Even the law courts operated on a system of
fas
and
nefas
days: dates that were propitious or otherwise. A morning when the proper rituals were not observed might cause the whole day’s business to be void, and if an accuser could not bring the offender into court there was no case to answer anyway. The laws and law courts mentioned in the text are, of course, those relating to Roman citizens – non-citizens received much rougher justice, often in courts presided over by harassed officials in open places, which meted out far harsher sentences. What might be exile for a citizen might well be execution for a lesser man.
No wonder the Apostle Paul once made his famous claim, ‘
Civis Romanus sum
.’ (I am a Roman citizen.)
The Romano-British background in this book has been derived from a wide variety of (sometimes contradictory) written and pictorial sources. 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.
Relata refero. Ne Iupiter quidem omnibus placet.
(I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.)
I had been ill. That was the only thing I knew – and it was the first real thing I’d been aware of for a long, long time.
There had been fevered dreams. A slave-ship. Beatings. Thirst. I was tossing, chained and shivering, in that filthy hold again, hearing my young wife calling out my name as the pirates tore us from our home and carried us apart. Then these tortured images of my past would pass and instead I was sweltering and helpless in a fiery cave; or my mosaic workshop was consumed in flames, while mocking demons forced hot liquids down my throat.
Now, though, as I forced open an exploratory eye, those nightmare visions seemed to have dispersed. I appeared to be lying in a sort of bed of reeds in a little roundhouse which I vaguely recognised as mine – although I could not for the moment make any sense of this. Yet the place was so familiar: the central fire, the wooden stools, the cooking pots – even the Celtic weaving loom set up against the wall. If this was a dream, I thought, I was content with it. I could almost feel the warm glow from the fire, and feel the smart of wood-smoke in my eyes.
I almost feared to blink in case this cheerful scene proved to be a mere illusion too and – like the rest – would shimmer and vanish into mist. I closed my eyes experimentally but, though I did so several times, my surroundings remained as solid as before. For a moment it was too much for my addled brain to solve.
Then I heard a voice from somewhere near at hand and I was aware of someone bending over me. I smiled, expecting it to be my wife, but as I came to fuller consciousness I saw that it was not Gwellia at all. It was an old, skinny, wrinkled man with a bony nose and pointed chin, dressed in a tattered toga with wine stains on the front and a circlet of fresh flowers on his balding head. I shut my eyes again. This was obviously another nightmare.
But he didn’t go away.
‘He was ill for almost a whole moon, of course, before you sent for me.’ He had a high cracked voice, and spoke Latin with the careful diction of the Greek. ‘It would have been much better if I’d seen him earlier, so I could have contrived to have him purged. But I have done a great deal in the last two days. Obviously recovery will not be swift, but I believe he is past the crisis now. Drinking bad water, that is my surmise. Vomiting, fever and delusive dreams – this is the course of the disease and there have been other cases in the town. And the insides of his lids are red. I have seen this kind of thing before.’ He moved the oil light closer to my face, until I could almost feel my lashes singe.
I flinched.
He was not apologetic. Quite the contrary – although he did withdraw the light and I realised that he’d sat back on his heels. ‘He feels the heat. That’s good!’ There was evident satisfaction in his tone. ‘That shows that he is partly conscious now, and that is promising. I doubted for a long time that he would survive, even with all the herbs and potions I prepared. But at least that dreadful raging fever has gone.’
A second shadow loomed up on the wall and I was aware of another figure by the bed. However, the medicus clearly disapproved. He stood up suddenly and there was a warning in his voice. ‘Forgive me, honoured citizen, for instructing you, but perhaps you should not approach him any closer. I believe this is the foul-water sickness, as I said before, but I cannot be quite certain. It may yet be the plague. We can only watch the pattern of disease. You know that there is a murrain raging presently in Rome and it is not impossible that it might travel here – these things spread with fearful rapidness. I would not have you catch the seeds of pestilence. They rise in the miasma of the patient’s breath, and can take root in your own. Remember, Excellence, I did advise you not to come at all.’
Excellence? I was so startled that I almost raised my head. Marcus Aurelius Septimus, my patron, here?
This dwelling might be built on his estate – indeed he’d granted it to me as a reward for work I’d done for him – but it was the first time to my knowledge that he had ever crossed the door. Patrician citizens of his exalted rank do not often come visiting in lowly roundhouses. But one glimpse of that patrician form – tousled blond curls around the still-youthful face, the broad purple band along the toga edge, and the heavy seal ring on the hand – was enough to convince me that he was truly here. The personal representative of the outgoing governor and the most important man in all Britannia – at the bedside of a humble one-time slave? No matter that I was a freeman now, his client and a Roman citizen – it was incredible that he should visit me like this.
Perhaps I was still dreaming after all.
Another figure loomed up with a lamp, and this time it really was my wife. ‘Believe me, medicus,’ she began. Her tone was courteous but firm. I smiled a little to myself. We had been torn apart when we were first enslaved and reunited only recently, but, though the years of slavery had aged us both, in many ways she remains unchanged. My Gwellia could always be forceful when she chose. ‘It was not my wish to put His Excellence in danger of the plague. I did not for a moment think that he would come himself. I should not have sent to him tonight at all, if he had not specifically commanded it. “If your Libertus starts to come to consciousness, you are to send up to the villa instantly – no matter whether it is day or night.” That’s what he said – and praise be to all the gods, it’s happening at last, thanks to the potion you mixed for him. I’m only sorry that my messenger seems to have disturbed you at your meal.’
Of course, when I turned my mind to think of it, I realised she was right. Marcus was not in formal banquet wear, but he too had a wreath round his head. The two men had obviously been interrupted at some private dinner. Certainly this place was only minutes, on a horse, from the door of Marcus’s country house, but of all the improbable things which greeted me, the fact that my patron and his guest had left their meal to come to me was the most surprising of all. Marcus was a stickler for social niceties, and was famously devoted to his food.
I began to wonder just how ill I’d been.
Ill enough to warrant a physician, it appeared. It was a luxury I’d rarely known and certainly would never have dreamed of for myself.
I might possibly have called in the state physician, once, if things were desperate. There had been a well-trained medicus in Glevum at one time, working on a licence from the town council, which also provided him with premises and paid him a retainer for his services. Such men are not permitted to demand a fee, but if they treat you successfully it costs you all the same, as you are naturally expected to ‘show your gratitude’. However, he was dead, and now his two ex-slaves, who had been bequeathed their freedom on his death, had applied for licences themselves and set up in his place, though their only training was assisting him. I knew them well: a pair of cheerful rogues, chiefly famed for drinking too much wine and prescribing cabbage diets as a cure for everything. In general I preferred to heal myself.
This medicus was obviously a different breed of man. He was wearing a toga, for one thing, which meant that he was a full Roman citizen, and he was clearly educated and successful, since he was sufficiently eminent to be invited to Marcus’s country house to dine. A high-paid private medicus, perhaps, retained by some wealthy family in the town? Probably. The best physicians in the world are Greek. There is a proper training school for them and they have been feted by high society ever since the late emperor received Galen at his court. By his diction this man was clearly Greek. His fees would be enormous.
And Marcus was providing him for me! I felt my eyes mist up with gratitude.
‘Well, is he well enough to talk?’ My patron’s question cut across my thoughts. He took another step towards the bed, shaking off the physician’s warning hand.
‘But Excellence . . .’ that hapless man began.
‘Oh, don’t fuss so, Philades! I’ve taken the precautions you asked me to. Breathed in and spat out as I came into the room, to send back the infection, and washed my hands with ashes from the altar of the household gods. I even put on that stupid amulet you told me I should wear. If all that won’t protect me, I don’t know what will. Besides, I’ve been here twice before, and I haven’t caught it yet.’
‘That may be the protection of the amulet, of course. Real ivory, worked into a pattern of the sun and containing a fresh piece of dragon-herb. It’s a signal charm against attack by snakes, but it can save you from the pestilence as well. All the same, Excellence, I must advise you to move back. An evil pneuma rises from a man when he is ill.’
‘Philades, it is important that I talk to him as soon as possible. Every hour that passes makes things worse. Why do you suppose I brought you here?’
‘But, Excellence, I have explained all this to you. This man is very ill. It is doubtful that he would hear you, even if you spoke, and certainly he couldn’t answer you, though he is clearly better than he was. Even if he comes back to total consciousness he may never be the man that once he was. It is possible his wits will be disordered, or he’ll remain very weak. It will be a moon, at least, before we can be sure. I know you feel that you must speak to him, but surely there are other advisers to whom you can turn?’
‘Don’t you suppose that I’ve done everything I can?’ Marcus sounded grim. ‘I’ve told everyone I can think of who might be of use. The army, the town watch, the council – everyone! I’ve even had the passers-by brought in and questioned them for hours, in case they’d seen anything that might help us. But none of it has done the slightest good. It has been almost three days now, and there is still no news. I’m getting desperate. If anyone can help me, it is Libertus here. He sees things that other people don’t. He has a pattern-maker’s mind.’
So, this visit was not purely out of sympathy for me. Marcus had a problem, and that was why he’d come. I might have guessed as much, if I had not been thinking stupidly. It must be something serious, as well, for him to call in this expensive medicus.
They were still talking as if I wasn’t there. ‘But Excellence, even if he does come to himself, after this he will almost certainly need to rest in bed. A half a moon or more, at his age, probably. How can he do anything to help?’
‘I don’t expect him to
do
anything – I just want to hear his thoughts. I’ve exhausted every other possibility. So get him back to consciousness as soon as possible. That’s what I undertook to pay you for.’
My brain was working slowly, but I could think of nothing in the whole Roman world which was important enough to make him act like this. Curiosity did more for me than any potion could. I forced my eyelids open and half raised my head. ‘I am awake,’ I murmured, though it came out as a croak. ‘What is it, Excellence?’
He pushed past the medicus at once and came up to the bed. If I was carrying the seeds of plague he didn’t seem to care. He bent towards me, and I saw his face. It was as drawn and anxious as I’d ever known it. ‘Old friend, can you hear me? I am desperate. Talk to me, Libertus. You have got to help. It’s my wife, Julia, and my little son. They were with the wet nurse in the courtyard of the house the other day, while I was at an
ordo
meeting in the town. The nurse was sent into the kitchen for some cooked fruit for the boy, and when she came back with it she found they’d disappeared. Julia’s cloak and the child’s toy were lying on the ground, as if they’d been abandoned there in haste, but there was no message and none of the other slaves had seen them go. You must help me, Libertus. This was three days ago and no one’s seen them since.’
If it had been possible for me to sit bolt upright, I’m sure I would have done – if only out of sheer astonishment. ‘Disappeared? But that’s impossible!’ It came out as a cross between a croak and groan but at least it showed that I had understood and my patron was clearly gratified by this.
‘I know it is impossible, old friend,’ he said, moving closer to my side and speaking with careful emphasis, as though to a small child. Obviously he felt that in my current state of health I might have difficulty following what he said to me. ‘My house is full of slaves and door-keepers – who could get in unobserved, and how could they get out? And even if they managed that, wherever could they go? The house is in the open countryside and there were no unexpected visitors or passers-by all afternoon. Yet it seems that the impossible occurred. One minute Julia and the boy were sitting there, and the next they weren’t. I don’t know if it is sorcery or what – but there is no solution I can find. I’ve even been to see the augurers.’
Marcus had dealings with the omen-readers from the temple court as part of his public duties in the town, and this remark was rather a surprise. My patron was not in general a superstitious man: he made the proper sacrifices to the gods, of course, but he was no more likely than I am to base his hopes upon the shape of clouds or the flight of a flock of winter birds. It was an indication of how desperate he was.