by Ruth Downie
As far as he had been able to grasp, the trouble had started when Valens turned up unexpectedly at the house that Serena shared with her father and uncle in Aquae Sulis. The men were out at some meeting for military veterans. The only other adults at home were the domestic staff and Albanus, who’d been in the children’s room supervising writing practice when the sound of Valens and Serena quarreling carried down the corridor. It was impossible to make out most of the words but they must surely have been arguing about Serena’s lover. He abandoned the alphabet and took the boys out to look for the heron that could sometimes be seen fishing by the river toward the end of the day.
That was the full extent of Albanus’s direct knowledge, and it wasn’t much help. Of course he had a version of what had happened afterward—doubtless everyone did—but it was based on no more than hearsay and speculation. When Serena left the house on her own just after sunset—something the staff had confirmed—she might indeed have been going to meet her lover, but it was too late to ask either of them now.
As far as Albanus knew, Pertinax had been unaware of the trouble at home because the veterans’ meeting was interrupted by a catastrophic fire at the Little Eagle inn almost next door. In the days that followed there were rumors that the fire had been started deliberately, but at the time they were too busy fighting it to ask those sorts of questions. Their efforts had limited success. The landlord succumbed to the smoke, and all attempts to save two guests trapped in their room upstairs were beaten back by the savagery of the flames.
The old centurion and his brother Catus had arrived home weary and soot stained in the late hours of the night, only to find a worried housekeeper who explained that Serena had not yet returned. Nobody seemed to know for certain where she had gone.
Pertinax, his brother, and the houseboy (who had been a boy for many decades) had gone straight back out to look for her. Naturally, their fears had centered on the fire, although they could think of no reason why she might have been near it. They also went to the lodgings of Serena’s “very good friend” Terentius, but she had not been seen there and neither had he. When they found Valens in the bathhouse helping the temple medics to tend the injured, he denied all knowledge of his wife’s whereabouts.
Serena had finally turned up at first light, when the bath manager and her own uncle Catus had found her … “well, you know where, sir.”
Albanus was not one to repeat secrets where they might be overheard. Now here he was again, disturbing Ruso’s meditations. “Sir?”
Ruso lay deliberately still on the deck and tried to breathe naturally.
“Sir?” There was a hand shaking his shoulder now.
“Go away.”
“Yes, sir. In a moment, sir. But it really is best if you get up and walk around.”
“I’m not sick,” he insisted, but the very mention of the word brought on the first ominous stirrings.
“Only a couple of hours now, sir. That’s it. Up you get!”
“You’re a heartless bastard, Albanus.”
“Breathe deeply and look at the horizon, sir.”
“I’ve never felt as bad as this before.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ruso clutched the rail and groped for the question that had been forming in his mind earlier. “Did anyone see Valens leave the house?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. Centurion Pertinax was extremely cross about that.”
Ruso would have felt more sympathy for Pertinax’s staff had he not been fighting the sensation that everything behind his ribs was preparing to crawl up into his throat.
“Can I get you some water, sir?”
Ruso shook his head.
“Not far to go now, sir.” Albanus leaned on the rail beside him and pointed. “Look, you can make out the coast over there.”
Ruso squinted at the blur on the horizon and wondered vaguely if it was too far to swim. Except he didn’t much feel like swimming, either. From somewhere farther along the deck his wife’s voice called, “Is he sick already?”
“This is the worst bloody ship I’ve ever sailed on.”
“It must be very difficult, sir,” Albanus agreed.
“You’re humoring me, Albanus.”
“Yes, sir.”
5
When the ship finally docked at Abona, Ruso staggered away to make the obligatory, if scarcely deserved, offering of thanks to Neptune. Then he found a quiet street and forced himself to walk up and down it, taking deep breaths until he regained the will to live. Meanwhile one of the household slaves managed to wander away and get lost, and they were still looking for him when the afternoon boat upriver set off without them. It was not a good start, but at least it gave Ruso an excuse to travel the rest of the way on dry land. He left Tilla and Albanus to find the lad and bring the luggage tomorrow while he went to bargain for the hire of a decent horse.
Twenty miles later, the nausea was a distant nightmare.
Ruso had never had reason to visit Aquae Sulis before, but now—seeing the setting sun bathing the surrounding hills in light, glinting on the ripples of the river, and gilding the pale stone of a temple that soared above the surrounding buildings—he felt like a hero from one of the old stories: a man finally reaching home after years of troubled wandering. He slackened his grip on the reins and let the sweating horse relax at last. It hung its head as it ambled the last few hundred paces down the long hill into town.
The stable was just past the first crossroads, exactly as Albanus had told him. He had to wait in line to hand the beast in. There seemed to be plenty of people arriving in town this evening and he was glad he wouldn’t have to seek a bed from strangers. But when he reached the Traveler’s Repose and asked for Doctor Valens, he was dismayed to find that this part of Albanus’s information was out of date: Doctor Valens had left several days ago and said nothing of where he was going. Just as in all the best stories, Ruso’s arrival at his destination meant that a new set of trials was about to begin.
Despite its name, the Traveler’s Repose was not especially restful. It was in what was plainly a tourist area that had been built as close to the temple complex as decency permitted, and both the dining area at street level and the snack bar across the road were crowded with customers. As he entered, several men hunched around the nearest table glanced up, decided he was nothing to worry about, and carried on with their illegal gambling.
The gray-bearded landlord, who introduced himself as Kunaris, ushered him up the stairs and assured him in fluent Latin with a native accent that he was being shown the best room in the house. That was the good news. The bad news was apparent from the amount of unidentified luggage strewn about: Several other travelers were also planning to repose in the same bed.
“I’ll take it,” he said, wishing he had brought the fleabane that was back in the medicines box with Tilla. Still, the day was fading and there was scant chance of finding anything better in the dark. He would sleep on the floor in his cloak and find something more suitable tomorrow before the family arrived. With luck, he would find Valens too.
The landlord was saying something about them having a fine dry evening for the parade.
“Parade?” Seeing the man’s surprise at his ignorance, Ruso added, “I’ve been living up on the border.”
There was a definite hint of sympathy in “Ah, I see,” and Ruso was glad that Tilla was not there to take offense at this insult from a Southern tribesman.
The landlord assured him he had picked the best possible time to visit. “The usual parade tonight and then we’ve got the governor coming for the Feast of Sulis Minerva in three days.”
This cheerful announcement had the unintended effect of reminding Ruso that the potential date of Valens’s murder trial was growing ever closer.
As if sensing some reluctance, the landlord said, “You’re all right to leave your bag, sir: We keep the door locked.”
Ruso pushed aside the question of how that would stop the guests stealing from each other. He wou
ld achieve nothing by staying in the room. Nor did he want to sit alone in the bar. He ordered some water for a hasty wash, put on his other tunic, ran his fingers through his hair, and went out into the cool of the September evening to see what all the fuss was about.
The streets were surprisingly busy, with people waiting for the parade already lining the sides of the road and others flocking toward the blare of horns and trumpets. Shops and stalls were still open. The soft lamplight that displayed astrologers and scribes and jewelers and a late-opening shoe mender was attracting customers and moths. The smell of roasting meat reminded him that he had not eaten properly for days. As he drew closer he could hear the wailing of pipes above the tinny irritation of a metal rattle. Spurning a cheery offer from a brothel keeper, he joined the crush under the archway and emerged into the temple courtyard, where there was torchlight and louder music.
To a man who had recently walked the streets of Rome itself, the temple looming above them was nothing remarkable. The painted stone Gorgon staring wide-eyed from a triangular pediment that rested on a mere four columns looked more worried than terrifying. But by the standards of Britannia, this was a grand affair. There was certainly nothing like it where Tilla came from, which was what allowed the gray-bearded landlord his sense of superiority. The chattering crowd spilling into the courtyard around him seemed excited, as if they knew they were part of something special.
He moved forward through the flow of people. Small children were being carried on their fathers’ shoulders while bigger ones raced about, ignoring warnings from their parents about getting lost and not climbing on the altars. Prostitutes and peddlers were strolling amongst the crowds in search of customers, the former offering glimpses of flesh and surreptitious caresses, the latter with trays bearing strings of glass beads and fancy hairpins and little pottery altars and models of creatures meant to represent gods.
Food stalls had been set up under the torchlit colonnade, and there were queues. He avoided the shellfish: The memory of sharing lodgings with Valens after he had eaten a bad oyster was still vivid. Instead he joined one of the longer lines on the assumption that there would be something worth waiting for at the end of it, and the satisfied customers pushing past him brought a smell of fried chicken that made his mouth water. Stuck in the line, he nodded politely to the trio of girls immediately in front of him. They ignored him in favor of a couple of youths who were lolling against the wall of the colonnade. The girls could hardly have given Ruso a clearer message if they had spoken it aloud: You are an old man.
As the queue inched forward, the girls huddled together, whispering and giggling and glancing over their shoulders. One of the youths shouted something. The tallest girl tossed her head and shouted back before linking arms with her friends to drag them away. Instantly the youths detached themselves from the wall and swaggered across the pavement in pursuit. The girls, turning to make sure they were following, shouted at them to clear off.
Ruso wondered if the girls’ parents knew where they were. Did they not know a young woman had been murdered here less than a month ago? If this was how things were in Aquae Sulis, had the lax attitudes gone to Serena’s head? It was a sharp reminder that no matter how Roman that temple might look, this was Britannia. The rules here were different, as his wife was often at pains to point out.
They weren’t going to be different for Mara, though, whatever Tilla might think. Mara was going to be the best-protected young woman in the province. He would see to it.
A man with a military haircut wandered past, poking at something steaming in his hand and grumbling loudly that it was still pink in the middle.
“Where did you get it?”
The man gestured over his shoulder to the front of the queue.
“You should complain.”
“I am, mate. Didn’t you hear?” The man carried on past. Ruso was not the only one who stepped out of the line and moved on.
It struck him that if this gathering were taking place up on the border it would be a security nightmare. Even here, where everyone seemed to be good-natured, there were a lot of older men with a military bearing, and he wondered if they were all genuine veterans or if some were serving soldiers in plain clothes. Most of the temple slaves in their red-bordered tunics also looked as if they were built for war rather than for worship. Yet so far, both Roman and native appeared to be enjoying themselves.
Serena’s killer could be walking amongst them at this moment, but her murder, the disappearance of her lover, and the deaths in the fire less than a month before did not seem to have dampened the visitors’ spirits. Aquae Sulis knew how to throw a party—and therein lay a problem. Many of the people here must have come in search of holidays or healing. They wouldn’t know each other. Any useful gossip would be restricted to the locals. Worse, any visitors who had been in town on the night of the murder could well have gone home, taking vital information with them.
There was a shriek and then cheers as flaming torches arced upward from somewhere over near the altar. Others rose and fell in swift succession. Just as the crowd had grown used to the juggling, one of the performers scrambled onto another’s shoulders. The cheers turned to gasps as he lowered one of the lit torches toward his upturned face and finally right into his mouth. When he lifted it out, the light had died—but then he blew on it and the flame sprang back into life. While the crowd shouted its approval, more than one mother nearby warned her young not to even think about trying that when they got home.
The entertainment was cut short by a pay-attention! blast on the trumpets. Men were shouting, “Stand back! Clear the way to the steps!” The burly temple slaves formed a cordon to hold the crowd back. All around Ruso there was pushing and shoving as people tried to shuffle out of the way while still getting a good view. Finally a corridor was opened up between the archway and the temple. Ruso could just about make out a high stone altar in the middle of the cleared space, and a couple of priests tending a fire basket beside it.
The trumpets fell silent. A sound of chanting rose from somewhere outside the courtyard and grew louder. Ruso, now as desperate to eat as he had been desperate not to on board ship, hoped this wasn’t going to take too long.
A short, wide priest appeared through the archway. He limped up and down in front of the crowd, using one hand to clutch a combination of toga and walking stick, and the other to banish evil by shaking a metal rattle.
The chatter died away, but then came a disturbance that proved the security wasn’t as tight as it would have been farther north. While the crowd waited for the priests’ assistants—why could civilian processions never all move at the same speed?—a tall woman in swirling green robes wandered in through the archway. She was swaying on her feet in some kind of dance and seemed to be talking to herself. Her wild red hair was bare to the evening sky and as she saw the crowd watching she raised both braceleted arms skyward and howled like a wolf.
The security staff were holding back, evidently unsure of themselves and waiting for an order.
Ruso was wondering how soon somebody would take charge, when the man in front of him shifted and he caught a glimpse of a gleaming gold torc around the woman’s neck. That was when it struck him that the meandering, muttering creature might not be a drunk who had infiltrated the parade but was actually a part of it.
The unfortunate sacrifice, a white goat, was led in next. It was followed by an angular brown man wearing a white hat with a point on the top that was shaped—perhaps unintentionally—like a hopeful penis. Ruso was still digesting this as a group of choristers appeared, performing a hymn whose only distinguishable words were, predictably, “Sulis Minerva.” They were followed by men carrying bright banners and accompanied by a chorus of coughing as the incense wafted into the crowd.
After another pause a collection of togas and native cloaks marched in and joined the rest of the procession as it wound its way around the courtyard. “Here she comes!” announced a voice somewhere near Ruso, and indeed a g
olden statue of a larger-than-life-sized woman now lurched out from under the archway with only inches between the top of her helmet and the stonework. The statue edged forward on the shoulders of more men in white robes.
“Hail, Sulis Minerva!” cried the rotund priest and the red-haired woman in unison, raising their hands toward the statue.
“Hail, Sulis Minerva!” yelled the crowd, surging forward. The temple slaves, clearly well used to this, had linked arms to hold them back lest the flower-festooned goddess be knocked off her bier and crush her worshippers. Ruso braced himself and resisted the pressure behind him.
“Ow!” squealed a young woman somewhere close by. “It’s no good pushing, I can’t move. There’s all these people in the way.”
Ruso twisted around as far as he could manage. “Virana!” He plunged backward into the crush, causing more complaint.
In the poor light he heard a delighted cry of “Doctor!”
A hand grabbed his own and pulled. Finally they escaped from the press and into a shadowy space beneath the colonnade. Warm arms were flung around his neck, a pregnant belly was pressed up against him, and his nostrils were filled with a smell of rosewater and something more earthy. He was dimly aware of the crowd falling silent and of someone making a speech too far away to be clearly heard.
“I knew you would come!” Virana told him. “Isn’t it sad about Mistress Serena?”
Someone nearby hissed, “Sh!”
Virana gave a “Hmph!” of disgust and dropped her voice to a stage whisper in Ruso’s ear. “They found her just near where you were standing, on the temple steps. She must have been trying to get to the goddess for help, don’t you think?”
Ruso opened his mouth to answer, but she had not finished.
