The Ghosts of Glevum by Rosemary Rowe Page A

unlikely to be of Latin blood.
    He was chewing something, probably dried fish, but the rhythmic motion of his jaws stopped suddenly. It made him seem more menacing, if possible. He spat his mouthful out on to the pile and spoke. Latin – coarse and ill educated, but Latin nonetheless. ‘I don’t speak whatever tongue that is. We’re Roman-minded here. And who are you?’ His eyes looked me up and down, and came to rest on my best leather shoes, now ankle-deep in mire. His own lower legs were wrapped in bits of sack. ‘Runaway slave, I’d place a bet on it! That’s what you are, aren’t you, fancy-feet?’ You could almost see the promise of reward dancing in front of his greedy little eyes.
    ‘Freed-man,’ I said, matching my Latin form to his. I made to pull down the neck of my tunic so he could see the brand. It had been removed long since and the puckered injury was clearly old.
    I saw his eyes narrow, but he let it go. ‘Never mind all that. Seen a white-rober down here, with his slave, have you?’
    I looked up and down the alley, and tried to feign surprise. ‘Only me here,’ I said unhelpfully. I half expected him to ask again what I was doing here, so I bent over and began to pick through the rubbish heap, as I have sometimes seen the beggars do.
    He grunted. ‘Fallen on bad times, have we?’
    I shrugged and hung my head. ‘You know how it is. The chariots . . .’ It was the best I could think of at the time, but it was not impossible. More than one man has met his ruin by betting too much money on a losing horse.
    He swaggered close to me. ‘Bet on the reds, did we? Well, let me tell you something, friend. This rubbish heap’s already spoken for. It’s taken my pals a month to put together a decent pile of rags and wood, and for me to get hold of a pot of oil to douse them with. And then you come along and try to help yourself. Well just forget it, friend. You want a fire, you pay, like anybody else. And one more thing. You tell anyone you’ve seen me here, and I’ll set a torch to you, as well. Especially that white-rober who was snooping round. You understand?’
    Of course. I should have understood before. No one eking out a living in these parts could afford to throw away a jar of oil, however stinking and rancid it might be. Fatbeard had obviously stolen it – from his master probably. That was why he had retreated from a toga in alarm – ironically, he had been afraid of
me
. Now that he thought I was penniless, his swaggering manner had returned.
    ‘I understand,’ I said, ‘I’m off. Looking for fish-heads, that was all. I understand there’s a market for them in the town.’ For a moment I forgot my role. My Latin was too good. I backed away, in the direction Junio had gone.
    He scowled after me, then his fat face screwed into a puzzled frown. ‘Here, wait a minute . . .’ he began. ‘Those shoes. That voice. You’re no mere runaway. It was you dressed up in that toga. Course it was.’ He gave an ugly little smile. ‘So either you’re a nasty little spy, sent by the market police, or you were impersonating a citizen, and that’s a capital offence. I think you and me have a lot to talk about. Come here!’
    But the rubbish heap was still between us. I reached out and toppled it across the path, and then I turned and ran.
    I half heard him lumbering after me, but I did not stop. I was old but he was fat, and I was still sprightlier than he was, especially now that I was not impeded by a toga at every step. I had no idea where I was going, but when I saw a proper alleyway I took it. I panted down a narrow little path between two tenements and out into a crowded thoroughfare.
    Straight into Bullface and his men.
    I was trapped like an eel in a basket. There was no escaping them.
    The three guards were only yards away, brutal as only private soldiery can be. They were coming towards me as I turned into the street, their faces black as thunder, marching like an execution squad