Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [160]
“Greetings, chief Tosutigus,” he began solemnly. “The governor sends you his respects. He has received a letter from the Emperor Vespasian, who remembers you.”
Porteus was astonished. Obviously the imperial secretariat was doing its job brilliantly, and was ensuring that no petty chief in the empire was left out of the huge system of flattery.
“As you know,” the messenger went on, “a new provincial capital is being founded at Venta Belgarum and you are one of the chiefs whose estates fall within its territory. The governor hopes that you will consent to serve on the ordo,” he paused for effect, “and not only serve, but that you will agree to act as the first of its two magistrates. I need not tell you that this post carries with it a full grant of Roman citizenship.” He was a plump, elderly man and he smiled with self-satisfaction.
So at last it had come: if not a client king, Tosutigus was to be made a citizen. Porteus was glad for him.
Then Tosutigus astonished him.
With a low bow, and a look of mock respect that confused the governor’s messenger completely, he replied:
“Convey my respects to the governor, but please inform him that, flattered as I would be to receive such an honour, unfortunately I do not think my health will allow me to accept it.” He coughed. “I have recently become unwell,” he explained “and so I must decline.”
It was afterwards that he explained to his surprised son-in-law.
“I’ve heard about these councils, my dear Porteus. When you join them, you’re responsible for the upkeep of the town, all its civil and religious ceremonies. It can cost you a fortune!” This was true: the honour of serving on the ordo had been known to ruin men in the provinces. “When I was younger I wanted to be a citizen,” the chief went on, “but since you’re a Roman, my grandchildren will be citizens anyway. Better keep the money – don’t you think?” And although it went against all Roman notions of honour and public service, Porteus could not help laughing in agreement.
That night Tosutigus opened an amphora of his finest wine:
“To celebrate an old Celt’s wisdom,” he explained to his son-in-law with a wink.
It was in the third year of the work at Aquae Sulis that Porteus met the girl. She could not have been more than fifteen.
He had a small house set on the curving slopes overlooking the workers’ camp, which he used whenever he was on one of his visits to the spa, and which was run by a cook and two slaves. When one of the slaves fell sick, he told Numex to find him a replacement, and the next day the squat jack-of-all-trades waddled in with a small, dark-haired girl that he had bought from a passing trader. He assured Porteus that the girl was clean and hard-working, and after a quick glance at her, the Roman thought no more about her.
Three days passed busily after this before he even addressed a word to her, but one evening as he was sitting at his table inspecting some plans for a mosaic that was to adorn the paved entrance to the baths, the girl came in to light the lamps and he glanced up at her. She seemed very small.
“What is your name?” he asked with a friendly smile.
“Anenclita,” she replied softly.
This was a Greek name, meaning blameless. Slaves were often given such names which pleased or amused their owners, but he could see at a glance that she was not Greek.
“Your real name – before you were a slave,” he persisted.
“Naomi.”
“Where are you from?”
“From Judaea, sir.”
“And why were you sold into slavery?”
“My parents were in the revolt in Palestine. The whole family was sold as slaves by Vespasian.”
He nodded slowly. It was not an uncommon story. The slave trade in the empire was huge. A girl like this might find herself transported by chance – either by a trader or in the household