Free A Roman Ransom by Rosemary Rowe

hurry to my aid, the lid fell off, the basket rolled, and I found myself staring with horrified fascination at what came half slithering and half crawling out of it.

Chapter Six
    It was not, after all, a snake – though it was almost as slippery as one. This was a child – a small, filthy and bedraggled child, coated from head to foot in grease. It was naked, apart from a piece of ragged cloth round its loins, and another stuffed into its mouth and tied securely round the lower face as if to prevent the infant from crying out – and the whole body, from the shoulders downwards, was covered in that shocking film of yellow grease, which gave off a strong and strangely pungent smell.
    ‘Who in the name of all the gods are you?’ I said aloud. I had heard of changelings – left among mortals by the gods – but I have never really believed in such things. Some pauper’s child, perhaps, thrown into the litter in the hope that someone would take pity on him and raise him as a household slave? Whoever he was, my heart went out to him. (It was a ‘him’, I saw. He was crawling rather listlessly about, and as he did so the tattered cloth round the lower limbs fell free, and put the matter of sex beyond doubt.)
    Despite the stench which emanated from every part of him, I stretched forward to take him in my arms. My whole intention was to comfort him. I tried to free the bond round the face but to my alarm he tried to flinch away. His eyes grew wide. He stared at me, then all at once he screwed them up again. His face got very red and I guessed that without the cloth round his mouth, he would be screaming now.
    All the same, I could not bear to see him gagged. I undid the tie as gently as I could and eased it from his mouth, but far from soothing him, my action seemed to enrage him even more. He took a shuddering long breath and let out a mighty howl.
    ‘Hush!’ I muttered, rather helplessly, holding him awkwardly and attempting to rock him in my arms. I was just wondering what on earth to do when the curtain of the litter was pulled aside and I saw the medicus looking in on me.
    ‘Libertus! I heard you call. What is it? Are you ill? I thought you were asleep . . .’ He stopped, staring at the little bundle in my arms. ‘What in Hermes’ name have you got there?’ He came and knelt down beside me, letting the leather curtain strips fall round us as a screen.
    For answer, I handed him the infant, which promptly kicked, arched itself into a rigid line, and launched into another fit of screaming howls. I had never realised how lustily a small child can bawl.
    Philades held the wriggling apparition at arms’ length. He looked at it a moment and then stared from it to me. ‘Dear Zeus, it’s Marcellinus! How did you manage this?’
    I was so startled that I almost leaped upright. ‘Marcellinus? Surely not? The kidnappers have already arranged for his return, and for his mother’s too – tonight when the villa gates are to be left “open and unguarded”, wasn’t that the phrase? Anyway, this isn’t Marcus’s child. Remember, I have seen him, medicus, and you have not. This child is far too big.’ Admittedly small children look much the same to me, but there was nothing about this one that I recognised at all.
    The doctor looked long and hard at me. ‘You have seen the boy, you say? And how long ago was that? Before you were taken ill? That must be a moon ago at least – and children of this age grow very fast. Come, pavement-maker, don’t play games with me. This is Marcellinus – and we both know it is. Look, there is the tell-tale birthmark on his leg.’
    I gawped. I remembered, vaguely, that there had been talk of such a mark – shaped like an eagle, a symbol of good luck – but I had never seen it, since the babe was always swaddled when I looked at it. But on this child’s thigh, beyond a doubt, was a purple stain which might (with imagination) look something like a bird.
    I shook my head again. There