The rest of the Romano-British background to this book has been derived from a variety of (sometimes contradictory) pictorial and written sources, as well as artefacts. However, although I have done my best to create an accurate picture, this remains a work of fiction, and there is no claim to total academic authenticity. Commodus and Pertinax are historically attested, as is the existence and basic geography of Glevum. The rest is the product of my imagination.
Relata refero. Ne Iupiter quidem omnibus placet. I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.
ONE
I spent the first part of the Kalends of Januarius in my mosaic workshop in the town — just as everyone in any kind of business always did. After all, the dual-faced deity is the first to be called upon in any invocation of the gods and anything you wish to have his blessing on should — according to custom — be conducted a little for his benefit on the first day of the year.
Not that I was really doing any work. My adopted son and I were wearing togas, for one thing, in honour of the day — and that is not a garment which allows much in the way of physical exertion, as any unconsidered move is likely to bring it snaking down in unfolded coils around your feet, quite apart from needing laundering at the slightest smudge. So we two were simply making a pretence at sorting out the stocks of coloured stone while my two young red-headed slaves swept down the floor and tended to the fire.
‘Happy Kalends!’ That was the surly candle-maker from next door, popping his head around the inner door with a traditional gift of honeyed figs. Even he had managed to fix a smile upon his face today. ‘I shan’t say “of Januarius” — in case one of your servants is an Imperial spy.’
That was unlikely, as he full well knew. The boys had been a gift to me from my patron, Marcus Septimus, one of the wealthiest and most important magistrates in all Britannia, who had bought them several years ago to be a matching pair. However, they had grown at vastly different rates, which rather spoiled the visual effect, and Marcus had been happy to pass them on to me in return for a service I had done for him.
My neighbour knew that, and he spoke in jest — and I replied in kind. I got to my feet to greet him, saying cheerfully, ‘I can never remember what we’re supposed to call the months, these days! So go on calling it Januarius, after the god of doors and new beginnings, by all means. Everybody does. After all, Janus is unlikely to be flattered by the change, and to offend him might be just as dangerous as to offend the Emperor!’
My neighbour shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure of that! Gods can be propitiated with a sacrifice, but Commodus …’ He tailed off, uneasily. ‘Be careful, citizen. A spy in every household — that is what they say. I wouldn’t take the risk.’ He took the New Year honey cake my slave held out for him, looked furtively around him and scurried from the shop.
Junio laughed. ‘He always was suspicious! But you can hardly blame him, can you? Have you heard the latest tales? They say that Commodus ordered the execution of a whole town because he thought that someone in it looked at him askance! And you know that he served up a roasted dwarf to entertain his friends …’ He broke off as there was a tapping at the outer door. ‘Another visitor!’
It was not altogether a surprise. We’d had a dozen people making calls on us today. Welcome ones, of course. The feast of new beginnings is a traditional time for wives to plan improvements to their homes — such as fresh pavements for the dining room — and many a husband will send his steward round that day with seasonal gifts of sweet-tasting food or small-denomination coins, and a casual request for me to call. (Not that every such enquiry will guarantee a customer, but it is a rare year when I do not get one profitable contract out of New Year’s Day.)
So it was easy enough for me to wear a hearty smile and be very careful that all my words were ‘sweet’ today, as tradition demanded. This, of course, is supposed to ensure a full twelve months of sweetness afterwards, just as the little gifts are said to do. I am a Celt, and not a follower of Roman gods myself, but I had already collected several honey cakes and figs, and dispensed a few small tokens in return.
So when this new caller came into the outer shop, this time dressed in a magisterial toga with a purple stripe, I hurried round the partition to greet him with my broadest smile. It is rare that people of quality come out here to this muddy northern suburb outside the city walls (generally they send their servants to bring us New Year tokens and messages to call) so I was especially hearty as I greeted him.
‘Janus’s blessings for the Kalends, citizen,’ I cried, extending both hands in welcome, although I did not recognize the face.
He ignored the gesture and stared stonily at me. He was clearly not a young man — perhaps only a few years younger than I was myself — but he wore the decades easily, as only a man of private wealth can do. He was well-fed, with a polished look, his hair close-cropped and unnaturally black — the shiny colour that only comes from using dyes of leech and vinegar — and his face was pink and scraped from barbering.
‘Blessings indeed! We shall have need of blessings if this threatened snow sets in.’
‘Snow?’ I was startled. This was serious. The top floor of the workshop had burned out years ago, and my new home was at least an hour’s trudge away — built on a piece of land my patron had granted to me, a tiny fraction of his out-of-town estate.
It was miles through the forest to the roundhouse where I lived, and the ancient path was treacherous and steep: not a track to follow when it was slippery and the rocks disguised by snow. There was another route, along the military road, but that was half as long again and far more exposed to bitter winds — quite enough for a pedestrian to die of cold; indeed several people did so every year. If it was threatening a blizzard it was time to leave at once.
My visitor assumed that my concern was for him. He nodded. ‘It’s come up suddenly. It’s most unfortunate. And here am I, more than two-score miles from home!’ He looked me up and down, clearly contemptuous of what he saw, though I was wearing my best toga and it was newly cleaned. Up to that moment I had felt well-dressed and smart, but the scrutiny was making me aware of the worn places on the hem and my own unfashionably greying beard and hair as he added curtly, ‘Are you this Libertus that I have heard about?’
This would have been regarded as impolite, even on an ordinary day. Today it was particularly marked — no careful Kalends courtesy to be expected here — but I contrived to keep the New Year smile on my face. I have no special faith in Roman deities, but there is no point in courting their disfavour — just in case.
‘I am. Longinus Flavius Libertus at your service, citizen,’ I agreed, in my most silky tone. ‘Whom do I have the honour of addressing in my turn?’ I had deliberately used my full three Latin names to stress the fact that I was a citizen as well, and I’d adopted the most formal turn of speech — both things which I very rarely did. Behind me I could almost see my two slaves boggling.
The newcomer made a short, impatient noise. ‘My name is Gaius Mommius Genialis,’ he said, portentously. ‘I am a town magistrate from Dorn.’ He spoke as if this were a major town, instead of an insignificant small tax-collection centre further to the north.