Price of Freedom, The

By Rosemary Rowe

The death of a local tax-collector spells trouble for Libertus in this compelling historical mystery.

Having been inveigled into standing for the local curia, responsible for the submission of all local tax, Libertus discovers that any shortfall must be made good by the councillors themselves. So when news arrives that a tax-collector from a nearby outpost has committed suicide, having gambled everything away, Libertus is despatched to make enquiries, in the hope of recovering at least some of the missing revenue. He has also been asked to attend a wedding, in place of his patron, who is expecting a visit from an Imperial Legate.

But the assignment which should have seen Libertus for once treated as an honoured guest begins to take grisly and unexpected turns. As he pieces together the unlikely truth, Libertus finds himself in mortal danger. Freedom, in all forms, is only relative ? but there is a high price for it, sometimes paid in blood ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781780109329

Rosemary Rowe

Rosemary Rowe also writes historical romances under her married name Rosemary Aitken. She has now resettled in her native Cornwall after having lived first in New Zealand for twenty years, and then for even longer in Gloucestershire where this series is set.

Book preview

ONE

It was a distinction I could have done without. In fact, I have carefully resisted nomination to the town council over several years, on a number of occasions and on a variety of excuses.

But when my patron, Marcus Aurelius Septimus – the senior local magistrate and one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in all Britannia – decides on something that he wishes you to do, in the end it is folly to resist. Especially when he seems to feel that he is offering a favour, and makes it clear that he’ll be affronted if you don’t accept.

I finally succumbed the evening he invited me to dine – though even then it was more or less an accident. Perhaps I was too dazzled by the occasion to be fully on my guard, though I should have suspected his motives from the start. Being asked to feast with Marcus at his country house is a signal compliment for any citizen, and for a mere Celtic tradesman like myself it was absurdly flattering – it had happened only rarely in all the years since I’d become his cliens, and then it was either because he needed me (usually as a witness or something similar) or because there was a huge public banquet, where I had the lowest seat.

This time, however (according to the courier page who brought the message to my roundhouse door) it was a private feast, arranged on sudden impulse in honour of a distinguished visitor who had arranged to call. It would be held the very evening this personage arrived – which was to be the next day following – and I was one of a small and specially selected group. Furthermore, I was confidentially assured, I was to be seated on the left hand of my host, ‘in recognition of recent services’ – the second highest couch position in the room. It was an unlooked for honour and – naturally – had the desired effect.

I was ridiculously pleased (I must be credulous!). I sent my acceptance back by the same messenger, and duly presented myself on the appointed night, dressed in my best toga, and scrubbed and barbered by my slave-boys to within an inch of death – this on the orders of my dear wife, Gwellia, who was in a state of high excitement even greater than my own.

She even wrapped my warmest cloak around me, as I left, with her own two hands, sending my attendant servant – whose job that should have been – to fetch and fuel the little oil-lamp we would use to light us home. ‘Now, husband, don’t be later than courtesy demands! It is threatening to be frosty later on, and you know how Marcus’s feasts can linger on!’

I nodded. Gwellia was always fussing over me, but I had come to the same conclusion for myself, however unconvivial an early exit might appear. It was almost Saturnalia and the nights were dark and cold, so – though Marcus’s country residence was not half-a-mile away – at this time of year returning to my roundhouse would be a daunting walk, on a chilly forest lane when there might be wolves about. Any of Marcus’s visitors would understand at once, though my host was apt to be lofty about such trifling concerns.

Even he, though, had shown unusual thoughtfulness today. He was not offering me accommodation overnight, of course – as he always did with visitors of higher rank, or with further to travel in the dark – but he had arranged for one of these more privileged diners to send his private litter back (after it had delivered its owner at the feast) to transport me to the villa while there was still sufficient light. Not home again, obviously – by that time it would be too dark for the bearer-slaves to see – but the arrangement would save me half the walk and I accepted gratefully.

It meant, moreover, that I could wear my toga there, instead of having to put it on when I arrived. That would have been impractical if I’d been on foot. The unwieldy garment is not designed for lengthy walks in wind and rain, least of all on aging citizens like me. Mine always threatens to unwind itself at the least exertion – to say nothing of what the muddy winter track would have done to my newly-laundered hems.

So I arrived at the villa gates in style, in a handsome curtained litter borne at a brisk trot by four handsome boys in scarlet uniforms – with my poor slave, Minimus, swaddled in a cloak and padding after them – exactly as if I were a wealthy man myself. The gatekeeper (a burly giant whom I vaguely knew) flung the gates open at once and waved us grandly through. I decided that he hadn’t realised it was me!

Dismounting at the front door of the house, I was met with similar elaborate and unaccustomed courtesy. Practised hands relieved me of my cloak, a dining-wreath of flowers was pressed onto my brow, my little slave was taken off to the servants’ quarters for entertainment and his own repast while I was shown at once into the atrium. A tow-headed young man in a similar wreath and pale green synthesis – that useful combination of tunic and toga which the Romans often favour for dining-purposes – was there before me, seated on a stool and nibbling delicately at a plate of sugared plums.

He looked up as I approached and waved a sweetmeat at me. ‘Citizen Libertus! Greetings! How good to see you here!’ He patted a vacant stool beside him. ‘You found my litter and bearers satisfactory, I trust?’

I beamed. So this was the man I had to thank!

‘Quite excellent, Titus Flavius,’ I replied, with genuine pleasure as I took the proffered seat. ‘Thank you for making them available.’ I had other reasons to be grateful to Titus Flavius: a year or two ago, when I’d found myself facing an impromptu court of curial magistrates – accused of a wholly imaginary crime – he was the only councillor who listened to my pleas and spoke in my defence. I knew that he had prospered, but I had not seen him since, though in his careless but flamboyant way (how can a man look slightly dishevelled in a brand-new synthesis?) he seemed in splendid health. I murmured something civil to that general effect.

He nodded. ‘Marcus has been very welcoming – even permitted me to share his bathhouse when I came. We had a long talk while we were being oiled and strigiled clean. Very entertaining. He’s getting changed for dinner, now. He won’t be very long.’

I gave an inward grin. Marcus, like any wealthy Roman, always left his visitors to wait a little before he deigned to come – how long, depended on the relative importance of his guests. Not that any other diners seemed to have arrived, which was unwise of them, I thought: Marcus was almost certain to be displeased that they were late.

It was not necessarily deliberate, of course: when the sun is covered by thick winter cloud, it is very difficult to judge the hour of day, and no host would ever be specific as to time, in any case. Not everybody has a water clock, and hour-candles are notoriously vague. But, for whatever reason, it seemed the other guests had not arrived, and though a servant was already taking off my sandals so he could rinse my feet – although having come by litter they hardly needed it – there might be quite a pause before we all went in to dine.

As if in answer to this unspoken thought, a slave appeared from nowhere with a plate of plums for me. I took one, gingerly. Sugared plums are a delicacy, of course – replacing the more customary figs or dates – but Marcus’s feasts are famous for the variety and richness of the food, and I did not wish to dull my appetite. Besides the things are rather difficult to eat. (I was right to be cautious, honey-crystals cascaded down my toga-front, but the plum was so delicious that I found myself reaching for another, nonetheless.)

Titus gave me a conspiratorial smile as I attempted to brush the crumbs away. He waggled his broad fingers to signal to the slave, who instantly appeared with water and bowl to wash our sticky hands, while Titus spoke above his head, as if he wasn’t there. ‘Excellent, aren’t they, citizen, those plums? I don’t know how his cook-slave manages these things. Makes one look forward to what else may lie in store!’

I nodded, my mouth too full of sweetened fruit to speak. When I’d swallowed, I managed to reply. ‘Do you know who else is joining us?’

He looked so startled that I was surprised myself. ‘But, citizen, surely there are just the two of us? Did Marcus not explain as much to you?’

‘Not in so many words,’ I answered. ‘But, on reflection, I should have understood.’

Now, of course, I understood too well. Having the second highest guest-position in the room is not so great a compliment when there are only two of you. On the other hand, it was an honour to be here at all, in the company of a citizen of rank, and Marcus had taken some trouble to supply the honey-crusted fruits. I took another one. I was clearly going to earn it, later on – I was not invited for the pleasure of my company, or to make up numbers as I’d originally supposed. That was obvious. I was here for a purpose. But what, I wondered, did my patron want me for?

Titus seemed to realise that I was mystified. ‘You’ve heard the dreadful news about the curia, I suppose?’

For a moment I did not take it in. Council matters did not affect me very much, but there were often scandals – somebody had taken a bribe too openly, or one of the magistrates had been notably unjust. I was about to shake my head, more interested in my plum than gossip from the town, but then the implication dawned on me. My patron had often called upon me in the past to help him find the truth behind unfortunate events, which might otherwise have been embarrassing to his role as magistrate. Well, I thought wryly, now I knew what I was doing here. There was doubtless another such assignment awaiting me: some investigation into the curia which would keep me from my pavement-making trade, and which Marcus would expect me to be honoured to accept. (It never occurs to him that I have family to support.)

Trying not to sound depressed, I said, politely ‘News?’

‘Serious news!’ he told me, convincing me that I was right in my surmise. ‘It has not been generally announced, though it happened days ago, but – between the two of us – there’s been an accident and several of the councillors were killed.’

Between the two of us? There were at least a half-a-dozen servants in the room, waiting with towels and bowls of water, or trays of drinking goblets and jugs of watered wine. Titus, like any Roman, seemed not to consider that slaves were sentient, with the use of ears and tongues. But it was too late now – they had heard what he had said, and I was playing at being an important Roman visitor myself. ‘Only perhaps it was not an accident?’ I prompted, taking another sugared sweetmeat as an advance reward.

He stared at me. ‘Oh, on the contrary, there is no doubt of that. The curia were invited back to dine at the town house of the Priest of Mercury, when a brazier got knocked over in the kitchen-block, it overturned an amphora of olive oil it seems, and there was a dreadful fire.’

I had not visited the house, but I knew where it was, and had heard its fine appointments spoken of – an expansive and expensive residence, close to the eastern gate, with private courtyard garden at the front and stables to the rear. There was even an impressive fountain just within the gates, which could be glimpsed when they were opened to admit a guest. All paid for by a wealthy marriage, people said – though the Priest of Mercury came from no mean family himself.

And now there’d been a fire. I had not heard the news – I had been very busy for the last half-moon and had not time to listen to the gossip of the colonia – though I thought that I could guess what caused the blaze. Conflagration is always a hazard in any town, but those who do not pay their fire-guild dues are apt to find their premises at more than usual risk – sometimes even appearing to spontaneously combust! Even the wealthy do not seem exempt.

‘He wasn’t a member of the fire guild?’ I enquired, hoping Marcus didn’t want me to investigate the guild. (I paid my own subscriptions to them regularly, of course – but I know what it is to have a fire. The upper storey of my premises was once badly damaged in a blaze, which is why I no longer live above the shop but have moved to my present roundhouse, several miles from town. On that occasion it was certainly an accident, but I did not want it happening again just because I’d managed to irritate the guild.)

Titus Flavius raised a brow at me. ‘Silvanus? Oh he’s a wily fellow, he belonged all right. The guild brought buckets, and fought to quell the blaze – there is a fountain in the courtyard, as perhaps you know – and the slaves pulled down the stable-thatch before the fire could spread to that. But several of the bedrooms round the courtyard caught alight – there was a wind that fanned the flames. The wooden window-shutters and hangings went roaring up, and with the beds and bedding, the wing was an inferno in no time at all and the whole house filled with smoke. People had to grope to find the exit route, and it was almost impossible to breathe. Most of the guests and the priest himself escaped, but it was dark of course and in the commotion it was not clear if everyone was out.’

I could see where this was leading. ‘And not everybody was?’

He shook his head. ‘Several of the Priest’s most valuable slaves were lost – all the kitchen staff, we realised that at once – the fire was so intense that some of the servants’ corpses were reduced to ash and never found. But when it was safe to go inside again, the bodies of three senior councillors were discovered, in a passageway.’

‘In suspicious circumstances?’ I ventured, and added, as he looked at me appalled, ‘since those corpses were recognisable and not consumed by fire?’

‘Hardly suspicious. They weren’t burned, it is true, but they had obviously been overcome by fumes. All three were elderly, and could not move as quickly as the rest of us. It seems they must have turned the wrong way in the smoke. The priest’s chief steward realised they weren’t with us, when we reached the street, and he went back to look for them – but died in the attempt. His body was discovered not very far from theirs, though it seems he was less fortunate and had been badly burned. It was only his rings and slave disc which told us who it was. Poor fellow, he had been saving for his slave price too.’

I blinked at him. ‘You speak of us – so you were there yourself?’

‘Oh indeed,’ he answered. ‘Did I not explain? Most senior members of the curia were there, discussing how we might fill the current vacancies – we’d already lost four members from ill health and death this year. So this event has been a dreadful blow. Glevum council has only fifty seats – unlike some larger cities which have the full hundred, just like Rome – but we were already several members short, and this has made it worse.’ He turned his attention to the fruits again – so as not to have to look at me, I guessed. ‘Marcus is very anxious to make up the list. As senior magistrate it’s his responsibility.’

‘Oh ho!’ I muttered. Suddenly this was beginning to make dreadful sense. ‘Surely he doesn’t hope that I am going to stand? I’ve had this conversation with him several times before. I don’t have the necessary size of property in town, I’m not a wealthy man, I’ve been a slave and I’m not of Roman birth – let alone patrician lineage. I lack every qualification.’

Titus selected another sugared plum and grinned at me. ‘Would you not be willing? We could do with men like you. You are intelligent and honest, you are a citizen, and as for servitude – you were a Celtic nobleman by birth, I understand. Strictly it is being born a slave which is the bar. And the property requirement is easily arranged, Marcus has a flat in mind for you, I think. It was confiscated from another councillor, so it clearly qualifies. It would be gifted to you as a present while you lived – and revert to your patron afterwards. It’s very well-appointed and luxurious, I believe, and the furniture is in it, so there won’t be that to find.’

I knew the town apartment that he meant. Marcus had suggested the self-same thing to me before. The place was luxurious all right – intended to impress – and had belonged to a man who committed suicide.

‘But I don’t want to be a councillor,’ I said. ‘It always surprises me that some men are so keen, since the council is responsible for tax.’ Responsible, in the sense that local centres are required by law to send due tax to Rome, and more to the local garrison for its maintenance. Usually, of course, that means collecting it, and there are tax collectors charged with doing so, but if that fails – as has famously happened once or twice elsewhere – the councillors themselves are personally liable. ‘I don’t have the money to agree to that.’

Titus waved a cheerfully dismissive hand. ‘Oh, Marcus would indemnify you, I am sure. You could make that a condition of his nominating you. In fact. he suggested that very thing himself. And for once, I do agree with him. The curia needs people of your calibre – it’s too full of men who simply want the fame or – worse – hope to profit from awarding contracts here and there.’

I nodded gloomily. Bribing officials is against the law, of course, and if money changes hands it is discreetly done, but everybody knows that gifts and favours are frequently required before a valuable civic commission can be won. ‘You and Marcus have obviously worked it neatly out,’ I said. ‘But Titus, I know nothing of such things – and I don’t want to know. I’m just a humble workman with a trade to ply. I’ve never held a public office in my life. Everyone knows that. Even if Marcus did suggest my name, I can’t imagine that it would have much support.’

Titus signalled for the slave to bring the towel again, and beckoned to the boy who held the jug of pre-prandial watered wine. ‘My dear Libertus, you are an innocent. You really don’t know anything about the council, do you? If you were his nominee you could hardly fail.’ He held his fingers out to have them washed again. ‘If the Emperor Caligula could once have his horse created senator, don’t you think Marcus could get you onto the curia?’

I frowned. ‘Is it true about Caligula? I’ve heard it said, of course.’

Titus made a wry face. ‘Who knows the truth? But that’s what rumour says – and I, for one, don’t doubt the principle. If you are Emperor you can do as you please.’

‘Whereas the rest of us—’ I gave him a dark look – ‘can only do what our superiors ask us to? But I can’t agree to this – if anything happened to Marcus, which the gods forbid, I would be stuck with it, and ruined. Once you’re on the council, you have to serve for life. It’s worse than slavery – at least a slave can hope to buy his freedom in the end. It’s not like being an Imperial Servir for a year or having a joint position like a duumvir …’

I looked at him for some response but he made none at all, though he obviously knew exactly what I meant. Only the Imperial priesthood and the dual municipal magistracy are annual posts – though even they can lead to a seat on the curia later on.

‘Not like a Servir or a duumvir? Well, Libertus, my old friend, that’s most convenient,’ Marcus’s voice came booming from the door, sending me leaping from my stool to offer him a bow. He laughed. The shock he’d caused me was deliberate of course – a man like Marcus never usually enters unannounced. He looked magnificent, handsome as ever in a yellow dining-robe, the gold embroidered bands around the hem subtly echoing his handsome torc and rings, though the blond curls beneath the dining-wreath were these days touched with grey.

To my astonishment he approached me first – though I was the lesser ranking of the guests – extending his right hand for me to kiss. But as I bowed to touch his seal-ring with my lips (full kneeling obeisance is not required when one is a dinner guest) I saw him glance at Titus with a wink, and began to wonder if my patron had been nearby all along, listening and awaiting his moment to appear.

His next words confirmed it. ‘It happens that the post of duumvir is what I had in mind. One of the current pair has unfortunately perished in a fire – Titus no doubt mentioned the affair – and a replacement is needed urgently.’ He turned to Titus. ‘Titus, my friend, you have done splendidly. You may tell the curia tomorrow that I’ve found a candidate. Libertus Flavius Severus will stand.’ He beamed at both of us. ‘Now, that’s enough of business. Shall we go and dine?’

TWO

It was a splendid dinner – or it should have been. Marcus had taken considerable pains to serve food that I enjoyed – an appetiser of curd cheese and nuts and eggs, and choice of main dishes which included simple things, like braised pork and leek, or chicken with white carrots in red wine and cumin sauce. None of the dormice or partridge tongues which I have known him serve at public banquets, no showy sow’s udders or stuffed peacock’s brains. Everything was cut into small portions, too, so that it was easy to pick up with the fingertips and there was no need for a scissor-slave to attend and carve things on the spot – though Marcus had one, as I knew from former feasts.

Furthermore, his beloved liquifrumen (that Roman sauce of fermented anchovies, which I heartily detest and which he has created for him to a personal recipe) had not been added to every dish beforehand, but was offered separately in a jug. There was no doubt that I’d been treated like an honoured guest in this.

As it was, however, I scarcely tasted anything and actually had to compel myself to eat. From the moment Marcus made the opening offering to the gods all I could think of was the prospect of becoming duumvir, and how much I did not want it. Fortunately, Marcus didn’t notice my lack of appetite, he was too concerned with his own exciting news: the impending visit of an ambassador from Rome.

‘I shall have to hold a special feast here for him, next, I suppose,’ he said, propping himself effortlessly on his left elbow while his right hand daintily dipped a ham-and-fig ball into the jug of sauce. ‘Though there will have to be a few more guests at that affair!’ He laughed. ‘All the same, Libertus, my old friend, as a top-couch guest at a banquet-feast of mine, you can regard yourself as being in distinguished company.’ He popped the morsel neatly in his mouth.

‘A private legation from the Emperor himself?’ Titus said, reaching for the breadbasket and selecting a piece of flatbread to mop juices from his plate. ‘And at the darkest and stormiest time of year, when so many ships prefer to stay in port? You must feel greatly honoured, Excellence. This is in recognition of your services to Pertinax, I suppose?’

I was glad of the intervention, which relieved me of the necessity of answering. I was not really accustomed to eating lying down, and I always find it difficult to manage with one hand – even with a dining-knife to help with spearing things – let alone attempting to talk at the same time. So I simply nodded to show I understood, and went on thinking my own gloomy thoughts while my patron prattled on to Titus, about this visit and his fortunate escape.

I knew the gist of it, in any case – as no doubt Titus did, though he was contriving to look appropriately rapt. Marcus had been telling the story to everyone for weeks.

‘I was really in deadly danger for a little while,’ he said, lifting a fragment of spiced goose up on his knife, ‘when Pertinax was murdered by his Imperial Guard. He was my personal friend and patron, as I’m sure you know, and when that usurper Didius seized the Imperial crown – or, rather, bribed his way to it – there were dreadful stories about what he was doing to Pertinax’s friends –