by Ruso
‘You couldn’t marry her if you were carried out of the amphitheatre on a funeral bier, either,’ pointed out Ruso and then regretted it when he saw the look on Tertius’ face.
‘I was a bit drunk at the time, sir.’
‘Ah.’
‘There were three of us.’
Evidently it was true: young men were getting stupider. ‘What happened to the other two?’
‘When they sobered up they sent for their fathers to buy them out.’
‘Leaving you stuck here for three years.’
‘Only two and a half now. I’ve been training ever since.’
‘So this will be your first real fight.’
Tertius nodded. ‘I’m good. Ask anybody. I’m only a Retiarius now, but everybody says I’m Samnite material. I’m fast and I reckon I can entertain the crowd.’
‘I see.’ If Tertius was going into the arena armed only with a net and a trident, he would certainly have to be fast.
‘I thought if I was good, the trainer wouldn’t want to lose me.’ He paused. ‘To be honest, I always thought the fights were fixed.’
Ruso wondered what Tertius could possibly have imagined would be going through the head of any designated loser in a ‘fixed’ fight. Perhaps he had expected to be pitted against a lesser – and less valuable – man. And to be fair, many of the professional bouts in the local amphitheatre ended in battered defeat rather than death. Until someone like Fuscus came along with too much money and demanded more excitement.
Ruso looked at the cracked forehead and the chewed fingernails. ‘You’re not a marvellous prospect for my sister,’ he observed.
Tertius squared his shoulders. ‘I’m not a coward, sir. I’m a hard worker. You ask anybody here.’
‘But you’re a gladiator.’
‘I love her, sir!’ said Tertius, as if this made some sort of difference. ‘I love your sister. And she loves me.’ He had been standing with his hands behind his back and his feet apart. Suddenly he stood to attention. ‘Sir, I would like to request permission to marry Marcia Petreia.’
It was like being back in the Army. Except that none of the things for which he had been asked permission in the Army had ever involved his sister. Ruso sighed. ‘Stand easy, Tertius. You can’t marry anybody while you’re under contract to a gladiator trainer.’
‘That’s why she was trying to buy me out, sir.’
Clearly Marcia and this youth were well suited: each as dimwitted as the other.
Ruso got to his feet. ‘It would have been better if she’d told me the truth in the first place.’
‘I’m sorry about that, sir. When I see her I’ll have a word with her.’
It was so cheeky that, had the circumstances been less grave, Ruso would have smiled. As it was, he said, ‘I don’t know how much news you get in here, Tertius, but I’m hardly in a position to help you at the moment.’
‘You’re free, sir. And nobody else is going to.’
Ruso observed that his sister’s beloved might not be very bright but he was certainly persistent. ‘I’m not going to promise anything to do with Marcia Petreia,’ he said. ‘And you shouldn’t expect anything from me. But if circumstances change, and I find I’m able to help you, then I’ll see what I can do.’
Ruso watched the spring in the youth’s step as he made his way back across to the barracks, and wondered if that last vague promise made him almost as much of a fool as Tertius himself.
Gnostus had given him the key to the medical room before heading off to join his apprentices for lunch and told him to lock the door on the way out. Apparently all doors were kept locked here, and sharp weapons stored out of reach. Movement around the compound was carefully controlled by the staff and a favoured few amongst the top fighters. Gladiators might be heroes, but most of them were also slaves. The veteran with the whip was there both to keep the public out and the occupants in.
Thus it was with some surprise that Ruso, turning to make his way across to the mess and return Gnostus’ key, found himself face to face with his former father-in-law.
Probus’ demand of ‘What are you doing here?’ was an unwelcome echo of their last meeting.
‘Looking for a job. You?’
‘Business.’
‘You’re investing in gladiators?’
Probus scowled. ‘Of course not. Here on behalf of Fuscus. You don’t think he deals with these people himself, do you?’
Ruso, who had never really thought about the business side of public entertainment, said, ‘I thought he was supposed to have hand-picked the fighters.’
‘Then he fixed a price with the trainer, and left the rest up to me.’
Ruso hoped ‘the rest’ did not include the sanctioning of job offers to medical assistants. ‘How’s Claudia?’
‘None of your business.’ Probus moved closer and lowered his voice. ‘You had no right to ask her to look into Severus’ commercial dealings.’
‘I thought you might know who else he’d upset.’
‘Do you have the least idea what releasing private information to someone like you would do for my reputation?’
‘Speaking of reputation,’ said Ruso, ‘you could have told me Marcia was looking for a loan before I heard it as gossip.’
‘That’s exactly my point,’ snapped Probus. ‘Client confidentiality.’
‘She wasn’t a client. You refused her. Quite rightly.’
Probus eyed him for a moment. ‘You were a deep disappointment to me, Ruso. So much ability, yet so little …’ he paused, searching for a word. Finally he settled on ‘judgement’.
‘I didn’t poison your son-in-law.’
‘What you’ve never understood is that, for a man to succeed in life, it matters what people think of him. A lost reputation is impossible to recover. In my line of business, I have to be seen as utterly trustworthy.’
‘Mine too. What if this poisoner goes for Claudia next?’
‘Are you threatening my daughter now?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. And stop telling Fuscus I did it, will you?’
When Probus did not answer, he continued, ‘Someone knows the truth. Help me find out.’
‘There will be a proper investigation. We’re waiting for instructions from Rome.’
‘I’m not.’
Probus took a step closer. ‘You have no idea what you’re doing, Ruso. Are you trying to drag me down with you? And Claudia too? Because I won’t let that happen.’
‘Tell me something, Probus. When a man lends the money for a shipping venture, who carries the risk? The one who borrows it and arranges the voyage, or the lender?’
‘A shipping loan?’ The voice was incredulous. ‘We are discussing my daughter’s safety!’
‘Humour me.’
‘The lender, of course. High risk, high return.’
‘That’s why you sent Justinus on the ship.’ Ruso moved closer and murmured, ‘Severus lost you a lot of money, didn’t he?’
‘You know nothing about my affairs.’
‘If someone tells the investigator from Rome that Severus sank a lot of your money on the Pride of the South, you might be a very plausible suspect.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘You know how it is. Whoever gets picked as the culprit will have all his private business pegged out for inspection in the Forum while the lawyers argue over his moral character.’
A couple of thick-set men dressed only in grimy loincloths strolled across the courtyard and began to sort through the pile of nets, one of them displaying a lattice of scars across his back as he bent over. Others were beginning to emerge from the barrack-room. Shrieks of ‘Xantus!’ rose over a chant of ‘Am-pli-a-tus, Am-pli-a-tus!’ and hammering on the gates. Probus stepped aside in disgust as something that looked distinctly like female underwear landed in the dust near his feet. He glanced around to make sure he could not be overheard before murmuring, ‘I thought better of you than this, Ruso.’
‘We’re caught in the
same net,’ said Ruso. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by fighting each other. Help me.’
‘If you try to take me down – or Claudia – I’ll ruin you. You think I don’t know you’re still in far more debt than the farm is worth?’
‘So. We share what we know and we help each other.’
Probus appeared to be considering his options, and not liking any of them. Finally he said, ‘I have to get ready for the funeral. I can give you some time tomorrow morning. Come alone and don’t tell anyone. You’ve caused enough trouble already.’
‘I’ll be there,’ promised Ruso. Watching his former father-in-law cross the courtyard and enter a shadowed door in the corner, it struck him that, if Probus was involved in the murder after all, a lone and secret visit to his house was definitely not a good idea. But the banker was also taking a risk in associating with him. They could circle round each other, deciding whether to land the first blow, like the pair of fighters now donning their glittering armour in the afternoon sun, or they could try and behave like partners with a common interest in seeking the truth.
In the meantime, he was off to visit some men who claimed they weren’t poisoners either. There seemed to be a lot of it about.
40
‘You again,’ observed the dark young man, pausing as he loaded the stack of snake boxes into the hand-cart. ‘Make it quick. We’re going.’
Ruso said, ‘Valgius?’
The man nestled the boxes into the straw and checked the fastening on the top lid before turning and fixing unblinking snake-eyes on Ruso. ‘I might be able to find him.’
‘Gnostus still doesn’t want to buy that snake.’
‘You’re from Gnostus?’ The furrows in the hard face spread around an unexpected grin. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’
‘He said you might be able to help me with something.’
The young man glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. ‘Your poisoning?’
Ruso nodded.
‘My father said it sounded a bit like rhododendron honey.’
Ruso stared at him, vaguely recalling theoretical warnings about honey from bees that had fed on the wrong plants. He had never met it in practice.
‘How fast does it act?’
‘Depends how much you take. It tastes fine, so you could eat a fair bit and not know.’
‘I thought you could tell bad honey from the colour?’
‘Nah,’ said Valgius. ‘Not really.’
‘You mean it could have been an accident?’ An accident! Of course. It made perfect sense. The killers were the bees whose honey had been used to make Severus’ morning medicine. The investigators could simply trace the source of the rogue honey, and record the whole episode as a tragic accident. The lifting of a burden to which he had become so accustomed made Ruso feel positively light-headed. He had solved the mystery! He was free!
He was free for the fractional moment that passed between his question and Valgius replying, ‘Nah. Must have been done on purpose.’
‘But if you can’t tell …’
Valgius was shaking his head. ‘Ask yourself this,’ he said. ‘How many bees are there between Gaul, at one end of the sea, and Pontus, right up past the other? You wouldn’t end up with rhododendron honey here by accident. Mind you, I’ve not heard of anyone dying from it, but I suppose if you ate a lot …’
‘If a man with a weak heart,’ mused Ruso, ‘were to drink a large quantity of poisonous honey and rosewater on a hot day …’
‘It’s possible.’
‘So how would you get hold of the honey in a place like this?’
‘Ah,’ said Valgius, turning back to the cart. ‘That’s your problem. Me, I’ve got to get all the boys and girls loaded up before the old man gets back.’
Ruso peered at the boxes, curious. ‘Can you really tell the boys from the girls?’
‘You can sometimes get an idea from the tail,’ said the man. ‘But if you want to be sure you need two people, a blunt probe, and –’
‘Never mind,’ said Ruso, backing away with a hand held out in surrender. ‘Another time.’
The man who had failed to sell Ruso the frankincense gave up pretending to be pleased to see him again when he found out why he had come. ‘I don’t know who’s been telling you that rubbish,’ he insisted. ‘I’m only a simple root-cutter. Remedies and cosmetics. I don’t sell food.’
‘That’s funny,’ said Ruso. ‘Because three of the people I’ve spoken to around here told me you were the man to ask.’
‘That lot?’ demanded the root-cutter, glancing round the other stallholders, who were beginning to pack up at the end of the afternoon’s trading. ‘What do they know? Like I tell them, if you want to sell as much as me, make the effort to invest in quality product. Walk the hills, find the best places, get out of bed before dawn every morning and get cracking. But oh, no. It’s easier to sit on your backside and gossip about other people.’
Ruso said, ‘I’m disappointed. I’d have thought with your range, exotic honeys would have been a good complement.’
The man upended the wooden tray on which he had displayed his produce and banged it to detach the mud and stray leaves. ‘Sorry.’
‘Pity,’ said Ruso. ‘It would have been fun. Ah well. I suppose it’ll be the old laxatives-in-the-soup routine, then. Unless you know anybody else I could try?’
The man wiped the rest of the dirt from the tray and said, ‘What is it you’re looking for, exactly?’
Ruso told him.
‘You don’t want to eat rhododendron honey. Send you silly.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ruso. ‘It’s my brother’s birthday coming up. We always play jokes on each other.’ He indicated his bandaged foot. ‘Look what he did to me.’
‘Funny kind of a joke.’
‘Family tradition,’ explained Ruso. ‘Point of honour.’
The man looked as though he had more to say, but had stifled it in the face of a prospective sale. ‘You’d have to order it at least ten days in advance,’ he said. ‘There’s not much call for it.’
Ruso muttered a curse in what he hoped was a disappointed tone, and explained that the birthday was the day after tomorrow. The root-cutter shrugged an apology and groped under the stall for an empty basket. He began to stack the unsold medicine pots in it.
‘What about your supplier?’ Ruso tried. ‘Could I go direct?’
The man carried on working, clearly not such a fool as to reveal the name of his source and sacrifice his profit. ‘Too much could make him ill anyway,’ he warned. ‘You’d be safer with the laxatives.’
Ruso wondered how much longer he could keep this up. Claudia’s voice floated into his mind, reminding him that he was a terrible liar. He was probably wasting his time. He should have gone back to ask Gnostus about local suppliers of dubious substances. Still, while he was here he might as well finish the job.
‘What about your last customer for it?’ he tried. ‘When did you last sell any? Would he have some left?’
‘She,’ corrected the man.
Ruso felt his stomach muscles tighten. Trying to keep his voice even, he said, ‘If I could find her, I’d make her a good offer.’
‘I didn’t ask her name.’
‘What does she look like? Perhaps she’s somebody I already know.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t pass on my customers’ business. Now clear off. I’m an honest trader and I’m busy.’
The man bent down to heave up another basket. The knife-point pressed against his left kidney took him by surprise.
‘I was lying,’ said Ruso, ramming the tip of his forefinger harder into the man’s back and hoping he could not turn his head far enough to see the knife Ruso hadn’t had time to get out still slung on his belt. ‘It’s not my brother’s birthday. It’s about a murder investigation. And if you don’t tell me who bought that honey, you’re going to have much nastier people than me round here trying to help you remember.’
Ruso�
��s hands were shaking as he untethered the mule. It could not be true. It could not be …
The man had no reason to lie.
He had sold the poisonous honey several days ago to a respectable young woman who had known exactly what she wanted. A young woman with orange curls and lots of make-up. No, he couldn’t remember what she had been wearing, but he remembered what she had on her feet because she had trodden in something and blamed him for not keeping the pavement clean. So he had lent her a cloth to wipe the mess off her fancy sandals. Coral-pink sandals with pearls set in the front.
41
Severus’ funeral passed with neither incident nor enlightenment, and if anyone thought he was being disposed of with indecent haste, they did not say so in Ruso’s hearing. All the members of the Petreius family who were old enough to behave themselves had been marshalled at the little cemetery on the hill behind the Senator’s house. Marcia and Flora looked suitably drab and dishevelled and inappropriately cheerful. A funeral meant another day away from the privilege of studying music and poetry.
Ennia spent most of the funeral weeping on the sloping shoulder of Zosimus the steward, breaking off only occasionally to glare at Claudia. Fuscus, as a respectable magistrate, stood well away from Probus, the financier, in the ranks of solemn-faced local worthies come to pay their last respects to the agent of My Cousin The Senator. Several drivers dozed by expensive carriages, ready to facilitate a quick escape for their masters when the funeral feast – to which the Petreius family had not been invited – was over.
The grief and fear on the faces of the estate staff was all too real. Ruso counted at least thirty of them, and there would be others back at the house busily cleansing and purifying.
As the burning wood crackled and the column of smoke rose into the clear sky the smell of incense failed to disguise the stench of burning flesh.
Ruso glanced around the mourners. Everyone he knew who might possibly have a motive for poisoning Severus was here. If he were the Senator’s investigator, which one would he decide to accuse?
The answer was obvious. The only certain way to save himself would be to reveal that Claudia had bought the honey. And if he did that, Probus would bring the fragile edifice of the family debts crashing down around him. He would survive as the powerless guardian of a family with nowhere to live. Tilla would have to choose whether to stay here and share his disgrace, or travel home alone.