I shook my head. It was absurd. Why should the doctor be involved in anything like that? I must be rambling. I had no earthly proof that he was involved – and there were surely things my newly thought-of theory did not explain. For instance, he could clearly not have brought the basket here.
Though – I thought, uneasily – he could easily have picked it up from some appointed place, or given a signal to an accomplice in the woods. And he had expected me to be asleep – indeed, if I had not been nibbling at my forbidden oatcake and thus kept myself awake, it is almost certain that I would have been. Was that why he had questioned me so closely about what I might have seen – and why his manner had so abruptly changed? This roadblock was a bold and daring plan, but he had the intelligence to have thought it up. I stole a glance at him, and found that he was looking appraisingly at me, although he dropped his eyes at once and went on ostentatiously examining the child.
I felt a cold stab of alarm. We were outside the villa and I was in the doctor’s hands – a situation that I didn’t like at all. I was not at my most capable, I knew. My reasoning was slow. Junio was gone, and the bearer-slaves were under Philades’ command. My best defence was to get into Marcus’s house as soon as possible.
‘We must tell His Excellence the news at once,’ I said, emphasising the honorific title to remind Philades that I had powerful patronage. ‘It’s obvious the kidnappers have had a change of plan, though I shouldn’t be surprised if there were more demands to meet before there is a chance of Julia’s release. Poor Marcus. I know how I should feel, if it were Gwellia. I wonder what he will do now about the villa gates?’ I tried to keep my manner as calm as possible, but I was aware that I was wittering.
The look the doctor gave me would have withered iron. ‘You can give your version of events to Marcus very soon. I’m sure he will be as totally amazed as you and I. As to additional demands, was there any message in the basket with the boy? About how we are to ransom Julia, perhaps?’
I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I haven’t looked.’
The medicus gave me another of his looks. He said nothing, but stretched past me and with his free hand tipped the basket out on top of me. As he did so I saw what I had not taken in before, that there were cloths inside – not very clean or lovely cloths, but enough to form a sort of cushion between the child and the bottom of the container. I rummaged through them, not very expertly, realising how weak I had become.
‘Nothing there.’ I lay back, exhausted by my efforts.
‘Pity,’ he said tersely. ‘But it is good to know that someone has been caring for the child. He’s been kept moderately clean, at least.’
I forced my addled brain to work this out. Marcellinus was hardly what I’d describe as clean, but it was true that he had been snatched away without a change of clothes, and – as I understand it – with children of such a tender age these things are pretty frequently required. ‘Except for that stinking grease, of course,’ I added.
Philades glanced at me. ‘The hog’s grease, you mean, to keep off the cold? Don’t worry, pavement-maker, I had noticed that. I shall mention it to Marcus, never fear. A poor man’s remedy, but sound enough. Mixed with the warming herbs of Mercury: garlic, lavender and rue, if I am any judge. And he has obviously been fed, and recently. Is that a fair assessment, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I muttered, feeling thoroughly confused. I could vaguely remember being greased myself when I was small, though I was sure that it hadn’t stunk like this. However, the memory prompted me to ask, ‘Did his mother do all this for him, do you suppose? The food and everything?’
He swept my words aside. ‘Oh, Julia couldn’t suckle him herself. I doubt she ever did. More likely she gave him to the wet nurse as soon as he was born – most wealthy matrons do – and then of course her milk would cease to come.’
I was too embarrassed by this mental picture to say anything beyond, ‘I knew he had a wet nurse, naturally. But I thought that he was suffering from hunger pangs. There was a piece of cloth bound round his face when he arrived. A twist of it was stuck into his mouth. He seemed to have been gnawing at it. I supposed . . .’
The medicus said impatiently, ‘A comforter. Dipped in milk and poppy juice, no doubt, and given to the child to suck – since clearly he’s been drugged.’
‘Drugged?’ I was genuinely horrified. ‘Of course some Roman parents give their children sips of poppy juice to make them sleep – for instance when new teeth are breaking through – but I know that Julia did not approve of that. Marcus will be furious.’
I meant it. However, I could see now why Marcellinus had been so sluggish earlier, and why he had crawled so listlessly about. Even now, as the medicus examined him, I could see that the eyeballs were rolling back into the head: and as soon as the eyelids were released they drooped, and the child was ready to slide back into the arms of Morpheus.
‘Well, someone has been giving this infant poppy juice,’ Philades said, as if he had scored a point at my expense, ‘and much more of it than could be administered on that scrap of cloth. Possibly the drug was mixed with something soft to eat. It would have to be something sweet. Poppy milk is very bitter on its own.’ He had lifted the boy into the air and was smacking his face, quite sharply. ‘Come on, young fellow, we must wake you up.’
Marcellinus stirred and began to fret again.
‘So he was taking solid food?’ I said. Of course I should have known that for myself. Wasn’t the servant sent to get cooked fruit for him, the afternoon that he and his mother disappeared? ‘Why did he need a wet nurse, in that case?’
Philades looked incredulous. ‘Surely you know that children often go on suckling long after they are eating other food as well: sometimes until they’re almost three or four, when they can start to drink a little watered wine? But whether he’s been suckled while he’s been away, who knows? Of course, anyone can hire a wet nurse, at a price – but the watered milk of cows or goats would do if the child can manage through a piece of straw.’ He turned back to Marcellinus. ‘Just one burp more, I think!’
Philades put the child back against his shoulder – irrespective of the stinking grease which was leaving smears against his toga – and began patting him firmly between the shoulder blades. ‘There, that should answer your question, citizen. This boy has obviously been drinking milk, judging by the posset that he’s produced.’ He gestured to a mouthful of pre-digested goo, which the child had just deposited on his shoulder folds. ‘That’s better, little man.’
‘I see.’ I tried to look intelligently at the stain. It did not seem to worry him at all. Admittedly the toga was already none too clean.
Philades swung the boy down from his perch. ‘But enough of this. The lad is getting cold. Hog’s grease alone cannot protect a child from chilly winds. And you yourself should rest. Whatever else, you are my patient still.’ He was wrapping the now-gurgling Marcellinus in one of the cloths from the basket as he spoke. ‘Here! You take him in the litter with you and try to keep him warm. I’ll go and organise those lazy slaves.’ He handed the half-sleeping infant back to me, and moved the curtain strips as if to rise and leave.
All at once he seemed to change his mind. He turned back, opened up the pouch he’d mentioned earlier and poured a little of the dried mixture out into his hand. I had just opened my mouth to say something in farewell, when I found that he had deftly placed the herbs in it.
‘Chew these,’ he said. ‘They’ll help you sleep again. You’re looking pale. I’ll see you at the house.’ He stood up and raised his voice again. ‘Slaves, what are you doing there? Are you not finished yet? This man is sick. It is imperative we get the litter into the villa soon.’
There was a muffled answering shout from further up the track, but the medicus had already let the leather curtain fall back into its place. It screened the child from outside view, of course, but it also meant that I could not see what was happening in the lane.
Naturally, I didn’t chew the herbs. I spat them out into my hand, and simply lay there huddled in my makeshift bed, holding the child and hoping that something would happen before long and we could be safely on our way.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact probably only a very little while, something did happen.
First there was a great deal of shouting further up the road, from where the logpile had been lying in the way. Then I could hear the snort of oxen and the crack of whips and I guessed that, in answer to Junio’s request for help, a party of land slaves from the villa farm had been sent out with some animals to move the logs. My suspicions were confirmed when a moment later there was first a pause and then a mighty clatter, followed by the sound of splintering and cheers.
Almost at once I was aware of running feet, and a good deal of hasty whispering nearby. I heard Philades’ voice: he had obviously come up beside the litter and was giving some order to the bearer-slaves, but he had dropped his tone so I could not catch exactly what it was. Then, without further warning, the litter lurched into the air again, and I resumed my jolting progress down the lane.
I closed my eyes and lay back in relief. Probably my fears had been irrational. Once inside the villa, I was safe. I cradled Marcellinus in my arms and permitted myself to drift into a doze, dreaming of the Roman comforts which Marcus had promised me.
A moment later, though, I started up again. Something about the motion was somehow different. The jerking, rhythmic rise and fall had ceased, and instead I was subject to a creaking roll, interspersed with sudden jolts and shocks. It took me a moment to work out what it meant, but then it came to me. I was no longer being carried by the litter-bearers. I had been put on to some kind of vehicle.
I raised a tiny corner of the curtain and looked out. I was right: the litter had been lifted on to a cart.
I was thoroughly disturbed by now. I struggled up to get a better view, though I took care not to waken the sleeping child in my arms. With the curtain wholly lifted I could glimpse the road below me through the wooden boards, and the back of the wagon-driver’s head. But otherwise the cart was empty. I was on my own. The medicus and the bearer-slaves were nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign at all of Junio.
Worse, we were not on the proper lane any longer. The ground that bumped beneath the wheels was not a track at all, but simply flattened soil – humped here and there in ridges as if it had been tilled. Somehow we had left the road and were jolting now across an open field.
I tried desperately to work out how this had been achieved, and only one explanation was possible. There is a little lane on Marcus’s estate, which meets the main road just before the gates, and leads round to the back entrance and the farm. The cart-driver must have turned that way and then branched out across the farm on this rutted trail which was not a route at all. I felt cold shivers running down my back. Where were they taking me?
I threw caution to the winds and thrust the curtain back. ‘Where are you going?’ I shouted to the man. ‘Take me to the villa, instantly.’
No answer.
I called to him again. ‘If you don’t, there will be serious trouble, I can promise you. His Excellence is expecting me. And don’t think you can hide what you have done. The cart is leaving tracks across this ground. My slave will have them looking for me very soon.’
He did not deign to turn his head, but the mention of Marcus did spark a response. ‘Just doing what I’m told!’
‘By whom? Where are you taking me?’
This time he made no reply at all, not so much as a grunt, but a moment later we turned sharply through a gate and bumped back on to a track. I was about to expostulate again when I saw a group of land slaves working in the field opposite. One of them was pushing on a breast plough to make furrows in the ground, while the others were following with buckets – planting beans, by the look of it. The planters stopped to watch us pass and one ran ahead to swing a gate for us. As he did so, I saw the villa straight in front of me.
The driver had turned the cart towards the house. Was it because I’d called to him? Had the doctor ordered him to come this way? And why? It was not possible that the rear lane was also blocked by logs, so there must have been some other reason for this unlikely route. To prevent me from speaking to the gate-keeper in front? Or had it been intended to take me somewhere else, until the driver realised that I was still awake?
‘Be sure that I shall tell your master about this. And where’s my slave?’ I called. Once again, the driver made no reply at all.
However, we were now visibly headed towards the back entrance of the house, so I dropped the curtain to exclude the draught – for the sleeping child’s sake, if not my own. Shortly afterwards we rumbled to a stop.
‘Hello, Malodius, what have we here?’ A burly gate-keeper pulled back the curtain-flap. I recognised the man from earlier visits to the house and I smiled with relief.
‘Greetings,’ I murmured, with heartfelt gratitude.
This man had let me into the villa more than once and I expected him to greet me with proper deference, but now he barely glanced at me before he burst out in a braying laugh. ‘A new kind of lying-in, is it, with an old grandfather instead of a mother, and a grubby child?’ He addressed himself to the driver as if I wasn’t there at all. ‘Surely you aren’t going to take this lot inside? Whatever’s the master going to say to that?’
The cart-driver had got down from his perch and come round to look. It was obvious, even from where I was lying, how he had got his name: Malodius means ‘the evil-smelling one’, or ‘stinky’ if you like. He was a man of middle years: a small, fat, scowling, hairy creature with a tattered tunic and bad teeth, and he gave off a strong scent of oxen and manure, and an odour of bad cheese that seemed to be his own. His impact was out of all proportion to his size.
He gave the door-keeper a bad-tempered scowl, deepening the creases in his face. He shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I just do as I’m told. First I have to take the ox cart out and use the beasts to move a pile of logs that some confounded idiot contrived to leave right in the middle of the lane outside – well, I don’t mind that so much, it’s what the beasts are for – but then I have to bring this wretched litter in, as though I were a blooming carriage-driver if you please. And not even on the proper cart track either, but bumping all the back way through the fields. That’s the doctor’s orders – and he has to be obeyed. You know what Master has been like the last few days: anything the medicus decides is to be done at once, if not a little sooner. And all this while there were proper litter-bearers standing by. Don’t ask me why, ’cause I don’t know myself. I don’t even know who’s in the blessed thing.’