Memento Mori

by Ruth Downie

  “I was, sir. Sorry I’m late. Here on urgent business.”

  Tilla felt the old man begin to sway and tightened her grip on his arm. She hoped he wasn’t going to pass out. A slave who had slipped in beside them scuttled across the room and bent to whisper something into the ear of the pink-headed man she had seen giving orders at the bathhouse.

  The governor said, “Can’t it wait till morning?”

  “No, sir,” Pertinax told him. “It can’t.”

  Over on another couch, the bathhouse manager was raising his hand as if hoping to be excused.

  Moments later the musicians were gone, several bejeweled lady diners had been escorted out, and the staff had all followed, closing the doors behind them. The rest of the guests, including a couple of middle-aged men who must be the governor’s advisers, were left to stare at Pertinax across a confusion of small tables and dirty crockery. If they had been enjoying the party before, they certainly weren’t now.

  One of the advisers glanced at Tilla and Gleva, then said something to the governor about “those women.”

  “They can stay,” snapped the governor. “Pertinax, sit down. Have some wine before you collapse.”

  Pertinax sank into Gleva’s empty chair and waved away the cup she offered. “Sir, I’ve just had news that my brother Catus is missing, believed dead.”

  There was a murmur of shock from around the room. The fat priest’s eyes were wide. The way the glum-faced one had stopped chomping on his false teeth reminded Tilla of a nervous sheep that stopped chewing while it watched to see if you were dangerous. Next to him, the bathhouse manager was wriggling about on the couch as if he were trying to slide his body away while leaving his face in place.

  “My condolences,” said the governor. “So soon after the loss of your daughter.”

  “He went to inspect something in the drainage tunnel,” Pertinax said. “Someone opened the sluices to empty the pools while he was down there.”

  The bathhouse manager had his hand in the air again. “Sir?”

  “Speak.”

  “My staff are searching for him, sir. With your permission, I’d like to—”

  “Go,” the governor told him. As he scrambled down and scurried away, the governor said, “Catus is a good engineer and a good soldier. I remember him well from Germania.”

  “There was another man with him,” said Pertinax. “One of my lads from the Twentieth.” He placed a heavy hand on Tilla’s arm. “This is his wife.”

  Tilla bowed her head.

  “My man’s been found, sir. In a bit of a state, but he managed to get out of an inspection hatch.”

  The governor said, “Good.”

  Tilla whispered, “I must go and see him!” because plainly her husband’s I’ll be all right! when they pulled him out of the water had been a wish rather than a truth. But Pertinax still had a grip on her arm.

  The officials were talking all around them now: the two priests, the governor, and his advisers saying all the sorts of useless things people said as a tragedy unfolded. Telling each other how terrible it was, and wondering how it could have happened, and urging Pertinax not to give up hope. And underneath all the sympathy and the shock, she could sense each man’s relief that he had not been snatched into the next world himself.

  Then Pertinax was saying something about murder, and the chief priest was reminding him—not very gently—that not every death was a murder, and the governor said “Who would want to harm Catus?”

  But now the chief priest was saying something she hadn’t expected. “I’m very much afraid, sir, that this may not have been an accident.”

  “That’s what I just said,” Pertinax growled.

  Instead of saying more, the chief priest was now telling everyone this would be better dealt with in the morning. The thing to do tonight was to concentrate on the search, and perhaps the governor—

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door. The governor shouted, “Come!”

  A strong smell of drains wafted in and a little slave appeared, wiping his hands on his grimy tunic. Ordered to speak, he said he had been sent by Master Latinus.

  The governor scowled at him. “Is there news?”

  The man hesitated, then said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “There is news, or there isn’t?” demanded Pertinax.

  The slave gulped. “Sirs, he said I was to tell you it was me that opened the sluices.”

  “You?” Pertinax made an effort to leap up but fell back.

  “Yes, sir.” The slave seemed transfixed by the sight of the glittering awards on the centurion’s breastplate. “M-Master Catus told me to do it, sir.”

  “Catus told you?”

  “Yes, sir. He said I was to count to a hundred and fifty after they went in and then open everything up.”

  For a moment there was silence in the dining room. Then the governor said, “Go and thank Latinus for sending you. Tell him to carry on the search. He’s to send word the moment there’s any news, and if there isn’t, report to me first thing in the morning.”

  When the slave had gone the governor said, “I’m sorry, Centurion.”

  Memor said, “But what possible reason could Catus have—”

  The chief priest cleared his throat. “We should deal with this in the morning, sir.”

  The governor turned to him. “If you know something, Dorios, I want to hear it now.”

  “Sir, I’d rather not—”

  “Well, I’d rather you did.”

  Dorios swallowed. “I’ve been afraid of something like this, sir. Ever since we had a tragic fire at an inn that killed—”

  “I know about the fire.”

  “I’m sorry to have to say this, sir,” Dorios continued. “I’m sure it was never his intention to harm anyone. But Engineer Catus confessed to me some time ago that he was the one who set the fire. He did it to bring an end to his brother’s failing building project.”

  Pertinax looked stunned.

  Tilla took a deep breath. Catus had started that dreadful fire on purpose? And the priest had known?

  Pertinax put his head in his hands. Gleva crouched beside him. “He is not well,” she said, looking up. “He needs to be taken home.”

  For once, Pertinax did not argue. Instead he let out a long sigh. “My brother’s health was failing,” he said. “We both knew he didn’t have long to live. But to take another man with him? Why would he do that?”

  Dorios said, “Perhaps he was still trying to help you.” He turned to the governor. “The man Catus took with him was trying to stop the centurion bringing a court case.”

  The governor raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Tilla was wondering whether she could slip away to find her man, when the silence was broken by another knock on the door.

  67

  A ghostlike figure appeared in the doorway, swathed in a moth-eaten toga. A row of black stitches ran across one side of its pale forehead and its hair was still wet from a cleansing dip in the cold plunge.

  Tilla rushed forward to welcome it. “Husband!”

  The chief priest and the haruspex both cried, “Doctor?” and Gleva said, “Is Catus found?” but the apparition shook its damp head.

  The governor frowned at it over the remains of the dinner, and turned to Pertinax. “This is the man who was in the tunnel with Catus?”

  “That’s him, sir.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  It was one of the many questions Tilla wanted to ask. Why wasn’t he safely recovering in bed? After they had hauled him out of the water, she had wanted to clutch his wet body tight against her own: to feel the precious breath swelling his lungs over and over again. Promise me, she had begged. Promise me you will never do such a foolish thing again! But he had pushed her away, repeating that Catus had drowned and she must go and tell Pertinax. Finally she had left him in the care of Esico and gone to break the bad news to the centurion, who had insisted on coming to tell the governor.

  Now Pertinax g
ave the sigh of a weary man and said, “What are you doing here, Ruso?”

  “I’ve come with some news.” He turned to the governor. “Do you mind if I sit, sir? I don’t feel at my best.”

  “You should be thanking Fortuna you’re still alive.” The governor gestured to a couch. “I take it this isn’t going to be good news.”

  “No, sir.”

  Her husband clattered across the tiled floor in a borrowed pair of wooden bath sandals, and Tilla settled herself on the edge of the couch beside him. Gleva was watching him intently, all the time keeping one protective hand on Pertinax’s shoulder. The chief priest reached for his wine and took a swig, and the glum one with the false teeth did the same.

  The governor said, “Well?”

  “As you know, sir, Centurion Pertinax’s daughter Serena was murdered.”

  “We all know that.”

  “And her, ah—her friend Terentius was murdered too.”

  The glum one jerked his head up. “No, that’s not—”

  “Terentius ran away sir,” the chief priest told the governor. “He stole a boat from the wharf on the night the young lady died. We’re still looking for him.”

  “You don’t need to look any more,” her husband told them. “What’s left of him was down in the tunnel with an iron pick in his skull. Catus identified the clothing before he and the body were swept away.”

  There was a murmur of horror. The chief priest frowned. “Then who stole the boat?”

  The centurion turned to the governor. “It seems, sir,” he said, “that the husband really did murder both of them.”

  “Not necessarily,” Ruso said.

  “The husband must have killed the wife and her lover,” agreed the glum one, ignoring him. “And hid the lover’s body to make everyone think he was guilty.”

  “There might be some other—”

  “Stop!” The governor held up one hand. “I won’t listen to speculation if there’s a legal case pending. Doctor, is there a chance of saving the engineer, or not?”

  “I doubt it, sir. But there are lots of men out looking for him anyway.”

  “In that case,” the governor announced, surveying the room, “I suggest we call it a night and try and get some sleep.” He gestured toward the doors. “Somebody tell the staff they can clear up. Centurion, I’ll get my men to take you home. I hope there’s better news very soon.”

  It was Pertinax who objected. “I’ve lost two of my family, sir. I’ll stay to hear what the doctor’s got to say.”

  The governor hesitated for a moment.

  “It might change everything.”

  The governor sighed. “Very well. I suppose we could give the man a moment or two.”

  Ruso turned to Pertinax. “Sir, if you’re not well, we could leave it till—”

  “Stop fussing and get on with it,” growled Pertinax.

  Tilla looked at her husband and wondered what other secrets he had learned in the tunnel. Did he know what had happened to Serena? He must know something or he would never have said, Not necessarily. Now he was looking around the room, waiting for his audience to give him their full attention. She shuffled to get comfortable on the couch—which was not as soft as it looked—and prepared to feel very proud.

  68

  From his perch beside his wife on the edge of the dining couch, Ruso surveyed the remnants of the governor’s dinner party. The great man himself, still reclining on the central couch as if expecting some after-dinner entertainment; his two cronies; the fat priest and the thin one; Pertinax, Gleva … all of them concentrating their attention on what he was about to say. Glancing sideways, he saw his own wife gazing at him in something alarmingly close to admiration, as if he were about to perform a miracle in front of them and make everything clear at last.

  Except he wasn’t.

  He would not have been there at all, except that he needed to get Valens and the boys safely out of that temple as soon as possible. Gnaeus and the veterans stationed outside had promised to protect them if the temple guards stormed the doors, but many of the veterans would have been awake for most of the night searching for the missing boys. They wouldn’t be at their best.

  “Get on with it, man,” urged the governor. “It’s late.”

  Ruso squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and addressed the most powerful man in the province. “I’m not very clear about some of this myself, sir.”

  He was conscious of his audience shifting uneasily.

  “Well,” demanded the governor, “do you want to tell us or don’t you?”

  He didn’t, but since nobody else was going to, he had to try. He was aware of Tilla pressing her thigh against his own in what he supposed was encouragement.

  “I came to Aquae Sulis to try and help my friend Valens, sir; he’s the centurion’s son-in-law—”

  “I know who he is,” the governor reminded him.

  “Yes, sir. Valens told me he was falsely accused of murdering his wife.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I tried to find out where everybody was on the night the lady died, sir, but once the fire had broken out, nobody really knows. We know Valens quarreled with his wife earlier, and he admits he saw her with Terentius in the courtyard, but the arrival of Catus frightened him off and he says he didn’t see them again after that. He himself was seen tending the injured, but he could have gone somewhere else before he went back to his room at the inn. The last sighting I can find of Serena and Terentius anywhere is over at the fire. They were having an argument, and she was begging him not to go back and confront somebody.”

  He paused, aware of his audience’s confusion. They had been hoping for a revelation and instead they were getting a garbled version of a military intelligence report. He wondered about trying again and instead resorted to “So I can’t prove that Valens is innocent, sir.”

  Pertinax gave a loud sigh.

  “But he wasn’t the only one who had a disagreement with Serena.” He turned to where Gleva was still standing beside Pertinax’s chair. “I’ve never asked where you were that night.”

  “She was with her own people!” said Pertinax.

  “No I wasn’t,” put in Gleva, placing a hand over the centurion’s own. “Not all the time.” Turning to the governor, she said, “I was with my family, over in the western hills. Then we saw the fire in the sky and some of us came into town and stayed to help. And it is true that I was not a friend of Serena. She tried to keep me away from her father.”

  Ruso said, “There are rumors that you put a curse on her.”

  “Nonsense!” muttered Pertinax.

  “I have put a curse on her killer,” Gleva declared, lifting her head and eyeing each of the diners in turn. “The one who took human life in the presence of the goddess will suffer a terrible fate. Sulis will not be mocked.”

  “You’re a strong woman,” Ruso observed. “You could have killed Serena and then made Terentius disappear so he would get the blame.”

  “She couldn’t have killed a man!” put in Pertinax.

  Ignoring Tilla’s “You think women are weak?” Ruso said, “Terentius was deaf in one ear. Gleva would have known how to approach him without being heard, and the wound was on that side of the head.”

  “Nonsense,” said Pertinax again.

  “Yes,” said Ruso. “I agree.” To Gleva he said, “I think you’re fond of Pertinax. I don’t think you’d harm his daughter.”

  “See?” Gleva pushed her hair out of her eyes and glared at the two priests. “I told you it was nothing to do with me.”

  Ruso was aware of a dramatic sigh from the direction of the governor, who said, “I hope you’re not planning to go around having these sort of chats with everyone in the room.”

  “No, sir. Apart from Valens, there are only two other people who might have wanted to hurt Serena.”

  “Good.”

  “Terentius might have killed her out of jealousy if she’d decided to end their affair after her husba
nd’s visit.”

  The governor said, “And then murdered himself?”

  “No, sir. That’s why he’s off the list now. Or Serena might have killed Terentius and then taken her own life for the sake of family honor.”

  There was a grunt of protest from Pertinax. Before the man could speak, Ruso continued, “But Serena would never willingly leave her boys. So then unless there’s some random murderer in town, the only person who seems to have had a motive is Valens.”

  He could sense the disappointment. Even his wife eased her thigh away from his own. “Sir,” put in Dorios, “this is getting us nowhere.”

  “I agree,” said the governor.

  Ruso said, “I haven’t finished, sir.”

  “Well, hurry up and get somewhere. It’s late and the centurion’s ill.”

  “Yes, sir.” Get somewhere, Ruso urged himself, trying to remember the sequence of reasoning that had seemed so clear when he was lying in the dry straw of the stable, savoring the luxury of breathing. “What if it wasn’t about Serena but about Terentius? You see, sir, just before Catus was swept away, he confessed to me that he lit the fire.”

  “We know that,” put in the governor.

  Ruso blinked. He had expected a stunned pause.

  What else did they know?

  “He confessed to me a few days later,” put in Dorios. “It was a misguided attempt to release his friends and family from a disastrous building project.”

  Ruso turned to the priest. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I told you everything that was relevant to the murder,” Dorios said. “Catus was a good man who made a mistake. I may have been wrong, but I thought he deserved protection.”

  The renewed pressure of Tilla’s thigh against Ruso’s own felt more like a reproach than a reassurance. “Catus’s guilt could be very relevant,” he continued. “When I heard that Serena had been begging Terentius not to confront somebody, I thought at first that he was off to pick a fight with Valens. Or that it was all made up, anyway. But now I think it was true and that he was going to confront Catus. He’d seen Catus heading over there with a lantern. He must have guessed Catus had had something to do with the fire.” He turned to Pertinax. “Catus was a fine engineer, sir, but he wasn’t very good at deceit. When my wife talked to him, he lied about why he was there that night. He said he was checking the sandbags because of the high tide. But that makes no sense, because there wasn’t a high tide at the time. He was lying to cover something up.”