Free A Roman Ransom by Rosemary Rowe Page A

was no sign of a bulla – the lucky charm that every Roman child is given a few days after birth, and never leaves off again until he comes of age. ‘But he has no bulla. Marcellinus had a gold one round his neck. I was at the naming ceremony when it was put on him.’
    ‘So I am led to understand. But in the circumstances I would almost be surprised to find it, wouldn’t you? Any thief would be delighted by the opportunity. No doubt it has been removed and sold by now.’
    I murmured doubtfully. Of course the medicus was right in principle, but it was hard to imagine even the most hardened kidnapper deliberately snatching such a precious object from a child. To lose a bulla was to invite appallingly bad luck – to a Roman it is almost like losing one’s contract with the gods – and it would require the most extensive sacrifice and ritual to expiate the loss and create another one. I began to argue the point, but then I trailed off. I had to admit that the medicus was right – I had been ill for many days and a bulla is easily removed.
    I stared at the greasy little form again. It was hard to reconcile this ragged, smelly apparition with the cosseted, perfumed and pretty little boy who had so often been held up for my admiration in the past. Yet, the more I looked, the more I realised that it was genuinely possible. Indeed, now I began to admit it to myself, I could see that there was an undoubted resemblance to my patron in this child: the same nose, the same colouring, the same fair, curling hair – though that was new to me! When I’d last seen Marcellinus he had been nearly bald! And there was undoubtedly the birthmark. Even to my weary half-drugged mind, it was clear that this was indeed the missing boy.
    But I was not too drowsy to have a sudden thought. I had not recognised the child, although I’d seen him several times before, so how had Philades, who by all accounts had never met the boy, worked out so quickly who it was?
    I was too tired and sick to play at guessing games, and I confronted the physician openly. ‘I accept that you are right. It is the missing child. But tell me, Philades, how did you know? About the birthmark, in particular? Marcus didn’t mention it to people, generally, and I thought that you had never seen the child.’
    The doctor gave me a grim little smile. ‘Did you think you were the only one who knew that little secret, pavement-maker? I’m sorry to disappoint you, in that case. Marcus has been describing it to everyone, so that they could identify the boy if he were found.’
    Of course! I should have thought of that myself. I nodded. ‘And you are in his confidence, I know – in fact you have become a regular Thersis, haven’t you?’ It was an attempt at flippancy, I know, a joking reference to that affair in Rome – but levity was obviously not Philades’ style. There was not the vestige of a smile: in fact if anything he looked grimmer than before, and I rather wished I’d left the words unsaid. ‘Well, thank Jupiter the child has been returned to us,’ I said, in the hope of covering the moment’s frostiness. ‘Though Marcus will be furious when he sees what they have done.’
    I meant it. What Marcus would say when he found that his precious son and heir had not only been stripped of his fine clothes and golden bulla, but smeared with stinking grease and shut up in the dark like an animal in that basket, I did not care to think. I even feared he’d vent his rage on me, for bringing the child back to him like this: my patron has always had a tendency to blame the messenger for unwelcome news.
    The doctor said nothing, but the boy squirmed sideways and began to squeal again. Philades expertly scooped him up against his shoulder and began to pat him firmly on the back.
    At least, I thought – watching this procedure helplessly – my worst fears had not been realised. We’d received no word of Julia, but at least the boy had been returned to us alive. I’d