important that you go – and now.’
‘But madam, I cannot go and leave you here.’
‘You can. You must. I am a mere woman, and neither Mellitus nor Balbus will take account of me – at least for now. I will send a message to your house. Through Cilla, whom you know you can trust. In the meantime I will find out what I can. Between us we will find some way to set my husband free. Listen. I can hear footsteps in the house. Go – go now. May all the gods protect us.’
Junio murmured in my ear. ‘Don’t go through the front part of the villa. Come through the rear gate – the way I came. I’ll show you the way. Quickly, master, I can see their lights.’
So could I. There was already a glimmer in the passageways. I bent to kiss the lady Julia’s hand and then, still tugged at by my slave, disappeared as silently as possible into the darkness towards the outer wall. It was extremely difficult to see our way, and we made the little gate beside the shrine only a moment before the search party of guards came clattering out into the court.
V
It is not easy to walk across an unfamiliar farm in misty darkness, especially hampered by a toga and without a light, but that is what I was now obliged to do. Marcus’s villa, like most Roman country homes, backed on to the farmland and woods which made up his estate, and the little gate of the new wing gave out on to the orchard, thence to a muddy field and only then into the woods beyond. Mercifully the extension to the house was fairly new, so the orchard had just been fully walled and the guard geese were not yet in place. We did stumble over an ill-tempered sleeping pig, and disturbed a mangy and marauding fox, but there was no cacophony to alert the house and no one came shouting after us.
At last, after what seemed like several hours of slithering and sliding over our sandal-tops in mud, we stumbled into the welcoming shadows of the wood. It was cold and slippery and wet, and twigs and bracken snatched at us as we passed, but very soon there was at least a path. We struggled on – the detour had taken us miles out of our way – until we reached the road, and finally, muddy, wet and exhausted, we saw the roundhouse looming through the murk, the smoke from its welcoming fire seeping through the roof. There was the glimmer of a tallow taper too, and it was no surprise to find that even at this hour my wife Gwellia was up, awaiting my return.
‘Libertus, husband!’ she exclaimed, as soon as I had stooped to pass under the thatched entrance and into the house. ‘Where have you been? And what has happened to your toga and your shoes? Kurso’ – she motioned to the kitchen slave – ‘bring your poor master water and a stool. You’ll find both in the dye-house, where I was dyeing cloth.’
Kurso, whom I had acquired by accident some months before, gave me one of his worried looks and hurried off. He was still so nervous that he hardly spoke – at least to me, although I’ve seen him chatter happily to Junio, and Gwellia finds him indispensable. He had been savagely mistreated by an owner once, and had learned to move backwards more quickly than forwards from an early age.
I watched him go scuttling out into the night, towards the dye-house that my wife had spoken of – another woven wattle hut nearby, in the same enclosure and much like the one we were in, even to the central hearth, except that it was on a smaller scale. It housed Gwellia’s spindles, fleece and looms, and – as I was well aware – an iron vat of some evil-smelling dye. My wife was adept at the ancient crafts, and even now was weaving me a cloak in the traditional Celtic plaid of our old tribe, but I had insisted that the dyes be kept elsewhere and ordered that the dye-house should be built. Much as I love our little home I have spent too long in fine Roman buildings, with windows and partitions everywhere, to sleep in comfort in the same room as a smelly steaming vat of decaying vegetation
‘But madam, I cannot go and leave you here.’
‘You can. You must. I am a mere woman, and neither Mellitus nor Balbus will take account of me – at least for now. I will send a message to your house. Through Cilla, whom you know you can trust. In the meantime I will find out what I can. Between us we will find some way to set my husband free. Listen. I can hear footsteps in the house. Go – go now. May all the gods protect us.’
Junio murmured in my ear. ‘Don’t go through the front part of the villa. Come through the rear gate – the way I came. I’ll show you the way. Quickly, master, I can see their lights.’
So could I. There was already a glimmer in the passageways. I bent to kiss the lady Julia’s hand and then, still tugged at by my slave, disappeared as silently as possible into the darkness towards the outer wall. It was extremely difficult to see our way, and we made the little gate beside the shrine only a moment before the search party of guards came clattering out into the court.
V
It is not easy to walk across an unfamiliar farm in misty darkness, especially hampered by a toga and without a light, but that is what I was now obliged to do. Marcus’s villa, like most Roman country homes, backed on to the farmland and woods which made up his estate, and the little gate of the new wing gave out on to the orchard, thence to a muddy field and only then into the woods beyond. Mercifully the extension to the house was fairly new, so the orchard had just been fully walled and the guard geese were not yet in place. We did stumble over an ill-tempered sleeping pig, and disturbed a mangy and marauding fox, but there was no cacophony to alert the house and no one came shouting after us.
At last, after what seemed like several hours of slithering and sliding over our sandal-tops in mud, we stumbled into the welcoming shadows of the wood. It was cold and slippery and wet, and twigs and bracken snatched at us as we passed, but very soon there was at least a path. We struggled on – the detour had taken us miles out of our way – until we reached the road, and finally, muddy, wet and exhausted, we saw the roundhouse looming through the murk, the smoke from its welcoming fire seeping through the roof. There was the glimmer of a tallow taper too, and it was no surprise to find that even at this hour my wife Gwellia was up, awaiting my return.
‘Libertus, husband!’ she exclaimed, as soon as I had stooped to pass under the thatched entrance and into the house. ‘Where have you been? And what has happened to your toga and your shoes? Kurso’ – she motioned to the kitchen slave – ‘bring your poor master water and a stool. You’ll find both in the dye-house, where I was dyeing cloth.’
Kurso, whom I had acquired by accident some months before, gave me one of his worried looks and hurried off. He was still so nervous that he hardly spoke – at least to me, although I’ve seen him chatter happily to Junio, and Gwellia finds him indispensable. He had been savagely mistreated by an owner once, and had learned to move backwards more quickly than forwards from an early age.
I watched him go scuttling out into the night, towards the dye-house that my wife had spoken of – another woven wattle hut nearby, in the same enclosure and much like the one we were in, even to the central hearth, except that it was on a smaller scale. It housed Gwellia’s spindles, fleece and looms, and – as I was well aware – an iron vat of some evil-smelling dye. My wife was adept at the ancient crafts, and even now was weaving me a cloak in the traditional Celtic plaid of our old tribe, but I had insisted that the dyes be kept elsewhere and ordered that the dye-house should be built. Much as I love our little home I have spent too long in fine Roman buildings, with windows and partitions everywhere, to sleep in comfort in the same room as a smelly steaming vat of decaying vegetation
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