘So, since it’s fairly obvious what really brings him here, what do you think that we should do with him?’

  It was not at all obvious to me – nor, whatever his purpose, what affair it was of mine – but Marcus clearly expected some response.

  ‘You do still have an aging female relative in Rome, don’t you?’ I said, as the mas
sage-slave made little chopping motions on my legs. ‘So this might be a marriage offer, perhaps? Though she is almost thirty?’

  Marcus had legal responsibility for this unfortunate, of course – since, as a woman she was still a child in law – and thus if a marriage was in prospect, his consent was formally required. If so, I could not see why it should irritate him so. The arrangement would be an advantageous one: Laurentius would get the dowry – or the use of it; the woman (who at her age had few choices left) would have a protector in the capital; and Marcus would no longer have to be prepared to provide for her in an extremity.

  But that was not the answer. Marcus curled his lip.

  ‘Of course it is some time since you were in the capital.’ I was guessing wildly now. ‘Is it possible that he has recently acquired a trade? An interest in some export enterprise, which might bring him to Britannia?’

  ‘Trade? Laurentius Manlius? It’s obvious that you know nothing of the man.’ (That was a fair assessment – until today I had never heard of him! But, of course, I did not interrupt.) ‘The fellow’s a Praetorian – or used to be. Even you must realize what that implies!’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmured weakly, as my massage-slave stepped away and signalled me to turn onto my back. I had never met a serving Praetorian, myself, though I’d heard the outgoing commander speak of them – in no very flattering terms.

  It was at a little feast at Marcus’s, when he had been hunting with my patron for the day and I had been invited to make the table up. ‘There’s an Imperial tribune coming to inspect. They’re all the same, these ex-Praetorians,’ he’d told me, dipping his bread into the oil. ‘Used to having the best of everything. Praetorian quarters in the Imperial palace itself. Distinctive uniforms, to ensure appropriate respect. They are supposed to be the absolute elite, but as the Emperor’s personal guard, they very rarely fight – indeed they scarcely leave the capital at all, unless going into battle with the Emperor himself or escorting him on visits overseas. Yet they get better pay and better pension rights, and a substantial bonus when they leave! No wonder that the regulars resent them quite so much.’

  However, that banquet was more than a moon ago, and the commandant was gone. Though – like everybody in the Empire – I knew the legends anyway: Praetorians were bullies, susceptible to bribes, who had made and unmade several Emperors within the last few years. Severus was rumoured to have disbanded them, as soon as his accession was assured, and replaced them with soldiers of his own whom he could trust. Though that was only rumour – like everything, these days.

  ‘I know of the Praetorian by repute,’ I answered – cautiously.

  ‘Repute? You mean like assassinating the splendid Pertinax, because he would not give them the bonus they demanded – and then selling the Empire to the highest bidder?’ He gave a scornful laugh. ‘And later switching loyalties again when they found that Didius could not pay?’

  I knew the story about Pertinax, of course. How one of his own guard had drawn a bow and wounded him. And then, instead of rallying to his defence, the rest of the Praetorians had joined in to murder him. Pertinax had been my patron’s friend. Small wonder that Marcus had no love for them.

  However, I didn’t mention that, at least not in the presence of the massage-slave. It had occurred to me that even the dumb may learn to write, and the deaf (allegedly) to read the lips. The Imperial laurel wreath may have changed hands – recently – more often and more quickly than a forged denarius, but it’s certain that whoever wears it still has paid spies everywhere. Who knows to whom the bath slave might be reporting every word?

  ‘Well armed, well trained and very powerful, so gossip says,’ I hazarded. ‘Though it may be that rumour is unkind to them?’

  Marcus had no such inhibition, that was clear. ‘They are worse than their reputation paints them!’ He waved his attendant impatiently away, then swung around and sat up on the marble bench, dangling his legs. ‘They’ve so much power, they almost run the state – and no one, from the Emperor down, dares thwart them anymore.’ He signalled for another drying cloth – but far from draping it across his loins he took it in both hands and rubbed his face and chest, spurning the slave boy’s offers to assist. ‘No wonder Severus had them all replaced.’

  The public bath slave had begun by now to oil and scrape my chest, so my head was on a level with the bench that Marcus was sitting on. I averted my eyes. ‘But Laurentius “used to be” a Praetorian, Excellence, I think you said? Was he one of those dismissed by Severus?’ That sounded disrespectful, so I added hastily, ‘Or has he moved on to a regular command somewhere? Become a tribune like the one who visited, perhaps?’

  My patron shook his head impatiently. ‘Naturally not – or why would he be writing to the curia? He would have informed the garrison and sought accommodation there. The fact is, Laurentius retired months ago. He left the army at the end of the reign of Commodus.’

  How and why? I wondered. When a man enlists, he contracts to serve for a given term of years – or until his death, whichever’s earlier – and he can’t escape unless he’s wounded, mad, or seriously ill, in which case he gets an ‘honourable discharge’ and is entitled to his pension rights. But clearly this Laurentius was alive and well.

  ‘Was …?’ I tailed off, as a group of chattering bathers came into the room, laughing and noisy as if they had (impolitely) eaten and drunk too well at lunch.

  Among them I recognized the hairy, bearded form of Josephus Loftus, the official money changer from the marketplace – banker, contract broker and occasional auctioneer – who was famed for knowing all the gossip of the town.

  I was almost glad of the intrusion, appalled that I’d been ready to suggest that my patron’s relative might have been dishonoured and dismissed. Though a possible reason had occurred to me, which even Marcus would understand, if not entirely condone. Laurentius had served until the fall of Commodus – and the Praetorians had (naturally!) been implicated in the plot to eliminate that cruel and half-crazed Emperor. But his successor, Pertinax, far from rewarding them as they had hoped, had set out to purge the guard of those who’d taken part. So was Laurentius one of the conspirators, perhaps? Not actually executed, but quietly removed? However, with our current audience, this was not the time to ask.

  Marcus had recognized the money changer too. ‘Enough!’ He was clearly irritated by the interruption. ‘Come, let us take the plunge. We’ll speak about this further when we can be alone.’ He strode across the room, and plunged himself into the chilly water with a gasp.

  I was only semi-strigilled, but my slave could take a hint. He swiftly finished scraping me, and re-wound my woeful cloth round my nether parts. However, Josephus and his companions had moved away by now, into another room, so I trailed over to the plunge pool and stood at the edge.

  ‘Your relative. He was not implicated in the Commodus affair?’ I hazarded, when Marcus surfaced, blowing out his cheeks.

  The cold prevented him from answering at once, but Marcus shook his dripping, curly head. ‘Not he!’ he said, when he had caught his breath. He signalled to his slave to bring a drying robe, and climbed out into it, still panting from the chill. ‘Laurentius Manlius is too careful for such things.’ He actually smiled, as the slave boy patted him with lightly-perfumed oil. ‘He would not take the risk – especially against a madman like Commodus, who took such pleasure in devising interesting deaths. Though my kinsman may have known there was trouble in the air, and chosen to retire as soon as possible.’

  ‘So he’d served his contract out?’ I’d forgotten that praetorians serve for only sixteen years. (‘Full seven years less than common soldiers do, who fight Rome’s wars and guard her frontiers’, was how the commander had phrased it, bitterly.) So this Laurentius might be relatively young, perhaps no more than thirty-two years old – not the aging veteran that I had been picturing.

  ‘Exactly!’ my patron said, reminding me. ‘And if Praetorians don’t rejoin the army and – as you say – rise im
mediately to command somewhere, they either retire to some family estate or seek other employment at the Imperial court, as my precious cousin obviously has, since he has no family estate to speak of, nowadays.’

  ‘Other employment?’ What could such a man do for the Emperor after he retired, especially a careful one who did not want to fight? ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Serving as the Emperor’s private spy, of course! Is that not obvious? It’s clear Laurentius has an Imperial warrant for this trip – without one, at this season of the year, a man would have to bribe a captain handsomely! Much more handsomely than Laurentius could afford, even with his bonus! Now, are you going to plunge into that pool or not?’

  I nodded – too astonished to reply.

  ‘Then I’ll see you later, in the colonnade. There is a pressing problem, councillor, which I need your help to solve.’

  And he swept out, accompanied by his page.

  TWO

  For a moment I could only stand staring after him. It was very possible his cousin was a spy – especially in the current circumstances – but how did Marcus suppose that I could help?

  I could understand his evident concern. There’d been already one visit to Marcus from a legate, late last year. It was pretended as a courtesy to Pertinax’s friend, but it was almost certainly to check that my patron was supporting Severus – which of course he was, in public anyway. But – with insurrections everywhere – no doubt there was renewed Imperial interest now in discovering where his secret sympathies might lie. And what better way than to send a relative?

  I was almost glad of the distraction of the pool. The water was so cold it took my breath away and I was panting as I stood up and clutched the side. My teeth were chattering from my unwelcome plunge, but the chill was not the only thing that left me shivering. My dip had obviously cleared my head, because a worrying idea had just occurred to me.