It was well past dawn by the time that I awoke, and all my slaves were already busy at self-appointed tasks: Minimus brushing down the hems of my previous day’s attire; Kurso refilling oil-lamps and stoking braziers; while Ossius was energetic with a broom, proving his worth by sweeping floors as though the Emperor might call. Servus, I learned, was fetching water from the fountain in the street, and had promised to bring fresh bread and oatcakes back with him.
I startled Minimus by turning down my mourning clothes today. ‘The time for that is past. I’ve done my grieving now, in public anyway. I’ll wear my plain white toga and a Roman cloak and hood. Then, when we have eaten, you can find a carrying-chair for me, and I’ll go down to the docks.’ I saw the other slaves look sharply up at this, and I added quickly, ‘There is a feast tonight and there are things I need to finalize.’ I gave my head the tiniest of shakes, signalling Minimus to silence.
He understood. ‘I’ll go down now, master, and have a litter waiting in the street. I have had an apple, I need not wait for more.’ He disappeared, and by the time that Servus had returned and I had eaten a mouthful of fresh bread (all the breakfast that I had stomach for) the chair was waiting, and my slave was standing by, ready to accompany me as usual.
But I surprised him. ‘Run to Tertillius’s house, as fast as possible,’ I said. ‘Ask him to send that letter to the garrison at once, and have it forwarded to Rome. Hortius’s escort will not be watching for it now, if they ever were. Check that the address instructions are quite clear, to reach Druscilla’s brother as fast as possible.’
Minimus was looking horrified at me. ‘The letter was not for Tertillius at all? I heard the escort talking as they set off with it – where they were taking it, and what it said.’ His mouth gaped further. ‘Master, you are not thinking what I fear? You are not planning to marr—?’
‘Minimus,’ I interrupted, sternly, ‘think twice before you speak. There are more ears in Glevum than in a field of wheat.’ I glanced at the litter-bearers, who were staring at the floor, trying to pretend that they weren’t listening avidly. ‘My arrangements with the lady Fulvia are private ones. Kindly do not abuse my confidence. Now, I gave you an order, I believe?’
‘Master. I am already on my way.’ And before I was fairly in the litter, he was gone.
I had taken the precaution, when I left the roundhouse finally, of bringing some possessions with me in a bag, including my late household’s stock of gold and silver coins, some of which I was carrying in an arm-purse now. I was glad of it – not merely to pay the carriers for my ride, but to seal the bargain with the captain of the ship, and arrange that he’d collect my baggage later in the day. I had no intention of returning to my flat, whatever happened at the feast tonight.
I am no lover of travelling by boat (days in an airless pirate hold, chained with a half-hundred other newly captured slaves, tossed in high seas and howling winds, had cured me of that), but as a means of swift escape, it was unmatchable. Once safely down the river – and no land-transport could match a well-trimmed boat that travelled with the tide – and on the open sea, one had escaped the Roman Empire and its laws and senators. Even in a different province one could disappear – in more comfort too – if one did not make oneself conspicuous. But I could not trust Druscilla to do that.
The bargain cost me less than I had feared – I had half-expected that, once he saw it was important, the man would raise the fee – but he was sympathetic to my plight, and I’d helped him with that licence previously, he said. That was comforting. I’d had some anxiety about my safety on the trip – a man with money and without armed guards, is too easy to lose overboard. (Though I vowed I’d keep a guard on my possessions, even so.)
My private business done, I picked a path across the heaps of ropes and chains towards the warehouses. The docks were busy at this hour of day and I had to dodge the slaves – some working the creaking wooden gantries, till their veins stood on their brows, others moving cargo the old-fashioned way, bent double under sacks (a task made still more difficult when, as now, the planks into the holds were wet and slippery).
I made my way to a wine-importer’s repository. I knew the owner and the manager-slave, and made sure they noted my appearance there, by ordering a few amphorae of less expensive wine to be charged to Marcus. For the lower tables, I explained, where I myself would sit – which improved the quality of what they offered me. (The official of the vintners’ guild might grumble, but they already had the sale of the Falernian, and – besides – the arrangement was not unusual. As Tertillius had discovered, the guild always charged inflated prices for wine which they themselves supplied.)
A discreet visit to a pair of fellow councillors, arranging for the temporary loan of serving slaves (or hire, since a small consideration was involved) and my official business was completed for the day. There was nothing for it but to go back to my flat and write a farewell note to Junio and his family – if all went well, I’d leave instructions for it to be delivered after I was gone.
Then, after a few unwanted spoonsful of the stew my servants pressed on me, there was not much time to kill – as the expression goes. All the same, the afternoon hung heavy on my hands. I was nervous, there is no denying that.
At last, though, it was appropriate for me to leave – although not directly to the feast – the start of which would be a disorganized affair. Such occasions always are, since there can be no accurate set hour for diners to arrive: water or candle-clocks are not reliable, and many people do not own them anyway – so time is largely guesswork, especially when the sun cannot be seen.
Most guests would assemble shortly before dusk, but I was not scheduled to arrive till after dark. The vintners always tend to time their banquets late – possibly because the members of their guild are merchants with other business to pursue – and I was not due to go, accompanying the ladies, until the latter part when most of the heavy eating had been done.
The arrangement was that I should go to Tertillius’s residence as the sun went down. He would go ahead, accompanied by his new page (who had been assigned the unenviable role of poison-taster to the guest-in-chief, should he request the services of one). Both my roundhouse slaves would go with them, Minimus to help with service and Kurso behind the scenes, assisting to put things on platters and bring them through from the separate – and well-appointed – kitchen at the rear. I and my two female charges (who would have a dainty snack) would await a messenger to tell us when it was convenient to come.
The vintners’ hall was only minutes from Tertillius’s house, even in a curial toga, which I had on by now, and – the evening being fine, if cold – it was proposed that we would walk. (It would, in any case, be hard to order a litter in advance – since we could not know the time, and they rarely ply for casual business after dark. After the feast, of course, it would be different – a free-for-all with carriers competing for a fare.)
We would be escorted by Glaber, carrying a club, against the possibility of harassment (though more from wine-bar revellers, than thieves) and Fulvia’s two young maidservants could walk behind to hold the ladies’ hems out of the gutters and the damp. Not ideal, of course, but for two dozen paces it seemed sensible. And so it was agreed.
Agreed by Tertillius, the lady Fulvia, and myself, that is. Druscilla was affronted and simply furious. ‘Me? Walk? After dark and in a public street? I don’t care how close this venue is, it’s not acceptable. Why if this were Rome …’
‘If this were Rome,’ I said, as evenly as my irritation would allow, ‘you would be married to Hortius by now. Or have been declared an enemy of state and exiled to a barren rock – if not killed outright. And your whole family with you.’ She seemed about to make a hot response, then changed her mind and sulked, so I went on, ‘I am attempting to save you from this fate – though, understand, I’m not doing this for you. It is entirely for my patron, to save him trouble with the Governor and perhaps the court.’
‘But also because you loathe the Senator, I think?’ Fulvia’s musical voice put in, surprising me. She met my gaze and smiled. ‘In which opinion you are not alone. My brother certainly agrees – hence his agreement to assist you in all this. And me, too, of course.’
She looked magnificent, this evening, quietly dignified in a floor-length tunic and stola of dark blue – one of the most expensive of all dyes – trimmed with jet and silver, with a veil to match. Druscilla, by agreement (and by contrast too), was dressed as though resigned to accepting Hortius. She wore a simple under-gown of yellow silk, under a flame-coloured stola and a veil to match: an outfit which – though hurriedly assembled in the last few hours – suggested marriage robes. There was nothing of the modest bride about Druscilla, though. She wore the garments like a soldier’s uniform, bold and ready to defy the enemy.
‘Save me?’ she muttered, in an ungrateful tone. ‘I suppose I must agree. But I warn you, duumvir – or whatever title they choose to give you here – if you cheat me, I will kill myself – you know I have the means. In fact, if you betray me, just be careful I don’t kill you as well.’
‘Druscilla!’ I lost patience. ‘Learn to hold your tongue. I did not choose this, any more than you. I cannot think of any woman I have ever met, whom I would not prefer to take under my protection. I am simply trying to save your stupid life – at some danger to my own – and protect you from a monster who, not content with merely murdering my slave, went on to kill my wife and then condemn her to the plague-pit like a common thief. But one more complaint from you and I will change my mind and leave you to his mercies. Or the Emperor’s. Or to that poison that you boast about – if you dare drink it, which I rather doubt.’
She looked at me with blazing fury in her eyes, as though I were the source of all her grief. She might have retorted something – I think she would have done, had not the old, retiring steward (clearly delighted at being reinstated to his post, if only for the evening) tottered in, declaring that the messenger had come and we were expected at the feast as soon as possible.
I was surprised at this. Roman banquets, especially civic ones, are sometimes twenty courses and rarely less than twelve – so I was astonished that the summons came so soon. It was almost certainly at Hortius’s behest – Marcus as official host would never cut things short, especially where fine food and finer drink was being served but, as the guest of honour, Hortius Valens could ask for anything and – if achievable – it was improper to refuse. The courtesy was never usually invoked, but I could just imagine the toad-like Senator, sneering at the delicious food that had been expensively prepared, and deciding that all he wanted was Druscilla to be brought to him as soon as possible. In that case there would be a lot of unhappy magistrates – no one could go on eating if the chief guest did not.
However, if that was the case, there was some benefit for us. There was still a suspicion of lightness in the sky (though nonetheless Glaber carried a burning torch to illuminate our way) and there was, as yet, no frost to make the pavements slippery. In no time at all, we were at the vintners’ hall.
I had been there once before, with Gwellia, to a civic banquet very much like this – though not as large, of course. It’s an impressive place. Fronted by massive columns, it is just as grand within, with handsome frescoes painted on the walls, and window-spaces filled with strips of tortoiseshell, cut so finely that an amber light can pass. (Even now we could make out a glow, from the scores of lighted candles and oil-lamps within.) A perfect location to hold a public feast, especially as the kitchens are famous for their food – exotic dishes in interesting forms.
I remember what appeared to be a swan but proved to be a pastry mould filled with delicious little honey cakes – some such wonder would be produced tonight. The vintners’ guild is the richest in the town, supported by people of serious influence: I hoped that they were not about to be insulted by their guest.
I need not have worried – about that at least. As we walked up the steps and through the vaulted entrance-way to be greeted by club-carrying attendants in the vestibule (‘Citizen Libertus, ladies, we were expecting you! More slaves will be useful. Do the females dance?’) there were raucous shouts and sounds of drunken laughter from within.
I glanced at Fulvia. This was a problem I had not foreseen. Banquets to which councillors do not invite their wives sometimes do descend into a comissatio – a drinking party – in which the emphasis is not on food at all, but on wine, bawdy jokes and half-clad dancing girls. Not a place to bring two well-bred widows. I had envisaged a far more staid affair, with formal speeches, and worthy poetry or flutes between each course.
But before I had the chance to beat a swift retreat, the inner door flew open and Freckle-face appeared, dressed in a smart tunic – clearly not his own – in the dark red colour of the vintners’ livery, with their insignia embroidered on the chest.
‘Councillor Libertus!’ he exclaimed at once. ‘Thank Mars that you are here. I was sent to find you. Hortius asked for you.’ He dropped his voice, lest he was overheard. ‘My master says to warn you that he is jovial now, but he seems to have taken too much wine and may be unpredictable. He is waiting’ – he gestured through the open door – ‘and waving you inside.’
I glanced in and saw that he was right. The small stage holding the top three tables, was at the further end and those reclining round them were clearly visible – that was after all the purpose of the dais. Marcus, the official host, was naturally there (beckoning, but looking uncomfortable and strained) with Tertillius and other senior members of the curia, including the two Valerii that I’d seen yesterday. Hortius, lying at my patron’s side, was propped up on one elbow dipping bread into a dish, flushed and dishevelled with his dining-wreath askew; there could be no doubt who had set the drunken tone.
He stuffed the titbit in his mouth and used his hand to raise his goblet high. ‘Ah! The duumvir has joined us. And the ladies too.’ He did not sound entirely sober. ‘Tertillius move over, and make room – Druscilla Livia can sit here by me.’
This was a dilemma. It was not his place to reorganize the seats, and there were clearly places set aside for us at a trestle table just inside the door. Like the other tables crammed into the lower room, it was piled with food and crowded with other junior magistrates, who sat on simple stools; lesser guests were not permitted to recline.
So it was insulting to Tertillius to demote him in this way (beside me I heard my fellow diners gasp) and even if he moved reluctantly away, as he now did, there was no room on his one couch for all three of us. Meantime a hundred eyes had turned to stare, some of my colleagues raising goblets at our predicament, or gesturing towards the place reserved for me. The drunken roars had hushed to muffled whispers now.
Lentigines was plucking at my arm. ‘Shall I escort you up? And whom should I announce?’ He meant that he did not know Fulvia’s name.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I will announce myself.’
That was not necessary, either, as it proved. As I moved forward to approach my host, Hortius banged his cup against the tabletop. ‘Libertus and Tertillius’s sister, Fulvia, I believe. The banquet welcomes you. And Druscilla Livia, I say again, come here and lie by me. I sent for you especially. I am tired of stuffy speeches, we have too much of that in Rome, and I took a fancy to have you at my side.’ There was no mistaking it, the ringing tones were marred by an inebriated slur. ‘Come, my little tigress, what are you waiting for? Gentlemen, this is the lady I was speaking of. One of you servants, bring her here to me.’ He quaffed whatever was remaining in the cup.
Druscilla nudged my side, her face set in a scowl, but I could see a genuine terror in her eyes. ‘So, Citizen Duumvir, now what am I to do? I warn you …’
‘Hush,’ I told her. ‘It will be all right. The more you look reluctant, the more convinced he’ll be. But first I must persuade him to repeat his words to me – here, in public, where everyone can hear. For the moment, do as he requires.’
There was no option really. Two burly slaves appeared, also dressed in the vintners’ uniform, and looked ready to take her by the arm. Druscilla flashed a look at me that would have curdled milk. Then suddenly she shrugged off the would-be guiding hands, threw back her orange veil defiantly and made her way between the cheering diners towards the Senator.
He half-moved over and pulled her to him with a smile, but I saw the hand that grasped her upper arm made her wince. Marcus, on his other side, made rueful signs at me. This was his banquet, and he had lost control to Hortius, who was clearly very drunk. (This in itself was an insult to polite society. Bawdy jokes and ribald songs may be acceptable – at all-male drinking-parties, anyway – but no well-bred Roman lets himself become incapable, especially when he is the guest-in-chief.) But Hortius was manifestly on the way to that, and even now he was calling for more wine.
‘Dispense with the poison-taster. Druscilla can perform the service, from now on,’ he said thickly, while the plates and goblets were hastily exchanged. (The hearers roared as though it were a joke, but I wondered if he too had noticed what I’d seen: a tiny stealthy movement of her hand – as though to withdraw something from beneath her stola-folds.) He did extend his refilled cup for her to sip, as more of the best Falernian was poured out in hers, there to be diluted with warmed water to her taste – a refinement only practised at the most exclusive feasts. (Generally they are pre-mixed and the water will be cold.)
Druscilla made a face and signalled for the slave to add more water still, and that was the moment when I saw who was attending her. All servers wore the wine-red tunic of the vintners’ uniform but now I realized it was Minimus who held the water jug – and little Kurso who’d refilled it and brought new platters in.
But when I glanced at the slave dispensing wine, and saw that it was Glaber, I almost swayed and fell – genuinely shocked at how Hortius would react if he realized who it was. The ex-courier was white with fright himself, but clearly he’d been directed there by the establishment – presumably delighted by the arrival of what seemed a senior slave – and as a servant, had no choice but to obey.
Of course, he did look very different now and someone had found him a vintner’s uniform, so he was not conspicuous. His head and limbs had been recently rescraped, but his beard had started to regrow, giving his face a very different look. The steward’s gliding walk had replaced the swagger too. But still, as he moved behind his former owner with the jug of wine, I saw him hold his breath – as I was holding mine.
Hortius did not so much as glance at him – or, indeed, at any of the slaves. He was wholly occupied in ensuring that Drusilla’s tunic sleeve was trapped under the arm that he lay propped upon, making it impossible for her to move away, or – since it was her right arm and she was propped herself – easily to help herself to food. He amused himself by selecting titbits from the choice in front of him and feeding them to her.
It looked affectionate, until one saw her face – and realized that he was deliberately choosing things she did not like. I recalled the tales of how indulgent he had been towards the former wife – had that, perhaps, been something similar?
I expected violent protest from Druscilla Livia. It was not like her to suffer this without complaint – but, as she cast another anguished look at me, I realized that not only the fabric had been trapped but Hortius was leaning deliberately on her arm, pinning the skin against the table-edge. He must already be causing her some degree of pain, but the toad-like smile that he bestowed on her was clearly a warning that this was no accident, and he could and would increase it tenfold if she breathed a word. Druscilla was to pay for having fled from Rome.
But I could not help her until I’d made my move and forced the Senator to publicly renew his promises. And if I did not do so quickly, I might lose my chance – if he was incoherent or incapable through drink, there would be legal questions about validity. So, with thumping heart, I ushered Fulvia towards the rostrum steps, bowed and began the little speech I had prepared.
I had got as far as: ‘Your Pardons, Excellence and Worthiness. I have a petiti—’ when Hortius intervened. His blurring diction made my spirits sink.
‘Of course. I’d not forgotten. But first let’s eat and drink. You and your party have only just arrived.’ Clearly he was still capable of thought – his cowing of Druscilla demonstrated that. (Unless the instinct for cruelty ran so deep in him that he didn’t need to think – which seemed improbable, even for a monster such as this.) So was this drunken mumbling merely a pretence? To ensure that any verbal contract with me would not stand? Certainly he was capable of that.
But he seemed strangely clumsy, as he raised his cup again. ‘So sit down, duumvir, and enjoy the feast. The next course is dormice, I believe?’
Marcus, beside him, gave me a helpless little shrug. He would have permitted me to speak, but the guest of honour had made his wishes clear, so once again there was little the host could do. (At least, politely, and Marcus would not stoop to the rudeness of his guest.) I bowed, and gave an inward sigh, but even as I began to shepherd Fulvia towards the humble seats which were reserved for us, someone shouted, ‘Duumvir!’
I looked around. The Valerii were getting to their feet, inviting us to take their places on the dais. I looked at my patron, who signalled his assent, so there was nothing for it but to climb up to the couch.
As we passed the brothers on the steps, Decimus leaned over and murmured in my ear, ‘If those are Roman manners, give me Glevum any day. You’re welcome to the seat. I knew he was unpleasant, but the man’s a drunken pig. Sweating and swaying from the moment he arrived.’
So, I thought – as we settled on the dining-couch and more fresh platters and goblets were produced – Hortius’s behaviour was not an act exclusively for me! In fact, now I was reclining close to him and could see him more plainly in the candle-light, it did not seem to be an act at all. The hand that held the wine cup was so unsteady now that it scattered droplets on his toga as he raised it to his lips, and his attempt to lift a honeyed dormouse from the plate resulted in it falling to the floor.
But he seemed oblivious, holding his goblet out to have it filled again – like some plebian unaccustomed to a feast. His eyes were visibly glazing over, too, and I no longer feared that he would notice who was serving him. Another half an hour and he would be asleep. Which meant one thing, of course. If I still hoped to do what I had planned, I had to do it now – however improper it might be to persist.
Then I had an inspiration – or I thought I had. ‘Senator,’ I murmured, as he took a slurping sip, ‘that accident you had. Perhaps it has affected you more than you suppose.’
He turned his body half around to glare at me – causing Druscilla to give a stifled gasp. ‘What are you suggesting, Councillor?’ It came out as ‘srugestin canshular’. Behind him, I saw Marcus stiffening.
‘That blow,’ I said. ‘It may have bruised your brain. There are drops of perspiration on your brow.’ The other diners at the table were staring at him now; I could see them wondering if this might be true. ‘And it is not usual with you, I think, to spill your wine?’
He looked at the wine stains on his front with a bewildered air – as if he could not understand why they were there, but he could still be angry. ‘Dumva, jadar to crishise?’ (which I took to mean, ‘Duumvir, you dare to criticize?’) He looked around as if to call his escort-guards, but they were not in evidence.
‘On the contrary, Worthiness,’ I said. ‘I am concerned for you. I know how far you’ve travelled to bring this night about. You would not wish to find yourself unable, after all – entirely on account of that injury, of course – to complete what you had planned? Would it not be wise to move directly to exchanging promises?’ I was speaking calmly, but my heart was thumping hard. If Hortius refused I was taking dreadful risks – for Druscilla and my patron as well as for myself. ‘Feasting can come afterwards, if you are so inclined.’
Hortius was staring at me stupidly. He seemed to be considering my words. After a moment he took a gulp of wine. ‘May have misjdged, c’ncillor,’ he said, even more indistinctly than before. ‘Y’right. I’m not f’ling altogether well. May be a … relaspse. Le’s do as you s’ggest.’ He rapped his goblet on the wooden board again, and rose – scarlet-faced and swaying – as reluctant silence fell.
Druscilla snatched her arm away and cradled it. I thought that she would speak – she turned to me with indignation in her eyes – but Hortius was already talking to the crowd.
‘Citiz’ns of Glevum. Thiz joyful night f’me. I am re … nited with Drusc’llivia. But … not not quite myshelf. Duumvir’s sugg’shion … marry shtraitaway. Better move few treshels out way.’ He sketched a broad sweep with his goblet hand, splashing a lot of droplets on the way.
‘Duumvir …?’ Druscilla’s despairing whisper was so shrill I feared that they would hear it at the back, but I was already on my feet.
‘Hortius, Senator, Worthiness …’ I spluttered. ‘There was the little matter of my own union first.’
Hortius gave a triumphant, tipsy leer. ‘N’a minute, pavemen’-maker. Portant bushnuuss first. Bring Drushilla n’ the shcales, an’ I w’ll buy my bride.’ He had to catch his balance suddenly, and it was getting difficult to recognize the words, but the meaning was disastrously clear. If he persisted in this wedding, then everything was lost, and I had failed.
I was reminded of this sharply as Druscilla gave a screech and pummelled at me violently with both her fists. Glaber came forward to restrain her, and discreetly fill her cup.
‘You promised!’ she broke down in noisy tears, burying her head in both her arms.
I looked to see what Hortius had made of this – and, what, if anything could still be done. But he seemed unaware of anything.
‘Ma bri’e,’ he said again, waving his goblet at Druscilla, who sat up, sniffling and half-paralysed by fright, ‘Call on all a’ deities …’ He raised the cup in drunken tribute to the gods. A lot of wine tipped out onto the floor. ‘Libashion,’ he declared, before he raised the remainder to his lips.
For a long moment he stood and smiled and swayed. Then he crumpled suddenly, dropped the cup and fell face-down into a dish of peppered leeks.