My voice — which had led me into this predicament — entirely deserted me now that I needed it, and all I could manage was a strangulated squeak. I essayed a foolish smile. ‘I didn’t mean. .’ I stammered.
The grip on my shoulder tightened even more — so painful that tears came springing to my eyes and I gave a whimper. I tried to stifle it, which only made it worse and it came out sounding like a mocking laugh.
The result was unexpected. The bear let go of my arm and gave it a playful punch — so hard that he almost knocked me off my chair. ‘The citizen is jesting!’ He let out a braying laugh. He bent down and stared into my face, breathing sour wine and bad fish over me.
I did the smile again as the page put an unexpected word in my defence.
‘Master warned us that he had a mocking wit. It’s my fault for using such a form of words. He was offered “anything” and he made a jest of it — as he might have asked us for the sun or moon.’
I knew when I had been given a reprieve. I sent up silent thanks to the good old household gods and nodded eagerly. ‘Just my little joke.’
The doorman laughed again and slapped his thigh as if this tickled him. I was not sure if he genuinely found my words ridiculous, or if he was delighted by his own cleverness in manoeuvering me into withdrawing my request. Either way, there was clearly no hope of leaving here. The bear was more intelligent than I had first supposed and every bit as dangerous. He was still chuckling and I feigned a laugh myself.
There was an uneasy titter among the other slaves, then the boy who had served me stepped forward from the rest. ‘Of course, citizen, I should have realized. You would not abuse your patron’s hospitality by asking for something we could not provide.’ He came across to help me to my feet. ‘I will show you to your bed. I have lit a lamp for you.’
He picked up a little oil-lamp made of bronze, shaped like a woman’s shoe and, holding it aloft, led the way back through the atrium and into the passage where the bedrooms lay.
He paused outside the second door and pushed it wide. ‘This will be your chamber for the night. I trust you find it a comfortable one. The bed is aired for you and I shall be sleeping right outside your door, in case there is anything that you require.’ He gave a sideways grin. ‘Anything within the realms of possibility, that is. Would you care to have assistance to undress?’
I took the lamp from him and looked around the room. If this was to be my last night as a free man, it promised to be a very comfortable one.
The bedchamber — like that of many other Roman wives — was well appointed, with an adjoining door, which I knew led into the master’s sleeping space. (Roman couples very rarely share a room at night, though they may often share a bed for a part of it.) Here in town there was no hypercaust to heat the floor — as there was in my patron’s country house — but there was a brazier, and a woven mat beside the bed, which itself was heaped with cosy rugs and furs. There were painted shutters at the window-space — stout ones which not only stopped the draught, but also reduced the noises from the street.
‘My patron is most gracious,’ I acknowledged to the page. ‘I am sure that I have everything I need. As to undressing, there’s no need for it. I shall sleep in my tunic, as I always do. However, if you have a fuller’s pot. .’
He nodded. ‘In the master’s vestibule. Or I could bring you something in here, if you prefer. .?’
I shook my head. I used to keep a fuller’s pot myself when I lived in town — the fuller will collect it to use for cleaning clothes, when it is full of urine — though now we’re at the roundhouse we’ve constructed a latrine. ‘I’ll use it where it is.’
I was happy to do that for more reasons than he thought. I had never been in the sleeping area before, and was not sure where the vestibule might be, but a mad notion was forming in my mind. As the boy led me to it, I made a mental note of where it was in relation to that intervening door, and how far it was to the main entrance way from there.
I was already planning that, when the slaves were all asleep, I might elude the doorkeeper and slip out into the night.
TWENTY
It was not nearly as easy as I had hoped that it would be.
In the first place it was ages before I was left alone. The slave insisted on assisting me to bed, wrapping me in blankets and blowing out the lamp — which I had hoped to keep burning to light me on my way. I pleaded that I might require the fuller’s pot again, but it did not change his mind. He would be right outside the door, he said, and if I called him he would come at once, with a lighted taper, to accompany me.
‘The braziers in the passageway are left to glow all night and there is always one oil-lamp burning in the atrium so there is no problem about lighting a candle any time you wish,’ he said, standing in the doorway holding a fresh-lit taper of his own. ‘Shall I clean your sandals properly while you are asleep?’
I had to think quickly as to why I should refuse. I did not want to be barefoot if I got out into the town. I hit on a solution, of a kind, though it was rather thin and unconvincing, even to myself.
‘Tomorrow I am due to appear before the court,’ I said. ‘And I want to look pathetic, as tradition demands, so that the judge is as lenient as possible. I do not have a toga sordita — a special old soiled toga — to wear.’ In fact, the toga that I had at home would almost qualify, according to my wife; she was always complaining that I did not keep it clean — but I didn’t say that to the page-boy. Instead I pointed to the patches on my work tunic. ‘The garment that I’m wearing will have to do instead, and a pair of dirty sandals will obviously help.’
The young man nodded sympathetically. ‘Perhaps the master will allow me to rub some ashes from the lamps on to your hair and forehead, too. It is generally taken as a sign of penitence.’
‘Penitence does not come into it,’ I said, more sharply than I meant. ‘I want to look humble and downtrodden, that’s all. I am innocent of all the charges — as Marcus is aware.’
He gave me an exasperating, knowing smile. ‘Of course you are, citizen,’ he said, in a tone which suggested quite the opposite. ‘But worrying about the trial will be a strain for you. The master has left a draught of poppy-juice for you to take to help you sleep. I will fetch it for you, and when you’ve drunk it, I will let you rest.’
This was an unexpected complication to my plan. I knew my patron’s sleeping-draughts of old. If I was forced to drink a single sip of it I would fall into a sleep and then I’d never manage to elude my guards. Perhaps that was Marcus’s intention!
There was only one strategy that I could see. While the page was hurrying away to fetch the promised cup of poppy-juice I turned myself towards the wall and closed my eyes. When he came back, I did not stir.
‘Citizen?’ he murmured.
I did not reply, merely continued breathing with deep, even sighs. (I forbore to make an actual snoring noise, although I was almost tempted as the moments dripped away.)
After a long silence, he said, ‘Citizen?’ again, then came over to the bed. It was hard not to stiffen as he peered into my face. I feared I would suffer the irony of being ‘woken up’ to take a sleeping-draught, but after a little he tiptoed off again and I heard him very softly close the door.
Even then I lay unmoving for what seemed an age. The bed-frame was a fine one but it was apt to creak. I knew that the servants would be busy for a while with their evening chores and I could not make my move until the house was still. What is more, it was likely that the page-boy would return and look in on me again, before he settled down to sleep himself.