Enemies of the Empire

by Rosemary Rowe

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Libertus and Septimus come face to face with the criminal underworld of Roman Britain... Curiosity leads amateur sleuth Libertus into the dangerous world of fearless criminals in Enemies of the Empire, the seventh novel of Rosemary Rowe's Libertus series. The perfect read for fans of David Wishart and Lindsey Davis. 'Rowe is very good on the realities of Roman life... and there is a pleasing attention to detail... A deftly woven tale of patriots and intrigue' - Historical Novels Review It's AD 188, and the wild, forested outskirts of the Empire is the last place Libertus, freedman and pavement-maker, wants to visit. But he'd rather face a wolf or bear than an angry patron, so he agrees to accompany Marcus Septimus to the garrison town of Isca (now Caerleon in South Wales). Pausing at Venta, the two men realise they've stepped into a simmering cauldron of social unrest, where the Silures tribe, loyal to former chief Caractacus, seethes under Roman occupation. When Libertus spots a familiar figure, who seems desperate not to be recognised, curiosity gets the better of him. But his pursuit leads him down a dangerous path and into a murky world of racketeering, treason and murder... What readers are saying about Enemies of the Empire : 'Another first class Libertus yarn' 'She [Rowe] has managed to get so firmly into the mentality of this long ago period with such a vivid sense of humanity despite all the cultural differences' ' Fascinating details of Romano-British life and an intriguing mystery, tied firmly to its times'

Release date: April 11, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 308

Sample

‘A civic banquet in your honour, Excellence? Here in Venta? Tonight?’ I stared at my wealthy patron in dismay.

I had never wanted to come to this remote tribal civitas in the first place. Two days of jogging and jolting in a heavy carriage along military roads is a punishing experience for ageing bones (and at fifty my bones are already far more aged than most) even when every hoofbeat does not take you nearer to the wild, forested outskirts of the Empire, where not only are there the usual hazards of brigands, wolves and bears, but there is always the entertaining possibility of a rebel ambush and a disaffected Silurian sword through your vitals.

Besides, I had left a wife and slaves at home, to say nothing of a new and lucrative commission for a memorial pavement for a fountain at the baths, bequeathed in his own honour under the will of a recently departed wealthy local citizen and councillor. But when His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus – personal representative of the absent governor and my personal patron and protector – invites you to attend him on an official visit to the border legion at Isca, on the western frontier of the province, to say ‘I’m sorry, I’d prefer to stay at home’ is really not a possibility.

So here I was, draped in a wilting toga, travel-stained and sore. And we had not reached our destination yet, only a mansio – a military inn and staging post – at Venta Silurum, the local capital, with the prospect of another day’s travelling in view. ‘Tonight?’ I said again.

The last thing I wanted now was a wretched civic feast, where I would be expected to eat too much rich Roman food, drink too much Roman wine and endure not only eulogies about my host, but endless tributes to my patron too. And there would be tributes. Marcus is rumoured to be related to the Emperor and, until the new imperial governor arrives, is ruling this part of Britannia by depute. No dinner host would dare omit some appropriately fulsome homage as part of the after-dinner entertainment. It could go on for hours.

Marcus misinterpreted my anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, Libertus, my old friend, but I’m afraid the invitation was for me alone. I’ve been asked to accompany the chief magistrate and open the local assizes in the morning, too. It’s a bore, but it is an honour, naturally – lictors and processions, and all that sort of thing. Still, I’m not really expected to preside at any trials. There are no serious cases to be heard – nothing the local civitas authorities can’t handle perfectly. We should be able to set off again by noon. Till then, I’ll have to leave you at the mansio – no doubt our friend the optio here will take care of you.’

He nodded towards the youthful officer who was currently commanding this establishment: newly promoted by the look of him. His armour was so burnished it half dazzled you, and his dark hair was so severely cropped it looked like stubble corn. He was bristling with self-importance and eagerness to impress and was so overawed by my patron’s presence here that he had come in person to bring us the dinner invitation from the messenger, and was now waiting by the door for some reply, his round face screwed into an earnest frown.

At Marcus’s word he leapt towards us, almost tripping over his sandal-straps in his desire to help, ‘Of course, Excellence. I’ll have my cook prepare some food for this citizen at once . . .’

I flashed him my most ingratiating smile. ‘Just bread and cheese would please me very well,’ I said. I have eaten in a mansio before. There is always cold food for passing messengers, in a hurry to deliver the imperial post, and I wanted to avoid the stodgy bean and oatmeal stew on which the ordinary Roman army seems to march.

I need not have worried. The optio gave me a suspicious look and said, ‘There is also some roast pork with fennel that you can have. We were preparing for His Excellence’s coming.’

I nodded. A legionary soldier on the move has to prepare his own food, by and large, but in a mansio a common kitchen is the rule. No doubt the duty cook had done his best, expecting the arrival of the great, and I would be the one to profit by this effort at producing an exotic dish. I only hoped the cook was adequate. ‘That would be delightful,’ I replied, and was rewarded by a frosty smile.

‘In that case,’ Marcus said, rising to his feet and addressing the optio, ‘you may tell the messenger that I accept. I shall retire to the bath-house and prepare. You can send two of my personal slaves to attend me there.’ The young officer hurried off, and my patron turned to me. ‘Libertus, my old friend, I shall leave you to your meal.’ He extended a ringed hand for me to kiss. ‘It is unfortunate, but there it is. One must do one’s civic duty, after all.’

‘Of course, Excellence,’ I murmured, making a deep obeisance and trying not to smile. Marcus is a much younger man than I am, and born and bred to Roman ways. Given the choice between a mansio meal, however carefully prepared, and being guest of honour at a lavish feast with good wine and slaves and perfumed dancing girls, I knew where his preference would lie. The prospect of an official procession, with cheering spectators and all the pomp of office, would not displease him, either. However, I did have a little sympathy. I knew, better than he did perhaps, what it was like to be obliged to go where one would prefer not to be. ‘Don’t worry about me, Excellence. It’s been a tiring day.’

He patted my shoulder as he left the room. ‘And you’ll be glad to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight.’

It was not quite the truth, I thought, as I struggled to my feet when he had gone. Now that I had an hour or two of daylight to myself, I had perversely decided on a little expedition of my own. Silurian gold and silver is famous everywhere – beautiful beaten work in sinous Celtic shapes – and it occurred to me that this was a perfect opportunity to acquire a silver cloak clasp for my poor abandoned wife. I knew that she had always wanted one. She had been unhappy at my leaving on this trip, although she understood the need as well as anyone and had tried to hide her feelings with a smile.

‘Well, you will have to go, since Marcus wants you to, but I shall count the nights till you return again. It is such an inconvenient moment too, with that big commission for the fountain at the baths, and poor Junio with poison in his foot. I don’t like you travelling without a slave.’

Junio, my workshop apprentice-cum-personal slave, had stepped upon a piece of jagged glass: his foot had swollen very nastily and although he was improving rapidly, it was obvious that I would have to leave him at home. ‘Better if Junio stays here to mind the shop. He can produce some preliminary sketches for the memorial pavement, perhaps.’ I have been teaching Junio the trade, and he has a talent for it. ‘That way we can contrive to keep the contract for the job, and you can continue to treat his foot with herbs. If he recovers, get word to me and I will send for him. In the meantime, no doubt Marcus will provide me with a slave.’

And so he had. The lad was waiting for me in the anteroom, right now, with all the rest of Marcus’s retinue: Promptillius, a dough-faced fellow with a foolish smile, who doubtless did his best and spoke when spoken to, but a poor substitute for my own impudent Junio, who often seemed to know what I required even before I’d thought of it myself, and whose comments and sharp understanding were a joy.

I thought of sending for my borrowed servant when the optio returned, which he did a moment afterwards, but my doughy-faced attendant was already at his heels. However, being Promptillius, he offered no remark but simply stationed himself politely at my back – which I have always found an inconvenient place for slaves, since one has to twist round to talk to them. I had mentioned this fact to him several times, but to no avail. Promptillius had been trained since birth in Marcus’s house, and he invariably forgot.

I ignored him, and addressed myself to the optio, who was enquiring briskly when I wished to have my meal. Having expected to entertain the most important man in all of this part of Britannia, it had clearly injured his pride to find himself playing host to me instead – a mere pavement-maker, albeit one who had become a Roman citizen. Marcus had made no secret of my humble origins, or the fact that I had been captured as a slave and bequeathed my status on my master’s death, even while boasting of his cleverness in finding me and using me to help him solve some intractable crimes. He did not add that I’d saved him more than once from political embarrassment, or that I’d been asked to Isca now because the commander there had expressed an interest in meeting me, after I’d solved the murder of his predecessor.

As far as the optio was concerned I was obviously just an upstart tradesman, with a wealthy patron but no influence, whom it was his unpleasant duty to feed and entertain. If I wanted his co-operation in my plans, a little flattery was clearly needed here.

I gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘I will eat a little later on, I think,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘It will give your cook a little longer to prepare, and I had a trivial shopping trip in mind. Not something I could bother Marcus with, but I was wondering if you could give me some advice?’ It was a gamble, making such an overt appeal to his self-importance, but I saw him preen. I hurried on. ‘I was hoping to buy a silver dress-clasp for my wife. Perhaps you would care to join me in a glass of something, and tell me where I can find the best quality and at the lowest price?’ I indicated the stool opposite, the one on which Marcus had been sitting earlier. ‘A man like you, I’m sure you know the town.’

I saw him hesitate and then make up his mind. He thrust out his chest like a pigeon, took the stool, and shouted for the guard outside the door, who was soon dispatched to fetch two goblets and a jug of not-so-watered wine. Every mansio has a stock of such delights, available at a reasonable charge for the benefit of passing officers, and the optio’s collaboration more than merited this small expenditure.

‘Forum’s the best place if you want a bargain,’ he said confidentially, emptying his goblet at a gulp. ‘I could give you a guard to go with you if you like, but it might be better if you find your way alone.’

‘Better not to wear my toga, either, I suppose?’ As a citizen – particularly a citizen in Marcus’s retinue – I should have worn my formal garment in public at all times, according to the strict letter of the law, but for one thing it was travel-stained by now, and for another I hate wearing the cumbersome thing. ‘Gives the wrong impression, do you think?’

He laughed. ‘Any trader who sees you wearing that will immediately assume that you are rich, and raise his asking price accordingly,’ he said. ‘Same thing if they see you with a slave – especially one in a fancy uniform like that.’

I could see exactly what he meant. Traditionally only Celtic noblemen had slaves – usually from rival tribes taken as prisoners of war – and then only to do the hard work on the land, not to dance attendance on their personal whims. Marcus’s servants, on the other hand, were always handsomely attired, in scarlet tunics embroidered with gold, in case anyone should miss the fact that the owner had considerable wealth. ‘The Silurians don’t care for private pages, then?’

The optio grunted. ‘Here in Venta, in particular, where Romans are never very welcome anyway. Still think they’re heirs to old Caractacus, some of them.’

I nodded. Caractacus was the legendary chief who held this area and led a spirited resistance to Roman rule for years. He had been defeated a century ago, but it is well known throughout Britannia that there are still Silurians who have never wholly accepted the occupying force. There were rumours of occasional frontier skirmishes even now. ‘Still trouble?’

‘More than we admit.’ My new friend was getting expansive now. ‘And not just beyond the border, as people seem to think. Sometimes you see captured Roman helmets openly on sale here in the marketplace, and there are places in the town where it’s not wholly safe for us to go, especially after dark. One of my soldiers disobeyed my orders once, went to a tavern on the wrong side of town and was attacked. Stripped of everything he had, even his weapon, and was lucky to get out of it alive. We had to hush it up. Even the town watch patrols in groups. Though it’s not only us – the most violent incidents occur between the rival tribes themselves, though we try to ignore them when we can. No point in making a tense situation worse.’ He sighed. ‘But that’s not your concern. You go in your cloak and under-tunic, and you should be all right. You may not have red hair like the locals but you are fairly obviously a Celt, even if you’re from another tribe. Say you are a freeman-trader come from Glevum, which is true. Just don’t tell them you’re a Roman citizen. They’ll make a point of cheating you, if they think you’re one of us.’

I nodded slowly, as if considering this, though I had come to much the same conclusion for myself. ‘As long as Marcus never hears of it. I am a member of his party and his official guest. He might think my wandering around the marketplace, incorrectly dressed, was insulting to his personal dignity.’

The optio dropped one eye in a wink. ‘No one but you and I need know that you have gone – and the man on duty at the gate, of course. I’ll tell him to let you in again. It shouldn’t take you long. Take your attendant to keep an eye on you, but keep him at a distance if you can. You don’t want to advertise your wealth. Go straight to the forum: you’ll find good silver there and in the first street just past it on your right. Though you should hurry. It will be dusk soon and the silver stalls will close up for the night.’

I thanked him fulsomely, and – seeing that the wine jug was quite empty now – took his advice and hurried off, through the front gate, past the guard and out into the street, with Promptillius lurking at my heels. Venta is a local tribal capital, and – despite what the optio had said about unrest – was clearly built on the Roman model, though on a modest scale. It was not hard to see which paved road led into the centre of the town, and I passed along a grid of criss-crossed streets and into the little forum with its large basilica. The colonnaded market square was busy, even in the late hours of the afternoon, and I had to fight my way through thronging townsfolk, carrying their dinners and shouting their wares, and pedlars spreading their offerings on the pavement fronts. Already, as a stranger, I was drawing curious looks.

There was a silver stall, as the optio had said, but I could not find exactly what I wanted there, and the stall-holder’s eyes kept drifting to my slave. My own attendant, Junio, in circumstances like these would have melded with the crowd, but Promptillius succeeded in looking so conspicuous that in the end I lost patience with him. ‘You see that corner by the pastry shop? Stand there and wait till I come back, otherwise my clasp will cost me twice the price. Don’t move until I tell you, do you hear?’

He nodded, glumly, and took up his post – looking like a sentry at a gate – while I went off to find the street of silversmiths, dressed in a modest under-tunic and cloak and without the encumbrance of an attendant slave. The best way to find a bargain, I was sure.

So there I was, in Venta, in the growing dusk, examining the silver dress-clasps on a stall and haggling happily with the vendor over the price, when I looked up and saw a dead man walking down the street.

Not merely a dead man, but the very one I was commissioned to create a memorial pavement for.

In any other circumstances, I might have thought I was mistaken and made no more of it. Gaius Flaminius Plautus was a common enough type: short, stocky and muscular with greying reddish hair and a round and equally reddish face. Scores of men look very much like that, especially in this tribal area, and this individual was dressed in a cloak and tunic of a dingy browny-green – the commonest and cheapest of all dyes. But Plautus had one identifying mark, a jagged, livid scar across his face, the result of some childhood accident. The face I saw now was disfigured by the selfsame scar.

Besides, it was clear that the man had recognised me too, and was as shocked as I was at the encounter. I have never seen such a picture of dismay. He turned deathly pale, then quickly pulled up his hood as if to hide his face and, averting that identifying scar, turned on his heel and scurried off into an alleyway nearby.

I stood for a moment, debating what to do. I almost wondered for an instant if I had seen a ghost. For how could there be doubt that Plautus had been dead? I had attended his funeral myself.

I had seen him buried – or what was left of him after he was cremated on a pyre – in an elaborate marble house-tomb prominently positioned by the road outside the North Gate of Glevum. I had personally admired his funeral chest (marble and intricately carved) and the piles of grave goods which were incinerated with his bones. It was all done properly, as befitted a rich man who had made a fortune importing olive oil – no question of omitting any ritual, so that the soul was restless afterwards. I watched as one of his fingers was chopped off and buried separately (making the token burial in the earth); listened to his eldest son Maximus give an impassioned speech; comforted his widow as she sobbed becomingly behind her veil; and even tipped the sorrowing slaves who had accompanied the funeral litter to the pyre. There had been a splendid feast, provided by his will, together with a day of commemorative games. The whole town talked about it for a week. It was the kind of send-off any Roman citizen would want.

And Plautus was very much a Roman citizen – it was the thing about him I remembered most. Not that he was born that way, of course: like me, he was a Celt who had come to that distinction late in life. But he’d embraced things Roman with a greedy glee. Indeed, it was a joke among the forum wits that Plautus was more Roman than most visitors from Rome, all of whom, when possible, he sought out and entertained.

I thought about the man I had known. The very picture of respectability. So socially conventional that he was slightly dull. He cultivated Roman habits, ate only Roman dishes and drank Roman wine, spoke Latin with more polish than any other Celt I ever met, and dressed in a formal toga at all times.

So ostentatiously Roman were his habits that he’d been something of a legend in the town. Indeed, the man seated next to me at that elaborate funeral feast was full of little witticisms at the dead man’s expense: how he very seldom laughed, unless the joke was patiently explained; and how Plautus’s town-house was exactly like his wife – built on the Roman pattern, tall, substantial, over-ornamented and expensive to maintain.

‘Of course, our Plautus gained his citizenship the expensive way, by honourable service to the Empire,’ I remembered my informant saying, with a laugh – meaning that our dead host had used a portion of his wealth either to grant favours to the Emperor direct, or to grease some consul’s greedy senatorial palm. ‘The same way he got himself elected to the ordo afterwards. Well, I hope he enjoyed the honour while he lived. He paid enough for it. Now, where’s that slave-boy? I want a bit more of that splendid wine.’

There’d been some justice in that, I thought, remembering his words. Plautus had made a reputation for himself on the municipal council by saying very little and spending quite a lot – a vote-winning combination, since every councillor is expected to fund public works out of his private purse. Plautus had funded a good many public works.

He must have had considerable wealth. Even after his unfortunate demise – or what had seemed at the time to be his demise – crushed by falling masonry while inspecting the progress of his own new colonnade, he had still left a substantial sum, both to his widow and to the town. The words ‘A much-mourned benefactor of Glevum’ had been inscribed upon his monument at his own expense, and there was even talk of the wine-importers setting up a statue in his memory. A life of boredom and unexceptional success.

Not at all the sort of man you would expect to find scuttling down alleyways in Venta, dressed in a shabby tunic – even when alive.

I must have imagined it, I told myself. It had been a long day and I was tired. It was impossible that Plautus should be here. It is said that vengeful spirits return to walk the earth, so perhaps they do, but I could see no reason why his shade should come to haunt me, in particular. He owed me no ill-will. Of course, I had done some work for him before, a little pavement in his country house, but he had been very pleased with that – so pleased that his family had chosen me to design that memorial mosaic at the baths. I shook my head. Too much of the mansio’s watered wine, perhaps, although I had been careful not to over-indulge.

I looked back to the silver stall, resolving to conclude my purchase and then collect Promptillius and go back to the inn – but, as I turned, there was Plautus again, peeping at me round the corner of a wall. He drew back sharply, but I had seen his face. There could be no doubt now. No phantom has to turn and scuttle off like that. This was Plautus and he was very much alive.

I should have known better. I am getting old and I have run into enough difficulties in the past, investigating matters at my patron’s instigation, without setting myself unnecessary problems of my own. But I can never resist a puzzle and anyway, I told myself, this was a matter of professional concern. I could not build a memorial pavement for a man who wasn’t dead.

I dropped the dress-clasp that I’d been haggling for – leaving the stall-holder gaping like a fish – and set off across the forum in pursuit. I skirted nimbly round the stalls and down the street, until I reached the alleyway where I’d seen Plautus go.

Even then, I might have left it there. The alley was a very long and narrow one and my quarry had already vanished out of sight. But then there was a movement in a doorway halfway down and there was the man again, or at least his head. Then, obviously realising that he had been seen, he dashed out of the aperture and down towards a narrow opening at the far end of the alley.

I set off after him again, with a growing feeling of having been misused. If Plautus was not dead, what was he doing here? And – it suddenly occurred to me – if he was alive, whom had we been so mournfully burying at his funeral? Of course, the corpse was wrapped from head to foot, in deference to that crushing accident, but somebody had been the centre of all those rituals. I knew that from the cremation pyre if nothing else. Burning human flesh has a distinctive smell.

With all this in my mind, I hurried after him, down to the opening which I’d observed before, and was just in time to see him hastening along it, almost at the other end by now. ‘Plautus?’ I shouted. ‘Wait! I want to talk to you.’

He did not look back, just pulled his cloak about him and began to run even faster.

From what I had seen of Venta Silurum to this point, even the main streets are barely wide enough to take a laden cart. So you can imagine that the alleyways were small. The one along which Plautus had now disappeared was so very narrow that it was difficult to get down it at all – it seemed to be merely a gutter for the eavesdrip from the overhanging roofs, and a rubbish dump for kitchen waste from premises nearby.

From the smell, I guessed that rainwater was not the only thing that ran along the drain. Even in fine cities like Glevum households and businesses often use adjoining alleyways to empty piss-pots in, so it was not really a surprise to find that the same thing happened here in Venta too. This alley was particularly odorous, perhaps because it ran alongside what was obviously a fuller’s shop, where clothes were cleaned and dyed. Such businesses use human urine in their trade, for treatment of the cloth, and will sometimes set up collection pots in public places for the purpose, or have a contract with larger. . .