Ruso and the Root of All Evils

by Ruso

  ‘Chair?’ inquired Ruso after he had gone.

  ‘Well, you won’t be taking it with you, will you?’ said Valens. ‘So I assumed you’d be offering it to me, but as you’re in need of a favour I’ve told him he can have it.’

  ‘My chair? The one I’ve had since Antioch?’

  Valens’ handsome face looked pained. ‘I could hardly ask him to sign without offering him something, could I? Don’t worry, I’ve told him you’ll need it when you get back.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be coming back. It depends what’s going on at home. My contract with the Legion runs out in January.’

  For once Valens looked genuinely shocked. ‘You mean you’ve got me arranging all this just so you can desert me?’

  ‘I might decide to sign on again.’

  ‘You will,’ Valens had assured him. ‘You’ll miss all this fun when you’re down on the farm, you know.’

  At the time Ruso had insisted he would be glad to get back to a civilized country. It was something he had been saying ever since he arrived in Britannia. But now, sprawled on the deck of a troop ship that had brought over reinforcements and was now carrying back wounded, he realized he would miss Britain’s misty green hills and the chilly streams that never ran dry. There had been many times during the horrors of the rebellion when he had wished himself almost anywhere else, but he knew now that he would be sorry to leave the Army too.

  He shook his head. At this rate he would soon be imagining he missed Valens.

  The seagull launched itself off the mast, gave one lazy flap and was soon left behind by the speed of the ship. Beside him, Tilla’s left arm rose to draw out the brown fibres while her right thumb and forefinger set the spindle twirling.

  Ruso allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation. He had removed Tilla from the control of an ignorant oaf back in Deva in the full expectation that, even if she survived, the injury the man had inflicted on her arm was so serious that he would have to amputate. Instead, she had surprised everyone, not only by surviving but by dragging Ruso into an investigation of the mysterious deaths of the local bar girls.

  As he watched the hand that he had saved twist the woollen fibres into a neat thread, it occurred to Ruso that Tilla was about to become a surprise once again. He really should have found a way to mention her to his family while he was serving in Britannia. It was too late now. A last-minute letter could travel no faster than they were travelling themselves. He would have to make some hurried explanations when he arrived.

  Perhaps the one good thing about this mysterious family crisis was that nobody would have time to worry about the arrival of an unexpected Briton.

  Seeing him watching, she said, ‘The wool will be a gift for your stepmother. Does she like to weave?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ruso, imagining Arria’s horror at the prospect of making her own clothes. ‘But I’m sure one of the staff will be able to make it up for her.’

  ‘What does she like to do?’

  Ruso shifted to get a better view of the horizon. ‘She’s very keen on home improvements.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It’s a big house,’ he added, not feeling well enough to explain that, to a woman like Arria, Home Improvements involved far more than a pot of wild flowers on the table and a patched scarlet curtain between the bed and the cooking space.

  Tilla said, ‘It is good she has your sisters to help her.’

  Ruso grunted something noncommittal. It was hard to imagine his sisters helping anyone, but perhaps they had improved in his absence. He tried to take his mind off the way his stomach was moving independently of the ship by telling Tilla about brilliant blue summer skies and air filled with the song of cicadas. About the olive groves and the vineyards. About his brother’s precious winery, and about his sister-in-law, the one who sent presents from home and produced all the nephews and nieces.

  Tilla said, ‘I think I will like your home.’

  Ruso felt another pang of guilt about his failure to mention her to his family. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what we’ll find after that letter. Something must have gone badly wrong.’

  ‘How wrong can it be? There is sunshine, and trees that grow oil, and no soldiers.’

  ‘Soldiers are one problem we don’t have at home,’ he agreed. ‘Narbonensis has been practically part of Italy for generations.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘You’ve never really seen what peace is like, have you?’

  When they docked on the west coast of Gaul, the last of the genuinely maimed veterans who had travelled with them left for their own destinations. Ruso removed the extra dressings. He gave one of the crutches to a surprised beggar and then regretted it when he realized how feeble his leg muscles had become during their enforced rest. Still, it was a relief to feel the fresh summer breeze on his chafed thigh and to see the limb that had been the colour and shape of a giant maggot return to a normal-sized leg. He now wore only a long sock of bandage and, provided he was careful, could put his heel down to the ground without instant regret.

  He clambered without assistance on to the river barge that would take them on the next stage of their journey. The joy of independence was only slightly diminished by Tilla’s observation that he now had one brown leg and one that looked as though he had just got it out of winter storage.

  Following the river as it wound its leisurely way across the flat lands of south-west Gaul, their lives settled into a pleasant rhythm. He taught her to play board games and discovered she was a shameless cheat who laughed when she was caught. At last he made a serious effort to learn to speak British, and she discovered that there was a language that resembled it called Gaulish, which he tried to teach her in return. They squabbled over space in the tiny bunk, tried sleeping top to toe and quickly decided that was worse. He bought her a straw hat to keep the sun off, and she adorned it with the wild flowers she picked on the riverbank.

  As they left the barge behind in Tolosa and climbed into the carriage to make the last stage of the journey through the mountains by road, it occurred to Ruso that there were whole days now when he hardly thought of the dreadful events they had left behind in Britannia. He abandoned the last crutch for a stick as his body began to heal along with his mind. He could not remember a time when he had been happier.

  It was a pity he knew it wasn’t going to last.

  6

  ‘Brother! What are you doing here? What’s the matter with your foot?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in the Army, Gaius?’

  ‘Uncle Gaius! Did you kill all the barbarians?’

  The greetings and hot embraces filling the painted hallway gave no hint of the crisis that had brought him home.

  ‘Gaius, dear, is it really you? What a surprise!’

  ‘Mother!’ he said to Arria. He had practised the word until he no longer had to grit his teeth to say it. He thought it came out rather well.

  ‘You’re wounded!’

  ‘It’s nothing much,’ he assured her, and took Tilla by the arm. ‘Arria, this is –’

  ‘Uncle Gaius! Uncle Gaius, I’ve got a loose tooth!’

  He bent awkwardly, leaning on the stick. ‘Want me to pull it out for you, Polla?’

  His niece frowned and backed away. ‘I’m not Polla, Uncle. That’s Polla.’ She pointed at a bigger sister. ‘I’m Sosia.’

  ‘Sosia? Gods above, you’ve –’ He stopped himself just in time. ‘Of course. Sorry, Sosia. Good to see you. Everybody, this is –’

  Someone was prodding his shoulder. ‘I’m Marcia,’ put in a girl who looked alarmingly like a young woman. ‘I’m your sister. Remember me?’

  ‘No, really?’ said Ruso, who remembered only too well. Her embrace warmed slightly when he murmured, ‘I haven’t forgotten about your dowry, you know.’

  ‘I need it now,’ she hissed. ‘And I’m not going to marry some rich old goat with spindly legs and hair in his ears, understand?’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,�
�� he agreed. ‘Marcia, where are Lucius and Cass?’

  His sister shrugged. ‘Doing something boring on the farm, I suppose.’

  Still no clues. Evidently Lucius had not told their sisters about the letter.

  He correctly guessed the names of two nephews and limped across the hall to greet the row of waiting staff like a general addressing his troops at a surprise inspection.

  ‘Hello, Galla.’ The nursemaid’s hair had turned grey in his absence. The kitchen-boy had expanded upwards, the laundrymaid widthways, and Arria’s personal maid in all the right places. The cook’s apron was now being worn by a sour-faced man, the stable lad still smelled the same, and the bath-boy, who had been ancient when Ruso was a child, managed to impress simply by remaining alive. ‘It’s good to see you all,’ he said.

  He was dredging his memory for names when his stepmother’s voice rang across the hall in a tone he remembered only too well.

  ‘Gaius, dear, who is this?’

  As he glanced round at the assembled company, all now surveying the slender blonde figure just inside the doorway, the absurdity of the notion that he would be able to slip Tilla into the household almost unnoticed became clear.

  A small voice at nephew level announced, ‘She’s got a red face.’

  ‘She’s got blue eyes.’

  ‘Why is her hair like that?’

  ‘Because she’s a barbarian, stupid!’ explained one of the nieces.

  ‘She’s British,’ said Ruso, as if that explained not only her appearance but her presence. ‘Everybody, this is Tilla. She’s our guest, so I want you all to make her welcome.’

  This had the unfortunate effect of unleashing more curiosity.

  ‘Can she talk?’

  ‘Can we touch her?’

  ‘Is she fierce?’

  ‘Aaah!’ This last was from a dribbling toddler who had evidently learned early that he had to speak up to be noticed.

  ‘Yes, she can talk,’ said Ruso, looking around in vain for his sister-in-law to get the small interrogators under control. ‘And no, you can’t touch her. We’ve had a long journey, and she’s tired.’

  One of Ruso’s sisters whispered something to the other, and they both giggled. Tilla’s expression was one he could not read and dared not speculate upon, but the child was right. Her cheeks were even pinker than the sunburn on her nose. Tendrils of hair, dark with sweat, were stuck to her forehead. ‘Sorry about this,’ he murmured to her.

  Tilla grasped his hand and whispered, ‘What did you tell them about me?’

  ‘I’ll explain in a minute,’ he assured her.

  The hastily assembled greeting party was evidently expecting a formal speech. Those eyes aren’t really blue, he wanted to tell them. Not up close. ‘Well,’ he said, searching desperately for something more appropriate. ‘Yes. Hullo, everybody. It’s good to be home.’ He was not sure it was true, but it was necessary to say it. ‘You all look very, ah –’

  The eldest nephews had lost interest and begun to roll across the floor, punching each other. A niece shouted, ‘Stop it!’ while Galla made a futile attempt to intervene. Ruso glanced at the bust of his late father, impassively surveying the chaos from its niche beside the garlanded household shrine, and wondered what the old man would have made of this performance.

  ‘Children!’ Arria’s voice rose again over the babble. ‘Your kind Uncle Gaius has brought a real barbarian home for us all the way from Britannia. Isn’t that nice of him?’

  There were confused murmurs of assent.

  Ruso tried again. ‘Tilla,’ he said, gesturing towards Arria, ‘this is my stepmother, Arria –’

  But Arria had not finished. ‘We must all set her a good example and look after her,’ she continued. ‘Galla, go and tell the driver to bring in the master’s luggage. Children, why don’t you all go and take – what do you call her?’

  ‘Tilla.’

  ‘Take Tilla to the kitchen and Cook will find her something to eat and drink. I expect she would like that.’ She turned to Ruso. ‘What do they eat, Gaius?’

  The words ‘Small children’ were out before he could stop them. ‘Arria, where’s Lucius?’

  *

  The nieces and nephews were finally ushered away to the kitchen, taking both of Ruso’s half-sisters with them to protect them from the child-eating barbarian. Ruso, faintly ashamed of himself, was left alone with his stepmother.

  ‘Gaius, dear, what are you doing home? Are you on leave? What’s wrong with your foot?’

  Evidently Arria knew nothing about Lucius’ letter. ‘Home to convalesce,’ he explained. ‘I need to see Lucius.’

  ‘I’ve sent one of the servants to fetch him. I must say, that’s a very strange young woman you’ve brought with you. Why is she dressed like that in this weather?’

  ‘Because those are her clothes.’ As far as Ruso was aware, Tilla had two sets of perfectly adequate second-hand clothes. These, if pushed, he could describe as ‘blue’. He could differentiate between them only as The One She’s Wearing and The One That’s Being Washed.

  ‘She can’t wear heavy wool like that here. I’ll ask one of the staff to find her something else.’

  ‘Is everything all right here? Where’s Cass?’

  Arria sighed. ‘Who knows? As you see, the children are quite out of control. It’s such a relief to have you home, Gaius. Poor Lucius really has no idea. He’s letting everything go to waste – Gaius, dear, are you listening?’

  Ruso rubbed his tunic against the small of his back to wipe away a trickle of sweat. ‘No.’

  Arria sighed. ‘You must be tired after travelling. But I have to tell you this while I have the chance. You see how things are here. Your father would be so disappointed, after all that he did. I was hoping we would have your sisters married by now – Marcia, at least –’

  ‘I’ll sort out the girls’ dowries now I’m home,’ promised Ruso, hoping Lucius was not going to tell him there was nothing to settle on either of their half-sisters.

  ‘In the meantime your brother and his wife do nothing but breed children who run around making sticky finger-prints on the furniture. The smallest one has no idea what a pot is for, and the staff are constantly sweeping up what they’ve broken. They’ve driven away three tutors already. Cassiana just indulges them, and Lucius is too taken up with his vines and his legal squabbles to notice. Galla’s worn out, and –’

  ‘What legal squabbles?’ said Ruso, suddenly paying attention.

  ‘He keeps telling me we can’t afford to replace Galla, but I’m sure we could –’

  ‘What legal squabbles, Arria?’

  ‘Do talk to him about it, dear, will you? It’s such a wretched nuisance. And now he’s got your sisters involved in it.’

  ‘Involved in what?’

  ‘Oh, something about a – seizure order, is it?’

  ‘Holy gods, Arria! There’s someone trying to auction off everything we own?’

  His stepmother put one manicured finger to her lips. ‘Please don’t shout, dear. We’re not supposed to talk about it. Do what I do – just pretend you don’t know.’

  7

  The shutters of his father’s old study opened with a screech that briefly silenced the chirrup of the cicadas outside. Sunlight spilled across the floor and threw the iron studs on the old wooden chest into sharp relief. Ruso crossed the room and slid one hand under the rim of the lid. Locked. Of course. Lucius would be wearing the key around his neck, just as their father had.

  Ruso lowered himself on to the trunk and sat tapping out an impatient rhythm on the lid with both hands. He had travelled a thousand miles to find out exactly what sort of crisis his family had fallen into. Now the details were only inches away, but he had no access to them. Just as there had been no access to the details of the horrendous debts his father was incurring in a misguided attempt to bolster the family’s good standing and satisfy Arria’s demand for a ‘nice house’. Those, too, had been locked away in the dark secrecy of
the trunk.

  He got to his feet and limped across to the window. The air outside was no cooler. A couple of the cicadas had started singing again. He gazed north across the green of the vine-trellises to where distant wooded hills were dark against the sharp blue of the sky. Closer, something was shaking the leaves of the vines. He heard voices. Someone laughed. The top of a ladder appeared above the green, then sank away again. The farm slaves would be scrambling up amongst the trellises, cutting the grapes with curved knives and tossing them into baskets.

  Three fat bunches dangled almost within reach of the window. Ruso wondered whether it was a good year for the vines. Lucius would know. Despite having spent most of his childhood here, Ruso had deliberately avoided learning anything about farming. It was an obstinacy of which he was no longer proud. Still, no amount of farming lore would help if the family really were about to be the subject of a seizure order.

  He had once accompanied his father to the auction of a bankrupt neighbour’s property. It was like seeing an old person stripped naked in the street: all the neighbour’s battered pots and pans, ancient bath shoes, blankets and bedsteads – even a baby’s discarded feeding-bottle – lay shabby and exposed in the sunshine, while strangers glanced over them, wrinkled their noses and walked away. His father had stayed, bidding much too high for an old cart and a couple of hoes with worm-eaten handles while the neighbour stood grim-faced and his wife wept. At the time, Ruso had been too young to understand that his father was offering them the only kindness that was now possible.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. He had given orders that he was not to be disturbed, unless Lucius –

  It wasn’t. It was his sister-in-law.

  ‘Cass!’

  ‘Gaius! They told me you were here. What a lovely surprise!’

  Surprise? Evidently Lucius had not even told his wife about that letter. When Ruso managed to extricate himself from the hug he said, ‘Thanks for all the parcels.’