Memento Mori

by Ruth Downie

  “It’s not nothing,” she declared, reaching for the nearest arm and pulling it forward. “See?”

  Ruso saw the pink shine of freshly healed burns.

  “He went into that fire and pulled people out with his own hands,” she announced proudly.

  “Couldn’t get all of them, though,” muttered the husband.

  “You did very well to get any,” she told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  Ruso nodded agreement. “I heard it was bad.”

  “Never seen anything like it,” Gnaeus agreed. “You wouldn’t believe the heat. We stopped it spreading, but we just had to let it burn itself out. So now here we are, all held up with props and nobody to serve, instead of being just down the road from a big new suite of baths and one of those fancy lodging houses like they have in Rome.”

  Ruso, who had lived in one of the lodging houses they had in Rome, was perhaps less grieved than the man had intended. “Can’t they start again?”

  Gnaeus shook his head. “That haruspex feller came and had a look and he said the fire was an omen and the goddess wanted them to stop what they were doing right away.”

  The wife retreated behind the bar and returned with a jug of wine, two more cups, and a plate of bread and olives. Ruso nodded his thanks and helped himself to an olive. “Lots of people must be disappointed now the project’s been abandoned.” These two would not be the only people who were facing a serious loss: There must have been investors who were funding the costs of building, and Terentius had lost his job.

  “You can’t argue with the gods, sir. It wasn’t just the fire. That same night, the leader of the veterans lost his—ah, you might remember him, sir. Centurion Pertinax.”

  “His daughter,” said Ruso. “She was married to a friend of mine.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Not that doctor, the one who—”

  “Valens,” Ruso reminded him. “You probably met him at Deva too. And, no, he didn’t.”

  Gnaeus shrugged. “If you say so, sir. I have to say he did a nice job with these.”

  He held out both hands for inspection, flexing his fingers.

  “He’s a good doctor,” said Ruso, glad of the opportunity to say something positive about his friend.

  “He took charge of that bathhouse, sir, just like it was the hospital back at Deva.”

  “You were treated in the bathhouse?”

  “In the changing hall, sir. I did think afterwards that he was a bit calm for a man who’d just murdered his wife. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the other one did it after all.”

  Ruso, tearing his thoughts away from the fact that Serena could not have been attacked in the changing hall if it was full of injured firefighters, said, “ ‘The other one’?”

  Gnaeus turned to his own wife. “Tell the doctor what you saw.”

  The wife shook her head. “Oh, that poor lady!”

  Ruso tried not to look too eager.

  “They think I might be the last person who saw her alive. Apart from the one who killed her, that is.”

  “Really?” He had made a good decision in coming here.

  “It makes me feel a bit ill just remembering it,” she said. “We were so busy dragging everything out in case the fire spread. And I had to watch the children. If I’d said to her, ‘Come in and sit down’—”

  “But she wasn’t looking for somewhere to sit down,” pointed out her husband. “She was with that Terentius.”

  “I know,” conceded the wife. “But now I know what happened to her, I can’t help thinking, If I’d done something different …”

  “I’m sure everyone feels that way,” Ruso assured her, thinking of Valens trapped in his dingy room with his regrets. “When did you see them?”

  “I keep telling her,” put in the husband, “you couldn’t do nothing. No more than I could get those lads out of the fire. It’s fate.”

  “It’s fate,” she agreed, reaching out for the girl who was tugging at her skirts and lifting her onto her lap.

  Ruso said, “Did you see them before or after your husband was treated by Valens?” but neither of them could remember.

  “Everything happened so fast,” the wife explained, cuddling the girl close as if to protect her.

  “I heared all the shouting,” put in the girl. “There was mans up on the roof throwing water.”

  The mother glanced at her husband and rested her head against the child’s. “But we’re all safe now. Aren’t we?”

  The girl nodded solemnly. “All safe now.”

  “Anyway,” said the husband, “after that, it was all over for the new baths. Not that it would have taken much.”

  “Really?” Ruso prompted again, deliberately taking a mouthful of bread to allow Gnaeus plenty of time for the tale of woe he was clearly eager to share.

  “They had problems from the start,” Gnaeus explained, lifting the boy and sitting him on a hairy knee so the child could reach the bread. “The architect fell ill and went back to Rome. The engineer they wanted wouldn’t touch it, even though he was in the Veterans’ Association himself, so they put the youngster in charge. The builders kept telling him it would be all right. They were supposed to have the piles hammered down by midsummer, but they couldn’t get down to anything solid. They were still crashing away over there right up to a few days before the Little Eagle went up in flames. Then the fire took the toolshed and the fence and all the struts for the crane with it.”

  “All that banging went right through you,” put in the wife. “Some days it made the cups dance across the table. And the water was always muddy. We had to let it settle and go cold before anyone would touch it.”

  “We kept asking what was happening,” put in her husband, “but all they said was ‘These things take time.’ And then all the builders cleared off because the investors wouldn’t give them any more money till they saw some progress, and now it’s not happening at all. Tell you the truth, I can’t help wondering if the builders led that young lad on a bit of a dance.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ruso said, wishing he could say something more comforting. His own father had been practically bankrupted and driven to an early grave by the delays and escalating costs of building a temple for their hometown. “Have you thought what you’ll do now?”

  The veteran helped himself to an olive and paused to spit out the stone. “I’ve thought,” he said, “but I haven’t come up with any answers.”

  The wife smoothed the daughter’s hair. “It’s early days yet,” she urged, picking at a tangle. “We’ll find somewhere to go. You’ll think of something.”

  “Right,” said Gnaeus, not sounding convinced but clearly taking the hint that no more anxiety was to be expressed in front of the children.

  Ruso reached for the cup and took another gulp of the water. “Remarkable,” he said, putting the cup down and wondering whether or not to inflict the rest of it upon himself just because he was paying for it.

  “Yes, sir,” the wife agreed. “That’s what a lot of people say.”

  “You don’t have to finish it, sir,” Gnaeus offered. “But could you do us a big favor? I’ll refill the wine and you just sit there for a bit and make it look as though we’ve got a customer.”

  14

  As the boat rounded the last bend, Tilla tied a bow of white braid in Mara’s hair: a decoration she had only just taken to adding now that there was enough hair to comb up into a topknot. Then she pulled the little blue socks out of her bag and put them over Mara’s feet while the baby-minder held each chubby leg still in turn. The tunic, mercifully, was still clean and the cloths were dry. “There’s a smart girl!” Tilla announced in British, leaning back into the cramped space by the sun-warmed amphorae to admire the full effect. Mara, pleased, gave a big grin that displayed her latest new teeth.

  Tilla lifted her daughter up so she could see the top of a building looming above the trees. “We are going to Aquae Sulis,” she told her. “See? There is the temple. And look, who can you see
waiting for us? I told you he would be there! There is your—” She stopped.

  Beside her the baby-minder said softly, “Is everything all right, mistress?”

  Tilla swallowed. “It is fine, Neena,” she said, using the abbreviation that the family had coined for Narina’s name. “Just someone I have not seen for a long time.”

  Someone who was returning Albanus’s cheery wave, but instead of looking at him she was craning to get a better view of the baby in Tilla’s arms. The baby, meanwhile, was bouncing up and down with such excitement that Tilla had to tighten her grip.

  “Clever girl!” cried Neena.

  “What?” Tilla turned to her.

  “She said Papa, mistress!”

  Tilla blinked. For a moment she thought the slave was talking about Virana, who was waving and bouncing in very much the same way as her daughter. “Did she?” She pressed her face close to Mara’s soft pink cheek. “Did you say Papa? Clever girl! There he is, look!”

  The captain called for the passengers to sit down while they docked, then shouted at the gaggle of small boys who were jostling for position on the landing stage to get out of the way. The boat glided in and bumped so gently against the massive timbers that Tilla was on her feet again almost straightaway, waving to her husband and assuring the eager boys that, no, her family did not need lodgings, even in a very clean respectable house that was run by their widowed mother, or grandmother, and was the cheapest in town. No, they did not need help with the bags, either.

  Somehow, just in those few moments, Mara managed to pull the ribbon awry, lose one sock, and dribble down her clean tunic.

  By the time the sock had been rescued and the boys had retreated, Virana was crouched on the very edge of the landing stage, her knees wide apart to make space for her belly. Tilla felt the baby tense in her arms as Virana leaned so far out, she seemed about to topple into the boat.

  “Oh, look at you!” Virana cried, reaching out one hand to stroke the baby’s cheek. “Hello, little one!”

  Mara tried to burrow into the crook of Tilla’s neck. Guessing what was about to happen, Tilla cuddled her closer and tried to gain her attention. “Look, Mara! This is Virana. We like Virana!”

  Virana did not read the signs. “Mara, it is me!”

  Mara wailed in fright and fought to get away.

  Virana’s eager smile crumpled and died. She withdrew her hand and used it to push her hair out of her eyes.

  “Sorry!” Tilla called over the crying as she cuddled the baby close and tried to console her. “She is just shy. Mara, stop now! Sh!” She still could not bring herself to use the word mother, so she said again, “This is Virana. She is our friend!”

  Virana struggled to her feet. Her face was pink. “I thought she would …” She pushed her hair back again. “Silly me.”

  Tilla passed the baby to Neena. Ignoring the ladder farther along, she swung one knee up onto the planking and reached out. “Pull me up.”

  Virana helped her onto the landing stage. Albanus abandoned the luggage and stood wringing his hands and asking his wife if she was all right, which plainly she was not, and then looking at Tilla as if he was hoping she would tell him what to do.

  Tilla forced a smile and indicated Virana’s bulging belly. “I am happy for you both. You will make very good parents.”

  Virana was not so easily distracted. “She doesn’t like me!”

  “She doesn’t know you,” Tilla explained. “She is like that with everybody new at the moment. It is the way babies are.”

  Virana sniffed. “But I am not new!” Albanus handed her a cloth. She wiped her eyes and nose on it and handed it back. “She saw me and cried.”

  “She will forget about this before you know it,” Tilla promised, stifling a shameful sense of relief that the baby had not recognized the mother of her birth.

  Back in the boat, Mara’s complaints were fading as Neena sang her the song about the three little wolf cubs.

  “I want her to like me.”

  “She will like you, just as we do.” Tilla caught sight of her husband, who had retreated to supervise the unloading of luggage. He knew how little sense Virana had; did he not think to warn her to go slowly? Of course not. It would not have crossed his mind even at the best of times, and he had other things to worry about now. She said, “Have you seen Valens? How is he?”

  Virana blinked the tears from her eyes. “Has nobody told you? I am glad to see you, but you have come all this way to help him, and he is gone!”

  Nobody paid much attention to them as they lugged the baggage through the streets to the lodgings, and it occurred to Tilla that they looked just like all the other visitors who came to a place like this: a couple of ordinary families arriving hot and tired from the journey at the start of a shared holiday. Two comrades who had served in the legions—you could always tell; was it something about the walk?—and who had settled with local women. One pair were expecting their first baby; the other, wealthy enough to afford two slaves, already had a child: a girl with one sock on, a crooked braid in her hair, and a blotchy pink face. Tilla had her propped on one hip now, because Neena needed both hands to carry the surprising number of bags needed for such a very small person. Behind them, Esico and her husband were hauling a trunk between them that had boxes of medical kit strapped on top.

  Suddenly, Virana said, “Do you not think she looks like Marcus? Around the eyes?”

  Tilla glanced over her shoulder and was relieved to see that Albanus was busy chatting to her husband while struggling manfully with a cumbersome bag that left him walking lopsided. “I don’t remember him.”

  “You know, the big handsome one?” Virana hurried ahead of them to get a better view of the baby. Once Mara realized she was being looked at, she turned away and buried her face in Tilla’s shoulder, but Virana was unabashed. “She does look like him, I am sure of it! I was so hoping she would be Marcus’s! Do you think I should send him a message?”

  “A message?” Tilla tried not to sound too appalled. Virana was fragile enough already.

  “To tell him he is a father. Do you not think he would be proud?”

  “I do not care what he would be. And neither must you now.”

  Virana shrugged and dropped back to walk alongside. “Oh, well. She might not be his anyway.”

  Looking for a distraction, Tilla eyed the big white building with the high roof that filled the view at the end of the street. “Is that the famous hot bath? You must show me around.”

  She felt the girl’s hand on her arm. “We must talk first,” Virana murmured. “You must be very careful. You don’t want to end up like poor Mistress Serena.”

  Tilla said, “Why? What did she do? No, wait.” They were approaching a busy snack bar with tables on the street. “Tell me when we are alone,” she added, just as her husband called from farther back, “Turn right!”

  A few more paces down the narrow street, Virana announced, “This is the Mercury.”

  On one side of the open doorway was a bright painting of a god clutching a cockerel. On the other side, gazing at the god adoringly, stood a buxom goddess with a scepter in one hand and a ladle in the other.

  “I have never been in the Mercury,” Virana confided, craning her neck to see what she had been missing. “It is very expensive.”

  Tilla took the hint. “You must come inside and talk to me.”

  Virana and Mara exchanged wary glances as they passed from the sunlit street into the dark of the bar. The woman behind the counter looked up from serving a customer and nodded a greeting. While they waited for the others to catch up with them, Virana gazed around her, clearly impressed. “See those tiled shelves!” she urged. “So much easier to keep clean. And look: The cups and bowls match! And see, through there is a real dining room with couches! Do you think it is as nice upstairs?”

  The fine dining room was unusual, but to Tilla the rest of the Mercury looked much like any other inn, although it had a better smell than most. In add
ition, the furniture was intact, the walls were not scrawled upon, and there was no drunk asleep in the corner. Her husband had chosen well.

  The men arrived, and as they clumped up the stairs to find their room, Virana said, “I am so pleased about Marcus. I have been thinking about all of them and he was the nicest of the lot.”

  15

  Virana surveyed the room with an air of disappointment. “I thought a suite in the Mercury would be grander than this.”

  “It is very quiet and peaceful,” put in Albanus from the doorway, perhaps worried that Tilla would be insulted.

  Tilla flung back the brightly striped bed cover and the blankets to check the sheets. “It looks clean,” she said. “And there are glass windows that open.” The main room was also bigger than she had expected, and the walls of both this and the little side room that made this a “suite” gleamed white with fresh limewash. A green curtain on a length of twine could be pulled across one end of the main room to hide the bed, and there were a couple of rolled-up mattresses in the other room for children or slaves to sleep on. But she could understand why Virana felt let down: Like many people brought up on a ramshackle native farm, the girl had never quite been able to shake the idea that the words Roman and wealthy always went together. She had been expecting the kind of luxury furnishings she had seen in paintings. Instead there was a bed with a pot underneath it, two mattresses, two rugs, one cupboard, and a couple of lamp brackets nailed to the wall. The only other items in here were those they had brought themselves.

  “I have stayed in many rooms,” she told Virana, smoothing the bedding back into place, “and this is a good one.”

  The men went back downstairs. To Tilla’s surprise, her husband had announced that, since there was no farm work for Esico to do now, the lad would be working at the Traveler’s Repose next door. It seemed odd, but it saved the bother of finding him things to do all the time and making sure he did them. Esico had been very quiet since he had wandered off in Abona, as if being so close to his old home had brought back unhappy memories. Perhaps, if there was time, she would make some inquiries of her own about his father.