‘And?’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘They were no help at all. Except that the chief priest did suggest that Jupiter might possibly have turned himself into a swan again and carried her away.’
‘You don’t believe that?’ I said cautiously. I was born a Celt and I have no special reverence for Roman gods, preferring the older deities of stone and hill, but it is not wise to be dismissive of their powers. One can never be too careful with divinities.
Marcus was clearly thinking something similar. ‘It seems so inexplicable in normal terms that I’m almost ready to suspect the gods. I’ve made propitiation, just in case. But on the whole, Libertus, I think there is a human hand at work.’
‘You’ve questioned everyone?’
He nodded. ‘I brought in everyone who visited the house that day, even people who were passing on the road, and of course I’ve questioned all the slaves. I even offered a reward for any information that would help. But – though I threatened my servants with a visit to the torturers if they lied – the story that I got from all of them was the same. No one had seen or noticed anything.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘It’s my wife and son, Libertus. You must help.’
To my alarm I realised that his voice was trembling, and for a moment I feared that he might forget himself and weep. That would have cost us both embarrassment. Roman patricians pride themselves on perfect self-control. If Marcus had broken down in front of me, he would later have been furious with us both.
‘I know you’ve got your villa slaves arranged in matching pairs,’ I said, as briskly as I could, hoping to divert his thoughts to practical matters. ‘I suppose you split them up to talk to them?’
‘Of course I did. It took me two full days.’ My patron had mastered his emotion now, and he used his ordinary tone. There was even a touch of his usual impatience, I was glad to note.
‘Two days?’ I echoed, more to give myself space to think than because I was surprised. In fact it was a wonder it was done so soon. Every Roman villa has a household full of slaves, and Marcus has got even more than most because of his system of arranging servants in neatly matching ‘pairs’ – similar in height, age and colouring.
It was a relatively new whim on Marcus’s part. Julia’s now-dead second husband had first adopted it in the big house in Corinium, which she had brought to my patron as a dowry when she wed. Marcus had been enormously impressed and had immediately begun to introduce it to his own establishments. So now almost all the villa staff were paired: not the garden and kitchen slaves, of course, nor the individuals with special expertise, like the secretary and the chief steward – but all the ordinary servants that visitors might see.
The system was an ostentatiously wasteful one, of course – that was the point of it – but it had advantages. It meant that no slave was ever likely to be on his own. Marcus was a fair master, and his slaves respected him – and they positively adored their mistress – but in any household, when a slave is unobserved, there are always temptations to idleness and even petty theft – a date, a fig, a sweetmeat or a sip of wine. But now there was always a watching pair of eyes and a potential wagging tongue: and because every servant had a witness as to where he’d been and what he’d said and done, it was easy to cross-check his movements.
‘You spoke to the gate-keepers, I suppose?’ I asked. ‘In case she went out of her own accord?’ There were several exits from the villa, through the orchard and the
nymphaeum
, as well as the main gates at the front and rear, but Marcus had guards on all of them these days.
‘Especially the gate-keepers. They have nothing to report. They would not have questioned it, of course, if they had seen their mistress pass – she is their owner, after all, and has a right to come and go. In fact, she often does command a carriage to go out visiting, and to give the child an airing too. The nurse advises it. Now that he is out of swaddling clothes and can move his limbs, she encourages fresh air and exercise. She even has a little cart for him – she says it hardens him and makes him strong. But they weren’t using it that afternoon – they had already been out in the morning, visiting a friend. Julia had an attendant with her and they came back as usual. After that they did not leave again. The gate-keepers are quite adamant on that.’
‘And none of them left his post? Not even for a moment?’
‘They swear that they did not. Even when I gave each of them a small . . . encouragement.’ He gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘Although you won’t approve of that, I know.’
I sighed. I knew what form such encouragement would take, and he was right – I was not in favour of such things. In my experience, a man who is under torture will often obligingly remember things that did not occur, merely in order to make the anguish stop. Useful for extorting false confessions, possibly, but not much help if one required the truth.
Marcus must have sensed what I was thinking, because he hurried on. ‘They were able to give me a full list of everyone who came and went that afternoon. There were not many visitors and they were just what you’d expect: a group of my
clientes
, seeking me, a cart bringing a delivery of olive oil, and an old woman who comes round selling herbs. But that was all.’
‘A cartload of olive oil?’ I said. I was envisaging how it might be possible to conceal a woman and child among the large amphorae on the cart. Particularly – though I did not voice the thought aloud – if the pair were conveniently rendered silent, limp and still. Drugged with poppy juice, for instance. Or dead.
The same thought had obviously struck my patron too. He shook his head. ‘The cart came to the rear gate as usual, and was unloaded by my own kitchen slaves – the oil was carried into the courtyard and poured into the storage vats.’ Like many country houses, Marcus’s villa had large amphorae set into the ground to store such things as oil and grain; the great pots kept them cool and safe from pests. ‘It was a dealer we have used for years, but I had him arrested yesterday, and they searched his yard and cart. There was absolutely nothing to be found. Of course, he protests his innocence – and anyway he was under observation all the time with my household servants coming in and out, taking linen to the fullers or fetching chickens from the farm. In the end we had to let him go. Of course, I had the oil vats searched at home.’ His voice was shaking with emotion again. ‘And the cesspits and the pond. In case.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’ He paused. ‘Libertus, they were flesh and blood. They can’t have vanished. They must be somewhere. Even if I am too late and they are . . .’ he couldn’t bring himself to say the word, and went on, ‘if they are not alive, I still want them found, so that I can give them proper burial. That’s why I need your help.’
‘And your
clientes
? You have questioned them?’
‘Of course. But they arrived together, and they stayed together in the ante-room. My slaves confirm it. And before you ask, they were escorted to the gate. It’s impossible to imagine how anyone could get in unobserved, let alone get out again, at the same time abducting Julia and the child.’ Marcus was getting heated, but then his manner changed. ‘But you are right, of course. It seems that somehow, someone has. I can only pray to all the gods my family are not suffering now.’
Any father would do his best, of course, in circumstances like this, but Marcus was unfashionably devoted to his wife and son. Most wealthy Romans saw their ladies as mere accoutrements, bringing wealth or power to the house, and of use for providing sons, as recommended by the state. But Marcus wore a lock of Julia’s hair inside a pocket pouch against his heart, even when he visited the baths. Citizens who did not know him well were sometimes tempted to murmur sniggering remarks behind their hands – though generally they did so only once, if Marcus ever got to hear of it.
Of course, he was more than usually fortunate in his choice. His marriage to the lovely Julia had been every Roman’s dream: a wealthy widow, accomplished, charming, beautiful, and – as it turned out – fertile as well. The baby, Marcellinus, was a healthy, sturdy lad. I have no children of my own and am no expert on such things, but Gwellia assures me that he has his father’s eyes, is already making sounds that might be words, can crawl prodigiously and is generally a miracle of forwardness. Marcus, of course, is sure that he has spawned a future senator at least, if not an emperor.
Never mind coming to a humble roundhouse to seek help – he would have gone to Dis and back for his wife and boy. And now not one, but both of them were gone. Marcus could have lost a limb with less regret.
‘Libertus, are you hearing me?’ My patron’s urgent voice recalled me to myself. I had allowed my thoughts to drift. I tried to haul myself upright and look awake, but the sudden effort was too much for me and I sank back on my pillows with a groan.
I could hear the sharp concern in Marcus’s voice. ‘Medicus, he’s drifting back to sleep. I cannot lose him now. Do something. Another clystering or bloodletting perhaps?’
That brought me back to consciousness at once. I’ve been subjected to cupping once or twice, and I am not an enthusiast for the experience. In my current weakened state, I felt, such procedures would finish me. I forced open my unwilling eyes again. ‘No need for that. I’m resting, that’s all. I can hear you, Excellence.’ I searched for some other, more intelligent remark to convince him that my mind was functioning, but all that came out was a burbling sound.
‘Excellence!’ It was the physician’s sing-song voice. ‘With due respect, you must not tire him out. The old man is clearly tougher than I thought he was, but you can see that he has had enough. If you weary him too much he will relapse, and I cannot answer for what might happen then. What this man needs is rest and nourishment. I will prepare some medicine for him. Sleep herbs perhaps to help him through the night, a compress of sweet cecily to hold the fever down, and feverfew to keep the sweats at bay. That way there is more chance that he’ll recuperate and be able to assist Your Excellence again.’
I felt a rush of helpless gratitude. I was aware of being extremely tired, and the effort of concentration was draining me. However, far from leaving me alone, Marcus was moving to kneel down by the bed. That was so amazing that it made me smile. I have never known my patron bend the knee to any man, even the provincial governor himself, yet here he was grovelling on my roundhouse floor. It was a sign, I thought vaguely, of how distraught he was and possibly of how unwell I’d been.
‘Libertus,’ he was saying urgently, ‘don’t you slip away as well.’
‘Don’t touch him, Excellence.’ The physician’s voice was sharp. ‘Forgive me, but you are getting far too close. There is still a chance of plague. I would be failing in my duties as a medicus if I did not beg you – require you – to move back.’
Even in my drowsy state I understood how dangerously daring that remark had been. I heard my patron give a shocked intake of breath, but – unwillingly – he did get to his feet. However, he could not let the matter pass without rebuke.
‘Medicus, you overstep the mark. You only came into my employ a couple of days ago,’ he grumbled. ‘The fact that I paid you handsomely to leave the service of the household where you were before does not give you the authority to speak to me like that. If there are orders to be given, I will issue them. Is that understood?’
A lesser man might have retreated and apologised, but the medicus was made of stronger stuff. ‘You have given me authority to protect your well-being,’ he said. ‘If you set a man to guard a town, you would call him a traitor if he failed to warn you of danger on his watch. I am merely doing the same thing for your health.’
Marcus snorted and I held my breath, expecting an outraged outburst, but there was none. My patron simply did what he was told and retreated to the safety of the fire.
‘I am grateful to you for your understanding, Excellence,’ the medicus was saying in that high-pitched voice of his. ‘What would the province do if you fell ill yourself? Now, you engaged me to bring the pavement-maker to himself again, and I have done so with some success so far. But, if you wish me to continue with the task, then we should leave him now. Not only for his own sake, but for yours as well. This roundhouse is a draughty, smoky place – and whereas he, as a Celt, is doubtless used to it, you, Excellence, are manifestly not. You have been continually coughing and your eyes are red. I recommend that you return at once to the comfort and warmth of your own home. I will keep my litter here, and follow you as soon as possible.’
Marcus grunted briefly in consent, and turned to Gwellia. I was drifting softly, but I heard him murmuring, ‘Would it be a good idea, do you suppose, to transfer him to the villa when he is well enough? It would be much easier for you to care for him – we could put him in a proper Roman bed, in one of the heated rooms, perhaps, where there is a hypocaust underneath the floor. My kitchens could try to tempt his appetite. I am sure that he would recover far more quickly there, and the medicus would be on the spot.’
What the physician might have thought of that, I do not know. I simply heard my wife begin to say ‘You are most thoughtful, Excellence . . .’ and then stop as there came the sound of running footsteps at the door.
‘Excellence!’ It was the voice of Junio, my curly-headed slave. Usually he slept beside my bed, saw to my needs and acted as assistant-cum-companion in my workshop in the town, but in my illness he’d been banished from my side and it seemed that he’d been keeping watch outdoors. Now he sounded breathless and upset. ‘Excellence, forgive my interrupting here. There is a messenger at the gate for you. One of the servants from your country house. I am to bring you this at once.’
‘What is it?’ Marcus said.
‘This letter, Excellence. It was delivered to your villa a little while ago – though no one quite knows when. One of the gate-keepers found it left inside the porch – it seems it had been thrown there by a passer-by.’
‘What does it say?’ Marcus’s voice was strained.
‘They have not opened it. It is a makeshift thing – simply a piece of folded bark, addressed to you in charcoal on the front. The lettering is poor – it might be anything. But it is tied up with a strip of lilac cloth – it seems to have been torn from something, by the ragged edge, but – see – it is embroidered with gold thread. Your servants thought that you should see it as it is. The handmaidens are sure that it’s your wife’s. She was wearing a lilac
stola
the day she disappeared.’