Dark Omens (2 page)

‘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.

As for his name, it was so incongruous it almost made me laugh. Genialis might be his given cognomen, but – since the word means ‘joyful, zestful and lustful’ – it manifestly did not describe him in the least. However, I recalled the conventions of the day and managed to ask, politely, ‘So what brings you to me?’

There was a silence while he turned the heavy ring-seal on his hand, as if he were deciding how he should reply, but after a long moment he deigned to answer me. ‘I have come to Glevum to claim myself a wife.’

It was hardly an answer to my question, but I was about to mutter something congratulatory when he held up a warning hand.

‘That is not a cause for special celebration, citizen. She is my elder brother’s widow, that is all. However, she is very young and has no surviving family of her own, and the courts have decreed that – for the time, at least – she should pass into my
potestas
. She would no doubt have other suitors, given time – although she is as ugly and wilful as a mule – but I have decided that I’ll marry her myself.’

I heard my son, behind me, make a strangled noise and I swallowed hard myself. The Roman attitude to young widows is not a pleasant one – a woman without children has no rights in law. Legally she is herself a child, and – if she lacks a father, who is more likely to consult her tastes – her guardian has the right to give her in marriage to anyone he likes, usually the highest bidder. Or, if he is single, he might marry her himself and so keep the dowry. This is regarded as good business, and even boasted of. The lady could, of course, decline to speak the vows – but then she is likely to be classified as mad and locked up for the remainder of her natural life. I did not envy this poor woman, whoever she might be. ‘But I thought you found her unattractive, citizen?’ I said.

He gave me a look that would have frozen fire. ‘I daresay I shall manage to do my duty by her, all the same – although once she is with child I shall not greatly trouble her.’ At the prospect he managed a bleak smile. ‘There are practical considerations, citizen. My brother was besotted with his Silvia, poor deluded fool, and has left her everything he owned to be a marriage portion if she wed again. By his will it will pass in time to any child of hers, but of course a husband would have the usufruct, meanwhile.’

The interest and profit on the capital, he meant. Of course! He was demonstrating his good Roman common sense. I wondered what this Silvia thought about these plans, though obviously – since Genialis was her legal guardian – she would have no choice at all. However, I made the conventional remark: ‘Then may good fortune smile upon you both.’

He gave what might have been taken for a smile. ‘Good fortune. Ah, indeed. That is exactly what has brought me here. The house that Silvia lives in – which is part of the dowry she brings with her, and which I hope to move into soon myself – contains a mosaic pavement in the entrance-way, which was commissioned by my brother when they wed. Unfortunately it depicts a boat, since that was the way he earned his wealth.’

‘I think we know the place.’ That was my adopted son, Junio, stepping forward to take up position at my side. ‘The house of Ulpius! I believe my father and I laid the original design.’

As he said it, I remembered too: a fine townhouse on the other side of town, and the excited Ulpius boasting of the lively dark-haired girl that was to be his wife. More contrast to this soulless brother it would be hard to find. ‘Of course we did!’ I said.

Genialis ignored this interruption totally. ‘But since her husband died by falling overboard she feels that it’s an evil omen now, and keeping it would be an invitation to ill luck. She won’t consent to marry anyone until it has been changed. Of course a widow’s sensibilities in such a matter are permissible – if only in consideration of her grief. Therefore I need someone to lay a different floor and fast – and you were recommended. I presume that you are equal to the task?’

Some instinct made me hesitate. ‘I already have a number of commissions to fulfil.’ It was an overstatement. All I had at present were mere enquiries, but my sympathies were all with Silvia. I judged that the lady was a most reluctant bride – and intelligent as well. Even her guardian could not force her into marrying if she could convincingly plead ill-omens before the temple priests. I mentally saluted her ingenuity.

Genialis’s dark eyes had narrowed with surprise at my reply. ‘I am prepared to pay you very handsomely, provided that the work is done on time. A gold piece, perhaps. A sacrifice to new beginnings, you might say – since that seems appropriate to the day. I want it finished well before the wedding date – which will be before the beginning of next moon.’

I found that I was nodding. No Roman – let alone a superstitious girl – would ever marry in Februarius, which is considered the most ill-starred of all the months. ‘Could it not wait until the month of Mars?’ That would buy Silvia an extra month or two, and perhaps I could find extra reasons for delay. ‘With these other contracts, it would be difficult …’

He interrupted me. ‘Citizen, I warn you, I intend to stand as an
aedile
in this town, as soon as I legally qualify for nomination to the post. You will find it in your interest to assist me in my plan.’

Meaning that I would regret it, otherwise. The aediles are elected officers with considerable powers, especially in relation to trades and market-stalls. But it made sense of course – the post is generally accepted as a route to nomination to the council later on – and explained why he was in such haste to wed the girl. Elections to public office still generally take place in March, on what was New Year’s Day on the ancient Roman calendar, before the Emperor Julius readjusted it. Candidates are required to have a dwelling of a certain size within the confines of the town and obviously this house of Silvia’s would satisfy the rule, but to achieve it he had to marry her. Besides, he would need a little time to build a reputation with the electorate – mostly by promising to pay for public works – and he would also have to find a serving councillor to stand as referee, though presumably that could be arranged, given a sufficient ‘fee’, or bribe.

I did not have the property requirement to vote, although today I almost wished I did – so I could cast my marble for anyone except my visitor. However, I kept my January face. ‘I do not think that in the time available …’

This time it was Junio who interrupted me. ‘We do have pattern-pieces, father, which we could install. Reasonably quickly if the price was right. It is only a small entrance lobby after all. Providing only that the customer could find a design that he was happy with. Shall I drag out the patterns and let him have a look?’ He led me over to the corner of the shop where all my pattern-pieces were stored upon a rack, and as we went he whispered in my ear. ‘I’ve just remembered something. He could be dangerous. I’m sure I heard that there was something strange about the way that Ulpius died. If we get into the house we might find out if that was true. And even if there’s nothing to be learned, an
aureus
is a lot of money after all. Better that we should have the work than it should go elsewhere.’

He had a point, of course. I could hardly help poor Silvia by turning down the job – there are several other people who would take it on at once, and more than likely make a far worse job of it. All I would do is lose a valuable fee. And Junio was right. If we managed to discover anything, we might yet put a stop to this marriage after all. I nodded. ‘Bring the slaves and take the patterns out there in the light, where our client can have a better look at them,’ I said aloud.

Genialis made a dismissive gesture as we hurried back to him. ‘That will not be necessary, pavement-maker,’ he said airily. ‘Anything that has not got ships in it will do. Something neutral – birds or flowers perhaps? If you can get it finished by the Ides, I will pay you that gold piece – double if you can get it done before Agonalia.’

That took my breath away. A single aureus was a substantial fee. Two of them would keep my family for months. But the feast he had mentioned was just nine days away – the Festival of Janus proper, when a ram was sacrificed, not just the votive crackers which were offered up today. That would not offer poor Silvia much respite – nor give me much time for my enquiries. ‘I do not know if it is possible, so quickly,’ I demurred.