Vita Brevis

by Ruth Downie

  “I am sorry to have missed it.” Tilla wrapped the protesting baby in a blanket while she examined the mother.

  “Ma said I wasn’t to come here,” the girl told the ceiling. “She says you’ll take it away and give it to the followers of Christos.”

  Since the grandmother wanted to get rid of the baby anyway, this did not seem to make much sense. “You have done very well indeed,” Tilla said, changing the girl’s cloth for a clean one. “You and your ma. You can sit up now, and I will help you feed him.”

  With the baby finally settled at the breast, the girl visibly relaxed. “I was thinking,” she said, “if it stops crying, somebody might want it.”

  It was one of those moments when it was best to say nothing, because it was not fair to raise false hopes.

  “At least it’s a boy. People want boys, don’t they? Perhaps somebody might buy him to bring up.”

  There was no point in telling her this was unlikely: no doubt her own mother would be quick to inform her that households who wanted newborn slaves usually bred their own. At least that way you knew what you were getting.

  “I just don’t want him to go to no followers of Christos.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They meet in secret and kill babies and eat them, Ma says.”

  “Your ma has been misinformed,” said Tilla, because that sounded better than Your ma is an ignorant gossip. “And I would never do anything with your baby if you didn’t want me to.” So you can tell her that from me.

  The girl did not stay long: She had only slipped out with the excuse of fetching water. Tilla watched her go, heavyhearted.

  48

  A rich man’s funeral procession was a fine excuse to abandon work, and there were already plenty of people lining the street by the time Ruso and his household went out to join their neighbors on the Vicus Sabuci. The tables at Sabella’s were packed and many of those standing on the pavement were clutching drinks. Timo and Phyllis must have got there early: They had places at the front. Ruso noticed that Tilla made no attempt to approach them. She must have overheard the carpenter’s complaints about the company they kept.

  He was glad she had not seen the anonymous sliver of wood Esico had found pushed under the surgery door just after dawn. He had slipped it into the kitchen fire before she could read the simple message scratched across the grain: GO HOME.

  “It’s a good turnout,” observed a spectator somewhere to his left.

  “Come to make sure he’s really dead,” said somebody else.

  There followed a frank exchange about Horatius Balbus’s shortcomings as a landlord, ending with the glum reflection that at least they knew what to expect with the old man, whereas with the girl…

  “She won’t be in charge. They reckon it’ll be Curtius Cossus.”

  “Who?”

  “The one who’s building the emperor’s new temple down the hill.”

  “No? Well! I’ll have a mosaic in the dining room and columns ’round the front door, then.”

  The conversation became a debate on what pictures the tenants would like painted around the cracks in their wall plaster and how much rents might rise as a consequence, all of which kept Ruso moderately entertained until he heard the distant blare of horns and trumpets. All heads were turned in the direction of the baths. A couple of black-clad slaves appeared first, herding the onlookers back onto the pavement. Then came the musicians. The lighter notes of the flutes were audible now, and the sound of wailing. As the procession rounded the corner three wild-haired women appeared, flinging their hands in the air and beating themselves on the chest in a dramatic and professional show of grief. Just as Ruso recognized one of them as the woman from the undertaker’s yard, another let out a particularly bloodcurdling howl. It frightened Mara so much that Narina had to take her away to recover.

  Standing on tiptoe to see over the people in front, Tilla said, “That is the man who came to the house!”

  “Firmicus,” Ruso agreed over the din. “Balbus’s steward. He must have been freed in the will.” Glancing along the line of oddly matched pallbearers, he saw several more wearing the caps of newly freed slaves. “Some of the other household staff have been freed too.”

  “Not the one with the eyebrows,” she corrected him. “The one waving the incense thing.”

  Some other man who had come to the house? Squeaky was nowhere in sight. Hopes raised, he stood on tiptoe, and leaned sideways to peer over the shoulder of the man in front. To his disappointment the figure swinging the incense was not the auctioneer who might give them a link to Doctor Kleitos, but Birna, the skinny man with the limp who had come to collect payment for the barrel. Ruso shifted one elbow to dig into his wife’s ribs. The last thing they needed was any further association in the neighbors’ minds between themselves and the undertakers.

  Behind them someone was telling her friend that this bier was not as smart as the senator’s last week. “His had ivory panels and brass handles.”

  Tilla said, “Do they have a long walk to the cremation?”

  He said, “I suppose so.” It must be a good way outside the city gates.

  “Good,” she said in British, raising her fist at Birna. “May your foot hurt every step of the way, you wicked, slimy …”

  He was not sure what the last word meant, but doubtless it was graphic. Fortunately she had had the sense to stay in her native tongue for the curse. Glancing at the fist, he saw the head of the little wooden horse poking out between her finger and thumb, lending power to the words. If the followers of Christos ever decided to expand into Britannia, they were going to find it an interesting challenge.

  “Gently, wife,” he murmured.

  Mercifully Tilla’s attention was drawn to another part of the procession. “Is that the daughter? Next to the man with the skull face?”

  “Horatia,” he agreed.

  “She looks lost. Has she no mother to walk with her?”

  “Died years ago, love,” put in someone behind them.

  Horatia was drifting along as if she were in a trance. He guessed the man at her elbow must be the butcher cousin from out of town who would now become her guardian. The face beneath the hood reminded him of those macabre pictures of skeletons that people sometimes had installed in their dining rooms—allegedly to urge their guests to eat, drink, and make the most of the time that Fate had allotted to them.

  Tilla hissed in his ear, “Tell me who they all are!”

  “Only if you promise not to curse them.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “The older man on the opposite side of the street from Accius is Curtius Cossus, the builder.”

  “The one who wants to marry Horatia?” Tilla put a hand on his shoulder for balance as she stood on tiptoe. He was ready to interrupt, but to his relief she said nothing about Accius’s foolhardy plans to thwart Cossus with a murder charge.

  “Are you sure?” she said. “He could be her grandfather!”

  “Marry him quick, love!” called the woman in front. “Tell him I want the roof fixed!”

  Accius and Cossus had been tactfully positioned an equal distance behind Horatia. Each of them, he noted, had draped himself in black and covered his head as if he were already the son of the deceased.

  “What she ought to do,” speculated one of their neighbors, “is marry the builder first and save the handsome one for later.”

  “If she don’t want the handsome one, I’ll have him.”

  “You wouldn’t have him long. She’d finish the old boy off within the year. Oh look—whats-his-name from the council! The one whose wife ran off with the gladiator.”

  The councillors were of little interest to Tilla, but the household staff were a different matter. “So many servants for one man! What do they all do?”

  Ruso had no idea what anyone would do with forty-three domestic slaves. “The one in the second row with the walking stick is the doorman,” he told her, scanning the group of black-clad slaves in sear
ch of Latro the bodyguard, but failing to find him. “The rest are—I don’t know.” The round-faced girl he had seen carrying linen in the courtyard was sobbing uncontrollably, leaning on the small woman who had tried to stop him from talking to Horatia at their first meeting.

  There was a figure wandering along behind the household staff. One hand was clutching a scroll and the other was attempting to control the wayward drapery of a murky-colored toga that might once have been black. Tubero the Younger seemed to be looking for someone in the crowd. When he spotted Ruso the poet waved the scroll in an inappropriately jaunty manner, mouthed something, and then waved it again to make sure his meaning was clear. Evidently his expansion into the funeral oration market was proving a success. Ruso was even happier than before that he would not have to listen to the speeches around the pyre.

  “I said,” Tilla repeated, “Who is the pregnant one?”

  He frowned. “Is one of them pregnant?”

  “The very weepy one holding the short woman’s arm. Did you not notice?”

  “I wasn’t looking,” he told her, scanning the crowd for Metellus. He couldn’t see him, but it was a long route and he could be anywhere. Probably hanging around Curtius Cossus’s people, listening for incriminating gossip.

  That had been an odd conversation with the carpenter. Metellus, a follower of Christos? They would be claiming the emperor himself next.

  The domestic staff were followed by a shambling collection of men whose attempts to stay in line would have made a centurion weep. These must be Balbus’s caretakers: He spotted not only Sabella’s husband and the seducer from the block where the toy seller lived, but the man who had tried to convince them that their cockroach problem was nothing to worry about. Fortunately Tilla’s attention was elsewhere. Two cursings in one morning would not impress the neighbors.

  Finally a couple of grinning boys who had decided to strut along behind the procession in exaggerated military step were sent packing by the undertaker’s slaves, and the crowd began to disperse. Tilla went inside to see how Mara had recovered from the mourners.

  Ruso was about to follow her when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “So sorry to hear about Balbus, dear boy. Terrible shock.”

  Ruso’s mouth offered “Yes,” while his mind was searching for reasons why this man might dare to approach him.

  “I was thinking of having a spot of lunch,” Simmias continued. “Would you care to join me?”

  49

  Pressing a hand into the small of Ruso’s back, Simmias attempted to steer him toward the only empty table at Sabella’s. Ruso stood his ground. “You can buy something here and eat across the road in the gardens,” he said. The only conversation he wanted to have with Simmias was not one he wanted anybody else to hear.

  The bar was still busy, and it seemed everyone else was going to get served before them. When Sabella finally acknowledged Ruso’s presence it was with “You. My husband wants a word with you.”

  “I’ll be around later,” he promised, leaving Simmias to hand over the cash for a couple of pastries. As they made their way across the street toward the gardens of Livia, Simmias said, “The service in that place is getting worse.”

  Ruso could not bring himself to reply.

  “I expect you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  They paused to allow a group of weather-beaten and muscular men to swarm down the steps, laughing and joking with each other. Evidently some of Cossus’s builders had decided to make the most of their morning off. “I was hoping,” Simmias said, “you might reconsider joining us over at the night watch. We really could use a man with your experience.”

  Again Ruso said nothing.

  “We take turns on night duty. One in four.” Only half a dozen steps up, and already the man’s speech was reduced to short phrases with a pause for breath between each one. “I covered for … Kleitos last night. I was very much hoping … perhaps tonight …”

  They stepped through the gateway and turned right under the same shaded colonnade that he had paced yesterday with Metellus.

  Ruso said, “Tonight?”

  “Short notice. Yes … of course. Sorry.” Simmias glanced down at the food in his hand as if assessing whether he was prepared to risk asphyxiation for another mouthful of lunch. He held the other pastry out to Ruso, who declined the offer.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps. I’m sure you’d find the work … interesting. It’s not all burns and … smoke inhalation. We get injuries from falling … debris, men coming off ladders … that sort of thing. And some street fights.” Simmias succumbed to the pastry and fell silent.

  Ruso glanced across at the maintenance slaves raking the gravel. Despite his lack of response, Simmias seemed determined not to give up. “It’s a good position, dear boy. Salaried. Obviously the men don’t pay personally for treatment, so … that’s one less thing to bother about.” He was saying something about supplies. “Anything you ask for … never any quibbling.”

  Any minute now the man would be on his knees begging. Ruso wished he would either admit what he had done and apologize for it, or shut up. Unable to stand it any longer, he said, “I had a visit from your friends last night.”

  “My friends?”

  “Well they certainly weren’t mine.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you—”

  “What did you think they would do?” Ruso demanded, coming to a halt. “Offer me a cut of the business?”

  “Friends? Business? My dear boy—”

  “What harm have I ever done to you?”

  “None!” Simmias tried to back away and collided with a pillar. “I’m offering you work!”

  Ruso grabbed the front of his tunic. “I came to you in good faith,” he hissed. “I didn’t like what you and Kleitos were doing. I didn’t want to be involved with it, and I said so. To your face. Then I went away and kept quiet. And that’s where it should have ended.”

  “It did!”

  Ruso pushed harder. “What did you say to them about me?”

  He was aware of a woman hurrying toward them, calling her children away from him. Of someone shouting, “Are you all right there, sir?”

  “What did you say? Who did you tell them I’d report them to? Did you drag my patron into this as well?”

  Simmias’s double chin wobbled as he gulped. Ruso saw genuine fear in his eyes and, at that moment, saw himself as the other man must see him. An angry, violent ex-soldier seeking revenge. As the woman must see him: a threat to her children. As the slaves striding toward them brandishing their rakes must see him: a bully threatening a weaker man in the peace of a public garden.

  He stepped back and took a long, deep breath. Simmias was leaning against the pillar, his chest heaving and his head sagging. For a few dreadful moments Ruso thought his heart might be failing. Then he realized the man was sizing up the pastry he had dropped onto the paving stones.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  The slaves had stationed themselves on either side of Simmias now. “Are you all right, sir?”

  He nodded. “Quite all right. Thank you. Yes. Quite all right.”

  While one of them was asking if he was sure, the other was eyeing Ruso as if daring him to try that again.

  “Very good of you both to be concerned.” Simmias wiped his fingers on his tunic. Then he reached into his purse, and the slaves went away happy. But not, Ruso noted, very far away.

  “They broke in and attacked my slave,” he said quietly. “They frightened my wife and they threatened our baby with a knife.”

  Simmias’s eyes widened. “Dear boy! I had no idea. Truly. Do you mind if we sit down?”

  Ruso would have been more convinced of Simmias’s innocence if he had needed to explain who “they” were. Now, seated at the opposite end of a stone bench from a visibly flustered colleague, he watched a couple of sparrows flitting around the vine leaves for a moment before he said, “What did you say to them?”
<
br />   Simmias was fiddling with the drawstring on his purse. “This is about, ah—”

  “Of course it’s about ah. What else would it be about?”

  “I did say to my contact that I’d like to suspend our arrangement for a while. Perhaps for good. But believe me, I never mentioned your name.”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  “I never said anything about reporting them to anybody. Why would I do that? Whoever I went to would ask how I knew!”

  “You said I was going to report them, not you.”

  “No! Never. Someone’s lying to you.”

  “Perhaps it’s you.”

  “To be honest, Doctor, after our last discussion …” Simmias scratched his head. “I found what you said very upsetting. I’ve been uncomfortable about the—ah, the origins, so to speak, for a long time. But the suppliers had promised us that their source was above reproach.”

  “And you believed them?”

  “Kleitos was so very keen, you see. Eager to learn.”

  It’s not my fault. Another boy made me do it and then he ran away.

  “He kept saying, ‘There’s so much we could do if we knew more.’ It’s true, isn’t it? You must agree. You’ve seen the ignorance on display yourself. It’s the patients who suffer.”

  The sparrows had come down from the vine now and were making cautious hops in the direction of the ruined pastry.

  “And even the best of us … Take Aristotle’s claim that the right kidney is always higher than the left. Well perhaps in animals, but did you know that in humans—”

  “It’s too high a price to pay for knowledge.”

  Simmias sighed. “The suppliers took the subjects away and had them respectfully cremated afterward, you know. I specifically asked for reassurances.”

  Ruso said, “That’s what they told you?” When he looked up, Simmias was staring in the direction of the sparrows, but his gaze was not following them.

  “In two days’ time,” Ruso told him, “your suppliers will be calling on me to collect what Kleitos owes them.”