Dreadful Destiny, A

By Rosemary Rowe

An unwelcome proposal of marriage has far-reaching repercussions in this skilfully plotted historical mystery.

April, CE 194. The tensions in the civil-war-torn Empire have come to Glevum now. Libertus’s patron, Marcus Septimus, has received a letter from Druscilla Livia, a widowed cousin of his wife, seeking his protection. She has received an offer of marriage from a powerful Roman Senator, Hortius Valens, a man of cruel and unusual tastes, and she is in no position to refuse. She has run away . . . with Hortius in hot pursuit.

This puts Marcus in a dangerous dilemma. If he accepts Druscilla as his ward and prevents the wedding, he offends not only her prospective groom, but also the Provincial Governor to whom Hortius is related. But if he returns Druscilla to the Senator, he offends another of her kinswomen – the Empress herself. Once again, Marcus turns to Libertus for help.

But Libertus has worries of his own. His wife Gwellia has an injured foot, which is now infected and could cost her life. But when one of his own slaves is brutally killed he realizes how perilous the situation has become. Resolving to help Druscilla, he concocts an ingenious plan. But in defying the Senator, Libertus is making a powerful enemy. And even the best-laid plans can go disastrously awry . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Sep 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781448305551

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Rome

Autumn 193 AD

Hortius Lollius Valens, the Senator, was furious. Not, for once, about the fatuity of politics in Rome; he knew enough to say very little in the Senate, nod a lot and – if voting was essential – vote the way the brand-new Emperor Severus would like. It was a technique which had enabled him to survive the reign of several emperors in the last few years.

This matter was even more maddening, if that were possible. It concerned the second marriage he’d contracted for. He’d had such plans – delicious plans, and profitable too. But now he suspected that the lady had heard rumours of his tastes – most likely from his previous wife who hadn’t liked the way he took his pleasure, but whose reluctance made it all the more delectable. He should have been more careful about whom he let her see, while she had lasted. But he had learned from that – just as he had learned that it was possible to cause a little too much of that exquisite pain. He would know better next time. He liked them writhing; he didn’t like them dead.

If there was a next time! He was getting older, he’d lost his looks and hair, and wealthy families were getting so particular these days. Respectable well-bred virgins could take their pick of handsome boys. Of course, one could buy one’s pleasure, but where was the fun in that? He’d had his share of slave-girls and prostitutes of course – handsomely rewarded to ensure they held their tongues – but they weren’t really satisfactory. The humiliation and outrage was at least half the thrill.

The woman he had selected would have been ideal. Spirited, so she would be a pleasure to subdue. Not exactly pretty, but still voluptuous – which was almost a prerequisite – and recently widowed, which might have been a fault (since she would clearly not be wholly innocent), but she was available and one must be realistic at his age. Besides, she was childless and he would quite like an heir; she was probably still young enough for that, and her husband had willed her a fairly large estate, which came to her fully if she ever had a child. The money – though not essential – would have been agreeable. Most of all she was related to the Empress Julia, distantly but close enough to boast of in a wife, and potentially enough to merit favours here and there. The new Empress was said to have a lot of influence with her spouse.

That alone would have outweighed most disadvantages. His own familial connections – to one of the unsuccessful pretenders to the Imperial purple – though remote, were quite potentially dangerous, these days. But a marriage link with the Empress would counterbalance that, and possibly even bring preferment at the Imperial court – provided the new wife did not gossip about their private life, as he suspected that his foolish former one had done.

How could that have happened? He’d circumscribed her movements – hadn’t let her go out visiting or join the feast when he invited acquaintances to dine. Confided in her family, probably – he’d known it was a risk, but not to have asked her kinfolk to the house might have raised questions and he hadn’t wanted that. A man in his position must be seen to do what is socially required. So there had been family banquets now and then – and lavish ones as well – and of course she’d entertained the female visitors. But he’d never left her on her own without a watching slave who would report to him, and tell him exactly whom she was talking to and what she said and did. And he’d made sure that she knew that – and what she could expect if she tried to prattle about their private life!

It had never occurred to him that she might smuggle written messages – like many women, she was barely literate – but he now concluded that she must have done. Why else would his new selected bride, her distant cousin, have attempted to refuse? The match was in her interests (in appearance anyway) at least as much as his. It would give her status and protection and a guardian in law, the possibility of children, even yet, and the respect that matronhood officially enjoyed, together with the expectation of a comfortable old age. She should have been flattered to be asked.

Her family had been willing, too, which should have been enough. Her younger brother, in whose care she had been left, was positively anxious to see her wed again. ‘I should be glad to see her settled, at her age,’ he had said. ‘Especially to someone of such distinguished rank.’ Not to mention that she was a threat – her dead husband had sided with Pescennius Niger in his battles for the throne (a misjudgement he had answered with his life), but his association implicated her, and potentially her family as well. It was only her connection with the Empress that had protected her. No wonder that her brother had been keen to have her married to somebody politically sound.

Even the woman herself had not at first demurred. But on the night when the betrothal contract was to be affirmed, and they brought her in to tell her, her face was horrified. Disgusted, almost. Though when he bade her raise her head and look at him, her eyes were full of fear. It was that which thrilled him to his loins and sealed his choice, in fact. She’d raved and ranted – even stamped her foot – so much that her brother had been afraid that the prospective groom would change his mind.

‘I fear that she is wilful, Hortius.’

But Hortius did not mind a touch of fire – it quite excited him (all the more fun to subdue her later on) – and it did not alter her connections at the court, so he waved it off as ‘natural modesty … or commendable loyalty to her former spouse, perhaps?’

So they’d sealed the bargain with a cup or two of best Falernian wine. There were even discussions about propitious dates on which to hold the wedding rites. The bride had seemed resigned, if terrified, and he’d gone home full of private, exhilarating plans.

Only to find, today, that she had disappeared. Allowed to leave the city for a day or two on a ‘prenuptial visit to aged relatives’, she’d taken a couple of her most loyal slaves, together with some gold – most of the money her husband left to her – and fled. When she was his, Hortius told himself, she’d never have private attendants of her own, again. Or be allowed to visit anyone alone.

But that was for later. First she must be found. Nobody knew where or even in which direction she had gone. She had taken her brother’s carriage from his villa, as arranged, and simply not arrived where she was due – and no one admitted to having seen them on the road, though questions had been asked on every crossing-point within a dozen miles.

The brother was incandescent and swore he’d drag her back. Already he’d sent parties of searchers after her. Only the assurance that the wedding could still take place (albeit privately) had persuaded him to promise not to have her flogged on her return. That was a pleasure the groom was saving for himself.

He himself would see that she was ‘properly chastised’. Anger would give it an especial edge. She would learn what it was to insult his noble name, and how to plead for mercy through her sobs.

As soon as he found her.

As he proposed to do.

(Of course, we here in Britannia could not know anything about this at the time. I learned it many moons afterwards from one of his ex-slaves – of whom, more later in the narrative. And it would have taken a rune-reader to guess at the terrible consequences it would have for me and mine.)

ONE

Near Glevum, Britannia,

194 AD

When I awoke, on that cold morning in Aprilis, I had no idea what lay in store. My immediate concerns were of another kind.

It was the smell that first roused me – an overpowering, sour-green smell, like every kind of dye-stuff and vegetable leaf all boiled up at once. I blinked myself awake. I was not dreaming, and the roundhouse was not afire – though the already smoky air was hanging thick with pungent steam. My wife Gwellia was obviously awake, cooking something unaccustomed on the central fire. I rolled over on my bed of reeds, ready to complain that it was scarcely dawn, though – since it was the Emperor’s birthday and my presence was required at the Glevum rites – I would obviously have to be moving very soon.

Then in the firelight I saw her huddled shape. She was sitting on a stool beside the hearth holding her leg and obviously in pain. Something was seriously wrong.

‘Gwellia! What is it? Are you feeling ill?’ I did not immediately guess the cause. Foolishly, because I should have done.

She had trodden on a fragment of metal in the lane some days before – probably a lost hobnail or some loose fastening fallen from a cart – though whatever it was it must have been extremely sharp, since it had gone straight through her sandal-sole and right into her foot. But she had treated it and bound it by the time that I came home, and waved away my expressions of concern. She is generally clever in the use of healing herbs and had made light of this, so at the time I had not worried over-much. I clearly should have done.

In my defence, I had not seen the foot. I was not in the roundhouse when she hobbled home. And up to yesterday, apart from the inevitable limp, she’d seemed more or less her normal self. Even now there was the tang of burning oatcakes in among the steam, suggesting she’d been attempting her customary tasks. But I should have known my wife.

Like me, she had spent many years in servitude, but her master (unlike mine) was not a kindly one and she’d learned – the hard way – to endure all things silently, for fear of earning worse. It was something about which I had chided her before – as her husband I had a right to know if she was suffering – but some habits are too painfully acquired and deeply ingrained to break. I might have guessed that she would not complain about a wound, however bad.

But it was very rare for Gwellia to overcook her cakes – a sign that today she was distracted by genuine distress.

‘Gwellia!’ I said again, more urgently.

She heard me this time and tried to scramble to her feet. ‘It is nothing, husband! I …’ But her voice was not entirely her own, and she broke off with an involuntary gasp as she put her weight onto the bandaged foot. And I realized – finally – that matters were far worse than she’d encouraged me to think.

I threw off the furs and woollen covers from the bed and went across to her, straightening my sleeping tunic as I came. ‘It’s that foot you injured, isn’t it? It cannot be healing properly.’ There was no candle lit, but I pulled up a second stool and patted the one that she’d been using. ‘Sit down by the fire and let me have a look. You can rest your leg on my lap, so that I can see.’

She was not keen to show me, even then, but – when she reluctantly complied and let me ease the bloodied binding off – I was appalled at what the flickering firelight revealed. The metal had clearly penetrated right up between her toes. The wound had sealed over, but the area around it was tight and yellowish, while the entire remainder of her foot was swollen, red and purpling.

‘Wife, you should not be walking on that foot! It’s twice its normal size. There’s some evil humour in it.’ Concern caused me to speak more sharply than I meant.

‘I should not have shown you. It will heal in time,’ she muttered, trying feebly to take the rag from me, to wrap the foot again.

I held it out of reach. ‘You’ll need clean binding on it,’ I said, and made her scowl. I tried to cajole her with a little levity. ‘It looks like that pig’s bladder that Marcus’s slaves inflated to make a plaything for his little son.’

But even the notion of my patron – one of the most important men in all Britannia – unfashionably doting on his family, could not raise a smile today. ‘I’m making a poultice for it, as you can observe,’ she said, defensively. ‘I’ve sent Minimus and Tenuis out to gather more medicinal leaves.’

‘In the dark?’

‘Half-light, husband. Dawn is breaking and I sent them with a lighted taper each. It’s not ideal, I know, but I could not sleep with this, though I’d used up all our poppy juice to no avail. And I’d run out of sufficient leaves to make the poultice-mix. I could not go myself, but they’ll manage, I am sure. Tenuis is nimble-fingered and Minimus is eagle-eyed and knows which leaves to pick …’ She moved her leg a little and I saw her wince with pain.

‘A pity that I did not see this earlier,’ I muttered, guiltily. ‘I will send a slave with a message to the town to say that I will not attend the festival today.’

Gwellia sat upright and snatched her foot away. ‘And have yourself arrested and arraigned?’ She was trembling and there was a quaver in her voice.

I took it for emotion but when I put out a hand to comfort her I realized that – though shivering – she was, in fact, unnaturally hot. ‘You are feverish,’ I chided. ‘I’ll get the kitchen-slave to mix a cooling linctus for you. Where is he anyway? I know it is early, but he should be tending you, if the other two aren’t here. And never mind my duty to the state. I can’t go into town and leave you here like this.’

‘And how will it help me, if you’re dragged away and exiled for showing disrespect to Emperor Severus?’ She shook her head and I saw that her eyes were wet with tears. ‘Or executed, like those protestors in the capitol? And don’t pretend it couldn’t happen here.’

She was quite right, of course. Even my great patron, Marcus Septimus Aurelius had recently begun to live in fear. His once-fabled connection to the old Imperial House had suddenly become a liability. Septimius Severus saw rivals everywhere, and was quietly and efficiently disposing of them all.

Gwellia had not finished. ‘You told me yourself there was to be an important visitor to the rites this year. From Rome, I think you said? That makes it more important. Anybody from the capital is probably a spy.’

She had a point, but I dismissed it with a shrug. ‘Some relative of the Governor of Britannia, that’s all. Not an official ambassador. And it’s not as if the Governor himself is popular with Rome.’ I meant it: Clodius Albinus may have been proclaimed official heir to Severus and given the token title ‘Caesar of the West’ to stop him temporarily from pressing his own (and equally legitimate) claim to the Imperial throne but anyone could see that it did not mean a thing. ‘Severus has living children,’ I went on. ‘Between ourselves, I think the Governor will be lucky to survive.’

‘All the more reason to be careful then. His relatives will be reporting everything to Rome, simply to prove their personal loyalty.’ Her voice was quavering but the argument was firm. ‘You know what Severus does with those who do not show him proper deference. And if the Governor himself may be at risk – don’t suppose your new-found rank will rescue you! The contrary, in fact. What could be more public as an act of disrespect than a member of the curia failing to attend the Imperial birthday rites? It’s one of the few rituals which are compulsory.’

All this was true, again. I knew the risks when I suggested it. All the same I made a deprecating face. ‘But I’m a humble tradesman, not a man of Roman birth. I’ll send a letter saying I am ill, express my desolation and agree to pay the fine. A mosaic pavement-maker is not likely to be missed.’

‘Tradesman you may be, husband, but these days you are a duumvir as well, and your absence will be marked. And claims of illness would hardly be believed – you presided at a hearing only yesterday, and very actively, from your account of it. And don’t argue that even that would give you time catch the plague,’ she went on, guessing correctly what I was about to say. ‘There is no plague about. Those rumours of it in that hilltop farm were proved to be no more than poisoned water in a well, caused by the decaying body of a dog. You told me so yourself.’ She tired suddenly and seemed to be struggling to pronounce the words. ‘You know the law. All male Roman citizens must attend the sacrifice! Of course you must go, and be seen to take your part.’

‘And leave you here alone?’

She made a little noise, halfway between a sob and an exasperated ‘humph’. ‘I shall hardly be alone. I shall have the kitchen-slave. He’s only gone out now to fetch clean water from the spring, while the other two …’ She tailed off, exhausted by the need for argument. Not like her usual self at all, in fact.

I made a swift decision. Worry about me would cause her additional distress. ‘Then I’ll go. But I’ll leave all three slaves at home with you, today.’ Normally Minimus escorts me into town and helps me change into my curial attire, and often Tenuis comes as well, to take care of Arlina, my mule, and run any errands wanted in the town. But this was clearly an emergency. ‘Junio will be attending the feast in any case, so I can walk to town with him, and one of the slaves from the apartment can escort me at the rites.’

She could hardly argue with me there. Junio, my adopted son, lives right next door to us, with his wife and family, in another roundhouse whose grounds adjoin our own. His duty as a Roman citizen obviously requires that he, too, should attend the birthday rites. So we could journey in together, as we did on any working day. He would expect no less. And once in Glevum there would be no problem about slaves. I had some, at the flat.

Technically, a councillor should always have at least one slave escorting him when he’s togate in the town (though this regulation is not generally enforced) but it is obligatory on civic occasions like today. When Marcus had proposed me as a duumvir, he’d not only ensured that I met the property qualifications for the post (by ‘gifting’ me a town apartment of the appropriate size, on condition that it should revert to him when my civic duties ceased), but had also seen that it was ‘basically equipped’ – which naturally meant some household slaves as well as furniture. Gwellia often grumbled about the cost of keeping them, but it meant I’d have my requisite attendant at the birthday rites.

She tried to argue about it even then. ‘Leave all the servants with me, husband? What about Arlina? Why don’t you just take Minimus and leave Tenuis with me?’

Because Minimus would not be afraid to send for me if there was need of it. Tenuis was eager, but too small and insecure. But I did not tell her that.

I said, ‘You may be glad of Minimus’s strength – he’s very near as tall as I am now, and twice as muscular. If you were to fall faint – which Jove prevent – the other two together could hardly pick you up. Besides, I’d like to leave you with several pairs of willing legs, so if things worsen you can send for me and also call that wise woman who lives out in the woods. No one knows more about the use of herbs – you’ve said as much yourself.’

To my surprise, she gave a grudging nod. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. I own that I’d be glad of extra help today.’ Admissions of weakness don’t come easily from her, but her next words startled me. ‘I would not like to let the fire go out. I almost did so, yesterday.’ She shook her head, apologetically. Keeping something burning on the hearth is one of the first duties of a housekeeper. ‘I lay down for a moment to try and rest my foot, and I fear I fell asleep. If Kurso had not come in from collecting up the eggs—’ She broke off as the boy himself appeared, struggling with a water bucket almost half his size.

Kurso realized that we’d been discussing him. He assumed the worst at once. ‘Have I offended, mistress?’ He looked beseechingly at us. ‘I had to leave the taper when it blew out at the spring. It was almost spent in any case and I could not carry both.’ He gestured to the pail.

The poor lad had been so showered in blows by his former owner that – when he first came to us – he could move fastest backwards. He had blossomed somewhat since and grown in confidence, but he was still as skinny as a reed and terrified of having unwittingly done wrong.

I got up from my stool and smiled encouragement. ‘On the contrary. Your mistress says that yesterday you kept the fire alight, which she could not have done without you.’

He flashed a grateful grin and nodded speechlessly. Kurso never did have very much to say. He put the bucket down.

‘And,’ I told him, going across to him, ‘we are going to rely on you again today. I am obliged to go into the town – official business which I can’t escape.’ I put my hand upon his shoulder. ‘I’m leaving you and Minimus to run the household here, and Tenuis can stay and help as well. Your mistress is to rest – her foot is very bad. She’ll supervise and tell you what tasks to do, of course. But if she’s any worse, you are to send for me at once. Minimus can run to town and fetch me home. Those are my orders, do you understand? Whatever your mistress tells you to the contrary.’

Kurso shot an uneasy glance at Gwellia. This would not be easy for him, I was sure. In my absence my good wife was unlikely to submit very readily to idleness and the poor little slave could hardly force her to sit down. Neither, in general, could he order the other slaves about, so – if Gwellia told them not to send for me – they might have had conflicting loyalties. But the master’s word is always paramount, and by saying this, I’d made my orders clear. And Gwellia knew it. I could see her scowl.

I tried to soften this by murmuring to her, ‘Promise me you’ll rest that foot till I come back.’ A slow reluctant nod. ‘Then that is settled. I will agree to go, but won’t stay for the feast or celebration games – I’ll simply take part in the ritual and come straight back home. There’s no legal obligation to do more than that. I’ll speak to Marcus: he’ll make apologies for me if they’re required. But if you feel you need the wise woman, meanwhile, I would like to know – it could only be because that foot is worse. So send and tell me, is that understood?’ I nodded at Kurso, who was grinning like a fish, proud of being entrusted with a role.

‘If you command it, master!’ he replied. ‘If there’s any problem, we’ll send Minimus at once.’ I smiled at the ‘we’. Kurso was taking his new responsibilities very seriously.

Gwellia gave a dismissive little snort. ‘I can’t imagine what the wise woman could do, that I could not,’ she grumbled, with a flash of her old self. ‘Plantain poultices and draughts of willow-bark are what’s required. And I’m already doing that!’ She gestured to the pot of leaves and water bubbling on the fire, as she raised her swollen multicoloured foot again to rest it on my stool. ‘Without the need to pay for her advice! I’m sure the poison will escape if I …’ She abandoned the attempt to speak, which was through gritted teeth, and surely could not sound convincing even to herself.

‘I wish that I could help,’ I told her, soberly. ‘But I simply don’t know how.’ Herbs and potions were Gwellia’s field, not mine. My competence was limited to simple things, like removing splinters or wrapping spiders’ webs around a wound. ‘I only wish that Marcus still kept a medicus these days. We could ask him for advice.’ Marcus, like many wealthy Romans, had once kept a private doctor in his household – a skilled man of some intelligence who had been trained in Greece – but it had ended badly and the man had gone.

‘I don’t want the public medicus from Glevum,’ Gwellia found the energy to snap. ‘Even if Marcus were offering to pay.’

‘That would have to be a very last resort,’ I said. I’d had dealings with that public medicus before, and – like Gwellia – I had no faith in his abilities. (His remedy for everything appears to be confined to either letting blood or prescribing cabbage soup, for which services he charges an enormous fee.) ‘We could try leeches if the wound was weeping still, though …’ I had a sudden thought. ‘There’ll be a midwife at the villa, I suppose, since my patron’s wife is likely to give birth again within a day or two. And perhaps a wet nurse too. I don’t suppose that either of them would be of help? Julia would be happy to lend one, for an hour or two – she would not be needing both of them at once.’

‘My foot is swollen but I do not think that it can be with child! What possible use could a birth-attendant ever be to me? Or a wet nurse either?’ She was close to tears again.

I cursed myself for having mentioned it. It was a disappointment to us both that we’d never had a child – we had been reunited far too late for that. I had adopted Junio, of course – but for Gwellia our childlessness was a double tragedy. She never spoke of it, but I’m sure that she’d borne children to her owners in the past. Gwellia – when young – was very beautiful, and a master is free to use his slaves in any way he likes. (Any resultant children would be killed at birth or sold as soon as they were old enough to fetch a decent price.)

I was still cursing my thoughtless tongue when I became aware of Kurso hesitantly plucking at my sleeve. ‘What is it, Kurso?’

‘Master,’