She had not mentioned the missing slave again. I nodded to Junio, who had caught my eye. Gwellia was dealing with worry in her usual way, by keeping so busy that there was no time to think, but I needed someone to discuss things with.
I talked to Junio well into the night, mostly about Glypto and my fears for Minimus. ‘Don’t say this to the others,’ I said in a low voice, ‘but if the green man has red hair and is Silurian, it looks more likely than ever that the rebels are involved.’
He shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Most Silurians are loyal citizens these days — those two slave-boys of Marcus’s are the proof of that. It’s only a few fanatics that keep mounting these attacks. And why should a rebel be concerned enough to send a message here, even if you really had been hurt?’
We argued in circles for an hour or more, but we made no progress with the mystery. Finally, I crept away and went to bed myself, reluctant to keep the little family awake. I did not want to spoil Amato’s naming day.
But I slept only fitfully — and when I did, I dreamt of Minimus.
Thirteen
The bulla ceremony was a great success. Despite the women’s fears that there was far too much to do, everything was ready by the time the high priest came next morning to perform the cleansing ritual for Cilla and the house, though it was early and the sun was not yet high.
I was secretly delighted that we had arranged to hold the sacrifice on the same day as the naming ceremony, instead of the usual day or two before, because it meant that the purification (which included everybody and everything in the house) would release me from any evil influence which might have clung to me as a result of being in the company of a corpse. The doves that Junio had purchased for the sacrifice turned out to be genuinely spotless too — with no dark blemishes daubed over in white lime — and their entrails were clean, which was, of course, a splendid augury.
The doves were duly offered, the whole roundhouse ritually swept, and we all washed our hands in water the pontifex had blessed. Then the altar was swiftly cleaned with purifying salt and dressed with snow-white blooms — white as the freshly laundered garments we all wore in honour of the day — fresh herbs were scattered on the floor, and by the time the other well-wishers arrived, the little roundhouse was as well-adorned as any Roman villa could have been.
However, this was clearly not a Roman house, so, at the suggestion of the priest, a little piece of symbolic play-acting took place in which Cilla placed the swaddled baby on the floor, and Junio literally ‘lifted up’ his son. (I call it ‘play-acting’ because in fact this had all been done in private days and days before — almost as soon as the child was safely born. Junio was sufficiently versed in Roman ways to have made a point of ‘lifting up’ Amato there and then, and thus pronouncing him legitimate — indeed, he was so proud of fatherhood that he had gone to Glevum later the same day and registered the birth with the authorities, even though he was not required to do that for another moon.)
Nonetheless, the little raising ritual was performed again in front of witnesses — some of whom were Roman citizens — so there could be no future suggestion that it had not occurred. This was far more than a simple symbolic act, of course. Until a child was ‘lifted up’, it did not formally exist and therefore could be disposed of at the father’s whim: given away or sold into slavery, exposed and left to die, or even, in the cruellest cases, chopped up for the dogs. But now that Amato was formally recognized as Junio’s son, he was legally a citizen himself — albeit a very junior one — with all attendant rights and privileges, and he was additionally identified as his father’s chief presumptive heir.
Once that was over, and the guests’ applause died down, Kurso and Maximus fetched the ceremonial offerings for the gods (not birds or animals this time, since there was nothing here to expiate, just the so-called ‘bloodless sacrifice’ which was traditional, exactly as the annual anniversary of this day would be marked by similar oblations till Amato came of age). Wine and oil and incense were poured out on the shrine and burned as sacrifice, together with a piece of specially marked sweet cake (bought for the purpose from the baker’s shop), while baskets of white petals were scattered for the gods. Little Amato was very well-behaved throughout, even when the high priest passed him three times through the smoke.
‘Another good omen,’ Junio said to me, almost bursting with paternal pride.
There were the usual prayers and speeches, mostly by the priest, and then the bulla, placed in its special leather pouch together with a number of lucky amulets, was duly hung around the baby’s neck, and citizen Junius Libertinus Flavius Amato was officially a person under law. He would not take that bulla off until he came of age and put on the white toga of an adult male. Until then, if he wore anything toga-shaped at all, it would be a purple-striper like the patricians wore, which was the badge of boyhood throughout the Empire. All that, of course, would be in years to come: for now he was close-swaddled, as Roman infants are.
Suddenly, I felt an unexpected lump rise in my throat. It was partly pride, of course — I had never hoped to be the head of a family of my own, even an adopted one like this — but there was something else as well. Junio and Cilla had both been raised as slaves in Roman homes, and today was essentially a Roman naming day: so different from the customs in my own Celtic youth that I felt for a moment completely out of place. I was a Roman citizen, of course — and very proud to be — but I had rarely even seen a bulla ritual. Even in this Celtic roundhouse which I’d helped to build, I felt like a stranger in a foreign land.
But I brushed aside such sentimental thoughts. It was time for the presentation of the gifts.
All the guests had brought presents for the child and they lined up to bestow them — important callers first, which meant that my patron’s representative led the way, carrying the lovely little silver bell. The question of status had been very neatly solved. Marcus had asked his messenger to come and act on his behalf: a young man called Virilis, who was not a slave at all, but a very smart and handsome military courier, who, my patron’s note assured me, was a freeborn citizen and destined for high office in the cavalry one day, or even in the Emperor’s private entourage.
Virilis was full of youthful vigour, as the name implies, and he strode up to play his part. He struck a pose and turned to face the company, and it was immediately clear why Marcus had selected him. He was a most impressive sight. His horseman’s leggings were of scarlet cloth, and his loose over-tunic bore two purple stripes which ran from neck to hem and was held at the waist by a narrow sash of plaited purple silk — and silk was literally worth its weight in gold: the traders who sold it put it on the scales! He wore a splendid pair of red leather knee-length boots, and he carried a dagger on a baldric at his breast, though he bore no other arms and had no breastplate on. (Naturally — in normal times at least — a mounted army ‘cursor’, or official messenger, wore nothing heavy which would slow him down.)
Conscious of the little stir he’d made, Virilis raised a hand and made a little speech on Marcus’s behalf, before — with conscious graciousness — he made way for other guests to bring their gifts.
As tradition demanded, these were metal charms shaped like miniature tools and ornaments, some of gold and silver, but most of bronze and tin, and intended to bring good fortune in all areas of life. I counted swords and buckets, an axe, a flower and several lucky little moons, which were all strung on to a silver chain and placed round Amato’s neck, over the swaddling, so that they rattled as he moved. Gwellia and I had bought a pretty silver horse, and even Kurso and Maximus, bringing up the rear, offered a tiny trinket each — but, of course, pride of place went to my patron’s lovely bell.