by Ruth Downie
Just now she had tried to persuade Serena to come back to Londinium with them, but Serena had refused to budge. It was obvious the girl was lonely: Her husband and friends were twenty miles away and her cousin was too busy to spend much time with her. Perhaps that was why she was unusually friendly. As a rule, even though nothing was ever said, she was sure Serena still saw her as the housekeeper.
Today, however, she had seemed delighted to welcome Tilla into the mansio garden, where a maid was supervising the twins at play, and congratulated her on her marriage. “I suppose you’re pregnant,” she said. “It’s very decent of Ruso to marry you.”
Tilla said, “It is very decent of me to marry him too.”
Serena looked taken aback, then the broad face broke into a handsome grin. “Perhaps all men are a trial when you have to live with them,” she said. “I’ve done my best, but Valens just makes no effort. I’ve told him what he needs to do to shape up. He agrees with everything I say and then carries on the same as before.” She paused. “He might listen to Ruso. I don’t suppose you could get him to-”
“No. But I think Valens is hoping you will be back soon.”
“Hah!” Serena had managed to look both outraged and smug at the same time. “He thinks I don’t know what he got up to after I left. One of Pa’s old friends from the garrison went over when they had a burglary. He said people heard women in there in the middle of the night!”
Tilla paused. “A burglary?”
“It’s all right. They didn’t steal anything.”
“That was me,” said Tilla. “The woman in the night. We were staying there.”
“You?”
“And my patient, and her baby. Your father’s friend should find out the truth before he gossips.”
For once, Serena was silent.
Tilla said, “Valens asked me to talk to you. I said no. He must talk to you himself.”
Serena paused to watch one of her sons trying to throw a ball at the other. It looked more like war than sport. “But he hasn’t,” she said.
“Not yet,” agreed Tilla. “I can take a message if you like.”
“It’s not my fault!”
Tilla sighed, gathered up her skirts, and got to her feet. “Many things happen that are not our fault,” she said. “At least, that is what we tell ourselves. But if you will not talk to each other, how can anyone help you?”
“What am I supposed to have done wrong?”
“I do not know,” said Tilla, fighting an urge to tell this pampered girl how lucky she was to have a husband and two healthy children, “But my mother used to say that if you cannot bang your head through the wall, you will have to turn to the left or right.”
Serena pondered that for a moment. “Maybe that sounds better in British.”
“No,” Tilla conceded. “It sounds annoying in British too.”
In the end she had left with a message for Valens that his wife was not missing him one little bit. It had not been a successful meeting.
A ginger cat stopped lapping at the puddle under the water trough as she approached. Out of habit, she paused before crossing the road, but there was no traffic. There was only the fleeing cat and an old woman limping away in the distance. She glanced behind her and was surprised to see the guard she had noticed earlier. He dropped hastily into a crouch and began to fiddle with his bootlace, but she had already recognized him. He must have followed her all the way from the Forum.
Tilla told herself to be sensible. She was in a public street and there was still plenty of light. The man might just happen to live in the same area as Camma, but the business with the bootlace was very suspicious. Still, if he were going to accost her he must have had plenty of chances to do it before now. She paused to scoop up a handful of cool water from the trough. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, dried her hand on her tunic, and waited. The guard looked up and stopped pretending to tie the lace.
As he approached she folded her arms and stood defiantly, at the same time mentally pacing out the distance behind her to Camma’s door and wondering whether she could outrun him.
She said in British, “Are you following me?”
The guard’s grin faltered when she did not return it. He said, “Cheer up a bit, love. You won’t get much business with a face like that.”
“I am not looking for business!” Was he lying, or had he made an honest mistake? “I am a respectable married lady on the way home!”
He backed away, both hands held up in surrender. “Sorry, missus. No offense. I saw you in the Forum on your own, and at this hour-”
“Can a woman not walk across the Forum without being ogled?”
The grin returned. “Fair enough. I’ll see you safe home if you like.”
“No! Go away.”
To her relief, he did not argue. She watched him head off down a side street before turning back toward the protection of Camma’s house. Were it not for her friend, she would be glad to get out of this place.
She glanced back along the street before crossing the next junction by the silent meat market. To her relief there was no sign of the guard.
She wondered why the Medicus had rushed off and whether he was back at the mansio yet. He had looked disappointed when she refused to join him, but this evening she wanted to say good-bye to Camma and the baby.
She must be strong. There would be other babies. Perhaps-
She did not see the stranger until his arm was around her throat.
She managed a stifled scream as he dragged her backward into the alleyway. She was off balance, gasping for air, struggling to pull his arm away, and trying get back onto her feet as something jabbed into her back and a voice growled in British, “Shut up, keep still, and you won’t get hurt.”
Her heart was thudding. Her body was desperate for air. She could not think. He was saying something. She heard only, “Got that?”
She shook her head, unable to speak. What a fool she was. If only she had not been so rude to that harmless guard…
The grip around her neck tightened. “I said, this is a message for your man. Tell him to clear off and keep his nose out of other people’s business. And you, keep your mouth shut from now on. If you don’t, me and my mates will get ahold of one of your friends and show you what happens to blabbermouths.”
The release was so sudden, and the shove in the back so forceful, that by the time she had picked herself up, he had gone. She stumbled back toward the empty street, filthy and trembling and short of breath. Pain radiated from her elbow and her knees where she had fallen in the mud. She could still feel the roughness of his arm around her bruised throat.
This is a message for your man. And you, keep your mouth shut.
53
By the time Ruso had finished searching Asper’s office, the guards who had been waiting outside for him were looking exceedingly bored. The Forum was empty. The working day’s clamor had fallen silent. There was hardly any traffic: Vehicles had been unhitched and drawn into secure yards for the night. The guards escorted him to the mansio and did not look sorry when he dismissed them.
Publius greeted him at reception with the news that Tilla had left some time ago, and he was sorry but there was still no news of who might have delivered an unsigned note yesterday. Ruso made a quick tour of the building, annoying any staff he could catch by asking them the same questions Publius had obviously asked already. Finally convinced that nothing more could be done to trace the well-wisher tonight, he locked the door behind him, shut out the world, and stepped into the tasteful privacy of Suite Three. A couple of blank writing tablets had been thoughtfully provided on the side table and someone had filled the brazier with hot coals, anticipating a chilly night.
Further in, he realized that the cloak he had flung over the end of the bed had disappeared. He found it hanging behind the door. The cupboard where he had unloaded his few belongings had surely not been that well arranged last time he looked.
It was like having an i
nvisible wife.
He pushed open the shutters and surveyed the garden. A slave hurried past the window clutching a tray and he heard a burst of male laughter from other guests somewhere farther along the walkway. He swung the shutters almost closed again. His wife had spurned his invitation, preferring to spend the night with a couple of women and a squalling baby. He did not want a jovial bachelor evening with a bunch of traveling officials.
As he bent to unlace his boots, the bag of Asper’s savings slung around his neck swung forward, reminding him that he should have returned it tonight. He wondered about walking across to Camma’s house, but there was nowhere to spend it at this hour. The women could wait until morning.
Someone was knocking at the door of the reception room. He braced himself for another encounter with Serena, but it was only a slave come to ask whether he wished dinner to be served in his dining room or in here. Being offered the choice was such a luxury that he was reluctant to surrender it straightaway. Instead he asked what was on tonight’s menu.
The slave took an ominously deep breath. It seemed tonight’s meal started with Finest Gaulish Honeyed Wine and ended with some sort of cakes in Smoothest Syrup of Baetican Grape Must. In between came Numidian-style Chicken, Parthian-style Lamb, and oysters with piquant relish from Baiae. The origins of “Tenderest leaves of winter vegetables” were not stated. Presumably that was local cabbage. He pretended to ponder this for a moment, imagining how ludicrous and lonely he would feel tackling all these complicated courses in the tiled expanse of the dining room across the corridor and then declared his preference for staying where he was. The slave bowed and left, his face impassive.
Ruso lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He would much rather be in a simple lodging room with his medical books and something from the local snack bar. This wretched business grew more complicated by the minute, and now he was supposed to be leaving in the morning with more questions raised than answered.
When the ceiling proved no inspiration at all, he tried closing his eyes. The facts writhed around in his brain like a nest of snakes. Finally he got up and opened one of the writing tablets. He was supposed to be keeping the procurator informed, but they had not arranged a code. Perhaps it was just as well. If the forgers had suspected that Asper was onto them, the fact that he was sending mysterious coded letters to Londinium might have been his death sentence. Accordingly, Ruso scrawled the bland, “Further information discovered, Council feel they can investigate from here. Back shortly.” He contemplated sending a note saying “Bastard! You might have warned me!” to Valens, but decided the satisfaction was not worth the money.
He was sealing the first tablet when two slaves arrived bearing trays. They proceeded to unload far too much food for one person onto the tables by the brazier. As more and more dishes were placed in front of him, Ruso wondered if he had misunderstood the arrangements. Perhaps he had been supposed to select some dishes from the list and refuse others. Were they cursing him over in the kitchen? Complaining about the waste of taxpayers’ money? Or were they laughing at his naivete? Perhaps this was how officials on tour normally ate. He thought of Tilla and the women over in the house with the mended door. He should have invited all of them. Perhaps he could save them some of this.
To his alarm there were more footsteps in the corridor. Another slave backed in through the doorway. He was only mildly relieved when the tray turned out to hold several jugs of drink. Once these were in place, two of the men disappeared, but not before assuring him that they had no idea who might have put an unsigned note under his door and that the manager had asked them the same question. The third stayed to pour his wine. Ruso tried a jovial, “Is this all for me?”
The slave offered a polite smile and said, “Enjoy your dinner, sir!” before retreating to stand in the corner.
Ruso considered asking him if he was hungry, then decided he would be insulted. He took a deep breath and reached for a spoon. Holding it in midair, he turned to the slave. “You don’t have to stand there,” he said. “Don’t you have something more important to do?”
“No, sir.”
“Then go and do something unimportant, will you? I really can’t eat with you watching me.”
“If you’re sure you don’t need any help, sir.”
“It’s just eating,” Ruso told him. “I’ll manage.”
“I’ll be just outside, sir.”
He supposed that would have to do. Alone at last, he was just reaching for the honeyed wine when there was a tap on the door and the slave reappeared clutching a thin sliver of wood tied with twine.
“Yes?”
“This has arrived for you, sir. It was in the corridor, slipped under your street door.”
Ruso took the tablet and read “To the Procurator’s Man” as the slave glided out of the room again. Slicing the twine with his knife, he flipped the note open and took a gulp of wine before he read, Get away now. They will do to you what they did to Asper and Bericus. From your well-wisher.
The wine went the wrong way. Coughing and struggling not to inhale, he flailed at the air with the letter as he tried to cough up the liquid blocking his windpipe. When he regained his composure the slave was back in the room.
“Is everything all right, sir?”
“Fine!” he gasped. The one word brought on another fit of coughing.
The slave was crouched in front of him, holding out a cup of water. He sipped gratefully, feeling it run cool and soothing down his throat. “Went down the wrong way,” he explained, pointing at the jug. The note was open facedown on the floor. He retrieved it, just in case the man could read, and hurried out past him.
The only thing moving in the alley was a cat slinking away along the foot of the stable wall. From somewhere nearby he could hear the evening warble of a blackbird. Whoever had delivered that letter was long gone.
Get away now. Tonight? He could hardly go to the stables and demand horses at this hour. By the time he and Tilla were halfway to Londinium it would be dark.
Ruso hung the key back on the hook and returned to try and settle in front of his dinner.
They will do to you what they did to Asper and Bericus.
There was no mention of Tilla, thank the gods. That might mean something. It might not. He didn’t know. Dealing with this business was like punching fog.
The slave said, “Is there something wrong, sir?”
“You didn’t see who delivered that note?”
“No, sir.” The man hesitated by the door. “Would you like me to stay, sir?”
“Perhaps you’d better.” Ruso took a spoonful of cabbage and paused with it halfway to his mouth.
… They will do to you…
He lifted the spoon and held the contents up toward the lamp. It looked like normal cabbage. He licked the spoon. It tasted like normal cabbage. Besides, Asper and Bericus had been bludgeoned, not poisoned.
Still… He glanced up at the slave, who was doubtless wondering whether this oddly behaved guest was about to complain.
“Is there anything I can to do help, sir?”
Get away now…
Ruso eyed the challenge contained in the dishes laid out around him, and considered asking the slave to taste them all first. The best that could happen was that the man would tell the kitchen staff and everyone would be insulted. The worst was that he would drop dead. That would be very bad for both of them. Although worse for the slave, obviously.
If only the well-wisher had been bold enough to put his name to the note. Ruso put down the spoon and held the tablet up so the slave could see the writing on the outside. “Do you have any idea at all who this might have come from? Someone who might want to help me?”
The man looked nonplussed. “No, sir.”
Ruso reread the message. His instinctive reaction had been alarm. Now he must think logically. If the unknown correspondent had intended to poison his dinner, he would not have bothered writing to him first.
He swallowed the cab
bage, tried a spoonful of the sauce around the chicken, and savored it before glancing up at the slave. “This is very good,” he said. And then, because he did not want to be alone after all, “Want some?”
Later, after the staff had cleared away the dishes and removed the brazier, he checked the locks on the doors and shutters twice, then rammed a chair under each door latch. He reread the note, trying and failing to pick up some hint of who might be warning him and what that person might know that he didn’t. Then he snuffed out all but one of the lamps and settled down to an uneasy sleep.
54
The breakfast was not poisoned, either. Ruso had finished eating and plunged his head into a bowl of cold water when he was conscious of a tapping noise. He lifted his head, toweled his ears, and listened again. Someone was rapping on the shutters. An apologetic slave announced that there was a visitor waiting in reception.
“I’ll be there in a minute. I’m in the middle of washing.”
“He says to tell you he’s called Albanus, sir.”
“It’s all right,” Ruso assured his guest, who was perched uneasily on the edge of the spare chair in the reception room of Suite Three. “You don’t have to be frightened of the furniture.”
Albanus sat back. His gaze kept shifting between Ruso, still toweling his hair, and their surroundings, as if he was waiting for the rightful occupant to come and throw them both out.
“They were very keen for me to find their money,” Ruso explained. “And they want to keep on the right side of the procurator.”
“And is your wife here too, sir?”
“No, I’ve got this all to myself. Ridiculous, isn’t it? There’s a whole dining room across the passage that I’ve never even used.” He waved the towel toward the table. “Help yourself. The cheese is quite good. I’m not sure about that pastry thing with the raisins.”