by Ruth Downie
“It’s no good talking to him, boss,” put in Rogatus. “He don’t know a thing.”
The native sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and swung a heavy bag up into the carriage. “At least I know how to drive.” Continuing in Latin that was effective rather than elegant, he added, “Him over there, he tell me there is no work for the day, then he give my team to some fool who lose them on the road and he think I will not find out.”
Rogatus pretended not to have heard. “Like I said before, boss, I was doing the tax man a favor. Most of us around here”—plainly this excluded the sniffing driver—“know how to show a bit of respect to authority.”
“Hah!” said the driver before Ruso could answer. “It is himself he is doing the favor to. The tax man drives, and the driver gets no wages.”
“The driver might get some wages,” said Rogatus, “If he got off his backside a bit more often.”
The driver tutted. “It is lucky I am a patient man,” he said, shaking his head as if contemplating the horrors that would ensue if he were not. “Without me here, his stables will fall to pieces.”
Rogatus gave the smallest of shrugs, as if the driver were not worth the effort of more. “Good luck getting any sense out of that one, boss. I tell you, if the rest of him worked as hard as his mouth, he’d be a wonder.”
The driver stabbed a rude gesture toward Rogatus’s departing back before bending to lift the next trunk. Ruso could imagine returning in twenty years’ time to find the pair of them toothless and shriveled with age, propping up opposite ends of the same bar and still complaining about each other over their beers to anyone who would listen.
The driver gasped a few choice words in British as he heaved up the weight of the trunk. It landed on the floor of the carriage with a crash. “What is it women put in these things?” he demanded.
“Crockery,” said Ruso.
The driver stepped back from the door. “You want a look, then? Have a look.”
Ruso climbed in, and out, and learned nothing other than the fact that today’s passengers had vast amounts of luggage. He was outside on the driver’s seat assessing how well he could see approaching robbers when a boy’s voice announced, “That’s a new driver.”
Ruso turned and recognized the officer’s family he had seen stopping to use the latrines at the posting station yesterday. He explained his presence with, “I’ve just finished checking your vehicle.”
“He is here to ask questions,” the real driver explained. “The last man who take it is murder on the road and the horses run off.”
The woman gave a small squeak of terror and clutched at both children.
“No problems, mistress,” the driver continued, giving her a grin that displayed a solitary tooth and slapping the nearest horse on the neck as if to show how dependable it was. “All safe with me today.”
Ruso climbed down, fixing him with the same look that had frightened Albanus’s young followers and the innkeeper’s wife. The driver did not seem to notice.
“Was it the natives?” asked the girl, peering wide eyed from behind her mother’s skirts.
“Of course it was,” the boy said. “I bet they tied him up and stuck a big spike through his—”
“No they didn’t!” said Ruso and the mother in unison.
At that moment the riders who had been escorting the family yesterday clattered out of the stables and halted, two in front of the vehicle and two behind. Ruso had just promised the mother that she would be perfectly safe when Serena’s voice called out from the top of the mansio steps, “Of course you’ll be safe! I hope Ruso hasn’t been frightening you with some silly nonsense about the natives?”
The woman was looking up at Serena with the expression of a stray dog begging to be taken in.
“Absolutely not,” insisted Ruso.
“Good,” said Serena. “There’s no need to worry about the natives down here. You’ll meet the dangerous tribes in the North.” After these words of doubtful comfort, she added, “Have a good journey!”
“You’ll be fine,” Ruso assured the woman. “You’re on the main road and you have a good escort.”
“But that poor man who was—”
“He was a native himself,” said Ruso, knowing that would reassure her. “He was known to be carrying a lot of money and he had no guards with him.”
The woman said, “Why not?”
“That’s what I’m trying to work out.” He glanced across at Dias, who seemed to be more interested in the maid sweeping the steps, and wondered whether he knew.
Before leaving he stepped back inside the mansio and told Serena and the cousin that if there were any urgent messages, he would be out at the cemetery with Dias to supervise a postmortem examination and then he was going to report to the Council.
Dias, who must have overheard, greeted him with something that might have been a smile. Or a smirk. Without knowing what the man was thinking, Ruso had no way of telling the difference.
40
T HE 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 je
weled 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.
Figures were rushing toward the pyre as Tilla lunged for a fistful of Camma’s skirt. The Medicus and the guards grabbed Camma by the arms and the hair and everyone dragged her back from the fire. Tilla thrust the baby into the arms of a bemused cemetery slave and went to help the Medicus and the guards beat at the sparks gleaming in Camma’s clothes and frizzling the unruly red hair.
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 re
action, 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
R USO 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.