Murder in the Forum

Chapter Twenty-five

They threw me into a cell, without light or water, to shiver miserably on the stone floor, while they considered what to do with me.

I learned later that I was lucky to escape execution. Only the protestations of Marcus’s carriage-driver that I was indeed a Roman citizen, enjoying the personal protection of Marcus Aurelius Septimus, saved me a brutal flogging there and then. At my age I would have been lucky to survive it. As it was, the testimony of a terrified Junio, marched up from the inn, and the production of the all-important document from Marcus, saved my life.

Of course, I did not know this at the time, so I did not know whether to hope or despair when they came for me a little later. Two silent and surly guards hauled me to my feet. They bound my arms, and — ignoring both my questions and my explanations — took me in silence to the jailer’s own quarters, to spend an uncomfortable night on his lumpy mattress with a regiment of fleas for company, and a lump of sour bread and sourer wine for sustenance.

It did not matter. I could not have slept or eaten if all the pleasures of Bacchus were spread out at my feet. In the brief intervals between the bouts of terror I was racked by a kind of self-reproach. I had been so sure that the seal was worthless and that Zetso knew that it was. And I was convinced, on every rational ground, that he had poisoned Egobarbus. Yet he had equally convinced me that he did not think he had.

The man must be a consummate performer. That was, perhaps, why he had been so useful to his master. Whom he had in the end, it seemed, conspired to murder. And now they would let him go. I would be executed; even if I could send to Marcus and he commuted the sentence to ‘interdiction’, by which a man is legally refused the necessities of fire and water, that would come to the same thing in the end, only more slowly. I could not flee into exile like that citizen in the matrimonial case. The tribunes would never let me go, and I should die in prison, a nasty lingering death of cold and thirst. But there was no certainty that I could even send to Marcus.

And Junio, what would happen to poor Junio?

My thoughts tormented me almost as much as the fleas. Through the little window space above the bed I strained my eyes against the dark until the stars faded and the chill light of dawn began to brighten the sky. I wondered whether I should ever see it again.

I was soon to know.

It was hardly sunrise before the secundarius marched into the room. He was boiling with truculence and indecision, though he tried to hide it, and I realised that I had created a dilemma for my captors. Free Zetso, and they risked offending Pertinax: free me, and there was likely to be a complaint to the Emperor. The officer’s solution was born of desperation.

‘I’ll pack you both off to Glevum,’ he announced. ‘Shackled and under guard. Pertinax has gone to Glevum; he can take care of it. I shall send that so-called imperial warrant with you, to be used as evidence. Then we shall see if that authority was real.’

I felt myself pale. Since I had claimed the governor’s authority, without his approval, I was guilty of a crime myself. I had usurped his authority, and in his name defied the Emperor. That would endanger Pertinax and I could expect no mercy. But there was still a glimmer of hope. Pertinax was a friend of Marcus, and my patron at least would intercede for me.

Or would he? The Emperor was not a man to cross.

The secundarius shook his head like a maddened bear in the arena. ‘I do not understand you,’ he roared, suddenly. ‘You bear false witness in front of witnesses: he carries an imperial warrant which should prove his case. Yet you look hopeful and he seems in despair. I shall be glad to see the back of both of you.’

I had feared a long weary march to reach our destination — wearier yet under the weight of chains — but it appeared that after all this was not to be. They tied us in ropes, not fetters, and put us in a cart — standing, it is true, but a considerable improvement on the heart-straining, foot-blistering trudge I had envisaged. Instead it was our guard that would have to march, four armed soldiers ahead and two behind. Fortunately, being soldiers, they were trained for it.

Junio, bizarrely, was permitted to return to Glevum with Marcus’s coach and driver, although without me he obviously could not ride inside the carriage. Instead he perched up on the seat beside the driver, carrying my patron’s warrant in case of being stopped and questioned.

I was being hoisted into the cart as they pulled away, and I stood there helpless, hands bound to my sides, and watched my servant go, until the carriage disappeared from sight and the rattle and the hoofbeats died away. Without slave, toga or warrant I was triply vulnerable: just an unknown ex-slave being hustled onto an open waggon. I had never felt so bereft since the day I was taken into servitude.

Then Zetso was hauled up after me, and it was our turn to set off. No swift horses for our cart, only a pair of plodding army mules, and as soon as they were urged into action we discovered the shortcomings of our position. We were loosely tied to rings high up on the front end of the cart but — though this kept us more or less upright — every rut and pebble meant a buffeting, since we had no hand free with which to steady ourselves. Almost before we were out of the fort Zetso and I were falling painfully against each other, exchanging looks of mutual hostility. I set myself the task of keeping silent, whatever the bruising, and found that the concentration helped me to bear the jolts.

An escort of soldiers has advantages. At the junction where the two roads crossed we met a convoy of waggons bound for Londinium, but since we were military traffic and they were civilians, despite their larger numbers they had to clear the road to let us pass. There was a brief respite as a score of carters, sweating and swearing, urged their heavy waggons onto the uneven verge.

‘Taking all this collection down to sell.’ The driver of the leading cart addressed one of our escort apologetically. ‘Belonged to a wealthy widow who died of the pox, and her son has ordered it. Better price in Verulanium Londinium, he says, though I cannot see it. Who would want to buy this load of junk? Older than the old lady herself, most of it, and more decrepit. And as for the slaves, there can hardly be one under thirty.’

The guard ignored him, and we rattled past. I saw the cart of slaves, at the end of the procession. They were roped as we were, though a little more secure since there were a dozen of them, all of them with faces of dull despair. All female, of course — any useful manservant would have found a home at once with the heirs — and all of them faded. Only one had a face which might once have been beautiful — might be so yet if that terrible weariness left it.

As we rumbled past she lifted her eyes, and looked towards us expressionlessly. Embarrassed, I averted mine. And then looked back. Something — the curve of the cheek, the shape of the brow — stirred recollection in me. I forgot my vow of silence.

‘Gwellia!’

I leaned forward, almost losing my balance as I called, and lurching into Zetso. The guard behind me muttered a curse and swiped at me with his baton. I did not care.

But it was too late. Our cart was lurching onwards. But she did turn, at the name, and for a moment our eyes met. She knew me. I saw it in her face. A fleeting moment only, and she was gone.

Gwellia. She was alive. On any other day I would have stopped the coach and offered everything I possessed to buy her from her owners. But today I was a captive, with no rights, and every lurch of the cart was carrying us further apart. My spirits, which had soared for an instant, sank lower than the dusty road and stayed there. I was almost glad when it began to rain.

Both Zetso and I still had our cloaks, and a kindly guard pulled up our hoods for us. We stood there, two shivering statues in a waterfall, as we ploughed on helplessly through the deluge. The weather made the cart-floor slippery and increased our misery all the way back to the halfway mansio.

But I did not cry out again, and any water coursing down my face could simply be mistaken for the rain.