by Ruth Downie
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“I know.”
“Unless…”
The young man looked up.
“You have a choice,” Ruso told him. “You can take the risk of trying to clear your name, or you can run.”
“You think I could—”
“You can hide here for one more night while we try to find out the truth. If you make any attempt to contact my sister while you’re here, I’ll have you taken straight back to Sabinus’s estate in chains. Understood?”
“Understood.” For the first time, Verax’s face cracked into something like a smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Ruso glanced at his wife, saw the warmth of her expression and realized to his annoyance that Flora’s unlucky choice was the sort of youth whom women found irresistibly handsome.
10
This morning’s search was not going as well as Tilla had hoped. The shady side-streets of Nemausus had turned to airless ovens in the time she and Marcia had been tramping around them. She had paused so many times to slake her thirst from dented cups chained to corner fountains that she now felt bloated as well as hot. In truth she was ceasing to care whether anyone here knew how to find a girl called Xanthe: she was more interested in finding a cool place to sit down. Marcia, who had begun by being keen to help, was growing more and more uneasy about being seen with a foreigner who was accosting brothel doorkeepers. Especially after one man had included both of them in his glance when he said, “Looking for work, girls?”
Now, slumped against a wall in a narrow strip of shade, Marcia pulled her stole forward to hide more of her face and said, “How much longer are we supposed to keep this up? If anyone at home finds out, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do. We should have brought some slaves so we look respectable.”
“Then everyone at home would be sure to find out.” Tilla bent to ease a piece of grit out of her sandal. “There must be places we haven’t tried.”
“This could take days. She probably has a new name with every client. You might never find her.”
It was you now, Tilla noticed, not we.
“Even if you do,” Marcia continued, “why would she tell you anything?”
Tilla busied herself with the strap of the sandal, because she did not know the answer. Nor could she explain to Marcia how urgent this was, because Marcia would want to know why, and she could not say, Because your brother says Verax can only hide in your bathhouse until tomorrow. Once she had got over her surprise that Verax was there at all, Marcia would ask why he couldn’t stay longer, and Tilla did not want to say, Because your brother is trying to ride two horses at once. The workings of her husband’s mind were a mystery she did not wish to discuss.
The argument had started early this morning after he came back from taking Verax some bread and goat’s cheese. “Swear to me, Tilla,” he said, taking her by the arm in the privacy of Flora’s bedroom, “you won’t tell anybody he’s here.”
She said, “I will not tell anybody.”
That should have been enough for him, but he carried on. “Especially Flora,” he said.
“Not even Flora.”
“And you won’t get anyone else to tell her.”
“Husband, I have already sworn!”
“And you won’t try to make sure she finds out.”
She shook his hand off her arm. “What makes you think I will do any of these things?”
“Experience.”
She turned her back and carried on plaiting her hair, but he did not take the hint.
“I know you do whatever you think best back in Britannia, Tilla, but things are different here.”
“I see.”
“If it wasn’t Verax who killed that boy, it was one of Titus’s friends or their staff. They’re probably all from wealthy families, and if they get the idea we’re out to trap them, they could make a lot of trouble for us.”
She said, “If you do not trust me to help, perhaps you would like to go and look for this Xanthe yourself.”
“Would you like me to?”
“No.”
So that had not been a good way to begin the day. Then her mother-in-law had grabbed them both as they were leaving for town and announced that now Lucius was not here to worry about it—your brother is such a worrier, dear!—she was going to send a couple of the staff across to open up the bathhouse and light the furnace. She was not pleased to be told that it wasn’t a good idea.
“But dear, you travelled all that way, and you can’t have bathed for days! You aren’t worried about what Lucius will say, are you? Just do what I do, dear, and don’t let him bother you. You know how hopeless he is with money. It really can’t cost that much. The slaves are here already and the wood—”
“Tomorrow,” Ruso had told her. “We’re taking Marcia shopping today.”
“Shopping?” Her face brightened. “Does Flora know? I’ll call her. It will take her mind off—”
From somewhere in the house came a cry of, “I’m not going shopping, Mother! What is the matter with you all?”
“In any case, dear,” Arria continued, ignoring her daughter’s scorn, “the hot room will take all day to warm up. Then it’ll be ready when you—”
“I’m going to the baths in town. I have to meet someone.”
That had distracted her. “Someone interesting?”
“Actually, yes. A man who knows all about gallstones.”
“Gallstones? Oh, Gaius!” She sighed. “We’ll do it tomorrow, then.”
“After I’ve inspected the building,” he told her. “It’ll need looking over before we fire it back up. I had a patient in Britannia whose hot-room floor collapsed when they lit the furnace after a long break. He had some very nasty burns.”
Tilla hoped the threat of a collapsing bath floor—something she had never heard of before today—would keep Verax safely hidden until he was proven innocent. But so far her own efforts to help by finding Xanthe were going nowhere. Marcia, here to fetch help if Tilla disappeared for too long inside one of the brothels, was turning out to be more of a burden than a—
“Quintus!” cried Marcia, suddenly finding the energy to pull herself away from the wall and fling up her hands in delight at the sight of a slightly overweight young man stepping out of a building they had just visited.
“Marcia?” The young man looking up from fastening his belt seemed more startled than pleased.
“We haven’t seen you for ages!” Marcia went on. “How’s the family?”
The family, it seemed, was well. The baby was almost a month old now and thriving. Quintus, edging away, apologized for being in a hurry to get home to them.
“Well, it was lovely to see you,” Marcia assured him. “I’ll come and visit Silvia and the baby very soon.” She squinted up at the position of the sun. “Perhaps I could come now. Would that be all right?”
Quintus’s throat moved as he swallowed. Before he could reply she went on, “I suppose we ought to get our story straight first, though. Does Silvia mind that you’re visiting prostitutes?”
The chin rose. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“No of course not,” Marcia assured him. “A healthy man has needs. Especially when his wife’s busy with a baby, although I must say if I caught my husband at it, he’d be sorry. I’m glad she’s so understanding.”
“I am told, sister,” put in Tilla, “that for a Roman man there is no shame in having to buy the company of women. Your friend can do as he pleases.”
“Of course he can,” Marcia agreed. “I expect most wives don’t mind at all. In fact some might say it was being considerate.”
Quintus cleared his throat. “It’s not a very good time to call,” he tried. “Silvia’s probably still asleep. The baby, you know. Night and day. It’s very tiring.”
Marcia appeared to ponder this for a moment. “Actually,” she said, “I do have something else I’m supposed to be doing this morning, and you might be able t
o help. Go back in and tell them a friend is organising a party and he wants to know where he can find Xanthe.”
Quintus frowned. “But—”
“If I can find Xanthe,” Marcia explained, “I’ll be too busy to come and talk to Silvia.” Watching Quintus’s retreating back as he hurried into the brothel Marcia observed, “I still don’t know what Silvia sees in him. He’s got the brains of a brush.”
11
The room was tiny, but someone had swathed the walls with fabrics that were dyed sunshine yellow and sky blue and looked surprisingly like silk. A polished bronze mirror hung on a nail by the window and beneath it, a small table held a jumble of bottles and mixing-pots, hairpins and soft goat-hair brushes. On the edge sat a little brass make-up grinder dusted with red powder, and a wooden comb with several teeth missing. Xanthe must be a valuable slave to have not only the luxury of a room all to herself, but also so many costly things to fill it with.
Tilla perched in the only space between piles of clothes on the narrow bed, and said, “It is good of you to talk to me.”
Xanthe, standing above her, paused in the selection of earrings from a pot on the table. “Poor Titus,” she murmured, closing delicately-painted eyes as if trying to shut out the memory. “Murdered by his own driver. I saw the whole thing. It was terrible.”
“By his driver?” Tilla swallowed, hoping her disappointment did not show. Things had been going so well until now. They had finally found where Xanthe lived, the hulking doorman had let her in as soon as she said her sister-in-law knew Titus, and Xanthe seemed keen to tell what she knew. But what she knew was not what Tilla wanted to hear.
“It all happened so quickly,” Xanthe continued.
Tilla said, “I am surprised that anyone would dare to do such a thing at a party.”
A blue glass droplet set in silver dangled from between the girl’s finger and thumb. “It was dark,” she said. “And there was a lot going on. I expect the driver thought nobody was looking.” She leaned sideways to peer into the mirror so she could guide the earring into position. “Tell your sister-in-law that it was very quick. Titus wouldn’t have known much about it.”
Tilla said, “Perhaps that will be a comfort,” as if Flora was likely to care. “So you saw just one blow?”
Xanthe raised her right arm, pale fist clenched around an invisible handle. “The driver lifted up the jug like this…” She swung the arm down, “and smacked it onto poor Titus’s head.”
Tilla said, “Oh.”
Xanthe positioned a necklace against her throat and turned away, head bowed and the two ends held out behind her. “Fasten that for me, will you?”
Tilla guided the silver hook through the ring and laid it against the smooth skin. She was surprised at how changed the girl looked once the jewellery was in place. Unadorned, she could have been no more than fifteen. Now she looked harder, and older, and much less vulnerable. “It was bad luck for the killer that somebody saw what happened,” she said.
“The driver pulled Titus round behind the carriage,” said Xanthe, with less hesitation than Tilla would have liked. “By the wall, where he thought nobody could see them. And then…” She demonstrated the killing blow once more.
“I heard Titus was found inside the carriage?”
Xanthe squinted into the mirror again and adjusted a strand of hair against the fine line of her cheekbone before speaking. “He fell into the carriage,” she said.
“Then what happened?”
“I called for help, but nobody took any notice. There was too much going on. Then the driver said if I didn’t shut up he’d hit me, too.”
This was getting worse and worse. “What about the other girls?” Tilla tried. “Did they see anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“They have said nothing to you?” Tilla was surprised.
“I don’t know them. Publius hired them from somewhere else.”
“I must try and find them,” Tilla mused. “Can you remember any names?”
The neatly-plucked eyebrows gathered into a frown. “I’ve told you what happened,” she said. “Titus and his driver had an argument in front of everybody. Later on the driver grabbed hold of Titus, pulled him out of sight and smacked him on the head with the jug. There isn’t anything else.” She looked sidelong at Tilla. “I’m only telling you this because they caught him anyway. They won’t send men to question me, will they?”
Tilla, who had no idea whether questioners would be sent or not, said, “You have been a great help. No-one is accusing you of anything. We just want to know the truth.”
“Poor Titus.”
“Do you know what he and the driver argued about?”
“Oh, you know.” Xanthe waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Titus was a bit drunk, to be honest.”
“Was the driver drunk too?”
“Maybe. He was behaving oddly.”
“Really?”
Xanthe paused to select a hairpin from the pot on the table. “If your sister-in-law was sweet on Titus, she might not want to hear this.”
Tilla said, “I might not tell her.”
“Fair enough. It was when Titus was taking me into the carriage for some fun. The driver took it into his head to try and stop me. I’ve never seen a slave overstep himself that far before. I mean, Titus was his master! What was he thinking?”
“But Verax is not—”
“Verax?”
Tilla was unable to stop herself any longer. “The driver. He’s a freedman. He is not Titus’s real driver. He is just an estate worker who was helping out. He did not know who you were, but he did know that Titus had a bad name for seducing girls. He thought you might regret it later.”
Xanthe put the hairpin down. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Verax was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“Yes,” said Tilla. “And now he is accused of murder.”
Xanthe swallowed. “Well he shouldn’t have done it then, should he?”
“He says he didn’t do it. My sister-in-law is heartbroken. She was hoping to marry him.”
“Marry the driver? You told me she was a friend of Titus!”
“I told you she knew Titus,” Tilla reminded her.
While she tried to explain, Xanthe reached one foot under the table and slid out a fancy sandal. “I need to go.” Xanthe slipped the sandal on and groped for its twin. “And you can get out too.”
“Xanthe, please. Did Verax really—”
“I’ve said everything I have to say.” The girl leaned across to drag open the door. “Go.”
12
The slave with the squint hurried away, and Ruso was left to wait under the open roof of the atrium with only the little figurines of the household gods watching him from their shrine in the corner. He had never called on Publius before, but the house was familiar from the visits he and his brother had made to discuss repayment of the family debt to Publius’s father.
A servant scurried across the hallway. Ruso wondered whether Publius’s promised questioning of the staff was over, and whether it had achieved anything apart from a further widening of the gulf between master and slaves.
The sound of footsteps caused him to look up, but it was only another servant passing along a wooden balcony that led to the upstairs rooms. Ruso supposed the staircase—wherever it was—must be the one down which Publius’s sister had fallen. Or, according to Marcia, been pushed.
Even without hearing the gossip he would have guessed that all was not running smoothly in the Germanicus household. Beside him, an elegantly-painted screen depicting a garden had a broken hinge held together with fresh twine, and a similar repair had been carried out on a cracked pot holding one of the plants fringing the traditional rainwater pool. In the pool itself a drift of fallen leaves had gathered in one corner, and amongst them were what looked like shards of broken glass. Either the household was still recovering from a rambunctious party, or standards had gone down since
his last visit.
Ruso eyed the heavily-studded treasure chest that held pride of place at the centre of the far wall. It was a fancier version of the one in his father’s study, and there was no way of knowing what was in there. He hoped Publius wasn’t planning to increase the loan repayments to help with the cost of household repairs.
A door in the corner opened and a burly man strode out clutching a leather purse. The slave with the squint hurried in to speak with his master, and moments later Publius emerged. He looked a great deal more comfortable in a cream tunic than he had in yesterday’s cumbersome toga.
“Gaius Petreius?” He showed no sign of remembering Ruso from their meeting beside Titus’s bier. “My secretary tells me you’re the brother of Lucius. A very reliable man.”
It was an encouraging start. “Thank you, sir. He’s away at the moment. I was hoping to pay my respects to your father while I’m home. I’m very sorry to hear it’s too late.”
“Thank you.”
“And my sister Marcia asked me to send her good wishes to your own sister after her accident.”
A frown clouded the handsome features. “My sister is making a good recovery. And your family are…?”
“All well, thank you, sir.”
Publius said, “Ah,” and then, “Good.”
“I’m just passing through on the way from Rome to Britannia,” said Ruso, largely in order to make some sort of noise while he was searching for a tactful way to turn the conversation to, I hear a man was murdered in your garden. He should have been thinking about that while he was waiting, instead of musing about staircases and money-chests and flowerpots.
“And how are things in Rome?”
What sort of a question was that? Publius was evidently no better than he was himself at making idle conversation. “Busy, sir.”
“I’m thinking of going there myself shortly. I know a few people who can introduce me.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well, sir.”
Publius, having led the conversation down this alley, did not seem to know how to steer it back out again. He turned to the man with the squint. “Is there anything I need to discuss with Gaius Petreius?”