A Roman Ransom

by Rosemary Rowe

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

A thrilling glimpse of life in Roman Britain... A bedbound Libertus is faced with one of his toughest dilemmas yet, involving a dangerous ransom note. A Roman Ransom is the perfect read for fans of David Wishart and Lindsey Davis. 'It's a humdinger of a plot with more twists and turns than a spiral staircase' - Northern Echo Glevum, AD 188. Lying in his sick bed, weak and disoriented, Libertus is strictly forbidden visitors. But when Marcus Septimus forces his way in, desperate to speak to the pavement-maker, Libertus knows that something is seriously wrong. Marcus's beloved wife Julia and their baby son have disappeared without a trace. And now a ransom note has arrived, wrapped in the hem of Julia's stola: unless Marcus uses his power to release a certain political prisoner, he will never see his family alive again. Libertus is well aware of Marcus's dilemma: give in to the kidnappers and sacrifice his reputation for being fair and unmoved by bribery, or stand firm and provoke unimaginable consequences. But Libertus has also made a powerful enemy. How can he help his patron - and himself - this time? What readers are saying about A Roman Ransom : 'Rowe captures a genuine atmosphere in a way unequalled by almost any other author of the Roman period' ' Another fine addition to the Libertus series ' 'Rosemary Rowe is unsurpassed in creating a picture of Roman Britain '

Release date: April 11, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

I had been ill. That was the only thing I knew – and it was the first real thing I’d been aware of for a long, long time.

There had been fevered dreams. A slave-ship. Beatings. Thirst. I was tossing, chained and shivering, in that filthy hold again, hearing my young wife calling out my name as the pirates tore us from our home and carried us apart. Then these tortured images of my past would pass and instead I was sweltering and helpless in a fiery cave; or my mosaic workshop was consumed in flames, while mocking demons forced hot liquids down my throat.

Now, though, as I forced open an exploratory eye, those nightmare visions seemed to have dispersed. I appeared to be lying in a sort of bed of reeds in a little roundhouse which I vaguely recognised as mine – although I could not for the moment make any sense of this. Yet the place was so familiar: the central fire, the wooden stools, the cooking pots – even the Celtic weaving loom set up against the wall. If this was a dream, I thought, I was content with it. I could almost feel the warm glow from the fire, and feel the smart of wood-smoke in my eyes.

I almost feared to blink in case this cheerful scene proved to be a mere illusion too and – like the rest – would shimmer and vanish into mist. I closed my eyes experimentally but, though I did so several times, my surroundings remained as solid as before. For a moment it was too much for my addled brain to solve.

Then I heard a voice from somewhere near at hand and I was aware of someone bending over me. I smiled, expecting it to be my wife, but as I came to fuller consciousness I saw that it was not Gwellia at all. It was an old, skinny, wrinkled man with a bony nose and pointed chin, dressed in a tattered toga with wine stains on the front and a circlet of fresh flowers on his balding head. I shut my eyes again. This was obviously another nightmare.

But he didn’t go away.

‘He was ill for almost a whole moon, of course, before you sent for me.’ He had a high cracked voice, and spoke Latin with the careful diction of the Greek. ‘It would have been much better if I’d seen him earlier, so I could have contrived to have him purged. But I have done a great deal in the last two days. Obviously recovery will not be swift, but I believe he is past the crisis now. Drinking bad water, that is my surmise. Vomiting, fever and delusive dreams – this is the course of the disease and there have been other cases in the town. And the insides of his lids are red. I have seen this kind of thing before.’ He moved the oil light closer to my face, until I could almost feel my lashes singe.

I flinched.

He was not apologetic. Quite the contrary – although he did withdraw the light and I realised that he’d sat back on his heels. ‘He feels the heat. That’s good!’ There was evident satisfaction in his tone. ‘That shows that he is partly conscious now, and that is promising. I doubted for a long time that he would survive, even with all the herbs and potions I prepared. But at least that dreadful raging fever has gone.’

A second shadow loomed up on the wall and I was aware of another figure by the bed. However, the medicus clearly disapproved. He stood up suddenly and there was a warning in his voice. ‘Forgive me, honoured citizen, for instructing you, but perhaps you should not approach him any closer. I believe this is the foul-water sickness, as I said before, but I cannot be quite certain. It may yet be the plague. We can only watch the pattern of disease. You know that there is a murrain raging presently in Rome and it is not impossible that it might travel here – these things spread with fearful rapidness. I would not have you catch the seeds of pestilence. They rise in the miasma of the patient’s breath, and can take root in your own. Remember, Excellence, I did advise you not to come at all.’

Excellence? I was so startled that I almost raised my head. Marcus Aurelius Septimus, my patron, here?

This dwelling might be built on his estate – indeed he’d granted it to me as a reward for work I’d done for him – but it was the first time to my knowledge that he had ever crossed the door. Patrician citizens of his exalted rank do not often come visiting in lowly roundhouses. But one glimpse of that patrician form – tousled blond curls around the still-youthful face, the broad purple band along the toga edge, and the heavy seal ring on the hand – was enough to convince me that he was truly here. The personal representative of the outgoing governor and the most important man in all Britannia – at the bedside of a humble one-time slave? No matter that I was a freeman now, his client and a Roman citizen – it was incredible that he should visit me like this.

Perhaps I was still dreaming after all.

Another figure loomed up with a lamp, and this time it really was my wife. ‘Believe me, medicus,’ she began. Her tone was courteous but firm. I smiled a little to myself. We had been torn apart when we were first enslaved and reunited only recently, but, though the years of slavery had aged us both, in many ways she remains unchanged. My Gwellia could always be forceful when she chose. ‘It was not my wish to put His Excellence in danger of the plague. I did not for a moment think that he would come himself. I should not have sent to him tonight at all, if he had not specifically commanded it. “If your Libertus starts to come to consciousness, you are to send up to the villa instantly – no matter whether it is day or night.” That’s what he said – and praise be to all the gods, it’s happening at last, thanks to the potion you mixed for him. I’m only sorry that my messenger seems to have disturbed you at your meal.’

Of course, when I turned my mind to think of it, I realised she was right. Marcus was not in formal banquet wear, but he too had a wreath round his head. The two men had obviously been interrupted at some private dinner. Certainly this place was only minutes, on a horse, from the door of Marcus’s country house, but of all the improbable things which greeted me, the fact that my patron and his guest had left their meal to come to me was the most surprising of all. Marcus was a stickler for social niceties, and was famously devoted to his food.

I began to wonder just how ill I’d been.

Ill enough to warrant a physician, it appeared. It was a luxury I’d rarely known and certainly would never have dreamed of for myself.

I might possibly have called in the state physician, once, if things were desperate. There had been a well-trained medicus in Glevum at one time, working on a licence from the town council, which also provided him with premises and paid him a retainer for his services. Such men are not permitted to demand a fee, but if they treat you successfully it costs you all the same, as you are naturally expected to ‘show your gratitude’. However, he was dead, and now his two ex-slaves, who had been bequeathed their freedom on his death, had applied for licences themselves and set up in his place, though their only training was assisting him. I knew them well: a pair of cheerful rogues, chiefly famed for drinking too much wine and prescribing cabbage diets as a cure for everything. In general I preferred to heal myself.

This medicus was obviously a different breed of man. He was wearing a toga, for one thing, which meant that he was a full Roman citizen, and he was clearly educated and successful, since he was sufficiently eminent to be invited to Marcus’s country house to dine. A high-paid private medicus, perhaps, retained by some wealthy family in the town? Probably. The best physicians in the world are Greek. There is a proper training school for them and they have been feted by high society ever since the late emperor received Galen at his court. By his diction this man was clearly Greek. His fees would be enormous.

And Marcus was providing him for me! I felt my eyes mist up with gratitude.

‘Well, is he well enough to talk?’ My patron’s question cut across my thoughts. He took another step towards the bed, shaking off the physician’s warning hand.

‘But Excellence . . .’ that hapless man began.

‘Oh, don’t fuss so, Philades! I’ve taken the precautions you asked me to. Breathed in and spat out as I came into the room, to send back the infection, and washed my hands with ashes from the altar of the household gods. I even put on that stupid amulet you told me I should wear. If all that won’t protect me, I don’t know what will. Besides, I’ve been here twice before, and I haven’t caught it yet.’

‘That may be the protection of the amulet, of course. Real ivory, worked into a pattern of the sun and containing a fresh piece of dragon-herb. It’s a signal charm against attack by snakes, but it can save you from the pestilence as well. All the same, Excellence, I must advise you to move back. An evil pneuma rises from a man when he is ill.’

‘Philades, it is important that I talk to him as soon as possible. Every hour that passes makes things worse. Why do you suppose I brought you here?’

‘But, Excellence, I have explained all this to you. This man is very ill. It is doubtful that he would hear you, even if you spoke, and certainly he couldn’t answer you, though he is clearly better than he was. Even if he comes back to total consciousness he may never be the man that once he was. It is possible his wits will be disordered, or he’ll remain very weak. It will be a moon, at least, before we can be sure. I know you feel that you must speak to him, but surely there are other advisers to whom you can turn?’

‘Don’t you suppose that I’ve done everything I can?’ Marcus sounded grim. ‘I’ve told everyone I can think of who might be of use. The army, the town watch, the council – everyone! I’ve even had the passers-by brought in and questioned them for hours, in case they’d seen anything that might help us. But none of it has done the slightest good. It has been almost three days now, and there is still no news. I’m getting desperate. If anyone can help me, it is Libertus here. He sees things that other people don’t. He has a pattern-maker’s mind.’

So, this visit was not purely out of sympathy for me. Marcus had a problem, and that was why he’d come. I might have guessed as much, if I had not been thinking stupidly. It must be something serious, as well, for him to call in this expensive medicus.

They were still talking as if I wasn’t there. ‘But Excellence, even if he does come to himself, after this he will almost certainly need to rest in bed. A half a moon or more, at his age, probably. How can he do anything to help?’

‘I don’t expect him to do anything – I just want to hear his thoughts. I’ve exhausted every other possibility. So get him back to consciousness as soon as possible. That’s what I undertook to pay you for.’

My brain was working slowly, but I could think of nothing in the whole Roman world which was important enough to make him act like this. Curiosity did more for me than any potion could. I forced my eyelids open and half raised my head. ‘I am awake,’ I murmured, though it came out as a croak. ‘What is it, Excellence?’

He pushed past the medicus at once and came up to the bed. If I was carrying the seeds of plague he didn’t seem to care. He bent towards me, and I saw his face. It was as drawn and anxious as I’d ever known it. ‘Old friend, can you hear me? I am desperate. Talk to me, Libertus. You have got to help. It’s my wife, Julia, and my little son. They were with the wet nurse in the courtyard of the house the other day, while I was at an ordo meeting in the town. The nurse was sent into the kitchen for some cooked fruit for the boy, and when she came back with it she found they’d disappeared. Julia’s cloak and the child’s toy were lying on the ground, as if they’d been abandoned there in haste, but there was no message and none of the other slaves had seen them go. You must help me, Libertus. This was three days ago and no one’s seen them since.’

If it had been possible for me to sit bolt upright, I’m sure I would have done – if only out of sheer astonishment. ‘Disappeared? But that’s impossible!’ It came out as a cross between a croak and groan but at least it showed that I had understood and my patron was clearly gratified by this.

‘I know it is impossible, old friend,’ he said, moving closer to my side and speaking with careful emphasis, as though to a small child. Obviously he felt that in my current state of health I might have difficulty following what he said to me. ‘My house is full of slaves and door-keepers – who could get in unobserved, and how could they get out? And even if they managed that, wherever could they go? The house is in the open countryside and there were no unexpected visitors or passers-by all afternoon. Yet it seems that the impossible occurred. One minute Julia and the boy were sitting there, and the next they weren’t. I don’t know if it is sorcery or what – but there is no solution I can find. I’ve even been to see the augurers.’

Marcus had dealings with the omen-readers from the temple court as part of his public duties in the town, and this remark was rather a surprise. My patron was not in general a superstitious man: he made the proper sacrifices to the gods, of course, but he was no more likely than I am to base his hopes upon the shape of clouds or the flight of a flock of winter birds. It was an indication of how desperate he was.

‘And?’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘They were no help at all. Except that the chief priest did suggest that Jupiter might possibly have turned himself into a swan again and carried her away.’

‘You don’t believe that?’ I said cautiously. I was born a Celt and I have no special reverence for Roman gods, preferring the older deities of stone and hill, but it is not wise to be dismissive of their powers. One can never be too careful with divinities.

Marcus was clearly thinking something similar. ‘It seems so inexplicable in normal terms that I’m almost ready to suspect the gods. I’ve made propitiation, just in case. But on the whole, Libertus, I think there is a human hand at work.’

‘You’ve questioned everyone?’

He nodded. ‘I brought in everyone who visited the house that day, even people who were passing on the road, and of course I’ve questioned all the slaves. I even offered a reward for any information that would help. But – though I threatened my servants with a visit to the torturers if they lied – the story that I got from all of them was the same. No one had seen or noticed anything.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘It’s my wife and son, Libertus. You must help.’

To my alarm I realised that his voice was trembling, and for a moment I feared that he might forget himself and weep. That would have cost us both embarrassment. Roman patricians pride themselves on perfect self-control. If Marcus had broken down in front of me, he would later have been furious with us both.

‘I know you’ve got your villa slaves arranged in matching pairs,’ I said, as briskly as I could, hoping to divert his thoughts to practical matters. ‘I suppose you split them up to talk to them?’

‘Of course I did. It took me two full days.’ My patron had mastered his emotion now, and he used his ordinary tone. There was even a touch of his usual impatience, I was glad to note.

‘Two days?’ I echoed, more to give myself space to think than because I was surprised. In fact it was a wonder it was done so soon. Every Roman villa has a household full of slaves, and Marcus has got even more than most because of his system of arranging servants in neatly matching ‘pairs’ – similar in height, age and colouring.

It was a relatively new whim on Marcus’s part. Julia’s now-dead second husband had first adopted it in the big house in Corinium, which she had brought to my patron as a dowry when she wed. Marcus had been enormously impressed and had immediately begun to introduce it to his own establishments. So now almost all the villa staff were paired: not the garden and kitchen slaves, of course, nor the individuals with special expertise, like the secretary and the chief steward – but all the ordinary servants that visitors might see.

The system was an ostentatiously wasteful one, of course – that was the point of it – but it had advantages. It meant that no slave was ever likely to be on his own. Marcus was a fair master, and his slaves respected him – and they positively adored their mistress – but in any household, when a slave is unobserved, there are always temptations to idleness and even petty theft – a date, a fig, a sweetmeat or a sip of wine. But now there was always a watching pair of eyes and a potential wagging tongue: and because every servant had a witness as to where he’d been and what he’d said and done, it was easy to cross-check his movements.

‘You spoke to the gate-keepers, I suppose?’ I asked. ‘In case she went out of her own accord?’ There were several exits from the villa, through the orchard and the nymphaeum, as well as the main gates at the front and rear, but Marcus had guards on all of them these days.

‘Especially the gate-keepers. They have nothing to report. They would not have questioned it, of course, if they had seen their mistress pass – she is their owner, after all, and has a right to come and go. In fact, she often does command a carriage to go out visiting, and to give the child an airing too. The nurse advises it. Now that he is out of swaddling clothes and can move his limbs, she encourages fresh air and exercise. She even has a little cart for him – she says it hardens him and makes him strong. But they weren’t using it that afternoon – they had already been out in the morning, visiting a friend. Julia had an attendant with her and they came back as usual. After that they did not leave again. The gate-keepers are quite adamant on that.’

‘And none of them left his post? Not even for a moment?’

‘They swear that they did not. Even when I gave each of them a small . . . encouragement.’ He gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘Although you won’t approve of that, I know.’

I sighed. I knew what form such encouragement would take, and he was right – I was not in favour of such things. In my experience, a man who is under torture will often obligingly remember things that did not occur, merely in order to make the anguish stop. Useful for extorting false confessions, possibly, but not much help if one required the truth.

Marcus must have sensed what I was thinking, because he hurried on. ‘They were able to give me a full list of everyone who came and went that afternoon. There were not many visitors and they were just what you’d expect: a group of my clientes, seeking me, a cart bringing a delivery of olive oil, and an old woman who comes round selling herbs. But that was all.’

‘A cartload of olive oil?’ I said. I was envisaging how it might be possible to conceal a woman and child among the large amphorae on the cart. Particularly – though I did not voice the thought aloud – if the pair were conveniently rendered silent, limp and still. Drugged with poppy juice, for instance. Or dead.

The same thought had obviously struck my patron too. He shook his head. ‘The cart came to the rear gate as usual, and was unloaded by my own kitchen slaves – the oil was carried into the courtyard and poured into the storage vats.’ Like many country houses, Marcus’s villa had large amphorae set into the ground to store such things as oil and grain; the great pots kept them cool and safe from pests. ‘It was a dealer we have used for years, but I had him arrested yesterday, and they searched his yard and cart. There was absolutely nothing to be found. Of course, he protests his innocence – and anyway he was under observation all the time with my household servants coming in and out, taking linen to the fullers or fetching chickens from the farm. In the end we had to let him go. Of course, I had the oil vats searched at home.’ His voice was shaking with emotion again. ‘And the cesspits and the pond. In case.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’ He paused. ‘Libertus, they were flesh and blood. They can’t have vanished. They must be somewhere. Even if I am too late and they are . . .’ he couldn’t bring himself to say the word, and went on, ‘if they are not alive, I still want them found, so that I can give them proper burial. That’s why I need your help.’

‘And your clientes? You have questioned them?’

‘Of course. But they arrived together, and they stayed together in the ante-room. My slaves confirm it. And before you ask, they were escorted to the gate. It’s impossible to imagine how anyone could get in unobserved, let alone get out again, at the same time abducting Julia and the child.’ Marcus was getting heated, but then his manner changed. ‘But you are right, of course. It seems that somehow, someone has. I can only pray to all the gods my family are not suffering now.’

Any father would do his best, of course, in circumstances like this, but Marcus was unfashionably devoted to his wife and son. Most wealthy Romans saw their ladies as mere accoutrements, bringing wealth or power to the house, and of use for providing sons, as recommended by the state. But Marcus wore a lock of Julia’s hair inside a pocket pouch against his heart, even when he visited the baths. Citizens who did not know him well were sometimes tempted to murmur sniggering remarks behind their hands – though generally they did so only once, if Marcus ever got to hear of it.

Of course, he was more than usually fortunate in his choice. His marriage to the lovely Julia had been every Roman’s dream: a wealthy widow, accomplished, charming, beautiful, and – as it turned out – fertile as well. The baby, Marcellinus, was a healthy, sturdy lad. I have no children of my own and am no expert on such things, but Gwellia assures me that he has his father’s eyes, is already making sounds that might be words, can crawl prodigiously and is generally a miracle of forwardness. Marcus, of course, is sure that he has spawned a future senator at least, if not an emperor.

Never mind coming to a humble roundhouse to seek help – he would have gone to Dis and back for his wife and boy. And now not one, but both of them were gone. Marcus could have lost a limb with less regret.

‘Libertus, are you hearing me?’ My patron’s urgent voice recalled me to myself. I had allowed my thoughts to drift. I tried to haul myself upright and look awake, but the sudden effort was too much for me and I sank back on my pillows with a groan.

I could hear the sharp concern in Marcus’s voice. ‘Medicus, he’s drifting back to sleep. I cannot lose him now. Do something. Another clystering or bloodletting perhaps?’

That brought me back to consciousness at once. I’ve been subjected to cupping once or twice, and I am not an enthusiast for the experience. In my current weakened state, I felt, such procedures would finish me. I forced open my unwilling eyes again. ‘No need for that. I’m resting, that’s all. I can hear you, Excellence.’ I searched for some other, more intelligent remark to convince him that my mind was functioning, but all that came out was a burbling sound.

‘Excellence!’ It was the physician’s sing-song voice. ‘With due respect, you must not tire him out. The old man is clearly tougher than I thought he was, but you can see that he has had enough. If you weary him too much he will relapse, and I cannot answer for what might happen then. What this man needs is rest and nourishment. I will prepare some medicine for him. Sleep herbs perhaps to help him through the night, a compress of sweet cecily to hold the fever down, and feverfew to keep the sweats at bay. That way there is more chance that he’ll recuperate and be able to assist Your Excellence again.’

I felt a rush of helpless gratitude. I was aware of being extremely tired, and the effort of concentration was draining me. However, far from leaving me alone, Marcus was moving to kneel down by the bed. That was so amazing that it made me smile. I have never known my patron bend the knee to any man, even the provincial governor himself, yet here he was grovelling on my roundhouse floor. It was a sign, I thought vaguely, of how distraught he was and possibly of how unwell I’d been.

‘Libertus,’ he was saying urgently, ‘don’t you slip away as well.’

‘Don’t touch him, Excellence.’ The physician’s voice was sharp. ‘Forgive me, but you are getting far too close. There is still a chance of plague. I would be failing in my duties as a medicus if I did not beg you – require you – to move back.’

Even in my drowsy state I understood how dangerously daring that remark had been. I heard my patron give a shocked intake of breath, but – unwillingly – he did get to his feet. However, he could not let the matter pass without rebuke.

‘Medicus, you overstep the mark. You only came into my employ a couple of days ago,’ he grumbled. ‘The fact that I paid you handsomely to leave the service of the household where you were before does not give you the authority to speak to me like that. If there are orders to be given, I will issue them. Is that understood?’

A lesser man might have retreated and apologised, but the medicus was made of stronger stuff. ‘You have given me authority to protect your well-being,’ he said. ‘If you set a man to guard a town, you would call him a traitor if he failed to warn you of danger on his watch. I am merely doing the same thing for your health.’

Marcus snorted and I held my breath, expecting an outraged outburst, but there was none. My patron simply did what he was told and retreated to the safety of the fire.

‘I am grateful to you for your understanding, Excellence,’ the medicus was saying in that high-pitched voice of his. ‘What would the province do if you fell ill yourself? Now, you engaged me to bring the pavement-maker to himself again, and I have done so with some success so far. But, if you wish me to continue with the task, then we should leave him now. Not only for his own sake, but for yours as well. This roundhouse is a draughty, smoky place – and whereas he, as a Celt, is doubtless used to it, you, Excellence, are manifestly not. You have been continually coughing and your eyes are red. I recommend that you return at once to the comfort and warmth of your own home. I will keep my litter here, and follow you as soon as possible.’

Marcus grunted briefly in consent, and turned to Gwellia. . . .