The Ghosts of Glevum

XV

Now that I was dressed — after a fashion anyway — I instantly felt more like myself again. I still moved as slowly and as awkwardly as a badly laden cart, my head ached and I was stiff in every limb, but at least I was on my feet.

I shuffled to the doorway of the hut and peered outside. The early sun had gone behind a cloud and the day was raw and cold. The forest looked unremittingly dark and grey. The hut stood, just as I’d remembered it, in a clearing on a tangled forest path, but in the distance, through the branches, I could glimpse the lane. I knew it well — not the paved thoroughfare which was the military road, but the ancient, rocky cart-track of a lane, vertiginous in parts, which wound its way from Glevum to some ancient settlement, passing the corner of Marcus’s estate where my roundhouse was — or used to be.

I stood leaning on the doorpost for support while I strained my eyes towards the spot. It was a long way away across the trees so I don’t know what I hoped to glimpse — a wisp of smoke perhaps — but there was nothing to be seen. Much nearer to me through the trees, however, a movement caught my eye. There was a figure on the lane. A soldier? For an instant I was seized with fear. I slipped back into the hut and flattened myself against the wall.

‘There’s someone in the lane,’ I said.

The woman put down her task and came to look. She peered intently in the direction I had indicated, but then she relaxed. ‘My husband,’ she said with a laugh.

When I looked again, I realised she was right. The man was hunched and slow, and manoeuvring a little handcart over the ruts and stones.

‘Bringing something on the handcart, by the look of him. Good thing we kept it when we lost the mill,’ she said.

Of course, the kindling-seller had once had a reputable trade before he crushed his hand. I glanced around the tumbled shack again, suddenly aware that this — or worse — might be my fate as well, if things continued as they were. There is no trade without customers, and a man on the run has no workshop where he can exploit his skill. It was not a comfortable thought.

I looked back at the toiling figure in the lane and said, with genuine concern, ‘Poor man. He must have been out in the cold all night — it occurs to me that I’ve been lying on his bed.’ It came to me, though I did not voice the thought, that since he had been conversing with the soldiers at my house he was lucky not to have been arrested himself. He had not even the protection of being a citizen.

The woman smiled thinly. ‘Don’t worry about him, citizen. I’m sure he was warm and safe enough.’

Lercius had jumped up from his grisly task by now and joined us at the door. ‘Of course he was. He spent the night with us.’

I glanced at him. It had not occurred to me to wonder where he and Sosso had been. I had simply taken it for granted that they were creatures of the night.

Lercius looked at my astonished face, and grinned. ‘At your enclosure, round the ashes of the fire.’

It seemed a very callous thing to say, but Lercius was not given to finesse. Besides, there was a certain grim sense in it, after all. ‘My poor little house,’ I said bitterly. ‘I’m glad at least its disappearance gave you both some warmth.’

Lercius gave his idiotic laugh. ‘Not their fire, citizen. Your fire. The one in the little hut. It had been raked out but there was still some heat in it.’

My mind stirred into action. Of course. I should have worked it out before. Lercius had killed my chickens with my axe. He must have found it in the dyeing hut. There was a fire there, and though Junio would have doused it before the household left, presumably there was enough warmth left in the embers to take some of the night chill from the air. And the chicken coop had been upended, too, not set alight. Clearly not everything had been destroyed.

‘The dyeing house, you mean?’ I said, with sudden hope. It was not much, but it was shelter of a kind — more in any case than this pathetic shack. With a fire and food, I thought, it might be possible. . ‘It didn’t burn?’

‘Some of the roof has gone, but most of it is there. Your slave saved it, perhaps. He could have beaten out the flames and poured water on the walls. The firewood-seller insists he wasn’t in there when the soldiers came. But I think he was. There was a water pot inside the door and it was already empty when we got there. He probably used that. This morning we had to fetch water from the stream to drink.’

‘My slave?’ I interrupted. I could make no sense of this. Kurso the kitchen boy, perhaps? Had he been left behind in case I came? Or perhaps Junio had disobeyed me and stayed to make sure that I was safe? That was possible, and it would explain the bag — the danger signal — hanging on the bush.

I turned to Sosso. ‘You think my slave was there?’

Sosso merely grunted.

It was Lercius who said, ‘He’s still there now. We didn’t realise that at first. Not until this morning when we first woke up and needed to find some food. I went outside and had a look around. That’s when I found the chickens. And there were a few nuts and beans stored in a pit.’ He looked at me, as if for confirmation of the fact.

I nodded. I had put them there myself, and lined the storage pit with holly leaves to keep the rats and predators away.

‘Well, we ate those, but it wasn’t much, between the three of us. There was a great cooking pot over the fire but the stuff in there smelt terrible, so I didn’t think it was anything we could eat.’

‘It wasn’t food,’ I said, moved to a reluctant smile by the thought. ‘It’s dyestuff. My wife was softening walnut shells, I think, ready to steep with lichen and make some dye for wool.’

‘That’s what the firewood man said. He wouldn’t let me taste. He found a piece of cloth in it as well. It was an awful colour — greeny-brown.’

I frowned. Gwellia would have been dyeing unspun wool, not cloth. ‘You think that might have been my slave’s?’ I asked. ‘His cloak perhaps?’

But Lercius was pointing down the path. ‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me near. But here’s the firewood-seller now. Better if he tells you himself.’

I looked down the path, where he was gesturing. Sure enough, the shuffling master of this tiny hut was lumbering towards us now, accompanied by the creak of wheels and a grunt of breath. His hair was straggly, long and grey and his beard was much the same, but what I could see of the gaunt face was creased with the effort. The cart was clearly heavy, and even from here I saw that it was not piled high with wood, but with all sorts of things which I recognised as mine. From my dye-house, all of it. Three unwashed fleeces, I saw as he drew nearer to the hut, and on top of them hunks of unspun wool, held down by the weight-stones from the loom, while Gwellia’s cracked bowls full of lichen and dried flowers, wooden wool-combs, and even one of her stone spindles were balanced haphazardly here and there. The whole load looked amazingly precarious, as if it might fall off at any time, yet he had struggled several miles with it across a track as rutted as a rough-ploughed field.

He paused now and dragged a grimy hand across his brow. He was panting and sweating though the day was chill, and he stood a moment rocking on his heels and looking from one to another of our little group.

‘Where is the citizen Libertus?’ he said uncertainly. ‘I was told that he was here.’

‘Come, husband,’ the woman said, ‘don’t stare at us like that. Surely you recognise the citizen? He has bought firewood from you many times. And these other men you know.’

The firewood-seller looked at me closely, then gave a little nod. ‘I’m sorry, citizen. I didn’t recognise you in those clothes. My name is Molendinarius.’

Molendinarius, I thought. Still called ‘miller’ though there was nothing of a round-faced miller in the man who faced me now. He was thin to the point of looking starved, and, though he clearly retained a certain scrawny strength, recent exertion had made his breath come in dreadful rasps. His damaged hand, a pitiful stump dangling from the wrist, was bound up in a piece of sack, and the rest of his clothing was the merest rags. Beside him, my makeshift robe and broken sandals felt positively elegant.

‘I hope I’ve been of service, citizen,’ he said, with the fawning meekness of those who seek reward. ‘I have saved most of what can be rescued from your huts.’

‘Then why not leave it there?’ I said, rather astringently. ‘I could have made a kind of home with it.’

He shook his head. ‘My guess is that the soldiers will be back. In any case there is a guard next door. They’re posted all round the villa now, keeping a sharp lookout in the lane. They saw me come and go. They would discover you in no time at all.’

I took in the implications of this. ‘So they permitted you to loot my house, in fact? Take care they don’t arrest you for a thief.’

He smiled, a slow smile that showed his broken teeth. ‘Oh, I took care of that. They saw me coming with an empty cart, and leaving with one too. I took these things away a little at a time, and hid them in the woods. Then when I’d passed the guards I slipped back into the trees and piled the cart again. But it will be more difficult next time. This stuff is light. There’s still a big iron pot which was on the fire, and — among other things — a long piece of dyed cloth which we found inside it. I’ve left it there to dry.’

‘Lercius told me you had found a cloth,’ I said, ‘though I can make little sense of that. My wife might have put in some unspun wool, but I cannot imagine what the cloth might be — unless’ — inspiration struck me suddenly — ‘it might have been my toga?’

Molendinarius looked surprised. ‘It might have been a toga-length at that. It was about the right length and width for that — and now I come to think, there might have been one curving edge to it.’

It was ridiculous how pleased I felt at this. I could hardly wear it as a toga, certainly, but the idea that I possessed a length of woollen cloth, even a wet and dun-coloured piece of cloth, made me feel as if I’d won a fortune on the dice.

Molendinarius was frowning at me as he said, ‘But why should anyone put that in the dye?’

‘I think my slave put it there to hide it from the guard. Well thought of, Junio! Where is he anyway? Lercius said you’d found him at the house.’

He looked at me sharply, and his manner changed. ‘We found traces of him, certainly. Lercius didn’t tell you where?’

I was about to shake my head, when suddenly I knew. Lercius had been burbling about discovering my slave when he described how Molendinarius had found the piece of cloth ‘as well’. As well as what? I felt a cold sickness in my stomach as I said, ‘Not in the dye-pot?’ Please don’t tell me that, I begged inwardly. Not Junio. Not dead.

But the old firewood-seller was shaking his head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid so, citizen. Though. .’ he paused, ‘not all of him.’

My legs, which had been shaky anyway, gave way entirely at this, and I found myself sitting abruptly on the ground. Junio! Dear, stupid, pigheaded, clever Junio! Why had I permitted him to leave me in the town and go back to the house alone? I might have guessed that he’d refuse to leave, and put himself in danger in the process. I tried in vain to tell myself that in waiting here he had disobeyed my explicit instructions to the contrary. Dead, and, from what Molendinarius said, dismembered too.

The Romans despise a man who weeps, but my voice was blurred by most unmanly tears as I said, ‘One of the guard did this? I’ll find out who — Sosso, you and your men must help. If I get out of this alive, I’ll kill the man who did it with my own bare hands.’

I had raised my voice, and the old woman stooped to touch my arm. ‘Citizen,’ she murmured warningly, ‘you’ll bring the guard. Who knows who can hear?’

Lercius, though, was less restrained. ‘I’ll help you,’ he piped up at once, his eyes burning with enthusiasm. ‘You show me who it is and I’ll make sure he has a long and lingering death. I’ll tear his eyes out and his tongue, and I’ll carve him up. .’ He began to demonstrate in dumb show what he had in mind, capering ecstatically around.

‘Enough!’ Sosso commanded, and Lercius fell silent. I felt some sympathy with his plans. I could gladly have done those things to the murderer myself.

The firewood-seller cut across my thoughts. ‘It can’t have been the soldiers,’ he said. ‘I saw them come, and go. They didn’t go into the little hut. They peered in everywhere when they first arrived, and then they simply waited at the gate till it was getting dark and it was clear that you weren’t going to come that night. They didn’t even go inside to light the torches — one of them had flints and kindling cloth — though they did have one last search before they left. The leader made a great show of bending down as he came back through the door, but he made sure that he set the thatch alight. I was watching, hidden in the trees. I even spoke to them once or twice.’

‘Part of the guard round Marcus’s villa?’ I enquired.

He shook his head. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘There even seemed to be ill-feeling when they met. That was what drew me to the spot. The ones who burned your house marched down the lane where the others were already standing guard. I heard raised voices and a lot of challenges. One lot were new to Glevum — somebody’s private bodyguard, I gathered — but they took no notice of the local guard. “Orders,” they said, and just marched on. Certainly they were unpleasant men — especially the big one who seemed to be in charge — but I don’t see how they could have killed your slave. They didn’t have the opportunity.’

I had been listening to this with only half my mind. Most of my thoughts were still with Junio. ‘I’ll find out,’ I said. ‘What have you done with him, my slave?’

He looked distressed. ‘I’ve brought him. What we first found of him.’ He went towards his handcart as he spoke. ‘Prepare yourself, citizen; it’s not a pleasant sight.’ He took down the wool, whorls and stones and flung back the fleeces as he spoke. Underneath was something wrapped up in a sack.

‘Show him!’ Sosso and Cornovacus had come over to look.

Molendinarius nodded slowly, and moved the coverings. I gagged. I was looking at a head. A head dyed sickly greenish-brown — as Lercius had said — and staring at the sky with sightless eyes. Though hideously discoloured, the familiar features were still recognisable.

I would have know him anywhere. He had fled to me fearing for his life, but it had not saved him in the end. My heart went out to him. It was unreasonable that I should also feel relief.

‘This is not my slave.’