I still remember the triumph I felt the day die water once more flowed into the camp. I had won a battle against odds; now everything, the sweat and worry, the money I had spent, seemed worth while. I saw to it immediately that stocks of fuel were laid in, the baths made available to mine shifts coming off duty. At first none of the slaves made use of the new facility; one and all suspected some new devilry on the part of the State. I promptly made bathing compulsory for the entire camp; later, as the habit spread, more and more repaired voluntarily to the bathhouses to relax in the rejuvenating warmth.
Summer was over by the time the supply was restored; the months had come and gone without my being aware of their passing. Still there had been no word from Mediolanum. I puzzled over the inaction; it seemed impossible that my offence could have been forgotten or overlooked. Eventually I put the business out of my mind. There was still a great deal to be done about the camp.
The improvements in conditions had not been without their effect. The slaves looked healthier to a man; so much so that Baudio admitted the overseers were beginning to fear a rebellion amongst the once-spiritless creatures under their command. It was a possibility that hadn’t escaped me; I had new padlocks fitted to the hut doors, reinforced what windows they possessed with additional iron bars. I also reorganised the duty rotas, doubling the strength of all night guards. That in its turn left me with fewer man-hours at my disposal, which meant a further drain on my energy and time; there were days when I got to my rest dog-tired.
Every month a waggon came through from Mediolanum, in charge of a hard-faced treasury official and with an escort of Hispanian cavalry. The ingots of lead and silver were stowed aboard it after their number, weight and purity had been checked and recorded. I studied the returns anxiously. The first two showed a drop on the output of previous years; after that production began slowly but surely to improve. I won’t pretend the results were due wholly or even largely to the better conditions. Under previous commandants it seemed obvious most of the silver refined on the camp had never reached the assay officer at all; I insisted on being present at the opening of every cupel and the subsequent remelting and casting of the bars, which were placed in a strong-room to which I alone held the keys. I had no intention of seeing my hard work nullified by wholesale pilfering.
Winter put a temporary end to most of my projects. It was severer than I had anticipated, with an icy, violent wind blowing day after day from the mountains to the north. The aqueduct froze at its source, and the water-cart once more made its unwelcome appearance. February brought mild, springlike weather; it also brought the first real crisis of my command. It was an unpleasant affair, the rape of a child of eight or nine by one of the overseers. The victim afterwards died from the treatment she received. I instituted an immediate enquiry. There was no doubt as to the creature’s guilt; I had him summarily executed, and let it be known the next offender would be torn by bears. For some weeks after that I slept with my door bolted and a drawn sword at my side, but there were no attempts at reprisals; the camp settled down in cheerful expectation of a spectacular free show. But there were no more offences, or at least none that reached my ears; I was spared the necessity of putting the horrible edict into effect.
In early April I had a visitor. He arrived in a heavy carruca, its sides elaborately carved and gilded. My heart sank when I saw the equipage roll up to the Praetorium. I was working on the foundation of a new dormitory block; I climbed hastily from the trench, brushing my hands on my tunic, and hurried to meet it. The occupant, a short, portly man with sallow skin and grizzled, crinkly hair, descended from the carriage as I came up. On hearing his name I heaved a sigh of relief. This was Paeonius, the absent proprietor of the mine.
He was in a state of considerable indignation. He fumed and fussed behind me as I conducted him to my office, demanding to know what had been going on in his absence; and, more to the point, where was the magician who rumour had it could charm water into running uphill. I admitted my part in the proceedings; and he stared at me in distaste, seeming to notice for the first time my muddy hands and tunic. ‘You don’t look like a magician to me,’ he said. ‘You look more like a bricklayer. . . .’
He was primarily concerned that money had been spent without his sanction. I told him, tartly enough, that it had been my own; he stared at me first in disbelief, then in blank amazement. The ledgers were produced; he pored over them for some time, frowning, before he sat back and shook his head. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘these figures are certainly better than I was expecting. Very much better. How do you account for them? Not by building bath-houses for slaves. . . .’
I had sent for wine; I handed him a cup, and poured one for myself. He drank, held his breath, then belched and grimaced. ‘Plays the very devil with me,’ he said unhappily. ‘Sometimes I swear my stomach’s trying to digest itself. Ail brought on by worry, the whole thing. Convinced of it. Never used to be like it. . .’
I told him that as far as I was concerned the improved production was due solely to the better conditions on the camp. I also stressed that as long as I retained a free hand the upward trend could be expected to continue. The wine mellowed him; under the influence of a second and third cup he admitted he had business interests as far away as Burdigala. None of them, he claimed, had paid for years, or showed any sign of doing so. ‘It’s the state of the country,’ he said. ‘People just don’t have money any more. Did you know that through most of Gallia coinage is literally ceasing to exist? What there is is valueless, except for gold. And people aren’t exchanging that; they’re hoarding it, as bullion. What the end of it’s going to be I can’t imagine ....’He looked at me sidelong with his little dull-black eyes. ‘But I needn’t tell you that, need I?’ he asked craftily.
I poured him some more wine, expressionlessly.
‘Look at things from my point of view,’ he said. He spread his hands appealingly. ‘I’m not a hard man, God knows. But I have to live. . . .’ He caressed his stomach again. ‘It’s never worth it,’ he said. ‘I sometimes wish I’d been born a farmer, or a peasant. When I do make a bit, enough to make ends meet, they won’t let me keep it. Who do they come to if the town hall roof falls in? Me, I tell you, every time. And look at that contraption I go round in. That was the Domina’s idea, not mine. I hate it. Can’t even drive it. And those horses. Ravenous great brutes. They don’t eat hay, they eat money. Solid money, by the pound; I swear it. . . .’
It struck me he might have enjoyed his life even less had he been born a slave; but for once I held my peace. By the time he rose to leave his indignation was forgotten. ‘You’re doing a good job here,’ he said, squeezing my arm confidentially. ‘A good job. Why Mediolanum couldn’t send me a competent engineer before, instead of the jail sweepings I’ve had to put up with, I shall never know. . . .’ I accepted the compliment silently. My knowledge of engineering was minimal, but if he chose to think of me as an expert, so much the better. I saw him to the carriage; he hauled himself aboard, puffing, reached down to grip my arm again. He would, he told me, be away from Massilia for a further week, maybe longer; on his return he would be obliged if I would grace his home with my presence for dinner. There were, he said, many subjects that might be discussed to our mutual advantage. Minutes later the carruca swept grandly through the gates, dwindled in the distance in the direction of the town.
Overall I was pleased by the outcome of the interview. There was something nearly engaging about the little spectabilis, with his perennially delicate stomach and absurd blend of dignity and brashness. I dismissed the invitation from my mind; I was accordingly the more surprised ten days later to receive a letter, couched in flowery terms, bidding me forth to the mansion of Paeonius the following afternoon. Under the circumstances I obviously had no course but to comply; I gave my acceptance to the slave who brought the note arid rode into Massilia next day determined to make the best of what I was convinced would be a typically dreary provincial occasion.
The house of the mine-owner stood almost in the centre of the town. At first sight it was an imposing-looking place. A deep portico fronted it; within, ranged to either side of the heavy doors, stood a pair of racing chariots, their shafts propped against the wall. It was an affectation I hadn’t seen outside Rome. On closer inspection the massive relics proved to be battered and weather-stained; had either of them been coupled to a team I wouldn’t have backed it to finish a lap. I shrugged, and gave my horse into the keeping of a slave. I was conducted to the baths by the doorkeeper, a burly African; his livery of dark red and gold had the same air of somewhat overblown magnificence. I had arrived rather unfashionably on time; I compensated by spending a luxurious extra hour over my toilet. I finally emerged to find my tunic ready for me, freshly pressed and warmed. The Negro appeared once more to lead me to the triclinium.
The house was similar in plan to the house of Patermuthis in Burdigala, but there the resemblance ended. My mentor’s home was graceful and airy; that of Paeonius was sombre and dark, full of a chill dampness that no effort of air and sunlight seemed likely to dispel. I padded through room after room, their walls stippled with frescoes in crimson, ochre and black. Busts, all in the same stolid provincial style, glowered half-seen from alcoves; between them curios from Egypt and the East testified to their owner’s taste and former travels. I saw richly woven rugs, inlaid cabinets and chests; a statue of Anubis, the dog-God of the Nile, executed in some glistening black stone, another of a Pharaoh, seated stiffly with his golden crook and flail. His eyes watched with a species of blank menace as I passed. Ahead of me the sandals of the African whispered on the flags. I found myself watching, sidelong, the shadows that leaped and crowded after us as we passed.
The triclinium itself presented a welcome contrast. The many pendant lamps with which it was lit bathed the little chamber in a warm glow. Drapes covered the walls; to one side the three couches--everything, as I had expected, was classically correct--were grouped round a series of tables already laden with food. The other guests had assembled; I was greeted courteously by Paeonius, and bidden to my place. The spectabilis had arrayed himself for the occasion in a costly looking tunic embroidered with patterns of silver and gold. Rings gleamed on his fingers; on his head, somewhat comically, was perched a sagging wreath of green leaves. I sipped the mulsum that was passed to me while I was introduced in turn to the Bishop of Massilia, attending with some lesser dignitary, three local business friends of Paeonius, and the wife and daughter of my host.
The Domina Papianilla I decided I disliked on sight. She was a woman of less than middle age, running to thickness in the body and with a powerful, ugly face. Her eyes, wide, protuberant and icy-blue, were scarcely enhanced by thick-painted fringes of black; the mask of cosmetics, coupled with a strongly convex forehead, imparted to her a permanently feral expression. She wore not her own hair but a yellow wig, a full blonde scalp piled into a complicated mop on top of her head; it sorted curiously with what remained of her natural complexion. Her fingers, like those of her husband, were crusted with jewels; they moved restlessly, now gripping the stem of a goblet, now beating irritable, nervous tattoos on the inlaid table top in front of her. Just such noble creatures I had seen thronging the amphitheatre of Rome, yelling themselves into orgasms at the sight of blood.
The skin of the girl who sat beside her was clear and golden, unhampered by powder or paint. Her hair, simply dressed, was long and dark; it framed an oval, delicately boned face set with wide eyes that had in them something of the uncertain shyness of an animal. Above them her brows, in defiance of the dictates of fashion, were level and thick. A plain white robe, unadorned by jewellery, set off to perfection the warm brownness of her throat and arms. I drank wine again, slowly, remembering where and when I had seen her before.
It was in the market-place of Massilia, the day I came to the town looking for someone to fire me a set of pipes. Then as now her hair had been brushed till it gleamed, secured by a fillet behind her little, perfect ears. A slave attended her; I saw she pointed and nodded at what she wanted, leaving the haggling and buying to her companion. The wind blew, pressing the thin fabric of her robe against her, showing momentarily the swaying curve of back and hips; showing too an ankle as brown as her cheek. Then as now she had been aware of my gaze; then as now the blushing had started, spread from her throat to the roots of her hair.
But the gustatio was over, the first dishes cleared away; and Papianilla was addressing me directly, ‘This,’ she said, in a husky, carefully modulated voice, ‘must be the great magician. Tell me, Tribune, are you really as much at home, as my husband assures me, with bricks and mortar as with the bewitching of streams?’
I felt my colour start to rise at the delicately contrived sneer. ‘Both gifts were given me by God, Domina,’ I said sweetly. ‘It is my burden to employ them as I can. . . .’
She smiled, graciously, the expression stopping short at her eyes. The exchange set the mood for the conversation. I was assailed from all sides by questions about my birth, upbringing and career; I answered evasively, careful to remain courteous, reserving the stray barb for Papianilla. I was, it was plain, a social curiosity, a very odd fish indeed to have blundered into these folks’ little net. Paeonius watched the whole charade worriedly, casting sidelong glances at his spouse. At one point the Domina assailed me in Greek. I answered her as urbanely as I could. I am no linguist, and my accent has always been bad; I was comforted by the realisation that hers was worse. The talk switched to literature; I presented, somewhat unexpectedly, the phenomenon of a plumber who knew his Horace. Papianilla retreated, re-engaging on the subject of the fine wines of Italia. I countered with some nonsense of my own about Hispanian vintages; my father had always kept a good cellar and I knew the names and quality of most of our local growths.