Requiem for a Slave

Thirteen

The bulla ceremony was a great success. Despite the women’s fears that there was far too much to do, everything was ready by the time the high priest came next morning to perform the cleansing ritual for Cilla and the house, though it was early and the sun was not yet high.

I was secretly delighted that we had arranged to hold the sacrifice on the same day as the naming ceremony, instead of the usual day or two before, because it meant that the purification (which included everybody and everything in the house) would release me from any evil influence which might have clung to me as a result of being in the company of a corpse. The doves that Junio had purchased for the sacrifice turned out to be genuinely spotless too — with no dark blemishes daubed over in white lime — and their entrails were clean, which was, of course, a splendid augury.

The doves were duly offered, the whole roundhouse ritually swept, and we all washed our hands in water the pontifex had blessed. Then the altar was swiftly cleaned with purifying salt and dressed with snow-white blooms — white as the freshly laundered garments we all wore in honour of the day — fresh herbs were scattered on the floor, and by the time the other well-wishers arrived, the little roundhouse was as well-adorned as any Roman villa could have been.

However, this was clearly not a Roman house, so, at the suggestion of the priest, a little piece of symbolic play-acting took place in which Cilla placed the swaddled baby on the floor, and Junio literally ‘lifted up’ his son. (I call it ‘play-acting’ because in fact this had all been done in private days and days before — almost as soon as the child was safely born. Junio was sufficiently versed in Roman ways to have made a point of ‘lifting up’ Amato there and then, and thus pronouncing him legitimate — indeed, he was so proud of fatherhood that he had gone to Glevum later the same day and registered the birth with the authorities, even though he was not required to do that for another moon.)

Nonetheless, the little raising ritual was performed again in front of witnesses — some of whom were Roman citizens — so there could be no future suggestion that it had not occurred. This was far more than a simple symbolic act, of course. Until a child was ‘lifted up’, it did not formally exist and therefore could be disposed of at the father’s whim: given away or sold into slavery, exposed and left to die, or even, in the cruellest cases, chopped up for the dogs. But now that Amato was formally recognized as Junio’s son, he was legally a citizen himself — albeit a very junior one — with all attendant rights and privileges, and he was additionally identified as his father’s chief presumptive heir.

Once that was over, and the guests’ applause died down, Kurso and Maximus fetched the ceremonial offerings for the gods (not birds or animals this time, since there was nothing here to expiate, just the so-called ‘bloodless sacrifice’ which was traditional, exactly as the annual anniversary of this day would be marked by similar oblations till Amato came of age). Wine and oil and incense were poured out on the shrine and burned as sacrifice, together with a piece of specially marked sweet cake (bought for the purpose from the baker’s shop), while baskets of white petals were scattered for the gods. Little Amato was very well-behaved throughout, even when the high priest passed him three times through the smoke.

‘Another good omen,’ Junio said to me, almost bursting with paternal pride.

There were the usual prayers and speeches, mostly by the priest, and then the bulla, placed in its special leather pouch together with a number of lucky amulets, was duly hung around the baby’s neck, and citizen Junius Libertinus Flavius Amato was officially a person under law. He would not take that bulla off until he came of age and put on the white toga of an adult male. Until then, if he wore anything toga-shaped at all, it would be a purple-striper like the patricians wore, which was the badge of boyhood throughout the Empire. All that, of course, would be in years to come: for now he was close-swaddled, as Roman infants are.

Suddenly, I felt an unexpected lump rise in my throat. It was partly pride, of course — I had never hoped to be the head of a family of my own, even an adopted one like this — but there was something else as well. Junio and Cilla had both been raised as slaves in Roman homes, and today was essentially a Roman naming day: so different from the customs in my own Celtic youth that I felt for a moment completely out of place. I was a Roman citizen, of course — and very proud to be — but I had rarely even seen a bulla ritual. Even in this Celtic roundhouse which I’d helped to build, I felt like a stranger in a foreign land.

But I brushed aside such sentimental thoughts. It was time for the presentation of the gifts.

All the guests had brought presents for the child and they lined up to bestow them — important callers first, which meant that my patron’s representative led the way, carrying the lovely little silver bell. The question of status had been very neatly solved. Marcus had asked his messenger to come and act on his behalf: a young man called Virilis, who was not a slave at all, but a very smart and handsome military courier, who, my patron’s note assured me, was a freeborn citizen and destined for high office in the cavalry one day, or even in the Emperor’s private entourage.

Virilis was full of youthful vigour, as the name implies, and he strode up to play his part. He struck a pose and turned to face the company, and it was immediately clear why Marcus had selected him. He was a most impressive sight. His horseman’s leggings were of scarlet cloth, and his loose over-tunic bore two purple stripes which ran from neck to hem and was held at the waist by a narrow sash of plaited purple silk — and silk was literally worth its weight in gold: the traders who sold it put it on the scales! He wore a splendid pair of red leather knee-length boots, and he carried a dagger on a baldric at his breast, though he bore no other arms and had no breastplate on. (Naturally — in normal times at least — a mounted army ‘cursor’, or official messenger, wore nothing heavy which would slow him down.)

Conscious of the little stir he’d made, Virilis raised a hand and made a little speech on Marcus’s behalf, before — with conscious graciousness — he made way for other guests to bring their gifts.

As tradition demanded, these were metal charms shaped like miniature tools and ornaments, some of gold and silver, but most of bronze and tin, and intended to bring good fortune in all areas of life. I counted swords and buckets, an axe, a flower and several lucky little moons, which were all strung on to a silver chain and placed round Amato’s neck, over the swaddling, so that they rattled as he moved. Gwellia and I had bought a pretty silver horse, and even Kurso and Maximus, bringing up the rear, offered a tiny trinket each — but, of course, pride of place went to my patron’s lovely bell.

Marcus was not the only one to send a gift by proxy. There were several notes and letters from my customers in the town — including an unexpected tribute from Pedronius — and Quintus, to my immense surprise, had deigned to send his slave Hyperius with a little bronze trinket to add to all the rest. Hyperius was immensely condescending, as if he were doing us a favour by attending this affair, though, being just a servant on an errand to the house, he could hardly linger to join us in the feast.

And what a feast it was! The food was served by Maximus, Cilla and Gwellia in the main, though the villa had thoughtfully sent some extra slaves to help, apparently at the suggestion of Virilis himself in his role as my patron’s representative. It was a role that he was taking very literally indeed. He even came to help officiate in my place — as His Excellence would have done if he’d been here himself — in offering the traditional taste of every dish to the Roman household deities.

I hope the gods enjoyed it. The mortals clearly did. The bread and cakes were perfect and the lamb was beautiful — so soft and tender that it had fallen off the bones. People were eating it largely in their hands (we did not have enough knives and platters for them all) and had to be careful not to spot their festive clothes, especially once the mead and watered wine was served.

But I confess my own enjoyment was a little marred. I was watching Maximus moving through the throng, offering a plate of sweet cakes from the town, when it struck me with some force that he was on his own and Minimus was not there to help him serve. I had to turn aside and walk outside the door so that my distress was not too evident to the guests.

Hyperius, I saw, was still standing at the gate, exchanging farewells with another visitor, and when he caught sight of me, he gestured with his hand as if to acknowledge that I was there and to invite me to come and speak to them. But I was still thinking of little Minimus. Aware that unmanly tears were welling in my eyes, and disinclined besides to be summonsed by a slave — even a slave of Quintus Severus — I waved the briefest of salutes, then turned my back on them and pretended some interest in the cooking-pit.

A few moments later I felt a hand upon my arm. Gwellia had seen me leave the roundhouse and had come to look for me. ‘What is it, husband? You look quite distressed.’ She looked into my eyes. ‘But of course. You are still worried about Minimus. Perhaps I should have known. But really, husband, you should come back to the feast. There is nothing you can do in any case until the guests have gone.’

I nodded. ‘Once this feast is over, I shall go straight to town and start enquiring — I’ll try at every gate. And Junio says that he will come and help.’

She squeezed my arm. ‘It’s only a pity that you have to walk. That servant of Quintus’s was offering a ride. He’d heard from Junio that you were going to Glevum later on, and he came to find me in particular to ask if you wanted to travel into town with him — but I said you couldn’t leave the bulla feast before the end.’

So that was why Hyperius was waiting by the lane and why he’d attempted to summon me across. ‘I saw him at the gate. I got the impression that he hoped to speak to me, but I was preoccupied with other things.’ I glanced at her wryly. ‘He has taken a hiring-carriage, I expect, and wanted someone to share the cost of it.’

She shook her head. ‘He’d come in his master’s carriage, so he said. It’s coming back to collect him in a little while. The driver has gone up to your patron’s house meanwhile, to deliver a message from Quintus Severus — something about a banquet on His Excellence’s return. It’s a pity you have to stay here for the guests; it would have saved you quite a walk.’

‘If he’s using his master’s carriage, there’ll be no hire to pay,’ I said, brightening, ‘so it’s possible he could wait for me a little while. We could even ask him to join us at the feast. Perhaps that is what he hoped. No doubt he would be flattered to join this company. .’ I turned round, but the carriage and its occupant had already gone. ‘Too late! If that was what he wanted, I’ve disappointed him.’

‘You’ve disappointed him in any case, I fear,’ she smiled. ‘He was inordinately proud of travelling in such style and was obviously anxious to show off the fact by sharing it with you.’

I nodded. ‘I saw him talking to someone at the gate; perhaps he was still trying to find a passenger.’

‘Well, he’ll be doubly disappointed, in that case,’ Gwellia said. ‘I’m almost sure that it was Virilis that he was talking to, and being a military messenger, that young man will no doubt have a horse, back at the villa I shouldn’t be surpri-’

‘Indeed he has,’ a cultured voice behind me interrupted us. ‘The finest one the army could provide.’

I turned round to find the messenger himself, now wearing a handsome full-length woollen cloak over his uniform, which was why I hadn’t recognized him at the gate — though Virilis was a striking enough figure, by the gods. He was an unusually tall and athletic-looking youth, whose easy stride was almost swaggering, and he boasted an impressively square chin and chiselled cheeks. His wavy hair was swept back from his face, and his dark eyes were appraising me with shrewd intensity.

However, his manner was deferential when he spoke. ‘Excuse me, citizen, for interrupting your private conversation with your wife. But I did hope to speak to you before I leave, which, unfortunately, I’m obliged to do, as there are other duties to which I must attend. When I saw you standing here, I thought I’d take my chance to come and meet you properly. And your lovely wife, of course.’ He flashed a set of perfect teeth at Gwellia, who smiled.

‘But we spoke in the roundhouse,’ I said ungraciously.

He countered that with a dismissive wave. ‘Of course, we did exchange a few words during the naming ceremony, but that hardly counts. It was purely official, wasn’t it?’ He spoke with the patrician accent of the imperial court, his perfect Latin putting my own to shame, and his long strong fingers, as finely manicured as if they were a girl’s, artlessly adjusted his ruby shoulder-clasp. I moved my own stubbled hands so they were out of sight.

‘I had heard so much about you,’ he went on presently.

That surprised me, but it was Gwellia who said, ‘From His Excellence?’

He did the smile again. ‘From His Excellence, of course. He is fond of boasting of your husband’s intellect and skill, and of how he relies upon him for advice — though he could not insult your family by offering a fee.’

I nodded curtly. That was more than possible. Praise costs nothing and Marcus is often very lavish with it. ‘It is an insult I would sometimes be prepared to bear,’ I muttered — which was foolish, since it was indiscreet and Virilis very clearly was in my patron’s confidence. ‘But it is true that I have helped him in solving several crimes.’

Gwellia was frowning warningly at me, but the young courier looked at me with sudden interest. ‘Which reminds me, citizen, there is something significant I could impart to you.’ He gave me a knowing little smile. ‘Apart from that note of introduction which you already have.’

‘You have news of my patron? Messages for me?’

He glanced at Gwellia and, almost imperceptibly, shook his head as if to signal that this conversation should not be held in front of her. ‘Nothing so formal, citizen, and nothing that cannot wait until a more appropriate time. I am staying in the villa until your patron comes, so we shall be near neighbours for a day or so — I am sure we can find an opportunity. In fact, I understand that you are going to Glevum later on — perhaps we can meet there. And now, I have taken too much of your time. Forgive me, both of you. I will take my leave and allow you to get back to your guests.’ And, with a little bow, he turned away and strode back to the gate.

His easy charm and his flashy dark good looks had clearly made a deep impression on my wife. She was staring after him with an admiring smile. She turned to me. ‘Did you know he was not just a freeman but a citizen? He was telling me his father was an officer with the legions years ago. Got his citizenship when he retired, and then married — as he was entitled to by then — so his children were naturally entitled to the rank.’

There was something strangely irritating in her open admiration for the youth, so I just said, ‘Really?’ But she was not deterred.

‘No doubt that’s why he’s risen in the army quite so fast. He’s very young to be trusted with dispatches, you’d think. But he isn’t just an average courier; he’s attached to the provincial governor’s household in Londinium and rides all over the country with the imperial mail. That’s how Marcus came to notice him and ask permission to obtain his services. Imagine if little Amato could grow up to have a wonderful career like that.’

‘Virilis probably has a powerful patron somewhere,’ I said sourly. ‘Or his father has opened a few doors for him.’

‘But he must be a splendid horseman all the same,’ she enthused. ‘And Marcus seems to think a lot of him. Did you see the note he sent?’

Of course I had. Virilis had given it to me as soon as he arrived. It had been more than fulsome. I was suddenly tired of the wretched messenger and his obvious ability to charm. ‘I would not put too much reliance on that note,’ I said. ‘Marcus has a fondness for handsome youths like that and is always complimentary about their aptitudes — usually rather more so than they deserve. This Virilis may prove to be another. But now, as you were saying before he interrupted us, it is more than time we got back to entertain Amato’s guests.’

And, without pausing for an answer, I went back into the house.