by Ruth Downie
The morning had not started well. Tilla woke to the sound of the baby crying and the pallbearers hammering on a door that bore a damp streak and a fresh tang of urine. Camma looked haggard and smelled unwashed. When Tilla asked if she had slept, she did not seem to know. She had insisted on huddling under some blankets on the couch, sharing the front room for one last night with her lover. Tilla had gone to lie awake in the curtained space just off the kitchen that used to belong to Grata. The second bedroom had a better bed, but it held Bericus’s clothes and smelled of his hair oil, and neither of them could face going in there.
The kitchen fire had collapsed into a pile of warm ash. There was no time to revive it. While the men loaded up the bier, Tilla encouraged Camma to wash in the cold water from the bucket and pull on some fresh clothes.
At the last minute Camma decided there should be a coin in Asper’s mouth, just in case a man who collected taxes for Rome needed to pay the ferryman, and then decided she could not face placing it there. Tilla searched her purse, took a deep breath, and did it herself.
They set off while the sun was barely more than a red tinge below a streak of cloud in the east. Dias had not only kept his word, but instead of leaving it to the cemetery slaves, he had sent four guards to carry the body, all smartly dressed in their scarlet tunics and chain mail. One of them had brought a torch, which he handed to Tilla.
If the pallbearers were impressive, the party of mourners following Julius Asper on his final journey through the chilly streets of Verulamium was pitifully small. Two women and a baby, only one of whom had known the deceased when he was alive. Several early risers stopped to watch them pass, but none chose to join them. Tilla could not help noticing that the watching faces bore more curiosity than sorrow. She had wondered if Grata might come, but there was no sign of her. Her new job was in a bakery: She was probably at work.
By the time they passed through the town gates and out along the road, the sky was pale and clear. The soft wailing of the small procession blended with the morning birdsong. Almost as if he understood, the baby woke up and began to cry as well.
There was a faint scent of bluebells drifting across from the woods behind the cemetery. The dew soaked into Tilla’s boots as they picked their way between the grave markers to the circle of trampled grass that must have seen many Catuvellauni dispatched to the next world. The cemetery slaves had already stacked two pyres. With Asper laid out on the nearest one, they began to place more brushwood and dried holly over the body. Tilla guessed that the second pyre was for Bericus. She hoped Camma had not noticed the cart parked behind the workers’ hut at the far end of the cemetery. The two guards who seemed to be responsible were standing well away from it.
More men appeared from the direction of the town. A group of four stationed themselves on the far side of the clearing without acknowledging the widow. One of them, a servant, opened up a folding stool. The fat one with the short hair and close-cropped beard sat facing the pyre and tapping a jeweled forefinger on his knee, as if he was a busy man who was counting the time he was spending here. His smaller companion stood slightly to one side. He was fingering some sort of charm around his neck and looking around warily, as though something might go wrong at any moment and when it did, he expected to get the blame.
She was pleased to see the Medicus arrive with Dias and another of his troop. They too stood facing the pyres. Tilla decided there must be a wondrous number of town guards if four pallbearers, their captain, and a sixth man could be spared to see off Julius Asper and his brother. Perhaps they were embarrassed that a double murder had taken place almost on their doorstep.
There was, of course, no sign of Caratius.
The cemetery staff finished their work and stood back. The wailing fell silent. Nearer to the road, a family of starlings erupted into a noisy squabble over some tidbit in the grass. Around the pyre, there was a foot-shuffling, glance-exchanging pause that suggested somebody was supposed to be doing something, but nobody knew who or what it was. Dias was gazing into the middle distance as if none of this had anything to do with him. Tilla guessed that he had not thought beyond organizing the cremation.
Finally Camma whispered, “Should someone speak?”
Tilla whispered, “Go on.”
“What can I say?”
Anything would be better than this lengthening silence. Tilla said, “Give the call and send him on his way. His son is too small to light the flames: You will have to do it.”
With some difficulty they exchanged torch and baby, Camma murmuring an unnecessary “Look after him for me” before she stepped forward across the well-trodden ground.
The cry of “Julius Asper, wake up!” silenced the birdsong. As expected, the corpse made no response. The baby began to cry again. Tilla licked the top of her little finger clean and slid it between his lips. She felt the warm wet gums clamp around it. The crying stopped.
Careful to keep the torch away from the wood, Camma reached for the jug one of the slaves had placed at the foot of the pyre. The scent of roses wafted across as the oil dripped down through the brushwood and soaked into the shroud.
Camma stumbled several times as she circled around the pyre with the torch raised. When she came to a standstill she looked white faced and exhausted. Instead of lowering the torch, she looked around the small company. “Someone should speak.”
Tilla swallowed. Why did she not lower the torch and light the pyre? Who would be willing to speak on behalf of Julius Asper? From the humblest slave to the wealthy visitor and his flunkies, all the mourners had their eyes fixed anywhere but on the woman who was asking them to honor her man. Tilla no longer believed he was a thief, and she knew the Medicus did not, either, but how could they explain that to everyone in the middle of a funeral?
“Magistrate?” Camma’s voice was hoarse.
The fat man stopped tapping and leaned across to mutter something to his companion, who looked even more worried than before.
“Chief Magistrate Gallonius!” Camma was addressing the seated man by name now, still holding the torch away from the pyre. “You represent the Council. This man collected your taxes. Will you speak?”
The magistrate said something else to his companion, who explained, “The magistrate is here to observe in a private capacity, madam. He cannot speak on behalf of the Council without their agreement.”
“Can he not speak as a man?”
No reply.
“You, Nico? You worked with him.”
The little man raised his palms as if he were trying to fend her off, but she had already turned away.
“Dias?”
No reply.
“Not one of you?” She sighed. “Not a single one of these cowards dares to open his mouth.”
Tilla and the Medicus looked at each other. He frowned, giving her a look that said a man working for the procurator should not get involved in tribal affairs, and neither should his wife.
“Just light it, woman!” The rich bass of the magistrate Gallonius was that of a man well used to making himself heard. “We haven’t got all day.”
Camma bent over the body. The few words she spoke were whispered to Julius Asper. Then at last, to everyone’s relief, she lowered the torch. Flames began to lick and crackle around the brushwood. Black smoke rose into the sky as she moved around, touching fuel with fire. Finally she knelt and thrust the torch into the base of the pyre. The oil-soaked logs disappeared behind a curtain of flame.
The baby had drifted off to sleep in Tilla’s arms. He would not be aware of the smell of the burning, nor feel the heat that was already wafting toward the mourners.
He would not see the bewildered expressions of those mourners as his mother faced that pyre with her hands raised to the gods.
He would not hear the scream that sent the birds fluttering out of the trees with cries of their own as she shrieked her curse upon Caratius and strode toward the flames. He would not share the horror of the onlookers when they realized what was happening.
Camma’s face was flushed with the heat. She looked confused, as if she had just been woken from a dream.
“I will deal with her,” Tilla insisted, shooing the men out of the way. “What is the matter with you?” she hissed, pulling Camma’s clothes straight and tutting at the scorch marks in the wool. “How can you get justice if you are dead too?”
“I will die cursing him and be with Asper in the next world!”
“You will not!” Tilla insisted. “I have not gone to all this trouble just so you can die. Now stay there. I will speak, and you will listen.” She beckoned to the nearest guard, who stood ready to grab Camma if she made another dangerous move.
Tilla could feel the warmth on her flesh as she stepped toward the pyre. She had no idea what she was going to say. She turned and glanced around at the pitiful collection of mourners. Dias, she realized, had not moved at all during the commotion. The fat magistrate had gotten to his feet but was now seated again and looking exasperated. The flunky that Camma had called Nico was chewing his thumbnail. She did not look at her husband. She was not supposed to get involved. Well, it was too late now.
“This man,” she announced in Latin, “was Julius Asper.” That was safe enough. “He lived for thirty-four winters.” She hoped she had remembered that correctly. “He collected taxes for Rome, and he and his brother were cruelly murdered before he could see the beautiful son who has been born to him.” At least the Medicus would approve of that much.
Conscious of the flames at her back, she raised her hands and cried, “Whatever sacred gods may be willing to listen to us, we ask you to guide Julius Asper safely into the next world. Holy Christos, if you are up there sitting at the right hand of your father…”-she was deliberately not looking at her husband-“we will be glad if you lean across and ask him to forgive what this man did in this life. Look after him in the next life. Protect his family…” She glanced around at the magistrate and the guards and the slaves. It occurred to her that someone would tell Caratius about Camma’s fresh curse. They might mention the Northern woman who had come forward to support her, and Caratius would know who it was. She had a feeling the Medicus was going to be very cross indeed.
It was no good worrying about that now. “Give courage to all these people who have come to honor him,” she cried. “Make them speak the truth! Make them tell how an enemy lured Julius Asper to his death so that there will be justice!”
The flames were roaring now. She could feel sweat breaking out on her back. The wool of her tunic felt prickly. It was a relief to say “Amen!” and step away. Without waiting to see the reaction, she collected the baby from the slave who was holding it as if it might bite him, and took Camma by the hand.
“Come, sister,” she said, leading her away through the cool spring grass. “He is gone, and you have a son to look after.”
41
Ruso strode through the cemetery with his fists clenched, ignoring Dias and Gavo, who were hurrying to keep pace with him. Tilla had just flouted all his instructions. Thanks to that bizarre-not to mention illegal-public prayer, the whole town would soon know that the wife of the procurator’s man was taking Camma’s side in the dispute. She had more or less accused Caratius of murder.
She had undermined the credibility of his investigation. She had put him in an impossible position. She had… he was running out of words to describe what she had done. What was more, he knew that when he objected, she would come up with some irrational way of justifying it.
Get out of town as fast as you can.
He would like nothing better than to get out of town, but he had accepted the job, and, besides, if he abandoned the investigation, what would Metellus do?
He didn’t want to find out.
Word must have spread about the discovery of Bericus’s body: At the far end of the cemetery a gaggle of adults, youths, and even half a dozen scruffy children were gathered just beyond the reach of the guards. There was a murmur of interest as he passed between them on his way to the cart that had been parked well away from the pyres. When he turned they were craning to see what he would do next. He restrained an impulse to tell them that the dead man had not been brought here for their entertainment.
A pot-bellied man with straggly gray hair and a tunic spattered with old blood was crouching in the back of the cart. He was reaching forward with one hand and clutching a cloth over his nose with the other. Ruso paused to tie his neckerchief over his own nose and mouth before swinging up to sit backward on the worn wooden seat, tuck his feet well out of the way, and observe what was happening.
The pot-bellied man was the local doctor, and he was not happy in his work. Yes, he agreed as he put away the bronze probe with which he had been investigating the corpse, the deceased could have been dead for five or six days. Any fool could see that he hadn’t died yesterday. Probably being severely battered around the head would have killed him. It tended to do that. Now if that was all, there were live patients waiting back in town.
Having made a courtesy gesture to the local man, Ruso was about to finish the job himself when there was a disturbance among the gawpers. A small dark woman was being manhandled away by one of the guards. Instead of admitting defeat she was shouting, “Let me through!”
Ruso recognized the person Tilla had been talking to by the water fountain yesterday. “Isn’t that Asper’s housekeeper?”
The doctor ordered Dias to keep her back. “This is no sight for a woman.”
“I’d like to talk to her,” said Ruso.
“Absolutely not!” said the doctor. “We know who this is. You can still just about make out the damage to the ear. I don’t need a fainting female on my hands as well.”
Ruso leaned out and beckoned to a cemetery slave who was passing with a basket load of kindling. “Hand me up that sheet over there, will you?”
“I won’t allow this!” insisted the doctor. “I am the doctor here, and that woman is one of my patients.”
“And I’m the investigator,” said Ruso, his respect for the doctor rising. If the roles had been reversed, he would have been just as indignant. He turned to Dias. “Give me a minute and then have her brought over.”
“I protest!”
“I’m not enjoying this, either,” conceded Ruso, standing up and shaking the folds out of the rough linen sheet. “But I once knew somebody who went to her husband’s funeral only to have him turn up alive and well three weeks later.” It was an exaggeration: He had never met the apocryphal woman, but it had been one of his uncle’s favorite stories. “Let’s have her make sure, shall we?”
The doctor clambered down from the cart, still complaining as he left. Ruso flung the sheet over the body. Then he retrieved one of the sandals that had been placed in the corner of the cart, loosened his neckerchief, and jumped down.
Grata wrenched her arm out of Dias’s grasp as Ruso approached. Dias said something but if she heard it, she did not reply. Ruso dismissed him and said quietly, “I’m the investigator. We think this is your master.”
In a small voice, as if she was not sure it was true, Grata said, “I want to see.”
“He is not how you remember him.” He produced the sandal from behind his back. One of the thongs had snapped and been retied, the sole needed restitching at the toes, and the whole thing was swollen with damp. “If you can identify this, there’s no need for any more.”
She put one hand over her mouth.
He had to be certain. “Did this belong to Julius Bericus?”
She nodded.
“I am sorry.”
She nodded again, as if she did not know what else to do.
“If there’s anything you can tell me that might help me find out-”
“No! No, I know nothing.”
She had lived in the same house as the dead man. Perhaps they had been fond of each other. He said, “I heard there was a message from someone inviting the brothers to visit.”
“A message for Asper,” she said. “From Caratius.”
“Who brought that message, Grata?”
She gathered up her skirts. “One of his servants.”
“Which one?”
She did not answer. He thought she was about to walk away. Instead she moved toward the cart. The doctor in Ruso wanted to go after her: to head her off with a warning about the dangers of bad air and the news that she could pay her respects at the pyre in a few minutes and
… and anything that would stop her from seeing what she was about to see.
There was a murmur from the gawpers as she reached the cart and lifted the sheet. The investigator in Ruso left her there-alone, one hand clamped over her mouth and nose, taking in what man and nature had done.
The doctor in him told the investigator he should have stopped her.
Grata turned and walked straight back the way she had come, arms tightly folded, battered boots kicking her skirts out of the way. Her face was set like a wax model.
As she passed him Ruso murmured, “If you think of anything, speak to Tilla. Nobody will know who told me.”
His gaze followed her lonely progress between the graves to the road. The investigator in him had done rather well. The doctor in him warned the investigator that he couldn’t stand much more of this.
He turned to find Dias at his shoulder. He took a breath and said brightly, “Right. I’ve finished here.”
“You bastard,” Dias said, so softly so that no one but Ruso could hear. “You didn’t need to do that to her. You evil bastard.”
42
There was no funeral feast, either at the cemetery or afterward. The women returned to a silent house. No neighbors called to ease the long wait between the burning and the hour tomorrow when the ashes would be cool enough for burial. The empty shoes were still in a pair by the door, ready for a man who no longer needed them.