by Ruso
When the vehicle was finally out of sight beyond the vineyards, he shut the gate and walked back across the garden. In his hand was a list of detailed reminders that Lucius had left for the farm slaves to stop them ruining everything in his absence, despite the fact that most of them had been working this land all their lives. Ruso hoped they knew what they were doing. Instructions like ‘Day 2, jars 3 to 8, add brine’ were meaningless unless the men knew what quantities were involved, and there was now nobody left to ask. Apart from the staff, the only other adults here to consult were Arria and Marcia.
The gods alone knew what the investigators must be making of what they had found here today. A resentful farmer with marital problems, a medic with massive debts and some knowledge of poisons, a stepmother who had her staff clean up the site of a murder, and a cook who washed up the evidence. The only faintly good news from today was that, so far, they did not seem to have found out that Severus had been instrumental in the death of Cass’s brother. He supposed it was only a matter of time, though, before they worked it out and added her to their list of possible suspects. Once they had put all that lot together they would probably be able to convince themselves that the barbarian who had fled the scene with her had something to do with it as well.
He would make a final check on the injured horse before taking himself to the baths to prepare for the dreaded dinner.
‘Galla!’
At the sound of Ruso’s voice across the garden, the slave’s body jolted as if she had been speared.
‘I’d like a word. In the study.’
Behind the closed door of the study he demanded to know exactly who this Solemnis the carter was and how Tilla had met him. ‘You may as well tell me,’ he insisted. ‘Lying will only get you into worse trouble.’
‘I would not lie to you, my lord.’
‘So. Who is he?’
Galla took a deep breath and gabbled, ‘He is a follower of Christos, my lord.’
‘I know that. Where did Tilla meet him?’
‘At the meeting, my lord.’ The pitch of Galla’s replies was rising with her terror.
‘What meeting?’
‘Of the Christians, my lord.’
‘What’s Tilla been doing meeting with Christians? Where?’
Galla lifted a hand and pointed towards the window. ‘Next door.’
‘And this was the so-called family you took her to visit last night?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I see.’
She stood motionless, staring at her feet.
‘How far has this superstitious nonsense spread? What about the rest of the staff?’
‘There is only me, my lord.’ He could barely catch her words. ‘I have not been very brave at sharing the good news.’
‘But you have been sharing it with Tilla.’
Galla lifted her chin. ‘She is alone in a foreign country, my lord. I – it is a comfort to her.’
‘Alone in a foreign country.’ Ruso felt his fists clench. ‘She was vulnerable! You had no right to prey on her like that. These Christos people are …’ He broke off. ‘The business about orgies and sacrificing babies isn’t true, is it?’
‘They are kind to each other, my lord. They share what they have and feed the poor. They nurse the sick and wait for Christos to return.’
‘And while they’re waiting, they break up marriages and run off with young women who don’t know any better.’
Galla’s eyes drifted shut and her lips moved as if she was muttering to herself.
‘You’d better not be praying to your god in here.’
The eyes opened again.
‘You know the sort of good news I want?’ demanded Ruso. ‘I want to hear that the people I’m responsible for are safely back home. And then I want to hear about a religion that doesn’t cost a fortune, doesn’t take up too much time and expects its followers to do what they’re bloody well told.’
Galla swallowed. ‘My lord, in one of the letters from the saints it says –’
‘I don’t want to know,’ he said, ‘and if you want to remain part of this household, neither should you.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t got any religious stuff around the house, have you?’
When she did not reply he repeated the question. After another silence he lowered his head into his hands. ‘Get rid of it, whatever it is. No, on second thoughts – bring it to me and I’ll get rid of it. I never thought I’d have to say this, Galla, but I don’t trust you.’
57
Ruso did not normally waylay his dinner guests before they arrived, but he needed a private word with Lollia Saturnina. So private that she asked the slave who was carrying her indoor shoes to walk twenty paces behind them through the olive grove.
‘We’ve had a slight problem at home,’ he said, noting with approval the simple elegance of her dress and the absence of flashy jewellery.
She said, ‘Severus, or another one?’
‘Another one,’ Ruso confessed. ‘In the course of sorting it out, I’ve been warned that you have an infestation of Christians.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘A couple of our people went to a meeting on your property two nights ago.’
‘A meeting?’
Ruso hoped the feeling of light-headedness was the result of rushing to intercept Lollia after hasty bathing on a very empty stomach, and not something to do with the contents of the water bottle. He said, ‘Apparently they came across some chap there, and he’s enticed them away with him.’
‘Are you quite sure? We haven’t got anybody missing.’
‘We’ve lost two,’ said Ruso. ‘Four now, because Lucius has taken our stable lad and gone to look for them.’
‘I’ll have a word with the staff,’ she promised. ‘I’ve never heard of Christians stealing people before. Aren’t they supposed to look after one another and feed the poor?’
‘I don’t mind them feeding the poor,’ said Ruso, annoyed that she was failing to see the point. ‘Even if it does encourage scrounging. And I don’t mind what rubbish they believe. I can even put up with them being a secret society and thinking their god is better than everybody else’s. But they can’t go running off with other people’s …’ He paused. ‘With other people’s people.’
‘No, that’s quite unacceptable,’ agreed Lollia.
‘They’ve been hiding things in the house here as well. You might want to have a look around your own place in case there’s another crack-down.’
‘I will.’ Lollia paused to inspect the olives forming amongst the slender leaves. ‘I’ve never understood why people make a fuss about the Christians,’ she said. ‘Surely nobody really believes they burned down Rome?’
Ruso shrugged. ‘Who knows? If they steal people’s … people, who knows what they’ll do next?’
58
Brother Solemnis’ mules clopped over the long wooden bridge into Arelate as if they had not noticed that it was only held up by a row of boats moored to two posts. His passengers were wide-eyed: Cass staring at the gleaming expanse of river flowing beneath them, and Tilla wondering what would happen if the mooring-ropes broke.
‘Everything’s bigger than I thought,’ whispered Cass. ‘We should never have come.’
Tilla, who was feeling the same way, was not going to admit it. ‘If we had never come,’ she said, ‘we would not know about the beautiful wide river and the strange bridge that will still live in our minds when we are old and grey and our teeth fall out.’
As she spoke the cart lurched over a bump, and she grabbed at the side to steady herself.
Relieved to be safely across, she shook the dust of the journey off her borrowed straw hat, scowled at the sight of yet another amphitheatre rising above the red roofs of the town and observed, ‘My friend and I need beds for the night.’
She saw a blush spread up the back of Brother Solemnis’ neck. He only just halted the mules in time to avoid ploughing into four slaves carrying a litter out of a side street. Sh
e tried again. ‘Brother, we need beds.’
Brother Solemnis seemed to be having trouble speaking. Finally he blurted, ‘But what will Mother say?’
Cass leaned forward and explained gently, ‘My friend is hoping you can recommend an inn where we will be safe.’
The blush grew deeper. Finally the lad managed to stammer out a name. ‘Run by a woman,’ he added, as if this might make it safe for them, although not for a defenceless young man. As if to make sure he was rid of them, he said, ‘I’ll take you.’
The woman at the Silver Star Inn seemed delighted to welcome them. She was probably bored with only a sleeping cat and cobwebs for company.
Tilla had long since discovered that the price and quality varied in a place like this, but the basic offering did not. During the journey through Gaul, she had once sighed over yet another insipid cup of watered wine and asked whether there wasn’t something else. The owner, who seemed pleased to be asked, took so long to list the wonders of all the other wines on offer that she wished she had kept quiet. Even the water had to be praised. It was from his own spring, fit for the gods themselves, with the very taste of ambrosia. Realizing he had not understood the question, she had asked if there might be beer, or mead? How about sweetened milk?
The bartender had looked at her as if she had just insulted his children, and said, ‘This is Gallia Narbonensis, madam. We are not in the north now.’
This rejection of beer seemed a peculiar form of obstinacy, especially now that Tilla had found out how wine was produced. But even Cass, to whom she had confided her quiet longing for a long draught of barley beer, had reacted as though her boredom with the subtle and complicated tastes of Gaul were something about which she would do well to keep quiet. So when the usual watery offering turned up in cups that were none too clean, Tilla accepted it with a smile. Then she admired the cat, kicked Cass to stop her staring apprehensively at the cobwebs and began to ask questions.
The innkeeper was very sorry to hear of the loss of the lady’s brother.
‘We are looking for anyone else whose man died on the Pride of the South, so my friend can grieve with them. She is thinking of raising a monument to him by the river.’
Cass’s face betrayed surprise. Tilla, who had only just invented the monument, was rather proud of it.
‘My brother was an honourable steward of a wealthy man,’ explained Cass.
‘His master wants to help pay for the monument,’ said Tilla, voicing the lie that Cass had only implied. ‘But we want an inscription. A very long one, in big gold letters. We want to find out the date of his death, and where his body might lie.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I wish you luck,’ she said, ‘but there is a great deal of sea beyond the end of the river, and one ship is very small.’
Later, when Cass had slipped out to use the latrine and probably inspect the kitchen for cleanliness, the woman leaned closer to Tilla and whispered, ‘Is she gone?’
Suddenly realizing why the woman was oblivious to the state of her surroundings, Tilla said, ‘Do you want to tell us something else?’
‘It is none of my business.’
‘I will not be angry,’ promised Tilla
‘The brother’s master,’ whispered the woman. ‘Do not commit yourself to paying a lot for that monument on his behalf.’
Tilla frowned. ‘You know him?’
‘I know his type,’ insisted the woman. ‘If he sent that poor man to sea in an old bucket like the Pride, then he did not care much about him. And if he has money, he is not prepared to spend it.’
Tilla put a hand on the woman’s arm. ‘What else do you know about this ship?’
‘It is a very unlucky ship.’
‘We know this.’
‘They say the dealer who bought it sailed on it and drowned with all the crew.’
Tilla fingered the chipped edge of her cup and wondered if this was going to be a wasted trip. ‘Perhaps there is nobody left to tell us anything.’
‘There is someone who might know,’ continued the woman, ‘if you aren’t too fussy. Go to Phoebe’s bar in the Street of the Ropemakers.’
Tilla repeated the name. ‘Who shall we say sent us?’
The woman sniffed. ‘If you say it was me, she will tell you nothing. Nobody speaks to Phoebe since she cannot keep her hands off other people’s husbands.’
59
Surveying the lamplit debris of the dinner party, Ruso could not remember when he had endured a longer evening. Or a more embarrassing one.
Had he not seen it, he would never have believed that the Arria of the pinned curls and the tastefully displayed cleavage could have been created from the woman who had clung helplessly to him out on the porch not two hours before. Even her voice had changed. The tremor of anxiety had been pushed aside by a new confidence. This was Arria’s dinner party, the dancing cupids were on display, and she was not going to let a little thing like a poisoning ruin it.
Even the cook had somehow managed to recover from the invasion of the investigators, and the food was not noticeably worse than usual.
Those, together with Lollia’s company, had been the best aspects of the evening. As for the worst – there were plenty to choose from.
There had been Arria’s cry of ‘How lovely of you to come! Gaius, you remember Diphilus, our nice builder? Diphilus, Gaius says we can’t have the outdoor dining room!’
There had been Arria’s vaunted pride in his achievements over in Britannia, and the apprehension of Lollia’s ‘Are you going to tell us all about them?’
There had been the awful sense of doom as Marcia offered ‘We can tell you something much more interesting!’ followed by a glare from Arria and an unabashed ‘A man’s been poisoned right here in our house!’ and then Flora’s ‘But it’s all right, it wasn’t us.’
There was Arria’s simpering smile when Diphilus said, ‘It must have been a shock for all of you young ladies,’ and Marcia replied, ‘Not as much of a shock as having strange men investigating our underwear this afternoon.’
Diphilus had downed his wine in one gulp and held up his glass for the laundrymaid (promoted to wine steward for the evening) to refill it.
Arria asked Lollia Saturnina to tell them all about amphora production. Lollia had just said that she was afraid everyone would find it very boring when Flora
finished draining the sauce from the lettuce leaf into her mouth and said, ‘Everything’s gone downhill since Gaius came home.’
Ruso was wondering how much wine she had consumed when Marcia stepped in with ‘It’s not Gaius’ fault, it’s that Tilla he brought with him. She’s turned us all into barbarians. Now she’s stolen Cass.’
‘And our other brother has gone mad and run off after them,’ put in Flora.
Arria told them it was not nice to talk about family business at dinner, and Lollia attempted to come to the rescue with ‘I’d like to have met this Tilla. Is she someone you know from Britannia, Ruso?’
He said, ‘Yes.’
‘But now she’s gone,’ said Arria, as if that were the last word to be said on the subject.
For a moment nothing could be heard but the scrape of spoons on bowls. The cupids cavorted silently across the walls while Ruso thought wistfully of Tilla’s attempts at cookery in the little room with the flowers on the windowsill.
Moments later he became aware of a strange feeling in his stomach: perhaps caused by the contents of Severus’ water bottle, or perhaps by the appearance of a bowl of reheated goats’ testicles on the table in front of him. It occurred to him that there was a certain irony about being accidentally poisoned by one’s own ex-wife. When he returned his attention to the conversation, Lollia was saying, ‘Just fifteen.’
Marcia’s triumphant ‘See?’ was wasted on Ruso since he had no idea what they were discussing.
‘Lollia was married at fifteen!’ Marcia was determined not to let the point go. ‘Lollia, tell Gaius he must sort out a dowry before I die of old age an
d shame.’
Lollia smiled and reached for an oyster, Arria told Marcia not to harass the guests, and Ruso said, ‘Did I tell you I went to the gladiator barracks today?’
There was a tinkle of metal on mosaic. Marcia reached down to retrieve her spoon. When her face reappeared, it was flushed.
‘I’ve got a job there,’ he explained.
Marcia’s hazel eyes were locked on to his own, searching his face for some clue to what he had found out.
‘I met some interesting people,’ he continued. ‘I’m not sure I can do much to help them, though.’
‘Of course you can, dear, you’re very good at that sort of thing.’ Arria turned to Lollia. ‘It’s all those years in the Army, you see. Gaius knows everything there is to know about chopping off and stitching up. Will you be going to the games?’
Ruso missed the effect of this on Marcia because he was distracted by a small arm appearing from beneath his couch. It was followed by a dark head, then the naked owner of both crawled forward and tried to pull himself up by grabbing the three-legged dining table on which sat the bowl of testicles. The table was a delicate creation in polished walnut, not intended for use as a ladder. Before Ruso could grab it, table and toddler had crashed on to the mosaic in a howling tangle of limbs and spilled food.
Cries from the surrounding diners were undercut by a screech of ‘Galla!’ from Arria.
Ruso lifted off the table. To judge from the noise Little Gaius was making, he was not seriously injured. He swept the child up under one arm, ignoring the wails and waving arms at one end and the small fat legs kicking the air at the other. ‘Galla!’ he shouted, swerving round the end of a couch and lurching towards the door just as Galla appeared. She reached for the child. ‘I’m sorry, sir. He ran away again.’
‘Girls!’ ordered Arria, seizing her chance. ‘Go and help Galla put the children to bed.’
The demands of ‘What?’ were almost in unison.
‘Your mother asked you to put the children to bed,’ put in Diphilus, with more gallantry than sense.