A Pattern of Blood

Chapter Eighteen

The slaves raised the litters to their shoulders, and, swaying under the weight, moved swiftly out of the forum. I watched them go. It was starting to rain again, and we took shelter under the portico.

Junio looked at me. ‘Further business, you said, master? You want to find that soothsayer?’

I grinned at him. ‘I want to visit the slave market. I still haven’t made any enquiries about Gwellia. But yes, I want to see this soothsayer, before she disappears like the boy from the baths. It appears that she was little better than a beggar. No wonder she was susceptible to Maximilian’s bribe.’ That had surprised me a little at the time. Amateur soothsayers are sometimes crazy, but they are usually sincere.

Junio nodded. ‘No wonder either that Sollers was unimpressed.’

‘I only marvel that he stopped to listen to her at all.’

‘I wonder what she said to him,’ Junio said with a grin. ‘I suppose we can guess what the “dire predictions” were like, since Maximilian was paying her to make them. “Beware the house of the decurion”, no doubt. Or something more mysterious-sounding than that, but meaning the same thing. You know what soothsayers are like.’

I grinned back at him. ‘It seems that you do,’ I said jokingly. ‘She didn’t get around to telling my fortune. I don’t often consult soothsayers. And neither does Sollers, seemingly.’ A thought struck me and I added, more thoughtfully, ‘Though in that case, wasn’t it rather dangerous for Maximilian to choose to delay him with a soothsayer? There must have been a chance that he would ignore her and walk on.’

Junio shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Sollers talked about “the usual things” that soothsayers tell you. That sounds as if he’s talked to them before. And you stopped and listened to her, after all.’

That was well argued. ‘Yes, you are right. He would have stopped and listened if a fortune-teller sought him out, even if afterwards he dismissed it. Especially if the “promises” were what he wanted to hear.’

‘And no doubt Maximilian would have seen to that.’ Junio frowned. ‘Sollers believes that Maximilian killed his father. You saw that demonstration with the purse?’

I smiled appreciatively. ‘I did. And so, apparently, did you.’

Junio ignored the compliment. ‘You do not think the medicus is right, master? Maximilian had much to gain. He was the last to leave his father’s room yesterday. We even know that he spoke to Rollo last night. And now this robbery. You must suspect him, too. Yet you are not convinced.’

‘Not entirely. Or at least, I am not sure that it is all of the picture. Remember, there are those bloodstains on Lupus’s sleeve. They must have come from Quintus, don’t you think? Marcus is equally convinced that Lupus did it. And Julia blames Flavius for it all. After all, it was his dagger. And neither of them had any love for Ulpius.’

He smiled impudently. ‘It is like the curial elections, master. Everyone with a favoured candidate. Though my own vote would still go to Maximilian. Do you not wish to know, for instance, what he arranged with that soothsayer?’

‘I do. And look, the rain has stopped. Perhaps, when we have finished at the slave market, we could hear her version of events. Though Marcus will be getting impatient for our return by now.’

‘That bath attendant told us that she came to the forum.’ Junio looked around hopelessly. ‘I cannot see her anywhere, can you?’

I hadn’t seen her, though I’d been keeping my eyes open since we left the house. ‘There will be people who can guide us to her, no doubt,’ I said. ‘She must be a well-known figure in the town. “Warty old beggar-women” are instantly memorable. We will ask on the way to the slave market.’

I knew where the slave market was, at the back of the basilica. ‘Market’ was a flattering name for it, since it consisted of a small area behind a fountain where half a dozen slaves were shivering in a line, shackled together by chains at neck, hand and foot, and presided over by a surly fellow in a filthy tunic with a brutal whip in one hand. Only the adult slaves were left at this hour: the children and infants who usually make up the bulk of the merchandise (since they can be bought cheap or collected from temples and dumps where they have been abandoned) having presumably found a readier market.

The slave master himself, bronzed and prosperous-looking in a smart cloak and green tunic, was standing on a wooden chest nearby and vaunting the virtues of his remaining wares, while one or two townspeople showed a desultory interest, feeling the muscles of the younger men and looking at their teeth. No one wants a servant with dental problems.

The slave master saw me coming and turned his attention to me. ‘Strong slaves for sale, citizen. Nice little slave girl, now? Guaranteed free from diseases. One owner from birth.’

I shook my head. I have always hated slave markets. I have been on the wrong side of one myself.

He smiled a crooked smile at me. Several of his teeth were missing. ‘She’s young, she’s willing. No tendencies to lust, excessive religion or public spectacles.’ These latter were those defects in a slave which a trader was bound by law to disclose to any prospective purchaser.

The girl smiled at me hopefully. Perhaps I had a kinder face than many, or perhaps it was simply because Junio looked well fed. I shook my head again and her face fell.

The slave trader did not give up. ‘Only for sale because her master died. Come on, citizen.’ He named a price. ‘I shall be robbing myself.’

One of the muscle pinchers was beguiled by the offer. He went over and tested the girl for plumpness, and then, apparently satisfied, motioned to the slave vendor, who came down from his makeshift platform. I saw silver coins change hands, together with the certificate of ownership. The girl was unshackled from her comrades by the guard, and handed to her purchaser by the chain around her neck. He, I was encouraged to see, ordered the fetters removed before he led her away.

I took advantage of this break in proceedings to approach the slave trader and ask him my questions about Gwellia. Did he know of a slaver called Bethius who had sold a dark-haired Celtic woman in this market a year or so before? It occurred to me as I asked the question how hopeless the search appeared.

It was not the same man as I had spoken to on my previous visit, and I was not hopeful of the result, but he looked at me shrewdly. ‘What did she look like, this woman?’

I told him, as best I could. I realised that I could not even be sure that my wife’s hair was not grey, after so many years.

‘You want a dark-haired Celt, I can get you one, citizen. I have good contacts in the trade.’

I made it clear that it was this woman in particular that I sought.

He thought about it for a little while, and then his face brightened. ‘Of course,’ he said, eyeing my purse reflectively, ‘I cannot be certain.’

I blessed the gods that I had not been obliged to bribe information from the fuller’s men. I slipped him what money I had left and his memory, thus oiled, began to function less rustily.

‘Well, citizen, you’ve come to the right place. I am Bethius, as it chances. But the woman you are looking for. . I see so many slaves.’

‘It is an unusual name,’ I pleaded, ‘Gwellia. And she was beautiful.’ I did not dare to use the present tense.

He shook his head. ‘I could not swear to it. There was a slave, about the age you mention. She had a young man for sale with her, as I recall. Sold them together to some wool trader from the north. Near Eboracum, I think. He wanted an attendant for his mother. Or perhaps it was his wife. Or was that the man who bought the slaves from Gaul? I remember he paid me well. No, I think it was the Celt. But of course, it may not be the woman that you seek at all.’

It was, however, more than I had looked for. Gwellia, alive, in Eboracum? It was possible. I thanked the man and turned to move away.

He called after me. ‘Any time you want a slave, citizen, you come to me. Best value in the Empire. Gauls, Picts, Greeks, Armenians, Numidians — you name it, I have them all. Or if you want to sell that boy of yours, I can offer you a good price: British slaves are highly prized among the Belgic tribes.’

I walked away more quickly to hide my distaste. The fellow was only trying to be helpful: many people would have been glad of such an offer. I turned to Junio and saw that he was glancing at me nervously.

‘Don’t preen yourself that you are going to Belgium,’ I told him gruffly. ‘After all the trouble I have taken to train you to be half useful with mosaics. Besides, who else could make spiced mead the way you do?’

Junio’s face split into a joyous grin. ‘Do you want me to be useful now, and ask a few questions about this soothsayer of yours?’ He tried to sound his normal impudent self, but he could not keep the emotion from his voice.

I nodded. ‘Be quick about it then. Marcus will be pacing the study for us by now.’

But no one, not the pie sellers or the fishmongers or the tinsmiths or even the street musicians could give us any news of her, although all of them had regular selling pitches nearby. They knew her, of course, or at least they knew of her — forever accosting travellers and offering to read their palms or throw the dice for them. Obviously a woman of many talents.

It was the miller under the awning, leading his wretched horse in melancholy circles around his grinding-stone while his slave poured coarse grain into the vat above, who gave us the only real indication. He knew the woman, he said; she often stopped by the quern at nightfall to gather up the last sweepings of flour from the bottom stone. He let her have them — the leavings were too full of stone grit for ordinary sale.

I could not resist a grin. As it is there are always little particles of stone in market-milled flour, which wear down the teeth and give the baker’s bread a strange, crunchy texture. That was one reason why I generally preferred my oatcakes, with the grain ground painstakingly at someone’s home, by hand. The miller saw my smile.

‘Call me superstitious if you like, citizen, but I would never cross a soothsayer, especially that one. Halfway to sorceress she was, for all that it is forbidden by the law. If I had turned her away she’d have put a curse on my horse, more than likely, or given me the evil eye. Though there were those who came to her, all the same. I have seen purple-stripers talk to her in secret before now.’

‘In secret?’ I demanded. ‘It hardly seems secret if you knew of it.’

He smiled. ‘She makes a bed sometimes in the stable where I stall the horse — I told you, I did not like to turn her away. It is not much of a shelter, just an open space under a slanting roof, but there is enough straw and room in there for a bed and the shelter will keep the rain off, if not the wind. I have seen one of them come there.’

‘She makes her home in your stable?’

‘Not all the time, citizen. Only when there are storms. In finer weather she sleeps in a tumbledown hovel just outside the walls. She can light a fire there and cook her gritty flour, and anything else she manages to beg from the market — spoiled fruit and old meat. She has other “regulars” like me.’

I nodded. Men may scoff at the idea of ‘powers’, but they will seldom cross the woman who claims to have them. No doubt her fire, too, came from a friendly baker’s, or the superstitious owner of a takeaway cooked food stall who let her carry home a few live coals in a container. ‘Outside the walls, you say?’

‘Some way beyond the Verulamium Gate, citizen, across the bridge. There is a little valley with a dribble of a stream. The guards at the gate will indicate the way. No doubt they saw the woman come in and go out often enough. The place used, I think, to be a tiler’s kiln, but it was built in a hurry to serve the town demand, and it was poorly sited. The valley flooded every time it rained, and the tile-makers soon abandoned it.’

I looked at Junio and grimaced. There was no possibility of taking the time to make the expedition now. The Verulamium Gate was on the other side of town, and Marcus would be impatient enough already. ‘We shall have to leave our visit to another day,’ I said. ‘But thank you for your information, miller.’ I only wished I had a few asses left, so that my thanks could take a more tangible form.

I wished it even more strongly when I heard him say, quite loudly, to his bedraggled slave as we left, ‘Well, I’m disappointed. I thought he was a decent sort of fellow, but he turned out to be another typical Celtic upstart. They are all the same. So proud of their new togas and precious Roman citizenship that they cannot spare even the smallest bronze coin for one of their old countrymen, even when he’s doing his best to help. That’s the last time I ever offer information to anyone, without seeing the colour of his money first.’

I quickened my pace and hurried all the way back to the house. The lament, I noticed as soon as we approached the gates, was going on undiminished.