and hot wool.
Fortunately, once the materials are cut, a skilled group can weave a small hut in a day, and Kurso had shown an unexpected aptitude for mixing daub and waterproofing walls. Within our fenced enclosure Gwellia had a small thatched henhouse now, as well, so we had eggs, and plans for some beehives and raised foodstores too, instead of the holly-pits we used at present. A proper little Celtic dwelling place.
After the events of the past few hours, it seemed a haven of relief, and I was contemplating all this with a smile and allowing Junio to unlace my soggy sandals when Kurso reappeared – without the stool and water – and uncharacteristically burst into speech at once.
‘Master! Mistress! There is somebody there!’
I looked at Junio, who was kneeling at my feet and now glanced up in alarm. He said, before I could frame the words, ‘The guards?’
Gwellia said, ‘What guards?’ but Kurso shook his head.
‘Not guards. It seems to be a boy – a slave. He’s terrified. He’s hiding in there by the fire, and won’t come out. He wants to talk to you.’
‘Golbo!’ I said – a fraction ahead of Junio this time. ‘Leave my sandals, Junio. I had better go and speak to him.’
Gwellia was looking from me to Junio and back again. ‘Husband, you have only just come in. You are cold and wet and tired, and your toga’s torn. I don’t know who this slave is, or what he wants – coming here in the middle of the night – but surely you can at least command him to attend you here!’
I went to her, put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Gwellia, my dear, there’s been a dreadful episode. Trouble at the villa – Junio will explain. I must go and talk to Golbo. He may have seen something significant. Give me a brand.’
Kurso picked up a piece of pitch-tipped wood and dipped it in the fire obediently.
‘Did Golbo say why he wanted me?’ I asked, as I took the smoking torch. But Kurso had exhausted his conversational capacities and he simply shook his head.
I gave up and went out into the night and into the smelly darkness of the hut. At first I could see nothing but the cauldron of dye, still sitting on its stones over the embers of the fire. Then as my torch burned brighter and my eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom I made out the dim shape of Gwellia’s loom-beam hanging by the wall – the weight-stones almost reaching to the floor – and there beside it the huddled figure of the slave.
It was Golbo, a cold and frightened Golbo, almost too terrified to speak. He had asked to see me, but as I approached he backed away, keeping the fire between himself and me. I stopped.
‘Golbo – I believe that is your name – my house slave informed me that you wanted me. I cannot chase you round this hut all night. If you have something to tell me, do it now.’
‘Citizen Libertus?’ His voice was no more than a strangled squeak. ‘You are a friend of my master’s, I believe?’
‘Marcus Aurelius Septimus is my patron, certainly.’ I said it softly, but I chose my words with care. A pavement-maker – even if he is a citizen – should not presume to claim friendship with a man of rank. ‘I have been of service to him sometimes in the past.’
Golbo nodded. ‘I have heard him speak of you. That is why I came to you tonight. I – I did not know where else to go, after what had happened in the colonnade.’
A tide of relief flowed over me. Perhaps this affair would be easy to resolve. Golbo quite clearly knew too much, and that’s why he had fled. Whoever murdered an important man like Praxus would not think twice about silencing a slave. But if I could get Golbo to tell me what he knew, I could hide him overnight and go to a magistrate tomorrow to explain the truth. Marcus would be instantly released, and Golbo would be safe.
I was smiling as I said, ‘And what did happen in the colonnade? Somebody sent you for water, was that it? That is what your mistress said
Fortunately, once the materials are cut, a skilled group can weave a small hut in a day, and Kurso had shown an unexpected aptitude for mixing daub and waterproofing walls. Within our fenced enclosure Gwellia had a small thatched henhouse now, as well, so we had eggs, and plans for some beehives and raised foodstores too, instead of the holly-pits we used at present. A proper little Celtic dwelling place.
After the events of the past few hours, it seemed a haven of relief, and I was contemplating all this with a smile and allowing Junio to unlace my soggy sandals when Kurso reappeared – without the stool and water – and uncharacteristically burst into speech at once.
‘Master! Mistress! There is somebody there!’
I looked at Junio, who was kneeling at my feet and now glanced up in alarm. He said, before I could frame the words, ‘The guards?’
Gwellia said, ‘What guards?’ but Kurso shook his head.
‘Not guards. It seems to be a boy – a slave. He’s terrified. He’s hiding in there by the fire, and won’t come out. He wants to talk to you.’
‘Golbo!’ I said – a fraction ahead of Junio this time. ‘Leave my sandals, Junio. I had better go and speak to him.’
Gwellia was looking from me to Junio and back again. ‘Husband, you have only just come in. You are cold and wet and tired, and your toga’s torn. I don’t know who this slave is, or what he wants – coming here in the middle of the night – but surely you can at least command him to attend you here!’
I went to her, put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Gwellia, my dear, there’s been a dreadful episode. Trouble at the villa – Junio will explain. I must go and talk to Golbo. He may have seen something significant. Give me a brand.’
Kurso picked up a piece of pitch-tipped wood and dipped it in the fire obediently.
‘Did Golbo say why he wanted me?’ I asked, as I took the smoking torch. But Kurso had exhausted his conversational capacities and he simply shook his head.
I gave up and went out into the night and into the smelly darkness of the hut. At first I could see nothing but the cauldron of dye, still sitting on its stones over the embers of the fire. Then as my torch burned brighter and my eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom I made out the dim shape of Gwellia’s loom-beam hanging by the wall – the weight-stones almost reaching to the floor – and there beside it the huddled figure of the slave.
It was Golbo, a cold and frightened Golbo, almost too terrified to speak. He had asked to see me, but as I approached he backed away, keeping the fire between himself and me. I stopped.
‘Golbo – I believe that is your name – my house slave informed me that you wanted me. I cannot chase you round this hut all night. If you have something to tell me, do it now.’
‘Citizen Libertus?’ His voice was no more than a strangled squeak. ‘You are a friend of my master’s, I believe?’
‘Marcus Aurelius Septimus is my patron, certainly.’ I said it softly, but I chose my words with care. A pavement-maker – even if he is a citizen – should not presume to claim friendship with a man of rank. ‘I have been of service to him sometimes in the past.’
Golbo nodded. ‘I have heard him speak of you. That is why I came to you tonight. I – I did not know where else to go, after what had happened in the colonnade.’
A tide of relief flowed over me. Perhaps this affair would be easy to resolve. Golbo quite clearly knew too much, and that’s why he had fled. Whoever murdered an important man like Praxus would not think twice about silencing a slave. But if I could get Golbo to tell me what he knew, I could hide him overnight and go to a magistrate tomorrow to explain the truth. Marcus would be instantly released, and Golbo would be safe.
I was smiling as I said, ‘And what did happen in the colonnade? Somebody sent you for water, was that it? That is what your mistress said
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