I tried to wave them off, a little embarrassed by all the attention being showered on me. ‘There’s no need to cosset me,’ I spluttered, as the servant rinsed my face. ‘Give me that towel. I can manage for myself.’
The handsome attendant gave me a little bow. I recognized him as the page who had escorted Marcus from the garrison. ‘If you are quite certain citizen,’ he murmured, though he looked aggrieved, as though it were an insult not to be allowed to rub me dry. ‘Our instructions are to treat you as a guest.’ He handed me the cloth.
I buried my forehead in the linen towel and rubbed my cheeks and eyes, feeling the tension seeping out of me as if it had been sloughed off with the dust and perspiration of the day. The moment that I raised my head again, the cloth was whisked away — even before I had the chance to wonder what I was supposed to do with it. Meanwhile, thanks to the efforts of the kneeling page, my clean and newly-perfumed feet were dried and my deftly cleaned sandals were laced on again, quicker than I could have refastened them myself.
‘Then, if you are ready, there is a meal prepared,’ the page went on. ‘Nothing very fancy, just pork stew with leeks and some bread and cheese and figs for afterwards. I hope that will suffice? His Excellence assured us that your tastes were simple ones, but if there is anything extra that you might require, we are empowered to fetch it for you, if it can be had.’
‘His Excellence is very good,’ I said, with warmth. Someone was already tucking a fine napkin round my neck, while another servant hovered with a pitcher and some wine. If this was the lifestyle of a wealthy man, I thought, it would be easy to become accustomed to these little luxuries.
I wondered if I was expected to recline, as Romans do, to eat the promised meal — one of the three couches had been pushed up into place and cushioned pillows had been laid on it. I decided that — as His Excellence’s guest — I should conform to Roman ways and I began to rise, with the idea of doing so.
The pressure of a heavy hand prevented me. ‘Stay right there, citizen.’ I looked up and saw the doorkeeper still looking down at me. He flashed his yellow teeth. ‘There’s no need for you to move. Your meal will come to you. The serving slaves will see to it at once.’
It was clearly a command. A folding table was instantly produced and a tray appeared, as if from nowhere, with a covered dish on it. One of the servants removed the metal lid, and I was presented with more steaming stew than I could reasonably eat. I felt my stomach growl. I’d had almost nothing for the day and this smelt ambrosial. There was a helpful spoon provided and I picked it up, though I noticed there was no sign of any knife — as there would have been for any other dinner guest. Marcus was taking no chances that I might put up a fight.
‘Very nice.’ I dipped my spoon into the stew.
‘There is some garum if you wish it, but we were told that you would not.’ The page was anxious and solicitous, as if he could not quite believe that he had heard aright.
‘That’s true,’ I assured him, ‘I’ve never cared for it.’ That was an understatement. I detest the salty stuff. The Romans’ enthusiasm for covering everything with a sauce of semi-decomposing anchovies is something I have never understood.
The boy was looking politely scandalized by my refusal of the sauce. ‘Whatever your preference, citizen, of course. But there’s some in the kitchen if you change your mind.’
I was too busy eating pork stew to answer him. I was so hungry that I would have eaten almost anything, but the meal was as delicious as it smelt — with just a touch of spice to liven it. Sometimes Roman dishes are cooked with garum in the mix, but this tasted only of coriander seeds. Marcus’s cook-slave had obviously been briefed.
After I had eaten much more than I should I pushed back my plate, only to find it immediately replaced by a platter of fresh bread and cheese and figs. I did not need it — I had eaten far too well — but I took some anyway, excusing my behaviour inwardly by telling myself that it was not a case of simple greed. If I were condemned to exile by tomorrow’s court, at least I would have eaten substantially tonight and I would not be seriously hungry for a day or two.
At length I washed down the last crumbs of my extensive meal with yet another cup of watered wine, leaned back — as far as I was able — on my folding chair, and indicated to the servants that I’d dined sufficiently.
The page-boy was at my side at once, to whip my napkin off and offer me a bowl to rinse my fingers in. ‘Then, citizen, unless there is anything else that you desire, I will show you to your bed.’
I hesitated. There was another thing which I desired, of course — apart from the luxury of talking to my wife. I wanted a chance to make a visit to the jail in the faint hope that somehow I could prove my innocence. Would it be possible to persuade the slaves of that? I did not expect to be allowed to go alone, of course, but the presence of an escort might prove to be a help. Arriving at the prison with a snarling bear in tow might persuade the warder to let me talk to Calvinus. However, looking round at the faces of the slaves, I was not certain that I dared to ask for this. It was obviously not the sort of thing that Marcus had in mind, and I did not want to antagonize the page by suggesting something that he very likely could not grant. Most of all I did not want to infuriate the bear. I glanced towards the little altar in its niche, wondering if the household gods would favour my request.
The page-boy saw my glance and misinterpreted. ‘You need not concern yourself about libations, citizen. The master has already dealt with that.’
Nothing had been further from my thoughts, but I managed to stammer something half-appropriate.
‘So, citizen,’ the boy went on, ‘if you would care to follow me? The master has decided that you should have the mistress’s room, and it has already been prepared for you.’
A guest in the second-best chamber in the house? Soft pillows and a proper Roman bed — a wooden frame with a goatskin stretched across so that the mattress did not touch the floor! I was really being favoured like an honoured guest. Marcus had never treated me so well before. In fact, my general reception here had been so warm that I decided, after all, that I could take a chance. I put on my most ingratiating smile.
‘You asked if there was anything more I might desire?’
The page-boy sketched a bow. ‘Name it, citizen. My owner’s orders were explicit on the point. You are not to want for anything we can provide.’
‘Then,’ I watched him nervously, ‘I had wondered if it might be possible for me to leave the house — not without an escort, naturally. I want to ask some questions of someone in the town. It might improve my chances before the magistrate.’
There was a dreadful silence. The shock I’d caused was almost palpable — enough to make me wish I’d never said a word. I saw the page-boy glance towards the doorkeeper, who was still hovering somewhere at my back. ‘What should we do with him?’ he said. ‘Lock him in the bedroom or send out for chains? The master said to treat him as well as possible.’
The bear’s voice growled, ‘You leave this to me.’ I was so paralysed with sudden fear that I did not dare to turn, but I heard the doorman’s footsteps — like a roll of drums — coming towards me across the pavement floor.
One, two, three — and then a hairy hand had seized my shoulder and swivelled me around — chair and all — as though I were no heavier than a fly.
‘Did you really think that we would let you out of here?’ The grip was painful and I flinched away, but the pointed teeth were grinning down at me, and the close-set red-rimmed eyes were leering into mine. ‘And have you get away? After the master’s promised to deliver you to court? And don’t tell me that you weren’t planning to escape. Do you think that I was washed in on the high tide yesterday?’ It was not a question; it was a sort of threat. Any moment, I expected, he would pick me up and shake me, as a dog will shake a bone.