by Ruth Downie
24
As usual, Mara woke with the cockerels. Since nobody wanted to play, and Neena had left her safely in her parents’ bed while going down to fetch breakfast, she busied herself by trying to burrow under Tilla and then, when Tilla pushed her away, by lifting her father’s eyelids as if she wanted to show him what he was missing. Hearing his groan of protest, Tilla sat up and lifted her away from him. They had talked long into the night after the attack, and what with that and waking every time he rolled onto his left arm, he needed the rest. None of that would make any difference to Mara, of course. Babies were relentless.
He was awake and dressed by the time Neena came back. She brought bowls of porridge sweetened with honey, and a message to say the landlord was asking after his health and would like a word with him as soon as possible.
Tilla said, “Perhaps he has found the hooded man.” Her husband was flexing his sore arm with a look of serious concentration. “The bruising is coming out now,” she told him. “Do you want some more salve on it?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking. Why didn’t he come at me again when he had me cornered?”
Tilla tied a cloth around Mara’s neck. “Perhaps he could not see you,” she said. “Perhaps he was blinded by the lamp.”
“Or he realized that I wasn’t the man he wanted.” He stepped across to the window and peered through the distortions and bubbles in the thick green glass, then opened it to get a better view. “The old boy’s not there this morning.”
“Maybe he was just an old man who likes to sit and drink beer.”
“Or he’s already done his job and sent someone to get rid of Valens.”
“I have tried to think how Valens could leave a worse mess behind him,” she said, grabbing the spoon that Mara was waving in the air and steering the porridge back in the right direction. “But I can’t. Have you decided what to do?”
But all her husband would tell her was that he was going out. His last words as he left were “If Graybeard wants to know where I am, tell him I’m alive and well and I’ll see him later.”
There was no gray-bearded landlord in sight when Tilla set off for the oil shop, and the old man had not returned to the bar. Perhaps her husband had been right: He had done his job. The trouble was, when you knew there was a secret, everyone looked like a spy.
She forgot all about spies when she heard what Virana had to say.
“Because I can’t,” Tilla insisted, glad there was no one else in the oil shop so early in the morning. In a town that was sacred to local and Roman alike, there would be many people who understood their tongue. “I can’t, not now I’ve met her. She didn’t look anything like I was expecting. She looks … she does not look like a woman who chases after men. And she is a priestess.”
“I know,” Virana said, not looking up from the thin golden stream that was flowing between the lip of the oil jug and the mouth of the glass flask she was holding steady on the counter. “That is how clever she is. Even Serena thought she was all right to start with.”
“Well, I still can’t put a curse on her. Not until I know for certain that she deserves it.”
“But I thought of some good things to say in bed last night! How about: Make her bones turn to dust and her bowels to water and her blood to slime and—oh, whoops.” Virana redirected the stream of oil back into the flask. “We could say, Make her never sleep by day nor night. Do you know how to write it backwards? It is more powerful that way.”
“No. Curses are not things to play with.”
“How about cursing her limbs and her eyes? We could make all her hair fall out. I bet it’s dyed anyway.”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t see what harm it would do.” Virana twisted the stopper into the flask and indicated the pool on the counter. “Want some? It’s really expensive.”
Tilla dabbed some of the spilled oil onto her wrists and decided she had been wise not to tell Virana about the attack on her husband in the rented room the night before. Virana would only be more enthusiastic about the cursing.
Virana paddled a forefinger in the pool and anointed her wrists and inner elbows and the skin behind her ears before wiping up. “My husband likes sandalwood,” she explained, clearly still enjoying being able to use the word husband even to someone who knew him by name.
Just as Tilla said, “I have to go. I’m meeting Neena with Mara at the baths,” a figure briefly blocked the light in the doorway.
“Oh, look!” exclaimed Virana, as if the visitor was a surprise. “Here is the scribe now!”
Tilla found herself face-to-face with a little stranger with inky fingers and a crooked foot. He was clutching a satchel very much like the one Albanus had carried in the days when he was an army clerk.
“I asked him to drop by,” said Virana brightly, speaking in Latin, “because you said you wanted some writing done.”
Tilla’s glare failed to silence her.
“Her friend was murdered,” Virana explained to the man, “and she wants to put a curse on the person who did it, and I know you did one for that girl with the frizzy hair when she lost her bracelet and then that slave found it in the drain, so we thought you would be the best person to ask. How much would it cost?”
But already the little man was backing out into the bright morning, explaining that vengeance for murder was beyond his powers. He did not know the right words. They needed to talk to a priest.
“You see?” Tilla hissed, wishing she had never agreed to Virana’s suggestion in the first place. Watching the scribe hobble away, she said, “I hope he doesn’t talk to anybody.”
Virana wrinkled her nose. “They aren’t all as stuffy as that one.” She leaned backward and shouted up the stairs, “I have to go and do a delivery!”
A woman’s voice called back, “Another one?”
Virana rolled her eyes and muttered, “Old Misery.” Then, louder: “It is the sandalwood for that rude one with the warts!”
Tilla heard the clump of footsteps coming down the stairs, and the woman whose rumpled green skirts were gradually appearing said, “Make sure you come straight back.”
“I will!” Virana tucked an aromatic hand around Tilla’s arm. “Shall we go together? It is on your way.”
It did not take long to make the delivery to a slave at the door of the rude one with the warts. As soon as they were outside on the pavement, Virana said, “Good. That’s done. You did bring some money, didn’t you?”
“Why? You are going straight back to the shop.”
“I will. As soon as we’ve finished.” She tugged at the arm. “Come on. I can find us a better scribe.”
“No. You must go and work for the Old Misery, and I must go to the baths.”
There were links between Mara and her birth mother that would never be broken, and that pout was one of them. Finally Virana said, “Oh, all right, then. Will I see you later?”
“I will come to the shop,” Tilla said, hoping her promise might persuade Virana to stay there.
They were about to head in different directions when a male voice called, “Ladies?”
A short, wide man draped in priestly white came limping along the pavement, leaning on his stick. Politeness demanded that he voice the question, “Are you the ladies from the oil shop?” even though his nose must have answered it already.
“I am a visitor,” Tilla told him, since Virana seemed to be struck unusually dumb. “My friend works at the shop.”
“The ladies who wanted to discuss a delicate matter with a scribe just now?”
Holy goddess! It had hardly been the space of a dozen breaths, and this man knew already! Tilla drew herself up to her full height. “The words we spoke were private.”
The man introduced himself as Dorios, chief priest, chief magistrate, and head of the Association of Sulis Minerva. He promised her that the scribe had consulted one person only—himself.
Whatever the Association of Sulis Minerva was, it did not sound good
. Chief magistrate sounded even worse.
“Perhaps you would join me in the temple courtyard?”
The look in his eye said there was no “perhaps” about it. Virana whispered, “Don’t tell my husband about this!” as the priest led them slowly beneath the arch and across the sunlit paving to the stone steps of the temple, where even at that hour the air was heavy with incense and the scent of the late roses on the altar. The stallholders were already selling food and souvenirs, and over in a corner of the courtyard an old woman was throwing crumbs to a flock of squabbling pigeons.
They seated themselves on the steps, the priest with an “Ouf!” as if some air needed to be let out on the way down. Tilla was careful to place herself in between him and Virana, although it would not do much good. She would not be able to catch Virana’s words before they reached the ears of the chief magistrate.
“Now,” he said, turning to Tilla. “Perhaps you could describe the problem.”
“Her friend was murdered,” put in Virana, craning around Tilla to speak.
“I am sorry to hear it.”
Tilla explained, “Someone said I ought to put a curse on the killer while I am here.”
“It was me who—” Virana began, and then, “Ow!” as Tilla’s foot pressed on her toes.
“We do not know who did it,” Tilla added.
“I do,” put in Virana. “I could tell the goddess her name.”
“My friend thinks she knows,” said Tilla, increasing the pressure on Virana’s foot. “But she might be wrong.”
Virana said, “Oh!” and then, “Yes. We were going to put whether man or woman, slave or free. That’s what they usually write when they don’t know, isn’t it?”
The priest tapped his forefinger thoughtfully on the top of his walking stick. “I have to say,” he said, “this is very unusual.” He went on to tell them, as if they might not know, that murder was a very serious matter. Not a matter for lighthearted accusations. After this, he bent forward as far as he could manage and looked each of them in the eye in turn, perhaps checking for signs of lightheartedness. “What was the name of your friend?”
“It is a private affair,” Tilla told him, shuddering at the thought that news of this meeting might get back to her husband. “It happened a long way north of here, among my own people, but I hear Sulis Minerva is very powerful. I just need to know the proper way to do it. I will write it myself.”
“She really can write,” Virana assured him. “She can read too. She hardly ever gets stuck.”
“It is not just a matter of writing.”
Tilla said, “Can you suggest someone here who will help us?”
The man sighed. “Really, ladies, I would recommend not doing it at all. Curses are a desperate measure.”
Virana said, “But people use them for lost property.”
“Ah, yes, the visitors like to bring their private troubles to the goddess while they are here. But murder …”
Virana again: “Is the goddess not powerful enough?”
The priest’s eyes widened. “The goddess is all-powerful! You see in front of you her eternal miracle with the spring, and everyone will tell you about the many healings that take place here. Just ask the staff up at the temple.”
Tilla, who had only ever wanted to know what Gleva was up to and had no intention of dabbling with foreign curses and half-Roman gods, gathered up her skirts. “You are right, sir.” She seized Virana by the hand. “I thank you very much for your kind warning. I have changed my mind. Virana, this is a dangerous path and we are not going to follow it.”
“But—”
“We have been given good advice. We will stay out of this and not anger the goddess.”
As they walked back through the arch, Tilla said, “Are you quite sure Gleva put a curse on Serena?”
“Everyone knows.”
“If one person tells a lie and ten people hear it and pass it on, does it make it true?”
Virana looked baffled.
Tilla tried again. “Who told you?”
“Someone in the shop. I can’t remember. I don’t know why you’re cross. I only tried to help.”
“I know,” she said. “And I thank you. But we need people to trust us so that we can get justice for Valens and the boys. Now that man, who has a lot of powerful friends, thinks we are crazy and dangerous.”
But no matter what the priest thought of them, it was possible that Virana was right: that Gleva really had put a curse on Serena, and the priest knew it. They were being warned off because Serena was dead, and the last thing the officials here wanted was any further involvement of the goddess’s name in the murky business of an untimely death.
25
Mara kicked her legs in the warm water and smacked the surface with her palms. Her laughter blended with the cries and splashes echoing around the hall from the other bathers. As usual, she was delighted to be free of clothes. Neena too seemed untroubled to be standing waist-deep in water in a public place wearing nothing more than the braid that held her hair in a knot. Only Tilla, sitting on the steps with her feet submerged, was uncomfortable at the thought of shedding her towel, even though this was the women’s session. Logic told her the male attendants around the Great Bath had seen it all before, especially that wizened old physician over there prodding a woman’s shoulder, but somehow she felt awkward about showing it to them again. Even though the longer she clung to her towel, the sillier she felt.
If Virana’s information was right, then Gleva might turn up for her daily bathing session at any moment. On the other hand, nothing would be normal in Pertinax’s house these days, and if Gleva was keen to please, then she might be hanging around there, waiting for chances to look helpful.
Mara thrashed her arms and legs about and her dark head vanished in a cloud of spray. Tilla bit back, “Oh, be careful!” because reason told her Neena had a hand underneath. Sure enough, Mara emerged blinking and dripping and looking faintly surprised. Neena pointed her to Tilla and encouraged her to wave. “Very good!” Tilla called. “Good swimming!” even if it did make her own heart race. What was it about watching your child try new things that made you see all the ways the adventure might go horribly wrong? Did all the mothers here live with the same secret dread, never voiced for fear some malicious god might be listening? Perhaps not. Most of them seemed to be enjoying themselves.
She watched as a couple of women entered alongside a girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen who had a twisted leg. The girl made her way across to a pillar, propped her crutches against it, and untied her towel. The woman in the plainer tunic, who must be the servant, stepped forward and offered an arm for support. The girl ignored it. The other woman tried to intervene but the girl flapped an impatient hand at them both. Turning her back on them, she lowered herself awkwardly onto the steps and shuffled down into the water on her bottom.
Whatever fears you had, Tilla decided, it was probably as well not to annoy your child by voicing them. Instead she would toss some coins into the spring later on and ask Sulis Minerva for her protection.
A tall, athletic-looking young woman with black hair and dark skin sauntered into the hall next. Beside her was a girl whose blond curls and generous breasts bounced in time with her step. Each woman had a towel, but neither had chosen to wrap herself in it. The women stepped lightly over the stones in delicate strappy sandals that would have been useless for real walking. This was how Tilla had imagined Gleva to look before she had met her.
Moments later the real Gleva entered the hall. People who had paid no attention to the glamorous naked women stopped what they were doing to watch the tall, powerfully built figure stride along the paving. Gleva was simply dressed in a long pale green tunic belted at the waist with green-and-gold braid. The splendid red hair tumbled in a wild cascade down her back. Tilla wondered what the Romans made of the resemblance to the long-gone and famously red-haired Queen Boudica. Gleva certainly looked like someone who should not be approached lightly. Espec
ially by someone who now felt very overexposed in nothing but a skimpy towel.
Gleva took a towel from one of the attendants and gave him a nod of thanks. He made a respectful bow in return. Tilla realized she was staring and turned her attention to a group of children who were splashing each other. Their shrieks and their guardians’ cries of “Stop it!” echoed around the hall. The two naked women had chosen a place on the far side of the bath and sat half-submerged on the steps. Gleva strode past them without a glance and settled herself on a stone bench in an alcove. Perhaps it was the wrong time of the moon for her to go in the water. Although Tilla could not help feeling that whenever Gleva went in, everyone else would find an excuse to get out.
She took a firm grip on the wretched towel and muttered a quick prayer to the goddess for inspiration.
The answer came almost straightaway. A young girl with a deep wicker basket hooked over one arm hurried up to Gleva and looked as if she was saying sorry for being late. The girl put the basket on the bench and scuttled off through a side door, returning with a folding stool that she snapped open and invited Gleva to sit on. She laid the towel around Gleva’s shoulders and began to comb through her hair.
Tilla waved to Mara, who wasn’t looking, and set off around the pool.
“Excuse me?” She addressed the customer rather than the slave. “We met yesterday, at the house of Centurion Pertinax.”
Gleva could have made more effort to make “I remember” sound friendly.
“Tilla.” Tilla held out her hand and tried not to imagine the powerful fingers that gripped her own wrapped around a sacrificial knife. Stretching the truth a little, she said, “I was a friend of Serena.”
“The wife of her husband’s friend,” said Gleva.
“Yes.” Was that a correction or just an attempt at clarity? Seeking a safer subject, Tilla explained that her own hair had been ruined by the salt air on a long sea voyage, and now it was going frizzy in the steamy bathhouse. Gleva did not take the chance to say politely that it looked fine, so Tilla continued with “I could not help noticing yours. It is very beautiful.” She could not help noticing also that there were fine lines around the priestess’s mouth, and a weariness about her eyes when she glanced sideways to check Tilla’s unkempt curls. Well, it must be tiring making other people nervous all the time.