‘Then it seems he has donated these baskets for my tiles,’ I said, knowing that I had capitulated. Somehow, with Junio, I find it hard to be strict for very long. Marcus is always mocking me about it. And now Gwellia had joined the household too! One look from her could always melt my heart. I would have to be doubly careful in future, I told myself. The Romans do not esteem any man who is not master in his own household. But I was still grinning like an idiot.
‘Very well!’ I went on, with a pretence at severity. ‘We will say no more about it. This time! But in future, Junio, please don’t leave the workshop unattended without my permission. Suppose a customer had called?’
‘Pardon me, dear master, but a customer did call,’ Gwellia said, with a shy smile. ‘A wealthy gentleman. He wanted you to repair a pavement for him. He must have been in a hurry, because he came in person – offering fifty sesterces if you’d come at once.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him you were otherwise engaged today – on important business with your patron.’
I turned to Junio. ‘You see?’ Fifty sesterces was not a princely sum, but it was something: and agreeing a job like that, where a price is fixed, is as good as a contract under law. ‘I doubt if he will venture here again. So, while you were out, we lost an opportunity.’
That was unfair, and I knew it. Junio was often absent from the workshop, usually with me. I did not dare to think of all the similar opportunities that must have escaped us, over the years.
‘But you have not lost it, citizen!’ Gwellia was looking at me with something of the old sparkle in her eyes. ‘I told him that, if he were to increase the fee a little, perhaps you could be induced to see him next.’ She looked at me, smiling openly at my astonishment. ‘I am sorry, dear citizen, if that was a mistake. It is something I used to hear one of my masters say. It always seemed to have the right effect. It did here, too. Now he’s promising a hundred sesterces for the repair if you will call and look at it before tomorrow night.’
‘A hundred sesterces?’ That was a handsome increase. I would never have dared to ask for half as much. I found myself smiling broadly in return. I had forgotten that my ex-wife had such unexpected talents. I attempted to reassert my dignity by saying, judiciously, ‘But it is doubtful I could do it very quickly. Marcus wants me to solve this problem at the temple.’
‘It’s not a very large repair, he says. Some of the outer border of the pattern was made of poor quality tile. He says you would remember the pavement – it is in his entrance-way. You laid a mosaic for him once before, he tells me, in his dining room, and you warned him about this problem when you came.’
‘I did?’ For a moment I could not recall anything about it. ‘Who was this customer? Did he leave a name?’
‘Gaius Honorius Optimus. He seemed to think that it would mean something to you.’
It did. I looked at Junio and we both burst out laughing together. Honorius Optimus was the customer with the pompous Phrygian steward.
‘Well, he can afford a hundred sesterces, master. He used to be a commander in the legions, and he made a fortune out of it. As you know – you’ve seen that great town house of his.’ Junio grinned back at me, obviously delighted at this new turn of events. ‘He must be in a hurry too, to offer double the fee. He always seemed to me a man who’d walk a mile to save a quadrans.’
‘He is. That’s why he had some idiot lay that cheap pavement at his door,’ I said drily. ‘A few more sesterces, and he could have had marble, or proper tiles at least. But these! I could see they were lifting and splitting then – they had not been laid for long, and that was almost two years ago. I offered to replace them at the time, but he refused. I wonder why he’s in such a hurry now?’
‘He’s hoping for an important guest, that’s why!’ Gwellia said. ‘Some imperial ambassador who is visiting the town.’
I thought of the temple and that disappearing corpse, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. ‘There is an imperial ambassador? Here? Now?’
‘Not now,’ Gwellia said, with a smile. ‘But there’s one expected in a little while. Something about a special service for the Emperor at the Imperial shrine.’
‘Surely not Fabius Marcellus!’ I exclaimed.
‘I think that
was
the name.’ Gwellia frowned with concentration. ‘Of course, it didn’t mean anything to me. But your Honorius Optimus was terribly impressed. Apparently he knew the man, because they were in the army together. Not that they were especially friendly then. They were officers in the same unit – only this Fabius Marcellus person had wealthy patronage, and he soon went on to higher things. From the way your client talked about it, I don’t think he was very pleased at the time – but of course now his old rival’s an imperial ambassador, he’s very keen to claim acquaintanceship.’
‘Gwellia, you are a marvel. You gleaned all this in a few moments’ conversation. Optimus would never had said any of that to me.’
Gwellia smiled. ‘Ah, but he wasn’t really saying it to me. He was talking to some pompous steward he brought with him. I am a woman, and a slave – he hardly noticed I was standing there.’ She looked at me. ‘What are you frowning at, Libertus? Do you doubt the truth of what he said?’
‘Something has just occurred to me. Oh, there’s an imperial legate on his way all right. And his name is Fabius Marcellus. But how in the name of all the gods did Optimus know that? Only my patron and the high priests knew about it – and they only received the communication this morning.’
‘Other people know about it now. He said his wife’s slave heard it in the market-place,’ Gwellia said. ‘Taking back a length of woollen cloth.’
I nodded, impressed again by her talent for deriving information.
‘Then there’s your answer, master,’ Junio put in. ‘The pontifex knew: no doubt he told his wife – and she’ll have sent into the town for cloth. Something very expensive too, I expect, which will have set the whole town’s tongues wagging again.’ He saw my quizzical look and added quickly, ‘Well, you know what he’s like, master, always trying to be as holy as a flamen. But insofar as he’s the flamen, master, she is his flaminia. You know how strict the regulations are, and yet she manages to find a way around them. She has quite a reputation for fashion. He will not let her comb her hair, but last year when the style was for long blond hairpieces, she had a fair-haired slave girl sent in specially from the Rhinelands. She had
that
combed and curled and wore it as a wig, with a little ritual sprig of fresh leaves tucked into her veil, to keep her husband happy. And her gown is always of pure dyed cloth. I’m sure she’d want a whole new outfit to greet the legate in.’
I nodded. The pontifex was whispered to indulge his younger wife. That was not altogether surprising perhaps, since his hoped-for job depended on it. The Pontifex of Jupiter must have a wife, and if he loses her – to death or desertion – must resign his office. Discreet divorce is not a possibility. A few lengths of costly cloth must seem a small price to pay for the lady’s loyalty. ‘All the same,’ I said, ‘I am surprised the news about the legate’s visit has travelled quite so fast. It’s evident the whole town knows already.’
Gwellia said, ‘Perhaps not quite the whole town yet, citizen. I think, from what he was saying, that Honorius Optimus was one of the first people to hear. And he came here straight away. He said he was anxious to have his entry-pavement repaired before everyone else in Glevum heard the news and wanted to do the same.’
I smiled. That was unlikely to happen now – though it might have done, without this temple corpse. Whenever a dignitary visited the town, there was always competition to entertain him. Sometimes by moving out altogether and lending him a house (though that was a signal honour), but everyone who aspired to be anyone vied to provide banquets, dancers, poets, even lunch – anything, where the host could be seen in the great man’s company. And of course every banquet-giver (and his wife) wanted new murals and decorations, and, if not new mosaics, at least mosaics in excellent repair. A pavement-maker may find himself suddenly in great demand.
But not on this occasion. My patron was at this instant in his apartments, writing a message to the imperial ambassador urging him not to come. I wondered whether I could confirm this contract with Optimus before he discovered the change of plan, especially since Marcus’s commemorative niche would now presumably not be wanted either.
The thought of Marcus recalled me to my duties. ‘Speaking of clothes,’ I said briskly, ‘I must change my own. I am to call on Marcus this afternoon. I shall need my toga. I am to be there about the eighth hour.’
‘How are you supposed to judge what time that is?’ Gwellia asked, practical as ever.
It was a reasonable question. She and I were not brought up to ‘hours’. The Romans operate like that, dividing the period of daylight into twelve equal parts, but I had no fancy waterclocks or time-candles, so I could only gauge the time by the position of the sun. When it was cloudy, like today, it could be very difficult to guess the ‘hour’ – especially in wintertime, as now, since obviously the hours get shorter with the days.
‘I shall simply have to get there as quickly as I can,’ I said. I could wait for Marcus: he must not wait for me. I made towards the staircase. ‘Junio, you can help me into my toga. And bring a bowl. I’ll have some of that clean water to rinse my face. Gwellia, my dear, you can do the same. I know that, until we get to market, you have no other garments of your own, but you will find an old tunic of mine underneath the bedding. It’s rather torn and patched, but at least it’s clean. Well?’ I added, as I saw her stricken face. ‘What is it? What’s the matter, Gwellia?’
‘It’s that tunic, master!’
‘What about the tunic?’ Surely she was not embarrassed by the thought? It was a bit too big for her, perhaps, but otherwise there was little to show that it was a male garment.
‘I . . . I’m afraid I’ve torn it up to replace your bedding with. I’ve put down new reeds, and thrown away the old . . .’ She gestured to the pile she had been carrying when I came in. ‘I found the tunic. It seemed old and discarded, so I cut the seams and used it to make the bedding comfortable.’
She was biting her lip. And she’d called me ‘master’ again, I noticed. She was calling me ‘Libertus’ only a few moments earlier.
I debated a moment how to answer her. ‘I sometimes wore that tunic into bed,’ I said at last, ‘while Junio washed the other one. I don’t know what I’m going to do instead.’ I raised my eyebrows at her, and she looked at me, blushed, and laughed.
‘What did you do with the old bedding rags?’ I demanded.
There was the suspicion of a pert twinkle in those beautiful brown eyes. ‘What do you think I used to wash the floor?’
There was no possible reply to that, so I made none. I simply went upstairs to change – into an attic where that feminine touch had been at work again.
A little while later, full of a late lunch of bread and cheese and draped uncomfortably in my toga, I was on my way to Marcus’s apartments, with Junio at my heels. Meanwhile Gwellia (dressed rather fetchingly, I thought, in a spare tunic of Junio’s) was making a hasty visit to the cloth-seller’s stall before the market closed. Indulgent of me, Marcus would doubtless say, since I had given her some money for a length of cloth, but I had also asked her to keep her ears open for any more gossip about Fabius Marcellus. If anyone could acquire that kind of information, I told myself, it was my clever wife.
Marcus did not keep me waiting long. In fact, no sooner had I been shown in to wait, and offered the customary plate of sugared figs and a beaker of watered wine, than Marcus burst into the receiving room. He was agitated. I could see that from the way he strode in behind his slave without even giving the lad time to announce him.
This unexpected entrance took me by surprise. I put down my drink and struggled to my feet. He waved aside any attempt to make the usual obeisances.
‘Ah, there you are, Libertus,’ he said, as if he had been searching for me from attic to ground. ‘I have despatched the letter to Fabius Marcellus. So tell me, what did you discover at the temple after I left? Sit down at once and give me your report.’ He stretched himself on a comfortable couch and gestured to the carved stool which I’d just vacated.
His manner was so urgent that I found it difficult to confess that I’d discovered nothing. ‘I regret, Excellence, I have nothing to report. No sign of a hiding-place for a body, still less—’
I was going to say ‘a murderer’, but he made a gesture of impatience. Whatever was troubling him, it was not that.
‘So you found no body. I was afraid of that.’ He helped himself absently to a fig. ‘Or perhaps I was secretly hoping that you wouldn’t.’ He bit into the fruit. ‘I need hardly tell you that nothing was discovered in the temple grounds – only an old beggar in a ditch behind the grove, right in the corner of the precinct wall. Found himself a perfect place to hide, it seems, and went there once too often. Must have been there a month or more – it’s hard to say. They tell me the rats have eaten him. I’ve given orders to dispose of it.’
Into a paupers’ grave, he meant. Piled onto a cart and tipped into an unmarked public pit, poor fellow – but at least it would be a proper resting place. Vagabonds who fall prey to thieves or wolves are often denied even that privilege.
Marcus brought me sharply back to the present. ‘So, the question still remains. Was it a real body lying at the shrine or was it a visionary one? I don’t know which is worse, old friend: to find the corpse of this legate in the temple, or to fail to find it when it should be there. If this
was
an omen from the gods, then Jove alone knows what trouble lies in store for us. If it was a real body, we are in trouble already.’ He had been gesturing at me absently with the remains of his fig, but now he swallowed it and took another. ‘My wife’s convinced it is this Icenian curse come true. What do you make of it all, Libertus?’
I hesitated. The temple is not something I truly understand. I attend the public rituals at the Capitoline shrine, like any citizen (absence from these things is likely to be noticed), but these are not really my gods, and Marcus knew it. This doesn’t make me altogether a hypocrite, or so I told myself. I worship the power of the universe: it probably does not matter to the sun spirit, for instance, whether you call him ‘Apollo’ or ‘Cunomaglus’ – and many local Celtic gods have now got Roman names. So I have always treated the Olympian deities, if not with reverence, at least with a certain respect.