Memento Mori

by Ruth Downie

  By the time Ruso got there, the rescue was over. Someone was washing a purse and its contents in the water channel that ran down the middle of the room, and the slave was crouching downstream of him, rinsing a long pole with a hook on the end. Around them, an audience of glum-faced customers sat over the holes in the surrounding benches.

  Ruso turned aside for a deep breath before approaching.

  The slave dropped the pole in alarm.

  “I think we need another chat,” Ruso said. “In private.”

  The man looked around. “I can’t desert my post, sir.”

  “Yes you can,” urged a voice from one of the seats.

  “Please do,” put in another. “And take your stinky poking stick with you.”

  The girl and the lad with the toga were gone now; the maintenance stores were empty and silent. Glancing down into the darkness at the far end, Ruso decided that this was a good place to frighten somebody. Just in case Justus wasn’t frightened enough, Ruso helped himself to a chisel from the rack, grabbed him, and put it to his throat.

  “Now tell me,” he whispered, “where did you really get that ring?”

  “I told you, sir—”

  He pressed the point of the chisel into the jugular notch. “The tide was out. Terentius couldn’t swim. He didn’t like boats. He would never have waited around to escape that way in the dark. Where did you get it?”

  The man was shaking now. “I found it, sir.”

  “Did they tell you I’m a doctor?” Ruso whispered. “I might not kill you. I might just make you hurt in ways you wouldn’t believe.” Then, louder: “Where did you get it?”

  “It’s true, sir, I swear! I found it!”

  “Where?”

  “I daren’t tell, sir.”

  Ruso felt the chisel move as the man swallowed.

  “I might end up there myself.”

  “Where?”

  The man gulped. “In the drain, sir.”

  “You found Terentius’s ring in the drain?” Ruso tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  “Yes, sir. The main drain down from the bath.”

  Where the slave, he supposed, spent a great deal of time on official business. “So why couldn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I didn’t want to get involved in anything!”

  “But you kept the ring.”

  He swallowed. “I didn’t know what to do with it, sir!”

  “You could have handed it in.”

  “No, sir!”

  Ruso tightened his grip. “Why not?”

  The man swallowed. “Because I found it on Master Terentius’s body, sir. And I reckoned whoever put him there might kill me too.”

  61

  “I made him vomit,” Tilla said. “And he does seem a little better.”

  Ruso said, “Well done,” and saw the relief on her face. He would have said Well done to almost anything, but she didn’t need to know that. He knew how it felt to be facing a desperate patient you had no idea how to treat. He knew also that if he had come as soon as he got her message, he would have been able to reassure her. When you were lost, it was always good to have a companion. There would have been two of them who did not know what was in the mysterious greenish-brown pills the maid had described finding in a pot under Pertinax’s bed the other day.

  “You go and see to Mara,” he told her. “I’ll take over here.”

  When she had gone, he leaned back against the closed door, blew all the air out of his lungs, and then took a deep breath, trying to settle his mind on his patient. The business of Terentius’s body—if indeed the slave was telling the truth—would have to wait. So would the danger to Valens: He had done everything he could about that for now. He must concentrate on the old man in the bed in front of him.

  Gleva had run most of the way alongside Ruso after she had found him at the baths. Now she was bent over Pertinax. The red hair hung down over the pair of them like a damp veil, excluding everyone else. From beneath it she claimed to know nothing of any pills. A second voice from beneath it pointed out that he couldn’t see the bloody doctor if she didn’t get off.

  Perched on the edge of the hard bed, Ruso ran through the usual questions. Pertinax was still breathing too fast but his pulse was not as wild as Tilla had described it. Finally they got to the point: “Sir, I need to know what’s in those pills.”

  Pertinax closed his eyes as if he had not heard. Ruso was not surprised: According to Tilla, the old centurion had burst in while the maid was supposed to be cleaning the room and caught her with the pot in her hand. He had snatched it away, causing the lid to fall off and a shower of greenish-brown things about the size of peas to scatter in all directions. He had told the girl to keep her nose out and her mouth shut and ordered her out of the room before she had a chance to pick them up.

  “This is the work of the other priests,” said Gleva, repeating the accusations she had made to Ruso on the way. “Dorios has been looking for a chance to tame this man ever since he came here. I hear the priest and the haruspex talking. I think he has laid a curse on this house.”

  Ruso said, “I can’t see how Dorios could persuade him to poison himself,” just as Pertinax grunted something. He leaned closer. “Sir?”

  “Not the priests.”

  “Sir, I need you to tell me about the pills. I’m fighting with one hand tied behind my back here. Have you taken any today?”

  “Your woman said I’m getting better.”

  “His woman is not a medicus,” put in Gleva. “You said so yourself.”

  Ruso turned to her. “I’ll search in here. You do his study.”

  But the search produced nothing. It was as if the maid had seen the pills in a vision that was not granted to anyone else. Meanwhile, Pertinax drank a little water but refused to answer any more questions.

  “I shall go and wake your brother and see what he can tell us,” Gleva announced.

  She turned to Ruso. “Catus has been asleep for hours. He is very tired after last night.”

  Their eyes met. Suddenly she said, “Blessed Sulis!” and ran from the room with Ruso in pursuit.

  Their fears were unfounded. The old engineer rolled over and began to cough as Ruso shook his shoulder and Gleva shouted his name. When he had recovered he made it clear that he knew nothing of pills.

  By now Pertinax was feeling sufficiently better to insist that everyone stop making a fuss. At least this had got him out of Arse Face’s bloody dinner, and he would see the governor himself in the morning. “Did I tell you I served with him in Germania?”

  Back in the bedroom that Pertinax had offered them—was it only last night? It seemed a month ago—Ruso said, “I think he’s going to be all right.” Then he wrapped his arms around his wife, whose breath smelled of beer, and put his tired head on her shoulder.

  “At last,” she said. “I am so glad you are safe.”

  He said nothing in reply, because if he spoke, it would be to say that he was going out again, and she would want to know why, and he would have to tell her. And she would ask what the slave’s report of the body meant, and he would say he didn’t know, but that it didn’t look good for Valens. And then he would have to say it all over again to poor old Catus, who was still hoping his young apprentice was alive somewhere.

  He would have to do all those things in a moment, but just for now he wanted to hide here in silence and pretend it was all over.

  62

  Ruso could hear his own breath over the rush and gurgle of the water. He had known it would be bad, but this—the dark, the suffocating stench, the brick walls and roof closing in on him while warm muck flowed over his feet … His heart was hammering to be let out. He wanted to curl up and whimper like a dog.

  Breathe slowly. Count each pace. The only thing holding him back from panic was the knowledge that he must hold the lamp steady, because if he dropped it everything would be much worse. He must keep going. One step. The next. Feeling the waste flow in and out of his s
andals. Squelch around his toes.

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  Glancing ahead to make sure the tall form of Catus was still there, moving steadily along in front of him. Glad he was not the one walking into the blackness, probing ahead with a hook on the end of a wooden pole, hoping to find something in the water and hoping not to.

  Gazing up at the square gap in the tunnel roof, glimpsing the rope that dangled down from the blackness and wanting to seize it and hang on. Knowing that it was madness to be down here when the river was swollen with rain and combining with the highest tide of the month to fill the outlet of the tunnel and raise the water levels; knowing also that if they did not find Terentius tonight, all sign of him might be washed away by morning.

  He thought about Tilla, safely over at Pertinax’s house with Mara and Neena. About Gleva, gone to the banquet more to please her lover than herself. About Valens and his boys, waiting in the temple. About Pertinax himself, recovering in his hard bed, with no idea that his brother and Ruso were down here searching for the body of Serena’s lover. About Justus, the nervous little slave waiting at the tunnel entrance with orders to fetch help if they didn’t come back. About all the priests and veterans and tourists and locals partying up in the courtyard and the baths. Most of them innocent of the truth of what was hidden down here. And one of them, surely, who was not.

  “Ledge under the surface here on the right.” The engineer’s interruption of his thoughts came almost as a surprise. “Watch you don’t slip.”

  Ruso wanted to say there was no need to tell him to be careful, but the man was right: It was hard to keep your mind clear down here. Hard not to let it follow your imagination down the tunnel to where the body of Terentius, or what was left of it, might be shifting with the rising tide.

  He was sure the water was deeper now.

  Watch you don’t slip.

  Ruso’s head banged against the roof. He fell sideways. Clawed at the damp wall. Pushed himself back upright. One foot. Then the next.

  The air was thick and the water was well over his knees now, beginning to soak up into his tunic. He felt the flow tugging him forward each time he lifted a foot. Watch you don’t—

  “Something here.” Catus had stopped. Ahead of him there seemed to be a blank wall, but the water was flowing off away from it: The tunnel must turn to the right. The light caught the length of the pole: the glint of moving water. The shape of something lifting and straining against the hook. Fabric. Whatever it was under there had caught in the angle of the drain.

  An explosion of noise and the item dropped back into the water as Catus convulsed into a coughing fit, collapsing sideways and using the wall to keep himself upright.

  Ruso leaned forward and took the pole from his grasp. Pressing himself against the opposite wall, he squeezed past the struggling engineer, lifted the lamp as high as the roof allowed, and probed into the water. The hook caught on something substantial. He moved himself into a position that would block his companion’s view before hauling up and back. Then he lowered the lamp and stared, trying to work out what he was looking at.

  Catus had stopped coughing now. Give him something to do before he sees and understands. Ruso twisted round, handing over the lamp. “Hold that, sir.” He wedged the pole behind him and bent down, groping in the water, keeping his face as high above the surface as he could. He swore. Then he fumbled about again, this time finding what he wanted and feeling a huge sense of relief as it came free.

  “Is it him?”

  Ruso leaned back against one wall to brace himself against the flow of the water before lifting each foot in turn, gradually maneuvering round to face the engineer. “We can get out now.”

  “Is it him?”

  Ruso held out the slick black remains of a leather belt. At one end was a filthy metal buckle. He rinsed the buckle in the water and held it closer to the lamp. The pattern of a horse was clearer now.

  Catus took the buckle.

  “Is it …?”

  Catus nodded and slumped lower against the wall.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, my boy,” Catus groaned, staring at the rippling surface of the water. “Forgive me.”

  He jerked forward in another fit of coughing and Ruso grabbed the lamp before he could drop it. The water was halfway up Ruso’s thighs now, silently pushing him away into the blackness beyond. He could feel the warm damp creeping up his back.

  “We have to get out!” He snatched up the pole as it slid sideways and fell into the water. Then he edged past Catus, eager to begin the long walk back up the tunnel.

  Catus tried to speak, but the cough seemed to rise up from the depths of his lungs. He held out his own lamp with a trembling hand, jabbing it in the direction they had just come.

  “I know!” Ruso was short of breath and fighting the return of the panic. “We must get out!”

  Catus shook his head. “You go.”

  “Now! Come on!” The effort of shouting left him gasping for air. He was reduced to grabbing the old man’s arm. “The water’s rising. We need air. Please.”

  If Catus did not move this time, Ruso thought he might weep.

  But Catus was still facing the wrong way down the tunnel. “Oh, my poor boy!” he cried, pausing to catch his breath. “All this time I’ve been waiting for you to come back.”

  “Catus, please!”

  “None of what went wrong over there was your fault. I should have spoken up for you. But I was a coward.”

  “Catus—”

  “He told me if I set that fire it would help you. It would stop them building. It would set you free. Then, after you were gone, he burned all the plans.”

  “Grab hold of the stick. Follow me!”

  “I should never have listened to him. He said—” Catus’s cry was anguished. “He promised me the goddess would be pleased.”

  “Engineer, shift your miserable arse! There’s work to do!”

  But even Ruso’s best imitation of Pertinax had no effect. All that happened was that Catus turned halfway round and said, “It was never meant to spread like it did. The toolshed was next to the kitchen. I didn’t think about them storing oil.”

  The water was up to his waist now, and he was struggling to keep his feet. How could it be rising this fast? Ruso swung the pole, caught the hook on Catus’s clothing, and pulled. “Move, or we’re both going to die down here!”

  “Don’t be the fool I was, Doctor. Don’t listen to him.” Catus lifted the lamp to his lips and blew.

  Ruso yelled, “No!” and hauled on the pole, but it came free and the old man was already out of reach, the pale shape of his head growing fainter in the light of the one remaining lamp as he drifted away into the dark.

  “Come back!” Ruso shouted after him. “Don’t listen to who?”

  From farther down the tunnel came a faint cry of “He promised the goddess would heal me!”

  As Catus’s voice died away, Ruso felt a sudden rush of air and heard the slap of water on brick. He turned. There was a huge black wave churning down the tunnel toward him.

  63

  Tilla twirled the spindle and let it drop, teasing out the strands of fleece and not bothering to pull out a knot that fed itself down and tightened into the thread. She would regret that when she came to wind it into the skein, but at the moment it was hard to care. She needed to do something, and the something was not sitting around here, twiddling about with wool and waiting for news.

  She hoped her husband was feeling as fine as he had claimed to be. He had looked weary, and she had caught him smearing rose oil on his forehead. On the way out he had promised her the remedy was already clearing his headache, but he would have said that anyway, because he did not want her to worry.

  How many lies did people tell each other to stave off worry? Like It’s perfectly safe: I’m with the chief engineer. Catus wouldn’t be going down there if it were dangerous.

  She wondered about going to c
heck on Pertinax again, but he had been dozing last time she looked, and the little maid had instructions to call her if he woke. Mara was asleep over in the corner, lying on her back with both arms flung above her head. Neena was squinting over her efforts to patch a tunic neatly in the poor light, and Tilla was making a mess of good wool and telling herself that all of this would be over soon, and then they would be out of there. Worrying would not make the time pass faster. Nor would it change anything. She must think about the future.

  She eyed the trunk that contained the box of useless medical scrolls. Perhaps she could try to learn Greek. Could it be any harder than Latin?

  There were voices over in the entrance hall. She flung the spindle onto the bed and ran to see if the men were back. When she got there, there was nothing but a cold draft and the houseboy, bending to scowl into the lock and fiddling with the angle of the big iron key.

  “Who was here?”

  The old slave wiggled the key back and forth, ignoring her.

  “Is there any news of my husband?”

  The lock finally scraped into place. Straightening up, the houseboy eyed her, clearly trying to decide whether the visitor was any of her business. “Just a slave,” he said, “asking for Master Catus.”

  “He is at the baths.”

  “That’s what I said. I told him to go back and look harder.”

  “The slave came from the baths?”

  “I told him it’s no good asking me about sluices. Why would I know anything?”

  “But Catus is already there! My husband went with him.”

  The houseboy shook his head. “Probably been at the beer.”

  Tilla was already halfway back to the bedroom, calling behind her, “You must open the door again! I’m going out.”