by Ruth Downie
Sabella’s daughter had seen nothing that she could identify through the hole in the shutters: only shapes moving in the shadows. But along with the cabbage smell she remembered the whisper of voices and the scrape and heave of furniture and luggage being loaded up. She thought someone might have been crying. It was hard to tell. Then the squeak of wheels had faded into the night.
“My friend went away like that,” she’d added. “Her pa said he would pay the rent next week, only they moved out instead. Ma said our pa was too soft.”
It was not hard to imagine that conversation.
Following the girl’s lead he had found the glum market superintendent at the local council office, and was surprised to recognize him as the priest who had purified Kleitos’s rooms. According to the superintendent, the carts came in at night to deliver to the markets. Traffic regulations said they had to be gone by dawn, which made them a popular means of transport for anyone wishing to make a quick and quiet departure. Kleitos could have left with any one of twenty or thirty drivers. Many of them lived miles outside the city and would not turn up again for another seven days. That was always assuming, of course, that the driver in question had been delivering to the local market.
“And if he wasn’t?”
“He could be any one of hundreds,” said the superintendent.
Had he reported to Accius, Ruso knew he would have been ordered back to the apartment block to start questioning all the neighbors about the possible whereabouts of Kleitos. But he could think of very few doctors who would tell their patients where they went when they took time off. So instead he had chosen to deal with a matter of more personal interest: the business of the body in the barrel.
Undertakers might not be the sort of people Accius—or anyone else—wanted to mix with, which was why they were based out here and not in the city. Still, they performed a useful job that nobody else wanted to do. They also performed several jobs that not everybody wanted done, including the physical punishment of slaves. As a rule Ruso found that sort of thing deeply distasteful, but having seen his own money running away down a side street on British legs this afternoon, he was willing to concede that there were two sides to every question.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The doorman’s bow was respectful and the tone of “And how can my master be of assistance?” was suitably solemn.
“It’s about a body,” Ruso explained.
“Yes, sir. I’ll have someone fetched right away.”
A small boy was despatched and returned with a man who moved as though he were underwater and whose face had probably looked forty ever since he was four. “Sir.” The man’s eyes closed and his head drifted downward, then floated up again. “Lucius Virius, assistant head of funeral services.”
Ruso introduced himself and was ushered through the entrance porch, around a courtyard with a couple of vehicles parked inside, and into a small room where a lamp was burning scented oil in a little shrine on the wall. Lucius Virius offered him a seat with his back to the window, but the sound of hammering still penetrated, as did the smell of pitch and freshly sawn pine and something less pleasant that they weren’t quite managing to mask. Helping the departed to rest in peace provided a useful amount of work for the living.
Lucius Virius sank onto a seat on the opposite side of the table and peered at him over the top of a vase of dried flowers. “Allow me to offer my condolences, Doctor.”
Ruso put his case on the floor. “Thank you, but it’s not a relative.”
“And how can we help, Doctor? We offer a comprehensive service from preparation of the deceased with a full parade with mourners and musicians to a simple farewell for a respected friend. We guarantee our personal and professional attention, and all equipment is supplied by our own craftsmen, so rest assured we have complete control.”
The speech was delivered well, and Ruso was surprised to find himself suddenly recalling the voice of his uncle Theo. Remember, boy—this may be the fifth case of the same thing you’ve seen today, but to the patient, it is new, and he expects to see that you care about it.
“Special requests by arrangement,” the man added.
“What sort of special requests?” Ruso was curious.
“Transport to the deceased’s hometown, full burial for religious reasons— Is there something particular you had in mind, Doctor?”
“No,” Ruso admitted, putting aside any thoughts of asking if any of the special requests ever involved a barrel. “It’s about an unidentified body that was taken away this morning. I heard it was your people who picked it up.”
“Sadly, it is a duty we are often called upon to perform.”
Ruso explained the circumstances. The dried flowers wobbled as Lucius Virius placed his hands flat on the table. “I am familiar with the case. What is the nature of your enquiry, Doctor?”
“The doctor and his family who used to live in the apartment haven’t been seen since, and his patron is very worried about them,” Ruso explained, realizing as he said it that Balbus had never shown any concern for Kleitos’s wife and children. “Also we’ve had people calling ’round to see if it was a missing relative. It’s very upsetting for my wife.”
“Please assure Horatius Balbus that the deceased wasn’t Doctor Kleitos.”
So Lucius Virius knew Kleitos well enough to know who his patron was. “I think he’d be doubly reassured if he could contact Kleitos for himself. You don’t know where he went?”
“I don’t know him well, I’m afraid. Purely a professional connection. I’m sure you understand.”
Ruso nodded. “And the worried relatives? I’ve been sending them out here, but I thought if you had any idea who it was, I could save some of them a trip.”
The dried flowers wobbled again as Lucius Virius’s hands floated up off the table. “I can certainly help you there, Doctor. The deceased has been identified and the family have been informed. So if anyone else asks, perhaps you could tell them they need to search elsewhere.”
“Can you tell me who it was?”
“I’m afraid not. The family have asked for privacy. Again, I’m sure you understand.”
“It must be very distressing for them,” Ruso agreed, shuddering inwardly at the thought of the bereaved relatives visiting the surgery to ask why their loved one had ended up outside the door of a man armed with scalpels and curiosity.
The tone of Lucius Virius’s “Is there anything else we can help you with, Doctor?” was impeccably polite, but the implication was that he had spent enough time here, and there were genuinely bereaved clients who needed his attention. A fresh waft of pitch floated in, and Ruso guessed they were preparing torches for a funeral parade.
“One last thing,” he said. “You deal with slave problems?”
“My colleagues can help you there, yes.”
“I’ve just had a man run away.”
Once more Lucius Virius managed to look genuinely sorry. “Our slave department can administer punishments and help with questioning to obtain evidence for court cases, Doctor, but I’m afraid you would have to hire a specialist to track down a missing man. As a first resort you might try asking the night watch—they don’t take on searches, but they sometimes hold people they pick up.”
Ruso, who had no intention of spending more money than he had already wasted on his missing slave, thanked him and got to his feet. He was on the verge of sending his condolences to the bereaved family, then decided that the less they connected the absence of their relative with the presence of doctors, the better.
Lucius Virius was escorting him out around the courtyard when a high voice called, “Doctor?” Ruso looked around, unable to see the youth who had spoken. Then the giant who was standing beside the cart repeated, “Doctor, a quick word before you go.”
Ruso hoped his mistake had not been too obvious. “Of course.”
Lucius Virius excused himself and slipped away, explaining that his colleague would see Ruso out.
The giant with the s
queaky voice said, “You’re the one who’s taken over from Doctor Kleitos.”
“I am.”
“We liked him, me and my mates. He was a good doctor.”
“So I gather.” Ruso tried not to peer at the barrel loaded on the back of the cart, and became aware that the giant was waiting for an answer. “Sorry?”
“Doctor Kleitos. Where did he go?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well if you find out, can you send us a message?”
“I will.” Ruso was about to ask the giant’s name when he heard female laughter. Two people were making their way along the far side of the courtyard. The laughing woman was dressed in black and had the wildly dishevelled hair of a professional mourner, but it was her thinner male companion who drew Ruso’s attention. Or rather, her companion’s limp.
“Who’s that?”
“Sorry about her, Doctor. The girls are supposed to change clothes when they’re not on duty.”
“Even mourners have to laugh,” Ruso assured him. “The man. What’s his name?”
The giant hesitated, as if he were not sure.
“I need a word with him.” Ruso stepped across the courtyard. “Excuse me?”
The man spun ’round. The woman’s amusement dropped away instantly, and she adopted a somber expression.
“Ruso,” he said, introducing himself. “And you are?”
“Birna, sir,” the man said.
“We’ve met,” Ruso told him, recognizing the nasal voice. “You came to Doctor Kleitos’s rooms yesterday.”
Birna shook his head. “Not me, sir.”
“You said you had some business with Kleitos.”
Birna backed away, holding up his hands in exactly the same gesture he had used under the arcade. “Sorry, sir. You must be mistaken.”
The giant came across. “Some problem, Doctor?”
“No,” Ruso assured him, secretly relieved. He was not sure what he would have done if the man confessed. “I must be mixing up your colleague with somebody else.”
But he knew he was not. This was the man who had come to Kleitos’s door insisting that he had been promised cash on delivery, but keeping quiet about what he had delivered.
As he walked back past the grand tombs of the wealthy, Ruso mulled over his conversation with Lucius Virius. The undertaker might have been telling the truth when he said that the man in the barrel had been identified and that the family were requesting privacy. On the other hand, it was just the sort of thing you would say to fend off awkward questions about what your staff were up to and how much you knew about it.
24
Tilla had just found the abandoned head of a wooden doll under the bed when the tone of Narina’s “Mistress!” made her drop it and run.
There were two of them this time. They were younger and bigger than the skinny man with the limp, and they had a better story. Instead of asking payment for something that had been delivered, they said they had been sent by Doctor Kleitos himself to collect all the bits and pieces he had left behind and sell them. It wouldn’t take long, but they just needed to come in and—
“No.”
The one who was doing all the talking shook his head sadly. “I know, miss. I’m a nuisance. They all tell me.”
“Then you should go away,” she said, not charmed by the lopsided grin. Once these men were inside, how could she stop them from taking whatever they wanted?
“They all tell him that too, miss,” put in his friend, “but he just hangs around like a fart under the bedclothes. I’ll keep him in order. I promise. If you just let us—”
“No.” Tilla moved to close the door, but it juddered to a halt against a large boot.
“Miss,” the first man said, his voice harder now, “we got sent here to do a job. We don’t want bother any more than you do, but see …” He nodded toward the inside of the surgery. “Not all of that in there is your stuff, is it? And the man who owns it wants it paid for.”
“This is our home.” She wished her husband were here. Narina was good with babies, but she did not look as though she would be much use in a fight. “The other doctor has gone. The only things he left here were rubbish, and we threw them away. If you don’t believe me, go and ask next door at the bar.”
“We’ll just come in and check, then.”
“How will you check?” She drew herself up as tall as she could manage. “These things are ours. If Doctor Kleitos wants to argue, he can come here and do it himself.” Although she hoped he would not.
So then they asked when her husband would be home, as she had known they would, and she waited until a couple of women with shopping baskets were walking past to say very loudly that she did not let strangers into the house when her husband was not here, and if they did not stop bothering her and leave, she would shout for help.
She never found out what would have happened next because a gangly figure appeared in the street behind the men. “Esico!” she said, adding in British, “These men are a nuisance, and I am not letting them in.”
To the men she said, “He lives here. Let him past,” and to her surprise they stepped back. She realized why when she almost gagged on the sickly waft of lavender.
“Nice hair oil, son,” said the fart under the bedclothes, miming vomiting behind Esico’s back.
Moments later she was pushed aside from behind and a stout stick was inches from the face of the no-longer-grinning man.
“Go,” ordered Esico.
“We were only—”
“Go.”
“You cannot reason with him,” Tilla told them. “He does not speak Latin.”
The no-longer-grinning man took a step back. “That’s your husband?”
“Next time,” Tilla told them, “bring a letter from Doctor Kleitos with his seal on it.”
“Go.”
And they did.
“Esico!” Tilla declared, waiting till the men were out of sight before taking the broomstick out of his grasp. “You are truly a warrior.”
A blush spread over the angular features.
“But you do not smell like one.”
The blush deepened, and as they walked through to the kitchen Esico rubbed his shorn head with both hands as if that might drive away the smell.
“Don’t: You will make it worse.”
Narina opened the door onto the courtyard and the window as well.
“The barber cut my hair,” Esico explained, “and then I thought he was asking if I wanted a shave. So I said yes. Then he started pouring it on and I thought he was asking if I wanted him to stop. So I said yes again.”
25
Tilla sent Esico to wash his head under the courtyard waterspout. On the way out she heard Narina tell him not to come back till he stopped smelling like a Roman whore.
When Ruso came home she would be able to tell him that although the runaway Brigante had been a waste of money, the other spare Briton was at least useful for something, although she was still not sure if he would be much help as a doorman when it came to getting messages straight. Not only was his Latin hopeless, but he was certain that when the master had rushed out this afternoon, he had only gone as far as the bar on the corner. Unable to believe it, Tilla had braved Sabella’s curiosity and slipped out to buy some raisin cake they didn’t need. After all, the slaves could not be allowed to suspect that their mistress was spying on their master.
When she got to the bar her husband was nowhere to be seen. Luckily, neither was Sabella, so she was spared any difficult questions. But where was he? And where had he been for the rest of the afternoon? She had no idea.
She was still pondering this back at home when there was another knock at the locked door. This time she motioned Narina to silence, crept up and squinted through a gap between the panels before letting Phyllis in.
“Do you swear not to speak of it?”
They were huddled close together on the bed in the only room where no slaves would be listening, but even so Phyllis was wh
ispering.
“I swear.”
“Timo says it is nobody else’s business, and I know I should obey him, but I have to talk to somebody.”
“Does he know you are here?”
“He is at work,” Phyllis whispered, but she still glanced up at the rafters as if he might be lying in the upstairs apartment with one ear pressed against the floor.
“What work does he do?” Tilla asked, not because she wanted to know but because it was best to start with easy questions.
“He is a carpenter. He works for Curtius Cossus. The one who is building the new temple down by the amphitheater and wants to marry Horatius Balbus’s daughter.”
Everyone around here seemed to have some connection to Horatius Balbus. Tilla supposed that lots of men wanted to marry a rich man’s daughter. “It is good to have a man with steady work,” she said. “How long have you been married?”
Phyllis looked startled. “You can tell?”
“I can tell nothing,” Tilla assured her, although the girl’s reaction made it easy to guess. “How can I help?”
The girl’s shoulders slumped. “It has been five years,” she said, “and still it is just us.”
“I am sorry.”
“Everyone else … Timo says he is doing everything right.”
“Do you think that is true?”
Phyllis shrugged. “It is as other women say it is. I have tried fasting and bathing and not fasting and not bathing, and celery seeds and burned pine and wine, but Timo would not go near me after the garlic, and everyone prays for me, but still nothing changes.”
Tilla ran through the usual questions about bleeding and dates and diet and did an examination, pushing away any thoughts of how much more she might know if she had taken the terrible path followed by the doctor who had lived here before, and opened up dead bodies to see what was inside them.
It was useless to tell a follower of Christos to pray to any other gods, so she went into the surgery for the pot she had seen labeled CUMIN with some other writing in Greek. Instead of seeds, it held some sort of green powder. She put it to one end of the shelf to remind herself to ask her husband if he knew what it was and returned to the bedroom. “There are other medicines I can suggest,” she said, remembering the ashes of hare’s stomach and roast sparrow in wine back in Britannia that had been a waste of money and wildlife. “They are said to work for some women. But I have nothing here, and to be honest, none of them worked for me.”
