Memento Mori

by Ruth Downie

  “Not far now, miss,” said the captain, who must have supposed she was getting impatient. “Got to catch the tide right to go up, see? You time it wrong, you’d be stuck in the middle with mud on either side.”

  It struck her how often men made conversation by telling you things they thought you ought to know. Which was sometimes useful, except they rarely stopped to find out how much you knew already and sometimes they expected you to listen with wonder to total nonsense. Like Women only have babies in the eighth or the tenth month of pregnancy or Not many people know that women have fewer teeth than men. Still, the captain’s words were kindly meant, and today she felt reassured to know they were in experienced hands in this wild landscape where Serena had died and where Mara’s real mother might even now be planning to ask for her back.

  “I have never been to Aquae Sulis,” she told him. “Is the sacred spring as strange as they say?”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” he promised her.

  “My husband has gone ahead to find somewhere to stay. I hope there will be rooms. I heard there was a fire.”

  “The Little Eagle,” he agreed. “Tragic business. Burned down last month. Guests roasted in their beds.”

  “Really? That is terrible!”

  “It was,” he agreed. “But don’t you worry, it won’t happen again.”

  She glanced back at her family. “How can anyone be sure of that? Are the houses there badly built?”

  “From what I heard, the fire was deliberately set.”

  “That is even worse! Who would do a thing like that?”

  The boatman leaned in closer. “They’re saying it was a jealous husband, miss.”

  “A jealous husband?” Tilla was running out of ways to say How terrible!

  “Course, the family tried to cover it up. The feller this woman was playing around with must have run off, and the family had her body away before anybody could see, but you know how people talk. It’s looking like the husband got wind of where they were meeting and set the place alight.”

  “With other people still inside?”

  “Twenty-two, I heard. Guests and staff. I heard the landlord was lost trying to get the last ones out.”

  “How dreadful!” So this was how the pollution of the sacred spring had been covered up. Serena’s body must have been swiftly removed and hidden away, and someone had sent out a juicy rumor to compete with the truth. Now both Serena and Valens were besmirched by it. “So her husband set a fire to kill them both and her lover ran away and left her to die?”

  “That’s what they reckon,” the man told her. “Least, the boyfriend’s not been seen since and they never found his body. And now the husband’s cleared off too.”

  “Nonsense!” put in a woman’s voice from behind them.

  Tilla turned to see a middle-aged woman who had sat quietly spinning a brown fleece for most of the morning.

  “You’re getting two things mixed up,” continued the woman. “The wife wasn’t killed in the fire. That was two soldiers and the landlord. She was murdered by the lover on the steps of the temple, and then he ran off.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” offered a third voice. “I heard the husband did away with both of them and threw the lover’s body in the river.”

  “Whatever it was, it wouldn’t have happened if she’d behaved like a decent woman.”

  The opinions were coming so fast now that Tilla could barely keep up with who was speaking.

  “I heard her and the lover both killed themselves.”

  “What happened to his body, then?”

  “No, her father killed them both. He could do that, you know. If he caught them together under his roof. My cousin works for the governor’s office in Londinium and he says you can’t prosecute a man for keeping his daughter honest.”

  “Then why’s the father blaming the husband?” demanded the boatman. “I heard there’s a reward for bringing him in.”

  Nobody had an answer for that. Tilla hoped the news of the reward was not true. Otherwise it would only be a matter of time before Valens was caught.

  As the boat rounded another bend in the river, they emerged into sunlight and sparkling water. A bridge appeared ahead of them and she wondered whether the whole of Aquae Sulis was still debating the murder like this. It seemed the authorities’ attempts to prevent panic amongst the visitors had gone awry. Starved of real information, people were not panicking. They were excited.

  12

  The rutted track that led to the site of the fatal fire was the sort of street every town had, no matter how smart its public face might be. The one where the skinny barefoot children and mangy dogs stopped chasing each other to stare at you as you passed. The one where the paint was peeling and where bright patches of fresh reed betrayed doomed attempts to plug leaks in the thatch. It was the sort of place where an off-duty legionary without much money might rent a cheap room to retire to at night because he was planning to spend most of his waking hours enjoying himself in the expensive part of town.

  Glancing down to where the track petered out into lush meadow with a glimpse of the meandering river beyond, it occurred to Ruso that the ill-fated Little Eagle might have boasted some pleasant views. It was impossible to know, because all that was left of it now was the stark black wasteland at his feet. He could still feel the faint catch of the burning at the back of his throat when he inhaled.

  A large area set back from the road had been fenced off, much of it with fresh timber. The burned ground crunched under his feet as he strolled across to take a look. The words DANGER—KEEP OUT had been scrawled across the timbers in several places with charcoal. As he approached he could hear the soft gurgle of water, but the gaps in the fence had been filled with panels of woven hazel and a chain kept the gate clamped tight against its post. He followed the perimeter and, finding what he was looking for, crouched to dabble his fingers in the warm stream flowing out from under the fence. A few hardy weeds were beginning to reestablish themselves where the soil had been disturbed. This, he supposed, must be the failed building project. He had not realized it was next door to the fire.

  Glancing downstream, he saw that the flow of water joined with another. To his surprise, the second one had steam rising from it too. Wondering what the goddess’s bounty had looked like before Rome arrived to tidy it up, he began to pick his way through the weeds toward the source of this other water. Perhaps a few moments alone with nature would help him order his thoughts.

  He never found out because of the body.

  Thin, naked, motionless, facedown in the pool with faded ginger hair floating around its head like a curtain.

  Another one. A second dead body in the sacred waters.

  Not if he could help it.

  He plunged forward, his feet slipping in the wet. Shouting for help, he straddled the body and seized it under the arms. Then, bracing himself against the weight, he staggered backward, hauling it up out of the water.

  It came to life in his arms. It yelled at him and fought its way out of his grip, knocking him back so he sat down heavily in the warm mud. Then it spun round and tried to punch him.

  Ruso grabbed the freckled arm in mid-flail. The man dropped to his knees in the water.

  “Sorry,” Ruso told his unintended victim. “I thought you were drowning.”

  The man raised his other hand to push dripping hair off his face. He glared at Ruso with eyes that were blue in the middle and pink everywhere else. He said in British, “Can’t a man speak with his gods in peace without you lot trying to interfere?”

  Ruso repeated his apology, this time in his wife’s tongue, and released the arm.

  “Uh.” The man sat back on his heels. “I thought you were one of them.”

  “I am one of them,” Ruso told him, easing himself up from the mud just as a wiry figure in a work tunic appeared and demanded in Latin, “Someone wanting help?”

  “My mistake,” Ruso explained. “Sorry. Thanks for coming over.”
/>
  The new arrival eyed the native and said to Ruso, “If he’s bothering you, just say so.”

  “I think I was the one bothering him,” Ruso admitted.

  The newcomer watched the native splash a few paces across the shallow pool and sit down in the water at the far side. Then he said to Ruso, “Don’t put up with any nonsense from him, mate,” before tramping off in the direction of the street.

  When he had gone the native said, “At my age I might have died of shock.”

  “You might,” Ruso agreed, wondering if this was the prelude to a demand for compensation.

  But instead the native busied himself rubbing a graze on his elbow and observed, “A Roman with the voice of a Brigante, eh? We don’t get a lot like you around here.”

  “Nor anywhere else,” Ruso told him. “Sorry about dragging you out.” He nodded toward the water, which was now swirling with mud. “Is it good?”

  “Your lot haven’t ruined this one yet, but give them time.”

  “What’s going on with the one behind the fence?”

  The man’s face creased into a grin. “They were told not to interfere with that spring. I told them, my sister told them, their own people told them, but they knew better. Till Sulis gave them a bloody nose.”

  “What happened?”

  “You can’t disrespect our goddess and get away with it.”

  “What did Sulis Minerva do, exactly?”

  “Sulis,” the man corrected him, sliding down into the pool. “The Minerva bit is yours. Your gold statue, your stone temple, your problem. Coming in or not? Don’t go in the middle, you’ll get stuck.”

  Ruso hesitated for a moment, then pulled off his tunic and slid in to lie beside the native in the heat. It wasn’t unpleasant, as long as you didn’t wonder what the swirling mud was hiding, or imagine what you might smell like afterward, or compare it to lying in the clear waters off the southern coast of Gaul with the sun on your face and the sand shifting beneath you as the warm waves lapped over your skin.

  “So, what are you, then?” said the native. “A spy?”

  “A doctor,” said Ruso, suddenly tired of subterfuge. “My wife is Brigante. Corionotatae tribe.”

  “Never heard of them. You learned her tongue?”

  “I wanted to know what her family were saying about me.”

  “You should get on all right with Sulis Minerva, then. You the Roman with the Brigante voice. What do they call you?”

  “Ruso. What do they call you?”

  “Your lot mostly call me that bloody native. Or that priestess’s brother.”

  Ruso said, “Ah,” seeing the resemblance in the fading red hair.

  “At home I’m Brecc to my face and the awkward old sod behind my back.”

  “Where’s home?”

  The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Up over the hill, well clear of your lot.”

  Ruso said, “I’m trying to find the man who was in charge of whatever’s locked up behind that fence.”

  “You won’t find him around here. Murdered his woman and buggered off is what I heard. Driven mad by our goddess as punishment for attacking her spring.”

  “And did Sulis burn the Little Eagle down too?”

  The man slid down so only his face was showing above the water. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “It was my friend’s wife who was murdered.”

  “Hm.” The man sank away under the water. Only a stream of bubbles rising through the murk marked out the place where he was lying. When he came back up, Ruso was holding his own breath, waiting for the result of the awkward old sod’s consultation with the goddess. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” said the man, wiping the water out of his eyes, “that all this asking questions is going to get you into trouble with your own people.”

  “Where do you think the engineer might have gone?”

  The man shook his head, scattering drops onto the rippling surface of the water. “There are things that only Sulis knows,” he said. “And she’s not telling.”

  13

  The river was icy after the warm pool, and dipping into it washed away any doubts Ruso might have had about the need for a second bathhouse. Still, it left him clean, and if he looked odd walking back toward the site of the fire in squelchy sandals with his tunic sticking to his wet skin, at least he didn’t smell of the hot spring.

  Now he looked more closely, he could make out the stone rectangles of wall foundations in the blackened ground. A few scorched red floor tiles were still in place, open to the sky. Some of them were supporting the foot of one of the massive props that had been installed at an angle to shore up the wall of a snack shop that was still open for business. It must have had a narrow escape: There were black burn marks in the thatch. He ran his hands through his wet hair, straightened his tunic, and chose a bench outside in the sun to dry off.

  The brisk young woman who appeared did not seem to notice anything unusual about him, announcing in Latin, “It’s a beautiful morning, sir!” Before he could reply, she turned aside to address two small children who had followed her out. “You two, go and find your pa. You know you aren’t supposed to go bothering the customers.”

  The children began to shuffle toward the back of the bar, turning to look at Ruso over their shoulders. Too late, he realized he should have said they weren’t bothering him.

  “So, what can I get you, sir? We have wines from Gaul and Italia and the new vineyards in the East, local beer, or our famous healing water hot from our very own spring.”

  Ruso glanced at the fenced-off area. “The one that says DANGER—KEEP OUT?”

  “Oh, that’s just to stop anyone falling in, sir. The water’s perfect.”

  “What does it taste like?”

  “I’ll ask my husband to fetch you some. Fresh and hot as the goddess intended. Nothing added, nothing taken away. Just the thing to see you through the day.”

  None of this answered his question about the taste.

  “It’ll do wonders for your digestion.”

  If Ruso had purchased all the concoctions and extractions he had been assured would do wonders for his digestion over the years, he would be bankrupt by now. And if this one was so good, why was he the only customer? Still, Aquae Sulis’s waters were unique, and this source was a safe distance from the spring where Serena’s body had been found. “I’ll try it.”

  The husband, who turned out to be the man who had answered Ruso’s call for help earlier, was dispatched to fetch the water. The wife retreated to the kitchen, and, left to his own company, Ruso shifted round on the bench to get a better look at the jauntily painted walls of the bar. They were adorned with pictures of birds in trees, fish apparently swimming in midair, and goddesses pouring water from golden vessels. One of the goddesses, he noted, had a face remarkably like the small girl who was now peering at him from behind the counter. It was all designed to offer good cheer. It was a shame that, even on a bright morning with the town full of visitors, the only person here to be cheered was himself.

  The husband returned clutching a dripping jug, but instead of pouring he bent down, peered at Ruso, and declared, “It is you, sir, isn’t it?”

  “We met just now.”

  “No, sir, before that. Don’t I know you?”

  “Possibly,” Ruso agreed, groping in his memory for an earlier recollection of the face now inches from his own. “Who do you think I am?”

  “You’re that doctor, um—”

  “Ruso?”

  “Ruso! That was it. The eyesight’s not what it was, but I never forget a name. Good to see you again, sir!”

  Ruso grasped the proffered hand and wished that he could say he, too, never forgot a name. Or a face. “I’m sorry, er—”

  “Gnaeus, sir. You wouldn’t remember me. Never ill. I was a dispatch rider at Deva.”

  “Ah!” said Ruso, feeling it was only polite to feign some sort of recognition. “Gnaeus! How are you?”

  The
man sat down across the table and lifted the jug to pour. “These are trying times, sir. Trying times. But we keep going. Me and the wife. Drink up, sir, it’ll do you good.”

  Moments later Ruso was wondering what had possessed him to ask for the water. It was not as bad as he had expected from the smell: It was worse. And instead of being hot as promised, it was lukewarm, which made him think seriously of vomiting. “That’s horrible.”

  Gnaeus grinned. “That’s how you can tell it’s cleaning your system out, sir.”

  Ruso hoped it was doing nothing of the sort. “So,” he said, setting the cup aside.

  “Trying times?”

  “We started out all right here, sir. But now look.” The veteran held a hand out to indicate the deserted bar. “Setting up here took most of my discharge grant. Still, like the wife says, at least we’ve got somewhere to live.”

  Ruso tried to think of something helpful to say, but it was hard to know how to encourage anyone who thought that a business serving ghastly water in an unappealing backstreet was a good investment. “Losing the inn must have been a blow,” he suggested.

  “Terrible, sir, terrible. Two lads from the Second Augusta burned in their beds, and the landlord killed trying to get them out. But it’s not the Little Eagle going that’s finished us. It’s losing the baths.”

  “The baths?” They had seemed perfectly intact earlier this morning.

  “The Veterans’ Association were building new baths over our spring. In fact, they were in here having a meeting about it the very evening the fire broke out.”

  “And we were lucky they were,” put in the wife.

  “Right enough,” said Gnaeus. “If they hadn’t gone straight out and pulled down the workshop next door, we’d have gone up in smoke too.”

  The wife nudged her husband. “Show the doctor your hands,” she urged.

  The man shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “It’s nothing, woman.”