The Rewards of Treachery

Book 20: A Libertus Mystery of Roman Britain

by Rosemary Rowe

Genres: Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

A stolen valuable is just the beginning of a trail of strange events Junio has to uncover in this skilfully plotted historical mystery set in 2nd century Britain.

Late summer, CE 198. With Glevum an uneasy place since the current Emperor seized power, and with rebel Celts still actively opposing Roman rule, tension remains as Caesar turns his attention to stamping out all remaining threats to his authority.

Junio, Libertus's adopted son, tries to be inconspicuous and focus on his workshop and growing family. This becomes difficult when Libertus's patron, Marcus Septimus, seeks Junio's advice about a valuable cloak-clasp which has disappeared - together with the jeweller who was repairing it.

Unwillingly dragged into investigating this, Junio finds himself faced with a string of murders, betrayal and revenge, and his own small son in dreadful jeopardy! What secret was the missing jeweller hiding? What danger lurks in the ill-omened cave? And what part does the mysterious Celtic visitor who suddenly appears play in this tale of treachery?

 

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Release date: April 4, 2023

Publisher: Severn House

Print pages: 277

Sample

ONE

Greetings, this is Junio again. You may remember me. I am Libertus’s adoptive son, and I have something to tell you. I’m not sure how to start, but Father always said if you want to tell a tale, start at the beginning. (Not that I have seen him for several years – not since he fled Glevum, following the death of his wife, under suspicion of having avenged himself on the one responsible.) And I suppose the beginning, from my point of view, would have been about a moon or so ago.

TWO

‘Citizen Junio, greetings!’ Marcus’s messenger had fastened the enclosure gate behind him, and turned towards me as he spoke, scarlet all over and bowing abjectly.

I frowned. There was something familiar about that voice. Then, as he straightened up again, I saw the freckles and recognized the face. ‘Letigines?’

‘Citizen Junio, you remember me?’

Slaves do not expect to be recalled by name, but in this case it wasn’t very difficult. ‘Letigines’ means Freckles – and he was covered with them from head to toe.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We’ve met before – in rather unhappy circumstances, I believe.’ He had been witness to some of the events which forced my father to leave town, though the boy had obviously risen in importance since. Back then, he was a mere humble household page – occasionally entrusted to deliver messages. Now he was a liveried courier, a much higher-status post. The voice had broken in the meantime, too. I said as much to him.

He flashed me a sheepish grin, but supressed it instantly, in favour of the serious face appropriate to his role. ‘I bring a message from His Excellence—’

‘So I understand,’ I interrupted. ‘Some trouble with a clasp? Tell me about it.’

He looked nonplussed. Messages are generally carried word for word, and he was not expecting to extemporize.

I offered him a prompt. ‘Something of value, belonging to your master, I presume?’

He shook his freckled head. ‘The lady Julia.’

I gave an inward groan. This put more pressure on me to attend the villa – Marcus would do anything to please his wife. To refuse his summons was always dangerous, but disobliging Julia made it doubly so. I turned to exchange a glance with Brianus, who had been standing close behind. But his attention was now engaged elsewhere.

Unseen by me, my eldest son had pottered from the house and was tugging at the slave’s tunic hem. (Carus was almost six and knew enough never to interrupt me if I was talking to a messenger or potential customer.) Brianus had bent down to listen to the boy, so I turned back to Freckle-face again.

‘The lady Julia?’ I repeated. ‘Part of the pattern of petty theft, perhaps?’ Maybe I should have paid more attention to that disappearing pork. ‘Or,’ I added daringly, ‘is it possible it has simply been mislaid?’ Julia was charming, but she could be scatterbrained.

Letigines did not smile. ‘This jewel did not go missing while it was in the house.’

Stolen at the baths or while visiting, perhaps? This was more alarming than I had supposed. People don’t steal from Marcus and his family as a rule – they have more concern for their future health. Supposing that they have a future! ‘No doubt it is a valuable thing?’

‘The mistress does have finer brooch pins, citizen. But this was her favourite. My master gave it to her years ago. He had it made for her when they were wed – inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels. Then perhaps a moon ago she broke the clasp off it – trying to pin a cloak that was too thick. She did not wish to have His Excellence involved – she felt he might be vexed that she’d been careless with his gift – so she sent to have it mended, ...

We live in troubled times, in any case, and that day had been especially troublesome. So troublesome that I’d shut the workshop early, leaving Tenuis, my apprentice-slave (a parting gift from my father), to sweep up and lock the doors. I was already not in the happiest of moods. I’d narrowly avoided a nasty argument with one of the chief magistrates of Glevum over a mosaic pavement for his house which I had finished earlier that day.

Very relieved to have finished it, as well. It wasn’t a stock pattern – I’ve become quite skilled with those. But this client had wanted a particular design: a Cave Canem in his entrance porch, based on his own horrid, ugly pooch. The space was irregularly shaped, so it was no easy task – especially with no proper model that I could base it on. However, he was prepared to pay – and very handsomely – so in the end I had attempted to create my own design.

I confess the results were not exactly what I’d hoped. I’d miscalculated somewhere, and what I first produced was a hump-backed creature, more like an outsized toad. The owner gave it a single, contemptuous look and insisted that I take it up again and produce a better one, otherwise he refused to pay at all. Meanwhile, he showed it to some visiting fellow councillors – thus ensuring not only that my reputation slumped, but that his expensive residence became immediately known, all round Glevum, as ‘the House of the Bulgy Dog’.

I could ill afford the bad publicity, far less to lose the handsome fee involved. Nor did I want to make a powerful enemy. So I’d spent several days removing it – a demanding task, when it was newly set – and still more days replacing it again. All unpaid, of course. The whole thing had cost me far more than it was worth.

Even then I was not very pleased with the result. The open mouth, which I’d meant to represent a snarl, looked much more like a yawn. But the client did accept it, and paid me what he owed.

That, at least, was a relief. But though I was glad to take home a bag of coins, it was less than half of what I might otherwise have earned. The whole thing was financially disastrous. Especially now there was to be an extra mouth to feed.

We already had three children (not counting one that died in infancy and another that had not survived the birth) and a fourth was on its way. Quite imminently now. So I was anxious to be home, although the sun was nowhere near about to set. There was some urgent building work I hadn’t done – largely thanks to the extra hours spent on that entrance hall! It was late September, so daylight hours were fairly long. I might just finish it tonight, if it stayed dry until dusk.

I was riding Arlina (an ancient mule which was another of my father’s parting gifts) and I tried to urge her to her fastest pace, so I could finish off my hut.

It was truly urgent, too. With my wife, Cilla, getting near her time, the extra room was a necessity – somewhere for the older three to sleep. They would need Brianus, our household slave, to be a guard at night – but as the master’s children I could hardly put them in the dyehouse, or in the slave-hut with the two serving boys. There was not much space in there, in any case.

There’s no room in our roundhouse either, in its present form. But I can’t extend it while we live in it, and building a whole new one is an enormous task. So, with the older children growing fast, I’d settled on what I thought was a useful compromise. Not that my wife was very much impressed.

‘Why bother with another Celtic sleeping hut? Your adoptive father might have been a Celt, but you’re not and nor am I. Thanks to him you are a Roman citizen, so if you are going to build again, why not a Roman style of house? I don’t mean a proper villa – nothing grand – just something small and solid, made of stone, that won’t let in the rain. How often have I seen you climb up to mend the thatch on this, or have to spend the day repairing walls?’

‘It would cost a huge amount,’ I said, and it was true. Stone was not the problem – with the workshop I have good contacts in the trade, and the local stuff is fairly soft so I could turn that quickly into building blocks. But hiring labour, even borrowed slaves, is apt to cost more money than we could afford. Especially after losing earnings on that wretched dog! Though I did not say that, of course.

Perhaps I should have done. Cilla was not easily deterred.

‘Expense, perhaps. But worth it, husband. And just think how pleasant it would be. We could have a little courtyard and a kitchen block, perhaps, and a nice atrium with separate rooms off it. You could do the floors yourself. That would impress your customers, as well. And don’t say they wouldn’t see it. You know how gossip spreads. With a house like that we could invite visitors to dine – a prospective councillor perhaps – and news would be round Glevum before you could say “M

ars”!’

She was right, of course – as ‘the bulgy dog’ had proved. But we had no spare money now, and I wasn’t to be swayed. ‘A roundhouse hut is easy, we can manage that ourselves – especially now that I have Tenuis to help.’ (That was specious, really. Tenuis was still too small to be a lot of use, and though he was willing, he had no experience. I did not have much, myself. Although my father had taught me what to do, I lacked his speed and skills – in this as so much else.) I glided over this. ‘A stone house would be costly, and you can’t build one yourself – especially not when you have a workshop to attend to – unless you are prepared for it to take you years. And our need is quite immediate.’

She humphed at that, and let the subject drop. But I knew I hadn’t heard the last of it.

The trouble was that there was much sense in what she said. Few Roman citizens live in roundhouses. My father had, of course – and he’d helped me to build mine, which was why I was particularly fond of it. But a Roman house would give me greater social dignity, and would undoubtedly improve our children’s chances too. Especially if I could show off the floors to a few important guests.

But that would have to wait. For now, I was just thankful to be coming home today with the full fee in my purse. It might not be the profit I’d been hoping for, but it was enough to afford some care for Cilla, if she required it now. At least the wisewoman to attend the birth, and perhaps even some nice, homely female slave to help with the newborn for a moon or two. We would have to accommodate her in the house, of course. Perhaps in the space where the children had been sleeping up till now.

Provided that I finished that new sleeping hut in time! I’d put the wicker framework up, and begun to thatch the roof, so all that remained was to finish doing that, then mix up the daub and fill the walls. It shouldn’t take above another half a day at most – supposing that the rain held off, I thought, as I turned the final corner to where my roundhouse lay. I was calculating whether I had enough cut reeds to finish off the roof when I saw Brianus darting out from the enclosure gate and runn

ing towards me up the muddy lane.

‘Master!’ he panted as he came up and bowed. ‘I saw you from the house. Thank Mars that you have come.’

I slid down from the mule and hitched her to the gate. I was damp and muddy, but I was at once concerned. ‘Is your mistress … suffering distress?’ (One doesn’t mention the mechanics of childbirth, even to a slave.)

‘Impatient and uncomfortable, that is all. Though I think her time is near.’ He peered anxiously in the direction I had come. ‘Tenuis is not with you?’

‘He stayed back in the shop. There was time for him to follow me, but he preferred – he said – to bed down there beside the fire. Did not relish walking home alone, in case he got caught in the forest after dark.’ Tenuis has grown a lot in size and confidence in the years since Father left, but he’s still a nervous soul. And at present there is plenty to be nervous of. The local garrison has been depleted recently (for disturbing reasons). And fewer troop patrols on unfrequented roads means more chance of thieves and bandits – to say nothing of the wolves and bears that roam the woods at night.

Brianus made a disapproving face. ‘A pity. I might have sent him for the wisewoman. I think it would be prudent to have her very soon.’

‘Well, I’m here now,’ I said, abandoning my building plans at once. ‘I’ll go for her myself.’

I was quite glad to be of help, since I happened to be available (unlike many Roman fathers who leave all that to slaves, even avoiding the house if possible). Not that I would be of any use whatever at the birth – Cilla knew what she was doing by this time anyway, and the wisewoman from the woods would take charge when she came. That, and her fee, had already been agreed, following the death of the infant last time round.

What I could do was

 supervise our three other little ones. Take them into the forest to gather nuts and herbs, perhaps. And kindling, if the ground was not too wet. (Strangely, it is often drier in the woods, where the trees are thick and the leaves have yet to fall. I know at least one thicket where the weather does not reach and there are several shallow caves and clefts cut in the limestone hills, where our forefathers dug out rocks to burn for lime – or even crush for seams of lead and silver, rumour says. Places one can hide until the rain has stopped. The worse of it, at least.) The children might even relish doing that.

Then, if the birth was mercifully quick, they could help me build the hut – mix the mud and straw and throw it at the walls. They would enjoy the mess, though I would not. Though by then it might be a dreadful rush to get it done. I might have to drape some capes around it, like a sort of tent, for now.

I wished, not for the first time, that Father was still here – and my adoptive mother too. Gwellia could take the children and let them help her bake, till the pains began in earnest. Then Father would tell stories until they fell asleep. That is what had happened at all successful births – but my parents and their cosy roundhouse were both gone. Last time round it had been difficult enough – though the stillbirth was all over before it had begun – but this time it was clearly up to me. At least, I thought, I had a sort of plan.

‘I’ll fetch the wisewoman,’ I said. ‘And I’ll take the children too, and find things for them to do while the private female business is going on. I’ll try and wear them out. If the birth is quick and simple, I’ll come back and do the hut. But, if necessary, they can sleep in Tenuis’s bedding space tonight, and I’ll stay there with them. You can sleep inside, and attend your mistress through the night. You’d best get back to her. Soothe her brow while I am gone and stand by to fetch and carry when the wisewoman arrives.’

(That was another change from Gwellia’s time. She always came in when things got critical. There’d been no need, in those days, to call on wisewomen – or anybody else.)

But Brianus did not hurry to obey. He looked so doubtful that it prompted me to add, ‘It’s only for a day or two at most, until the hut is done. Your mistress will be glad to have the children somewhere else, tonight. There’s little enough privacy in a roundhouse, at the best of times. But don’t fear to sleep inside. She may require your help.’

He bowed. ‘Obviously, master, I’d be honoured to oblige. And no doubt your other plans are good. But you are wanted. There have been messengers …’ He jerked his head towards the dyehouse, just inside the gate.

The dyehouse is a simple structure, round and thatched with reeds, with a fire in the middle where my wife boils up the ingredients for dyes, and colours yarn with them. (Some people do not bother with a chimney space, leaving the smoke to filter through the roof, but Father always said there was too much risk of conflagration from the sparks, and insisted on a central hole. And he should know: his workshop building nearly burned down once.) Like any roundhouse, it had no window-space, but the door was open, and I could see into the gloom. I was expecting nothing but a cauldron hanging on the hearth, but as I looked more closely I realized there was someone sitting in the shadows next to it.

A youngish fellow, squatting on the floor, greedily spooning something from a bowl. He wore a short tunic, so a slave, perhaps? But as he moved his arm again, it caught a beam of light, and I realized what uniform it was. A scarlet tunic with a cloak to match. The livery of the previous owner of this piece of land: Marcus Septimus Aurelius, ex-patron of my father, and one of the wealthiest men in all Britannia.

One of the most influential, too. Again! He had slipped from favour for a time, because of his connections to the first Imperial house. But after the dreadful upheaval of the last two years – when Clodius Albinus, the last ill-fated Governor of Britannia, had actually led his troops against the current Emperor – Septimius Severus was now firmly on the throne, and the succession settled.

(I have some private sympathy with Clodius. He was promised, in return for his support when Severus was fighting another pretender to the throne, that he would be next in line, and was actually given the title ‘Caesar of the West’. But only Clodius could believe that promise, Father used to say, because Severus has a healthy, living son. And sure enough, last year the son was named as heir – and Clodius was declared an

enemy of state. That left him little choice except to rebel. He put up a good fight too, but was defeated in the end – decapitated and his dead body spread out on the ground so Severus could trample on it with his horse. The resultant pieces were not even given decent burial, but thrown into the Rhone, along with the bodies of his murdered family.)

So now we had a new Provincial Governor, Virius Lupus. A quite deliberate choice. He had been humiliatingly defeated by Clodius once, in Gaul, as part of the revolt – so he had an especial interest in seeking out ‘traitorous’ supporters of his predecessor. Especially in garrison towns, like Glevum, where loyal legions had followed Clodius to Gaul (he was their overall commander, after all) and been part of Lupus’s defeat – with enthusiastic sympathizers in the populace.

It had changed Glevum. The disgraced detachment had been partially replaced, but the fort was under-strength, although very active on Lupus’s behalf. People had been executed or had simply disappeared – including two of our local councillors – among rumours that they’d been secretly denounced.

But it had all been good for Marcus, in the end. Those who were merely related to previous Emperors were, by comparison, no

threat. Indeed, Pertinax (a friend of Marcus’s who had once been Emperor) was now restored to the Imperial pantheon, and his supporters were in favour once again.

Meanwhile, normal citizens like me kept their opinions on Clodius to themselves, and concentrated on being anonymous and invisible.

‘Master?’ Brianus broke into my thoughts. ‘His Excellence has sent a messenger.’

‘Surely Marcus isn’t wanting me again?’ I puffed my cheeks out in a sigh. I did not want this now.

Even since my father fled the area, Marcus (who lives in a villa nearby) has turned his attention on to me. This can be welcome – as when it results in civic contracts for new mosaic floors – but less so when he calls upon me to resolve trivial problems at his country house. And things had been going missing over the last moon. He’d asked for my advice about it twice before.

I believe he thinks it a kind of compliment – a tribute to that old relationship – though it isn’t even that. He only asks in a symbolic way. None of the serious public matters which Father used to deal with so effectively. For which, I suppose, I should thank all the gods. I have enough to do. Marcus would not think of paying anyone – the invitation is supposed to be a privilege.

I said, ‘He wants to see me?’

My slave-boy nodded. ‘Urgently, it seems.’

‘What is it now? Another joint of pork has disappeared?’ If I were Marcus, I thought bitterly, I should interview the cook! But I dared not voice that, even to my slave. I sighed again. ‘With this birth impending, do you suppose I could refuse to go? I don’t imagine I can be the slightest …’ I tailed off as a thought occurred to me. ‘Wait a moment! Surely he did not tell that messenger to wait for me? He could not know I would be home so soon.’ I do not usually get home till after dusk.

Brianus shook a warning head at me. ‘He will know very shortly, master, when his slave returns to him. It is unfortunate. If you’d been a little later, the courier would have gone, and no one would have looked for you until tomorrow, as you say. But as it is … it’s my fault, I suppose … I offered him refreshment.’

He was so apologetic that I was moved to say, ‘As anybody would. It’s what your mistress would have ordered you to do, if she had not been occupied with other things.’

Brianus looked grateful, but he still felt the obligation to explain. ‘He had run here all the way, and he was out of breath. Just some homemade bread and cheese and water from the well. Dull pickings – but without bothering the mistress, it was all I could provide. I did not really expect him to accept – the villa feeds its servants very well – but he did so eagerly. You would think he hadn’t eaten for the day. Ah – and now he’s seen you.’

This was obviously true. The boy had dropped the crust of bread with which he had been scraping out the remnants of the cheese, and was scrambling to his feet. He brushed the breadcrumbs from his tunic, clearly embarrassed to be caught in the enjoyment of his snack. His face, which I could see as he moved out into the light, h

ad turned as scarlet as his uniform – all the more vivid against his bright ginger hair. He caught my glance and paused to give a sweeping bow, then started towards me down the enclosure path.

‘Oh, by all the gods!’ I muttered. ‘Now I suppose I can’t refuse to go. Though it could not be less convenient.’ (I don’t know how often I heard my father saying that!) ‘And probably just for another piece of missing meat! Marcus is the richest man for miles. He would hardly notice it.’

‘The matter does appear to be more serious this time,’ my slave replied, dropping his voice discreetly, though I had not lowered mine.

I stared at him. ‘You have heard the message?’ But, of course, he would have done – thinking to relay it to me later on.

‘There’s a piece of missing jewellery. Some problem with a clasp. A solid silver one, inlaid with gold and jewels and big enough to close a cloak. It had quite a value I believe.’

Certainly more serious than disappearing food. My status was improving! But now of all moments? Aloud I simply said, ‘Belonging to Marcus, I assume?’

Brianus raised his hands and shoulders in a shrug. ‘That, master, I can’t tell you. I did not ask, and the fellow did not say.But here he comes, himself. Better, perhaps, to question him direct?’