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Authors: Rosemary Rowe
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itself from the white-grey haze of the woods.
‘Golbo?’ I said, but it was not the boy. In the dim half-light I recognised the lumpy maidservant who had fetched Junio to me the night before.
‘It’s Cilla, master,’ the girl said, still whispering. ‘Golbo has not been found.’ She came up close beside me and went on, ‘Be careful, citizen, we may be overheard. There might still be searchers on the roads. The lady Julia, my mistress, sent me to find you here, as soon as it was starting to be light. She says to tell you that the guards took ten slaves – the ones who were holding torches – as hostages last night. They marched them off into the town for questioning, along with Marcus and the doorkeeper.’
My heart, which was already lower than my still damp sandal-straps, sank even more at this. Marcus was an important man, with wealth and influence: he would be locked up in the garrison – probably in the commander’s house, in case he proved to be innocent in the end. But everyone knew what such ‘questioning’ would mean for all the rest. The servants would be tortured until they ‘remembered’ something significant – who had sent the orders to the colonnade, for example, or where Golbo had gone – whether or not the events they confessed had ever actually occurred. Over the years I have attempted to dissuade Marcus from employing such techniques, since I was once a slave myself with no civic rights of any kind.
However, it was Marcus who was now under arrest, and lesser magistrates – presumably Balbus in particular, since he was now the most senior of those left – would be looking for the ‘truth’ as quickly and ruthlessly as possible, to minimise their own political embarrassment. The routine and perfectly legal torture of a few slaves was hardly likely to trouble them.
Now I had a moral problem on my hands. If I found Golbo, should I take him to the authorities? Or should I give them his testimony in any case and hope to save ten other innocent slaves from hours of agony – at the end of which, one could be almost sure, somebody would break down under the anguish and invent evidence against Marcus.
I was debating this when Cilla spoke again. ‘That is not the only reason why I’ve come. My mistress sent me to warn you, citizen. One of the serving girls overheard a conversation in the court. Balbus was arguing that they should send guards for you – he says you were the first to leave the banquet hall, and you probably helped my master in his task, because Praxus was too big for one man alone to overcome. He said he saw you standing by the corpse, holding a heavy brass pot in your hand, and that you’d almost certainly used it to hit Praxus on the head so that Marcus could more easily hold him down.’
I felt a chill run down my back, colder than the freezing morning air. It was true, I had been holding such a pot, and there would be half a dozen witnesses to that. Of course, I had not hit Praxus, I’d simply used it to retrieve the wreath, as any of the torch-bearers would testify – but if Cilla was to be believed these were the very slaves who were at this moment being flogged and questioned at the jail. When the Romans scourge you, you are inclined to remember anything they wish.
‘Balbus wanted me arrested by the guards?’ I repeated foolishly. ‘But surely only Mellitus could sanction that?’ Praxus’s bodyguard, like that of any military commander of high rank, would have been personally hand-picked from the legions under his control, responsible for his safety and answerable to him alone. These men had come with Praxus a few days ago, when he arrived from Gaul, and until alternative orders came they were not officially attached to anyone. A high-ranking official of the Empire, such as Mellitus, might co-opt them for some official role, but a mere local decurion like Balbus would need agreement from the ordo first, and probably the co-operation of the garrison as well,
‘Golbo?’ I said, but it was not the boy. In the dim half-light I recognised the lumpy maidservant who had fetched Junio to me the night before.
‘It’s Cilla, master,’ the girl said, still whispering. ‘Golbo has not been found.’ She came up close beside me and went on, ‘Be careful, citizen, we may be overheard. There might still be searchers on the roads. The lady Julia, my mistress, sent me to find you here, as soon as it was starting to be light. She says to tell you that the guards took ten slaves – the ones who were holding torches – as hostages last night. They marched them off into the town for questioning, along with Marcus and the doorkeeper.’
My heart, which was already lower than my still damp sandal-straps, sank even more at this. Marcus was an important man, with wealth and influence: he would be locked up in the garrison – probably in the commander’s house, in case he proved to be innocent in the end. But everyone knew what such ‘questioning’ would mean for all the rest. The servants would be tortured until they ‘remembered’ something significant – who had sent the orders to the colonnade, for example, or where Golbo had gone – whether or not the events they confessed had ever actually occurred. Over the years I have attempted to dissuade Marcus from employing such techniques, since I was once a slave myself with no civic rights of any kind.
However, it was Marcus who was now under arrest, and lesser magistrates – presumably Balbus in particular, since he was now the most senior of those left – would be looking for the ‘truth’ as quickly and ruthlessly as possible, to minimise their own political embarrassment. The routine and perfectly legal torture of a few slaves was hardly likely to trouble them.
Now I had a moral problem on my hands. If I found Golbo, should I take him to the authorities? Or should I give them his testimony in any case and hope to save ten other innocent slaves from hours of agony – at the end of which, one could be almost sure, somebody would break down under the anguish and invent evidence against Marcus.
I was debating this when Cilla spoke again. ‘That is not the only reason why I’ve come. My mistress sent me to warn you, citizen. One of the serving girls overheard a conversation in the court. Balbus was arguing that they should send guards for you – he says you were the first to leave the banquet hall, and you probably helped my master in his task, because Praxus was too big for one man alone to overcome. He said he saw you standing by the corpse, holding a heavy brass pot in your hand, and that you’d almost certainly used it to hit Praxus on the head so that Marcus could more easily hold him down.’
I felt a chill run down my back, colder than the freezing morning air. It was true, I had been holding such a pot, and there would be half a dozen witnesses to that. Of course, I had not hit Praxus, I’d simply used it to retrieve the wreath, as any of the torch-bearers would testify – but if Cilla was to be believed these were the very slaves who were at this moment being flogged and questioned at the jail. When the Romans scourge you, you are inclined to remember anything they wish.
‘Balbus wanted me arrested by the guards?’ I repeated foolishly. ‘But surely only Mellitus could sanction that?’ Praxus’s bodyguard, like that of any military commander of high rank, would have been personally hand-picked from the legions under his control, responsible for his safety and answerable to him alone. These men had come with Praxus a few days ago, when he arrived from Gaul, and until alternative orders came they were not officially attached to anyone. A high-ranking official of the Empire, such as Mellitus, might co-opt them for some official role, but a mere local decurion like Balbus would need agreement from the ordo first, and probably the co-operation of the garrison as well,
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