by Ruso
Ruso remembered the faces of legionaries who had struggled miles across the wet British hills carrying wounded comrades: faces he might never see again if he could not find a way to get the farm out of Severus’ clutches. He said, ‘You could always walk.’
She snorted. ‘I might have known you’d take Lucius’ side. And I don’t suppose you’ve done anything about the dowry, have you?’
‘Not yet,’ he agreed.
‘But I need it!’
‘Not this morning.’
‘When, then?’
‘I’m going to talk to someone.’
‘What? Lucius said you would sort it out! Who else do you need to talk to? You’re supposed to be my guardian!’
‘And you’re supposed to do what I tell you,’ he pointed out.
Marcia flung herself against the wooden backrest with a cry of ‘Ohh! What is the matter with this family? Nobody else has to put up with this!’
‘No, they don’t!’ chipped in Flora from behind, where she was sitting with Tilla. ‘They don’t, Gaius. Really. If you weren’t off marching around with the Army, you’d know.’
‘Over in Britannia,’ observed Ruso, ‘the men pay a bride price to marry the women. Maybe I’ll ship you across there and sell you.’
‘How much did you pay for Tilla?’
‘I’m not married to Tilla,’ said Ruso, who had no intention of admitting that he had bought her as a slave in the back streets of Deva.
‘There are girls my age who have been married for years,’ continued Marcia.
Ruso said, ‘Not from ordinary families like ours.’
‘At this rate I shall be as shrivelled as a prune by the time you get round to it. And there’ll be nobody nice left to marry.’
They were approaching the vineyards that fringed the entrance to the estate of the absent Senator. Marcia’s hand on his arm was a welcome distraction from the tricky meeting he would face later with the Senator’s devious lying bastard of an agent.
‘Gaius, you wouldn’t make me marry somebody repulsive, would you?’
There was genuine anxiety in the hazel eyes, which were the only part of her face that was visible and which seemed to be blacker around the edges than was natural. ‘No,’ he promised, wondering if he was about to shut off a useful source of income. ‘I wouldn’t make you.’
‘Good!’ The note of triumph in her voice alerted him to the fact that he had just helped her score some sort of point.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I might ask you to volunteer.’
‘Oh!’ With this final sigh of exasperation Marcia leaned back, folded her arms, and lapsed into a sulk.
Marcia and Flora disembarked at the roadside, rearranging their stoles around their elaborately pinned curls and shaking off the dust of the road. He had offered to drive them right up to the Augustus gate, the broad stone arches of which were now visible in the town walls, but they had refused. Evidently the girls would rather traipse the last few hundred paces along the tomb-lined road in stifling heat than suffer the shame of being seen dismounting from a farm cart outside the gates.
Ruso considered asking them who was likely to care what vehicle they arrived in. Then he remembered Claudia demanding to know why he always had to argue with people like some beardy old Greek philosopher: a complaint that was especially memorable since it had been preceded by a loud howl and the use of a make-up pot as a missile.
So instead he limped quietly aside as Tilla refused his help to climb down from the back of the cart, then murmured, ‘Sorry about my family.’
She plucked at the fabric of the pale yellow tunic Arria had insisted on lending her, and which did not suit her. ‘Your stepmother says I must wear this while I look after your sisters. I am going with them to see all the things my people are not foolish enough to want.’ Reaching up to adjust the brim of the battered straw hat, she added, ‘Perhaps I shall bring some of the things back with me.’
‘Please don’t,’ he urged and raised his voice for the others to hear. ‘I’ve got business to see to. I’ll have one of the men meet you at the seventh hour outside the Augustus gate.’
‘Come on, Tilla,’ urged Marcia, pausing to push one of Flora’s hairpins back into place and then flinging the green linen stole over her shoulder. ‘Leave our boring brother to get on with his business. We’re going shopping!’
Ruso parked the cart under a tree and left it in the charge of a small boy, who promised to keep the mules in the shade. As he headed towards the town on foot, he caught a glimpse of green stole vanishing under the pedestrian archway of the Augustus gate. For the first time in his life, he wished he were going shopping.
14
The buildings were grander than anything she had seen before, but the streets smelled just as powerfully as every other town of fish sauce and fresh bread, frying, warm dung, sweaty bodies and brash perfume.
‘Come on, Tilla, or whatever your name is,’ urged Marcia over the clatter of a passing hand-cart. ‘We’ve got something to show you.’
The something was a temple, its stone pillars still new enough to glare white in the sun. Marcia pointed upwards. ‘See those marks?’
Tilla shaded her eyes and squinted at the roof that projected out over the high base of the building. ‘What marks?’
‘Those gold marks are called writing,’ explained Marcia. ‘I don’t suppose you have much of that where you come from.’
‘We do not need it,’ said Tilla, who had heard enough inscriptions read aloud to know that they were usually full of lies and showing-off. ‘My people have good memories.’
‘You’re not just staying with any old family, you know,’ Marcia continued, undaunted. ‘That says, “This temple was built by Publius Petreius Largus” – that’s our father. It was hideously expensive. So everyone can see how generous we are.’
‘This,’ murmured Flora in Tilla’s left ear, ‘makes it all the more embarrassing that Gaius won’t give us a dowry.’
‘What’s that about dowries?’
‘Sh!’ hissed Flora, glancing around. ‘We don’t want everyone to know.’
‘As if they don’t already,’ retorted Marcia. ‘And Gaius isn’t even embarrassed about it, is he?’
Tilla said, ‘Your brother is a good man who is doing his best.’
Marcia sniffed. ‘Is that what he told you? I bet he’s bought himself a nice house in Britannia.’
Tilla opened her mouth to say, ‘No, just a rented room,’ then thought better of it. Discussion of where the Medicus lived might lead on to questions about herself, and she was not going to tell them that back at home she was his housekeeper.
‘Huh!’ said Marcia, taking her silence for assent. ‘I knew it!’ She grabbed Flora by the arm. ‘Come on. I want to see if those earrings are still there.’
‘Mother said we’d got to give her the tour.’
‘Oh, never mind about that.’ Marcia turned to Tilla. ‘You don’t want to see a whole lot of boring old buildings, do you?’
‘No,’ said Tilla, who did not want to see a whole lot of boring old shops, either.
‘See?’ demanded Marcia of her sister. ‘She won’t know the difference anyway. They live in mud huts over there, you know. With straw on the roof.’
Tilla wondered if the girl’s rudeness had something to do with the heat inside her unnecessary layers of clothing. ‘Are we going to look for earrings?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Marcia’s smile was surprisingly childlike. ‘The most beautiful earrings you’ve ever seen!’
They had hardly gone ten paces when there was a yell from further down the street. An announcer had stationed himself at a crossroads and was shouting something about games being given to the people by the generous benefactor the magistrate Gabinius Fuscus. After more nonsense about how wonderful this Fuscus was, the man unrolled a scroll and read out a list of attractions that could be seen at the amphitheatre in five days’ time.
Several passers-by paused to listen: most carried on about
their business while the man announced the promised horrors as if he were personally proud of them.
‘And you think you are better than me!’ Tilla murmured, ashamed that she did not dare to say it loud enough to get herself into trouble. She wanted to do as she had always done back in Deva: to cover her ears and walk away. She did not want to hear what this Fuscus – one of the Medicus’ people – was planning to inflict on men and animals in the name of entertainment. But what difference would it make? One foreigner’s disgust would change nothing, and sympathy for the victims would not alter their fate.
It was Marcia who caused the commotion. It was Marcia who screamed, ‘No!’ and flung herself at the announcer, trying to grab the scroll and shouting, ‘It’s not true! Show me where it says that! You’re making it up!’
The announcer backed away and made feeble attempts to beat her off with the scroll, clearly worried about doing too much damage to a well-dressed young lady. Finally Flora and Tilla hauled her back, Tilla seizing one end of the green stole and wrapping it across Marcia’s face so she was left floundering in the middle of the street as the announcer retreated and Flora shouted, ‘Just leave her to us! She’s mad!’ to the surprised onlookers.
‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ hissed Flora as they hustled her sister around the corner and thrust her into the shade of a doorway.
Tilla released the stole, and Marcia snatched it away from her face. ‘Sharp weapons!’ she cried. ‘He said they were using sharp weapons!’
‘Oh, of course they won’t!’ Flora reassured her. ‘It’s fixed. Gladiator fights are always fixed. Everybody knows that.’
‘They are not fixed!’ retorted Marcia. ‘The best fighters win. On merit.’
‘Then he’ll be all right, won’t he?’
‘You don’t understand!’
‘Tertius will be all right,’ insisted Flora. ‘He’ll make lots of money and buy himself out. Come and look at the earrings.’
‘This is all Gaius’ fault! If he had arranged the dowries, none of this would be happening.’
‘You can’t do anything about that,’ pointed out Flora while Tilla wondered what dowries had to do with gladiators, and indeed what Marcia had to do with this particular gladiator called Tertius.
‘We might as well go and look at earrings now we’re here,’ urged Flora.
Marcia’s lips pursed as if she was considering what to do. Finally she said, ‘All right. But I shan’t enjoy it now.’
15
Lucius had pointed out the previous night that the bath-boy was willing to cut hair, but the sight of Lucius’ hair was not encouraging. They were in so much debt now that a couple of coins for a professional job would make little difference. No doubt Arria would see it as an investment.
There was no mirror at the barber’s, but Ruso’s chin was smooth and his head refreshingly cool as he made his way through the narrow streets. There were competing election slogans amongst the usual announcements and nonsense daubed on the walls of the houses, including one unlikely claim that ‘all the town prostitutes say vote for Gabinius Fuscus!’ Underneath in larger letters was the assertion that all the followers of Christos were in support of one of his rivals. The prostitutes would have no vote, and unless the followers of Christos had enjoyed a sudden surge of popularity while he was away, their endorsement was unlikely to be welcome. Presumably each candidate was attempting to smear the other with these bizarre claims of support. Ruso was not sorry his father had never stood for election.
When he reached the house of the man supposedly favoured by all the town prostitutes, Ruso found that Fuscus had discovered a new way of showing off. He had set up benches outside his house for his many clients to gather upon in full view of the street as they assembled to greet him each morning. Already it was standing room only, and the official exhortations to Vote for Gabinius Fuscus! painted in red lettering were half obscured by the hangers-on who were now blocking the pavement. If the importance of a man could be judged by the number of people who turned up at his house every morning to pay their respects – or perhaps their debts – then Fuscus was a very important man indeed.
He was certainly more important now than the previous owner of the house, a political rival who had decided to challenge Fuscus over some alleged electoral corruption. Halfway through the case, the man had been mysteriously murdered by a robber in a back alley. Within months, Fuscus had bought the house at a knock-down price from his widow. No wonder so many people took the view that it was better to be in the Gabinii camp than outside it.
Ruso approached the slave who was standing in the doorway with his arms folded and a large wooden club dangling at his side. The mention of his name left the slave’s face as blank as before.
‘It’s about an urgent legal case,’ explained Ruso, not wanting to explain in front of an audience.
The slave’s expression said that it was not urgent to him, and he was the one with the club.
Ruso moved closer and added in a tone that could only just be overheard, ‘Involving the household of the Senator,’ he said, ‘and bankruptcy.’ He sensed movement on either side of him, as if the occupants of the benches had sat up to listen.
If they had hoped to hear something scandalous about the Senator, they were disappointed. The doorman stepped smartly aside, said, ‘Go through, sir,’ and Ruso found himself promoted to a better class of waiting area. The atrium pool glistened in the sunlight, and the clients loitering in the shade of the roof that overhung on all four sides were obviously richer than those left to bake out in the street. Ruso wondered if Arria had been right: he would have made more of an impression in a toga. On the other hand a toga would look ridiculous with Army boots, and the lone attempt to manage a swathe of heavy wool and a walking stick together might have ended in disaster. The few togas in evidence were so carefully arranged that it was obvious their wearers had brought slaves with them to repair any disruption caused by movement.
After the first hour Ruso concluded that they would have done well to bring a picnic, too. And a few comfortable chairs. And maybe a dose of something to keep themselves calm while men who had arrived later were admitted first. As the courtyard gradually emptied around him, the occasional reassurances of the steward that ‘the master knows you’re here, sir’ only served to reinforce Ruso’s suspicion that Fuscus was deliberately keeping him waiting.
When the summons finally came, Fuscus’ smile was as wide as his arms, and as enticing as a crocodile’s.
‘Ruso! The image of your father!’
Ruso, noting with relief that the great man was not wearing a toga either, found himself squashed against a vast belly while its owner slapped him on the back as if he was a long-lost friend.
‘Publius would be proud,’ said Fuscus, releasing the pressure and holding him at arm’s length. ‘Look at you! Now I’ve got rid of the others, we can talk.’ He snapped his fingers, and a clerk approached. ‘Put Petreius Ruso on the list for veterans’ seats.’ The clerk bowed and retreated backwards into his corner. Fuscus returned his attention to Ruso. ‘I’m giving a day of games. You’ll enjoy it. My personal choice of gladiators and the best animal display the town’s ever seen.’ Fuscus waved one hand towards another slave. ‘Boy! A stool for our wounded hero. Sit down and rest the leg, Ruso.’
‘I’m not really a –’
‘So. What are you doing these days?’
‘Extended leave,’ said Ruso, settling himself on the proffered stool and wondering how soon he could introduce the bankruptcy case that Fuscus seemed to have forgotten about. ‘I’m hoping to take on a few patients while I’m home.’
‘Of course, dear boy. Of course. Be glad to recommend you. People are always looking for doctors. Most of them to cure what the last one did, eh?’
Ruso forced a polite smile and said, ‘Fuscus, my brother tells me –’
‘While you’re home, I want you to talk to my eldest. Boys these days! No idea. Soft as butter.’ Fuscus reached for a g
rape and popped it into his mouth before offering the bowl to Ruso. ‘I hire the best trainers,’ he said, pausing to spit out the pips, ‘and I’m putting on the games, but … boys today would rather lie around playing dice and sniggering over smutty poetry. They’ve seen too many cheap displays in the arena. Blunt weapons. No real danger. What are they going to learn from that? What we need is a few more men like you. Battle-hardened.’ He waved another grape towards Ruso’s leg. ‘Hurts, does it?’
‘Not now,’ said Ruso, catching himself about to call Fuscus ‘my lord’, then remembering he was just an old and more successful friend of his father. ‘And I’m not really a hero. There are plenty of men who –’
Fuscus held out a hand to silence him. ‘Forget the modesty. It’s no good being self-effacing these days. Boy? Fan!’
A third slave stepped forward from the shadows and began to wave a feathered fan above the great man’s head. Ruso hoped the remaining figure in the background, a hefty man wearing a scowl and a large knife, would not be the next to be called into action.
‘Left a bit,’ commanded Fuscus, and as the slave obediently moved the fan into position he leaned across the desk as if he were about to share a confidence with Ruso. ‘I’m told our lads took a mauling from the natives over there.’
‘There were losses,’ agreed Ruso, carefully vague. ‘But order’s pretty much restored now. Fuscus, Lucius says –’
‘Restored, thanks to men like you.’ Fuscus gestured towards the doors. ‘People out there,’ he said. ‘No idea what they owe to the Army.’
‘True,’ said Ruso, wondering how much idea Fuscus had himself. Men whom Ruso admired had been cut down and died in agony. Hundreds of others had survived only to face an uncertain and painful future, mutilated in mind and body. None of them would make it here to receive the honour that they deserved and he didn’t. ‘There were plenty of heroes,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t one of them. Medics don’t usually fight in the front line.’