by Ruth Downie
70
TILLA KNEW NEITHER of the muscular young men who blocked her path, but she recognized some of the faces of the people gathering around them. There was one of the women she had seen at the clinic. There was the husband, whose nose her brother had knocked to one side. Another was a neighbor from across the hill who had been one of the children piling onto the swing in the oak tree outside her house when the rope broke and they all fell in a heap in the mud. The others were strangers. Finally Rianorix, busy chaining up the barking dog, noticed the cluster of people around the gate and headed down to see what was going on.
“I am Darlughdacha,” she told them. “Come home to join the Gathering.”
“We know that,” said the man with the bent nose. “And we know you traveled here with the legionaries.”
“We all have to survive as best we can in these times.”
“We heard that you were living behind their walls down in Deva.”
“That is true.”
“So why are you here?”
Tilla looked him in the eye. “This is my uncle’s land,” she said. “And that paddock and the house beyond it are on the land that was farmed by my family. Why are you here?”
“You must have seen many things inside the fort,” said one of the strangers, tucking his thumbs in his belt. “You will know how the soldiers store and prepare their weapons. How they send messages and arrange their supplies. How they order their guards.”
“I was a housekeeper,” she said. “I can only tell you how they prepare their dinner.”
“You walked through the fort with your eyes shut?” demanded the man with the bent nose.
“I find it is the best way,” said Tilla. “Then I cannot identify people and get them into trouble. And if my brother were here he would knock you down again for insulting me.”
The woman said, “Let her stay and help me until the Messenger gets here. Then we can ask him.”
“She could be a spy,” pointed out her husband.
“What is the matter with you all?” demanded Rianorix. “We know her.”
“You could be a spy too,” grumbled the man. “Why was it they let you go, eh? Did you do a deal with them?”
“Of course he did not!” retorted Tilla. “Even the Romans understand that the gods made someone else execute that soldier after Rianorix fasted against him. First you insult me, then you insult a man whom the gods have favored. You should be more careful.”
The grumbler scowled. The wife offered Tilla a small shrug of apology. One by one, they stepped back out of her path.
Tilla entered the gate and followed the path toward the house that had been commandeered from her unsuspecting uncle and his servants. She had passed the servants on the road, hurrying into town. They had been given an urgent message summoning them to help with the guild of caterers dinner. She had not believed a word of it, but they had, and they would not be back until morning.
71
RUSO MUST HAVE looked anxious because the owner of We Sell Everything called after him, “All right, sir?” as he sprinted past on his way back to the fort.
When he found her, he would tell her how he had tackled Trenus for her, while Rianorix had fled to save himself and left her behind. He would not mention that he had been there when Rianorix’s house was burned. If she did not know that, she would not ask what he had done to prevent it, and he would not have to admit that he had done nothing at all.
He was exchanging a hasty salute with the guards on the east gate when he heard a familiar and disrespectful yell of, “Hey, Doc!”
“There you go,” announced Audax, thrusting a full bottle of dark liquid into Ruso’s hand. “Got the last one. Some other bugger had his paws on it. But I told the trader it was for you. Worked like a charm. Must be nice to be in the legions. Straight to the front of the line every time.”
“Really?” said Ruso, who was wondering how easy it would be to commandeer a horse without an official order, especially since they would all be being washed and polished for the governor’s inspection in the morning.
“He says he knows you.”
“Really?” He would need something fast. He needed to catch up with her before she found Rianorix’s house destroyed and was either waylaid by Metellus’s lookout men or wandered off somewhere else.
“He says you did some business at Deva,” said Audax.
“Really?” He would tell the grooms he was on a mission from Metellus. It was almost true.
“Fat belly, Gallic accent, hair combed across the top of his head. Asked to be remembered to you. Name of—”
“I know what his name is,” said Ruso, finally paying attention and recalling a man he had hoped never to have the misfortune to meet again. He knew, now, who was selling Doctor Ruso’s Love Potion.
“He did open his eyes for a moment,” said Valens, leaning back in Ruso’s chair, which he had now moved into the isolation ward, and folding his arms. “Tried to say something, but I couldn’t catch it.”
Ruso slid his fingers under Albanus’s thin wrist and felt for a pulse. “Gambax hasn’t been in here, has he?”
“No, and if he had I’d have shooed him out like the madman you seem to think he is. Audax was in again just now, though. He’s decided we’re all incompetent and we can’t manage without him. He said he was bringing somebody else.”
Albanus’s breathing was shallow and his pulse disconcertingly weak.
“Who?”
“Another doctor, I think.”
“Not Scribonius?”
“He’s dead, Ruso.”
“I know,” said Ruso. “Years ago. But his reputation isn’t.” He held out the bottle of tonic. I had a quick taste. I think it’s just dates in hydromel with garlic.”
Valens pulled out the stopper and sniffed the liquid. “Smells disgusting. Are you thinking of inflicting it on Albanus?”
“Only if we run out of better ideas.”
“Fair enough.” Valens put the bottle on the table by the bed and stood up. “Since you’re back, I’ll nip off and hunt down some lunch.”
Ruso withdrew his hand from the pulse. “You carry on enjoying my chair. I’ll tell the cook to bring you something.”
Valens looked pained. “I’m not a patient, Ruso. I don’t want anything that’s good for me. I want something nice. Washed down with something drinkable.”
Ruso headed for the door. “I promise I’ll bring something back for you.”
“Back from where? You’re not going out again and leaving me here, are you?” Valens frowned. “Holy Hercules, I sound like somebody’s wife.”
“Where else are you going to go, anyway?” demanded Ruso. “Over to hang around at Susanna’s, or back to sit around the bathhouse and chat with Catavignus?”
Valens shuddered. “Not there. It’ll be bad enough at this dreadful dinner tonight. I swear the minute he met me, that man was sizing me up as a suitable prospect for his daughter. I’ve already been offered the taster’s tour of the brewery with the purpose-built malt house and had to listen to his eulogy to the kindness of the army plumbers who popped in his free extension pipe from the bathhouse. They do seem to be awfully fond of their beer around here. All of which makes the brewery a wondrous prospect for a business partnership, apparently.”
“You don’t know anything about business,” said Ruso, recalling that his own approach from Catavignus had included some tale about having invested in the plumbing himself. “And I’ve got to go out. I’ll see you later.”
“I don’t know anything about beer either,” agreed Valens. “But that doesn’t seem to worry him. I seem to be fated to be pursued by fathers.”
“Why don’t you tell him all about the Second Spear?” suggested Ruso. “That should put him off.”
Valens frowned. “I thought I might expect a little sympathy from my closest friend,” he complained. “A little brotherly understanding.
A little—”
“A little piece of advice,” said Ru
so. “Stay away from women.” He glanced around the lime-washed walls of the isolation room. “You should be safe in here while I go and track down Tilla.”
72
RUSO URGED THE horse on up the road they had taken on the day of the hunt, speeding past a cluster of native houses where a couple of men were stacking piles of wood in preparation for tonight. While he and Valens made polite conversation with Tilla’s family and the guild of caterers, the less civilized locals would be up here celebrating the arrival of summer in their traditional manner: gathering together to burn things.
Apart from the obvious disadvantage of having to mingle in the dark with people who might want to chop his head off, Ruso could not help feeling that if one were compelled to attend a social event, a bonfire— even one with British food and interminable British ancestor tales— would be a lot more fun than being trapped around a dining table with a bunch of foreign cooks and businessmen offering investment plans. One would hardly even need to dress up. The serious business of the native event, as Tilla had explained to him during a particularly boring stage of the journey north, was over very quickly. Something to do with purifying one’s cattle by driving them between two fires. Presumably there must be some arrangement for keeping celebrants and livestock separate. Or some ancient saying promising that He Who Sits in a Cow-pat Is Twice Blessed, or something.
By the time he swung off the main road, the sun was low in the sky. There was still no sign of Tilla. He was beginning to realize that this lone sortie had not been one of his better ideas. He wished he had at least worn his sword, but he had entertained some vague and ridiculous hope of being mistaken for a civilian. He spurred the sweating horse on, overtaking a couple of native families who he trusted would not attack him in front of their small children. He hoped he was not too late to catch up with Tilla, and not for her sake only. He did not want to be riding across these remote hillsides on his own after sunset. The tale that he was conducting a search for a local girl in order to take her to safety was scant protection at best, but at least in daylight he could hope to see any assailants before they struck, and try to dissuade them from murdering him. After dark, he would not see them coming.
It was a surprise to find yet more natives ahead of him, but there was nothing he could do now except hurry past them. To his relief they edged a white-haired grandfather out of the middle of the path when they heard the hoofbeats approaching, and in return he tried not to let the horse splatter them with mud as he cantered past.
The path wound around a wooded bank and opened out above the valley he remembered from the hunt. On his left was the high marshy ground. Ahead were the abandoned foundation trenches and the ramshackle round house, but instead of containing a woman and a dog, the place was crowded with natives. Dozens of them. Many had turned to watch his approach. They were reaching for weapons.
Ruso reined the horse in and glanced around. The families he had passed on the road had been reinforced by men carrying staves and clubs.
Ahead of him, the gate was open. At the top of the yard a barking hound seemed to be trying to strangle itself by leaping forward and being jerked back by the limits of its chain. Beyond its range, natives without weapons were clutching jugs and bowls and armfuls of wood and piles of dried bracken. The smell of roasting meat drifted past the gate.
There was no way to run from this. He would have to hope that Tilla was here and would help him talk his way out of it. And that none of these people had seen him in yesterday’s hunting party.
He swung down from the horse and led it in through the entrance. Two men carrying heavy sticks approached him. “I’ve come to fetch Darlughdacha,” he shouted over the sound of the dog, hoping he’d got the name right and they understood Latin.
“What do you want with her?”
Other men appeared, surrounding him. A couple were eyeing his horse. A man with a bent nose nudged his companion and nodded toward the frantic dog, raising his hand to his throat and making a slashing motion. His companion nodded. The man with the bent nose strode away.
Ruso said, “Her family have sent a message.”
“What is this message?”
“Hurry up and come with me or she’ll be late for dinner.”
Some of the men chuckled. Behind them, he could see a woman asking a companion what he had said. Farther up the yard the dog yelped and fell silent.
A figure emerged from beneath the dilapidated porch of the house. As it approached Ruso could see that the black eye was fading to yellow. The lip was healing.
“She has nothing to say to you,” said Rianorix. As he added, “You are not welcome here,” Tilla came out of the house and walked down to stand beside him, still wearing the dress that matched her eyes.
Ruso made an effort to keep his voice calm. “I don’t believe you killed the soldier,” he said to Rianorix. “If it’s any consolation, Aemilia says she didn’t mean any of it to happen. Now if you value either of the girls as much as you say you do, you’ll let Tilla come back with me and go to her uncle’s dinner.”
“I have always said that I did not kill the soldier. And I know what Aemilia meant. But now your men have put that soldier’s head in a sack outside my house because they want to execute a native man and not their own officer.”
“I think someone else did that,” said Ruso. He wanted to say “Gambax did that,” but found he could not. On reflection, it did seem very unlikely that anybody would murder someone over a few amphorae of wine. “In the meantime,” he continued on safer ground, “Thessalus is doing his best to save your miserable ungrateful skin in the hope that you’ll manage to do something sensible for once and look after your sister. Frankly I think the poppy’s addled his brain. But if that’s what he wants, I’ll help him. I don’t like you, and I don’t think you deserve help, but I seem to be on your side.”
Rianorix put his arm around Tilla and gave a lopsided smile. “Look around you, soldier. It is too late. The gods have woken. The people are gathering. We don’t need your help.”
Ruso glanced around at the armed men, the women bustling about with jugs and bowls, the youths discussing the horses tethered under the trees, and the throng of children chasing one another around the pasture.
He looked at Tilla, standing with the native in the place where they had been brought up together. Playmates. Friends. Lovers. A shared history into which he, who had only known her a matter of months, was struggling to intrude. He said, “I’m surprised to see you letting a man speak for you, Tilla.”
She laid a hand on Rianorix’s shoulder and then stepped away from him. “I will escort you down the path,” she said. “You should not have come here.”
She said something to the other men in her own language. They dropped back, but he heard their footfalls behind him as she led him back toward the gate.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he urged her.
“These are my people. This is my uncle’s land. The house that was on my land is burned again. By you, this time.”
“Stay away from him, Tilla.”
“This is my home.”
“This is an illegal gathering. There are far too many people and there’s nobody here to supervise it. Metellus is bound to have informers here. Don’t get involved.”
“Is a feast and a bonfire,” she said. “This is what we do. We do not need the army’s help to welcome summer.”
“Come back with me now, before it’s too late. You can put on one of Aemilia’s fancy outfits and we’ll go to the caterer’s dinner together. If you really want, I could think about getting married.”
He could hardly believe he had said it. Perhaps he hadn’t. Tilla did not seem to have noticed. All she said was, “I will not dine with that man.”
“Trenus won’t be there. I’ve found him and I’ve spoken to him. He won’t come near you.”
“I am talking about my uncle.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Does it matter what you think of your uncle? Come back with me now
before you get yourself onto one of Metellus’s security lists.”
“I was listening outside the window when Trenus was visiting the brewery. My uncle is shouting, ‘You were supposed to deal with her.’ ”
“With who?”
“Me. Trenus is supposed to get rid of me in the raid. With my family all dead, there is nobody to argue with my uncle. Nobody to cause trouble.”
“Tilla, that’s . . .” Ruso stopped. It was not preposterous. It made perfect sense of something Trenus had said.
“And then my uncle opened the door and saw me, and he knew I had heard.”
“Trenus told me you were supposed to have gone up in smoke with the rest of them,” he said. “Are you saying your uncle deliberately set the raid up?”
“Now you see why I will not come back.”
“He did that to his own brother?”
“Yes. That is why he came too late to help. Why he never sent for me.”
Ruso scratched one ear. He had seen Catavignus as ambitious rather than ruthless, but if he were really prepared to sacrifice his own family . . .
He rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had been a fool. It was obvious. There was Felix’s unsuitable courtship of Aemilia. The missing list of debtors. Catavignus’s desire to get rid of rebel sympathizers. “I have to get back,” he said. “I have to talk to—”
His mind formed the word Susanna, but before it reached his lips, something crashed against the back of his skull and the ground rose up to meet him.
73
THERE WAS A squeak and a grinding, and the pig carcass over the fire began to turn.
“And then when she had taken a drink from the cup she handed it to her bridegroom, and—” The old man who was telling the story stopped and scowled at the boy clutching the handle of the spit. The carcass rolled back into its former position, rocking violently with its truncated legs splayed in the air. Dripping fat crackled and hissed into the embers, which flared in the fading light.