Requiem for a Slave (16 page)

The others had been listening to all this, of course, and a strange unhappy silence settled on the group as we struggled on along the lane towards the house. Those last hundred paces seemed to take a year, but at last our small procession reached the roundhouse door. The smell of smoke was much stronger now, and I could see that in our absence Cilla had got the fire-pit ready for the lamb.

The cooking-pit had been sited a little to the back, which is why I had not noticed it when I arrived before, and my first action now was to go and look at it. The fiery embers had been raked aside and the stones which lined the pit were glowing red, bathing the scene in an unearthly light. I signalled to Kurso to toss in a layer of damp straw, which had been left ready in a nearby pile, then – with a grunt of relief – I dropped the heavy lamb into the hole. In the torchlight, we gathered aromatic leaves to sprinkle over it, added another layer of the straw and finally enough fresh earth to seal the pit. The animal would cook quite slowly in the heat, but by the feast next morning it should be ready to consume. Already it reminded me of feast days in my youth.

I brushed the loose dust from the fire-pit from my hands and went indoors with little Kurso still trotting at my heels. The others had unpacked the handcart by this time – the contents were stacked around the roundhouse on all sides and Junio and Gwellia were consuming stew beside the fire, while Maximus was waiting with the water jug to serve them as they ate. Two smaller bowls, clearly for himself and Kurso, were standing on the bench.

Cilla was presiding at the cooking-pot, where there was still a pleasing quantity of hot and fragrant stew. She saw us enter and waved the ladle cheerfully at me. ‘You have set the lamb to cook, then?’

I nodded. ‘With Kurso’s help. He has deserved his meal. And Maximus too, I think.’

But the red-haired pageboy did not rush to eat. He stood like a statue with the water jug. ‘Master, you promised . . . the news of Minimus? I see he is not here.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Minimus has gone – I don’t know where or when. He simply disappeared when I had left the shop this afternoon – about the same time as Lucius was killed. I fear he has been kidnapped by the murderers and, worse, they may be taking him somewhere to be sold.’ I didn’t mention rebels – that was too terrible a possibility to share. ‘I had been hoping to receive a ransom note for him, but I haven’t had one.’

Maximus had turned a deathly shade of white. ‘So he may be dead! If he saw the murder, perhaps he was killed too – just to make sure he couldn’t tell.’

It was Junio who answered. ‘But your master doesn’t think so, and I think I can see why: because, in that case, surely we would have found the corpse. There would be no sense in hiding it, when Lucius’s body was left for us to see. Is that not so, Father?’

‘Exactly,’ I replied. Junio had put it bluntly – for Maximus’s sake I might have avoided talking about Minimus’s ‘corpse’ – but, in fact, that was precisely how I had reasoned things. ‘So there is every chance that he is still alive.’ Though if the rebels had him, I thought, he might wish that he were not.

Minimus, however, looked a little comforted. ‘But surely someone must have seen him taken from the shop. If we knew at least which way they went, we could try to get him back.’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t find anyone who witnessed where he went, not even the tanner – although I’ve asked, of course. But I can’t believe that he went willingly – I left him in charge of the workshop while I was away – so I am still inclined to think that he’s been carried off, most likely by the murderer himself.’ I didn’t add the obvious: that he might have been knocked unconscious and stuffed into a sack, to make it easier and less conspicuous to drag him away.

Gwellia had obviously worked this out herself. ‘But he would have no value if he’s damaged very much,’ she said softly. ‘I suppose that is some comfort. Poor little Minimus. But there is nothing else that we can do tonight?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe so. After the bulla ritual, I will go straight back to town and make as many enquiries as I can. I’ll go to all the gates. Someone, somewhere, must have noticed him – or something which will put us on the track.’

‘And I will come with you,’ Junio put in. ‘Two people asking questions will save a lot of time, and the sooner we have news, the sooner we can act. But, in the meantime, there is a feast day to prepare.’

Gwellia nodded briskly. ‘There is a lot to do. Maximus, eat your supper and then come back with me and help to set the bread and cakes to rise before you go to bed. Then, first thing in the morning, you can go and cut some reeds, and Kurso can gather some sweet-smelling herbs that you can put with them. Then both report to me. We’ll come up here and strew them on this roundhouse floor, as soon as Cilla’s swept it for the day, so that it smells delightful by the time the high priest comes. He’ll be fairly early because he’ll want to make sure that everything is properly prepared. Libertus, husband, you will mix the wine while Junio and Kurso get the lamb out of the pit and carve it ready for serving to the guests. Don’t put on your nice clean toga till you’ve finished that – you don’t want it dirty when the people come. Just make sure that there is time to change.’ She turned to Maximus. ‘Well, don’t just stand there staring, come and eat your stew. It’s early bed for you. We’ll have to be up before the dawn to get all this done in time.’

She had not mentioned the missing slave again. I nodded to Junio, who had caught my eye. Gwellia was dealing with worry in her usual way, by keeping so busy that there was no time to think, but I needed someone to discuss things with.

I talked to Junio well into the night, mostly about Glypto and my fears for Minimus. ‘Don’t say this to the others,’ I said in a low voice, ‘but if the green man has red hair and is Silurian, it looks more likely than ever that the rebels are involved.’

He shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Most Silurians are loyal citizens these days – those two slave-boys of Marcus’s are the proof of that. It’s only a few fanatics that keep mounting these attacks. And why should a rebel be concerned enough to send a message here, even if you really had been hurt?’

We argued in circles for an hour or more, but we made no progress with the mystery. Finally, I crept away and went to bed myself, reluctant to keep the little family awake. I did not want to spoil Amato’s naming day.

But I slept only fitfully – and when I did, I dreamt of Minimus.

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.