‘I am honoured, Excellence,’ I said faintly, feeling the sweat prickle down my back. But it was cold sweat now rather than a product of the heat. The Emperor Commodus is an erratic man — or god, I should say, as he regards himself as a reincarnation of Hercules and requires to be addressed accordingly. He is also fanatical about his safety, and sees plots everywhere: often with reason, as my investigations had proved. However, his favouritisms are notoriously as short-lived as they are violent, and any man who attracts imperial attention — for whatever reason — is sooner or later bound to wish that he had remained safely anonymous. I obviously dared not say so, however. Commodus is reputed to spend a fortune on his spies, and there were no doubt paid ears and eyes even in this provincial bath-house.
Marcus nodded, and looked thoughtfully at the slave with the water pot. He was as well aware of the dangers as I was. ‘As a result of your actions,’ he said, with every outward evidence of satisfaction, ‘His Imperial Mightiness has deigned to honour our city. There is to be a special service of thanksgiving at the Imperial birthday celebrations.’
Since he was officially a god, of course, Commodus’s birthday was a religious feast day, and on that date every citizen was expected to attend and take part in a sacrifice in honour of the Emperor — as the army did every day of the year. The Imperial cult had been introduced in the time of Augustus — a kind of declaration of loyalty and a celebration of the power of Rome — and all the emperors since then had joined the pantheon after death, but Commodus had not even waited to die before declaring himself a deity.
I nodded, and Marcus went on. ‘We are to be treated to a visit from the highest-ranking Imperial priest in all the province, who will conduct the sacrifices at the temple and lead the services. Naturally there will have to be commemorative games, and special celebrations.’ He sighed.
I understood the reason for that sigh. Birthday celebrations for a god were likely to prove a very costly business.
‘It is a great honour for the city — and for me personally of course,’ Marcus added, glancing at the slave. ‘There will even be an ambassadorial visitor from Rome — an imperial legatus to represent the Emperor. I think I know the man — a certain Fabius Marcellus Verus — used to be commander of a legion, when I lived in Rome.’ There was a small annexe to one side of the hot-room, a sort of open-ended cubicle with a raised stone slab in the centre. Marcus got up suddenly, and occupied it, still talking to me over his shoulder as he went. ‘Fabius’s arrival in the city will coincide with the departure of the governor. You know of course that Governor Pertinax is leaving these islands? He has been appointed governor of the African provinces.’
‘So he told me, Excellence,’ I said, shifting on my seat and hoping that my buttocks were not cooking. Because Marcus was a close friend of the governor, he was obviously proud to give this sign of his association with him. I did not add that all Britannia must have heard the news by this time: I had been told the same thing — with embellishments — by an innkeeper, a night watchman and a beggar, among others, on the road back from Londinium.
‘There are to be farewell rituals for that, too, of course,’ Marcus said. He arranged himself on the slab as the slave stood by. It was probably cooler in the cubicle, I thought; it was further from the furnace. He raised his head again. ‘I thought — a small commemorative piece perhaps? In honour of both these memorable occasions.’
I breathed again. So that was what Marcus wanted! A mosaic in a hurry — that explained this extraordinary summons. And it made financial sense for him, one memorial piece instead of two. It was just a month to the Emperor’s birthday — I began to make calculations in my head. With the help of Junio, my servant-cum-assistant, I thought that I could manage. ‘It would be a privilege, Excellence,’ I said.
‘What I had in mind,’ Marcus said dreamily, allowing the slave to rub him with a little olive oil from a flask, ‘was something a little different. A commemorative shrine — in one of the public spaces perhaps: a statue of Hercules of course, in honour of the Emperor, but mosaic on the wall and in the niche itself.’ He gestured towards the flask invitingly, but I felt that adding oil to my flesh would only result in fried Libertus, and I shook my head in what I hoped was a suitably respectful manner.
Marcus waved the slave away and went on outlining his design. ‘Blue and white and yellow, that would be the thing. Tiles rather than stone, I think, and a design of birds and dogs worked into the frieze? Pertinax is fond of hunting. I’ve seen the sort of thing I want, in Rome, though I’ve never seen one in Britannia. Could it be managed, do you think?’
I was asking myself the same question. A simple floor mosaic was one thing. I had developed many techniques to speed the work. But a curved niche? That was something new.
‘Only the finest materials, of course,’ Marcus went on. ‘And fine workmanship. I can find somebody else, naturally, if you do not feel you can. .’
Without undue arrogance, I doubted that. There are few men in Glevum with my skills. If Marcus wanted this mosaic, I should have to do it — as he knew. Besides, I needed the money, as he no doubt also knew.
‘I should be honoured to attempt it, Excellence.’ I mopped my dripping forehead and tried to look as eager as a man can when he is streaming with sweat and coming to a slow boil.
There was a pause. Marcus gestured to the slave, who busied himself with a strigil, scraping combined oil and sweat from Marcus’s oiled body — and taking the dirt with it.
I waited — it would have been inexcusable to go — until Marcus wrapped himself back into his towel and came back into the main caldarium. In a moment, I knew, he would go next door and take a cold plunge before being massaged with perfumed oil and having his nose-hairs pulled. I only hoped that I had been dismissed by then.
He sat down upon his bench again, and looked at me. ‘Well then, the commission is yours. Though, of course, I know you have additional responsibilities now. Pertinax tells me you found your Gwellia. I hope that has been satisfactory?’
Gwellia. The wife that I had lost for twenty years and who now had miraculously been restored to me. Junio had found her, in the hands of a slave-trader, and Pertinax had purchased her for me as a reward for my efforts. Even now it was almost more than I could comprehend. I glanced at Marcus. He was smiling indulgently.
I swallowed. Marcus wanted this mosaic badly. This was probably a good moment to ask a favour. ‘There is something I would like to ask you, Excellence, in that regard.’
He inclined his head. ‘Go on.’
Sweat was still streaming into my eyes. I outlined my request.
Marcus sat suddenly upright. ‘Marry her, Libertus? I don’t understand! You already own the woman. What more do you want?’ He was tapping one bronzed thigh as he spoke, I noticed.
I recognised the gesture. My patron was impatient. I fidgeted uncomfortably on my own hot bench opposite.
‘I simply don’t see the difficulty,’ Marcus persisted.
I sighed. Impossible to explain to a wealthy Roman. I flapped at the clouds of steam, miserably aware of how hot and pink I was, and tried to peer at Marcus. ‘It is a difficult position, Excellence. Of course, our marriage was automatically dissolved when we were captured and sold as slaves.’ I thought of that once lovely face, now so tired and strained and worn. ‘She is no longer legally my wife.’
‘Of course she isn’t! Slaves are not permitted to be married to anyone.’
‘Exactly, Excellence! That is why I am asking you to help me. I can’t marry her again, without first arranging to have her freed.’
Marcus understood that, of course. As the highest-ranking magistrate in the colonia, he knew the intricacies of the law better than I did. What he could not comprehend was why on earth it mattered. I owned the woman, as he said — and could therefore summon her to my bed as often as I pleased.