It must have been rather less than half an hour before we jolted to a stop and I pulled back the litter-curtains to see that we had halted outside a pleasant country house.
FOUR
It was a compact villa, compared to my patron’s vast and rambling one: an attractive single-storey building with two rearward-facing wings, and just a gatehouse and small courtyard in the front, although an adjacent piece of farmland was clearly part of the estate, since a single-cart track led right through the fields to what was presumably another entrance at the back. A half-dozen young land-slaves were leaning on their hoes looking at us with interest from beyond the hedge — till a cursing foreman strode up with a whip, whereupon they turned reluctantly to work.
The feeling had come back into my feet by now, so as soon as my conveyance was safely on the ground I permitted Fiscus to assist me out of it. But before I had taken a single step towards the house the doorkeeper had come out of the small stone cell where he kept watch and — to my surprise — was hurrying to meet us, wearing the broadest smile of welcome I have ever seen.
It was just as well, because he was otherwise a most forbidding sight. Unusually for a man who kept the gates (who are most often hairy giants) he was small and squarish, with a bald head that glistened like a wet ballista ball, but what he lacked in size he clearly made up for in strength. His short orange tunic strained across his chest, powerful legs bulged above the heavy boots, the sinews in his arms were like twisted strands of rope and he carried a huge club as if it were a twig. This was a man who could repel unwanted visitors. But there was the smile.
In fact I was so encouraged by this sign of friendliness that I gestured to the carrying-slaves that they were free to go, although I had previously asked them to delay until I was admitted to the house: I had no wish to be stranded miles from anywhere down a narrow country lane. They were obviously anxious to get back to the games and at my signal they picked up the litter and set off at a run.
I turned back towards the gatekeeper, a word of cheerful greeting already on my lips, but as he saw my face the smile dissolved like smoke.
‘Citizen.’ He fidgeted a little with his club. ‘I didn’t… that is… the toga — I should have realized.’ He stared from Fiscus and the scarlet uniform, to my much-laundered garments with disapproving disbelief. ‘I don’t believe I know you, after all. You have some business here?’
My heart sank lower than my sandal-soles. I had been overhasty in letting the litter-bearers go. It did not take an oracle to see the problem here.
‘You were expecting Publius?’ I asked, pacifically. ‘Of course. And no doubt my attendant confirmed you in that thought. He tells me he came here with his owner yesterday. I expect you recognized him, despite his change of uniform.’
The doorkeeper looked distrustfully at me, tapping his left palm with his club meanwhile — so hard that it made my fingers twitch in sympathy. ‘I did,’ he growled at last, evidently deciding that — since I had Fiscus at my side — I should at least be permitted to explain. ‘I saw him running by the litter and naturally I thought that the esteemed Publius and the lady Audelia had come.’
‘So that the marriage would take place after all?’ I prompted. I hoped to lure him into saying something that would help, by indicating that I knew about the problem with the bride. ‘No wonder you were pleased. No doubt you intended to escort them in, yourself — and maybe earn a quadrans as the bearer of good news?’ I ventured a confidential smile. ‘I understand your feelings perfectly. I was once a slave myself.’
He shot me a wry look, as if we shared a secret now, but his manner thawed. ‘More than a quadrans, citizen. A silver coin at least. If you had been the bride and groom, it would have been such a wonderful relief, especially to the mistress — but to all of us, as well. I thought for a moment that our problems had all been sorted out…’ He broke off suddenly, as if he’d said too much and a red flush of embarrassment ran up the hairless neck. He began weighing the cudgel in his palm again. ‘But how did you know a wedding had even been proposed? I thought the guests were sworn to secrecy. Were you invited?’
I took a step backwards, more because of the action of his club than because I was offended by his words, but he seemed to acknowledge that he’d sounded impolite.
‘Forgive the challenge, citizen, but that is what a doorkeeper is for, especially in a circumstance like this. I ask again, were you invited to the marriage feast? I understood that only a small selected group were asked — just seven of the magistrates and senior councillors — enough to be the witnesses the law demands. But clearly from your clothing you are not one of them.’
Fiscus was looking absolutely shocked at this, but it was evident that the doorkeeper meant no disrespect. He was merely talking candidly, now that he knew that I was once a slave myself. And it was true, my toga’s lack of any purple stripe showed that I was not a man of noble Roman birth and — though it was newly-cleaned in honour of the day — it did not dazzle with the expensive spotlessness expected of a candidate in public life.
So I did not bridle and issue a rebuke, as my attendant clearly expected that I would. I simply made a wry face and observed that I was just a simple tradesman-citizen and could not afford to send my toga to the fuller’s twice a moon.
Fiscus looked affronted and stared hard at the ground but the doorkeeper made a sympathetic noise. ‘In that case, are you some kind of distant relative? I know that there are other branches of the family here in Britannia but I’d heard that — since they weren’t people of any consequence — they were either not invited or had declined to come. But if you are one of them, let me have your name and I’ll enquire if the mistress will permit you to come in.’
This suggestion that I was of no account was not a compliment either, but — to Fiscus’s growing horror — I responded with a smile. Even if the gateman turned me from the door, I wanted at least to lure him into saying something more. I had hopes of learning the family’s name, at least, though I dared not show my ignorance by asking him outright. He had already told me — without intending to — that the bride was called Audelia, and I’d also learned much about the household’s attitudes.
‘I am not a member of the family,’ I said. ‘I have been sent here by His Excellence, Marcus Aurelius Septimus, to try to find out what happened to the bride. My attendant here will bear me out, I’m sure.’ I gestured at Fiscus who briefly raised his eyes, nodded grimly, and then went back to gazing at his feet. I turned a wheedling smile onto the gatekeeper. ‘Would it be possible for you to let us in?’
The man looked doubtful. ‘Well, I don’t know I’m sure. There’s not a slave to spare that I can send to ask. Wait here and I will go and make enquiries myself.’ And before I could answer he had gone inside the gate and barred the entrance firmly in my face.
I glanced at Fiscus but he would not meet my eyes. He would never have endured this kind of greeting in his life, and was doubtless mortified at finding himself in attendance to a mere ex-slave. I would have to tell him sometime that — among my own people — I was a nobleman before I was captured into slavery. But in the meantime I was glad that he was there. Without him, I suspected, I would have been turned away before I’d had the opportunity to say a word.
There was a short uncomfortable silence while we stood there in the lane and I was just beginning to calculate how long it would take us to walk back to the town, when the doorman reappeared. From the haste with which he opened wide the gate and ushered us inside, I deduced that he had been reprimanded for not admitting us at once. The name of Marcus Septimus had no doubt worked its charm.
The gatekeeper was all obsequious helpfulness now, as he led us through the court. ‘I am sorry, citizen, that there is no page to show you in. The whole of the household is in disarray not knowing whether there will be a wedding feast or not — or whether the whole banquet will be cancelled after all. But I see there is a maidservant waiting at the door, she will escort you and show you where to wait. My mistress will be with you in just a little while.’
The slave-girl was a timid, skinny little thing, in an orange tunic far too big for her, but she contrived a little smile and led us shyly in. She took us down a central passage from the portico to the central atrium, a large room where there was a mosaic of a pool — in imitation of the real ones which they’re said to have in Rome — though of rather indifferent workmanship, I thought. Normally this was a place where one would wait, but today it was a hive
