by Ruth Downie
The miscreant had barely disappeared when the tinny sound of a rattle being shaken around the courtyard served as a warning that the procession was on its way. There was no chance of further conversation now, with the centurions glaring along the ranks like schoolmasters watching for bad behavior.
Ruso had to admit that Accius looked imposing in his toga. The aristocratic voice rang out clearly, reading the traditional words with confidence. There was no stumbling and no interruptions—not only auspicious but a relief, since it meant they would not have to go back to the beginning and start again. The ram appeared content to be led up to the altar: another good sign. The blade flashed in the early morning sun. The animal barely struggled. The blood spurted. It was all very professionally done. Even to a man whose religion consisted mostly of half-formed and unanswered questions, it was strangely reassuring.
Ruso hoped the men would be impressed. Whatever words might be necessary to pacify the spirits of the dead would have been said over their pyres last night, and with this performance the pollution of the deaths and the nonsense about the curse should be over. The men now marching out of the headquarters courtyard in their best kit would soon head west across the hills to Deva, where they would be split up and assigned to their centuries. Older, wiser, and better disciplined, they would each make a fresh start in the Legion.
On his right a quiet voice said, “That question you asked me earlier, sir …”
“Don’t tell me to go to Geminus.”
“It’s best not to ask that sort of thing at all, sir. You really don’t want to know the answer.”
Chapter 17
Two days’ march south of Eboracum, another dawn sacrifice was offered with more than the usual gratitude. This one was to Neptune and Oceanus. Sabina watched the smoke rise into the clear sky, fingered the cluster of emeralds in her one remaining pair of earrings, and tried to be grateful that the rest of her luggage had been saved instead of furious that most of her jewelry was at the bottom of the ocean. She was not sure where this outpost was, but of one thing she was certain: she would never set foot on a ship again until it was time to leave this ghastly island behind.
She left the emperor striding about the place, deep in conversation with Clarus and the local centurion. The centurion was probably still reeling from the shock of sighting a battered imperial flotilla in the estuary. Hadrian would be doing the rounds of the survivors, pausing to chat to exhausted sailors, inquiring about injuries to the horses, and sympathizing with the comrades of the men washed overboard. Meanwhile she was taken to the local inn, where she was to lie on a couch in some other woman’s clothes while her staff went in search of her missing luggage. She glanced across at the emperor’s secretary, busy scribbling despatches explaining the change of imperial plans.
“Tranquillus?”
“Madam?”
Watching poor Tranquillus trying to conceal his excitement at being noticed was an entertainment in itself.
“I hope you are taking notes on all this so that you can tell the world what we have had to suffer.”
“Indeed, madam.”
“Because you will hardly get a whole book out of Interesting Things to See in Britannia. A few statues of dead emperors, stones arranged in a circle, and burial mounds of people no one has ever heard of.”
“Indeed, madam.”
“I have been wondering if Clarus and I could persuade you to include the present emperor in your list of biographies.”
Tranquillus swallowed. “I am delighted to say that the present emperor is still with us, madam. It would be premature to attempt to summarize his already great achievements when there will doubtless be so many more to record.”
“Ah, yes,” agreed Sabina. “Of course.” There were times when she wondered whether she should be kinder to Tranquillus. Then he came up with an answer like that and she wondered whether he, too, was enjoying the game.
Tranquillus was not fool enough even to consider writing about Hadrian, but as the limping chambermaid from last night took her arm to escort her around a pothole, she wondered if he was thinking of the scandalous material he could include if he did. Nothing as scurrilous as the depravities that he had related from the old days, of course, but Hadrian would not want the world to read about that sordid squabble with Trajan over the pretty boy. Nor about the dubious manner in which he had become emperor. She did not believe for a moment that Trajan had named Hadrian on his deathbed. The old man’s widow, the only witness, was one of Hadrian’s collection of devoted middle-aged women. All of them thought they understood him better than she did. But what normal man preferred the company of his mother-in-law to that of his wife?
Neither she nor Tranquillus, of course, would ever mention these things. The quiet man who had appeared on the ship had vanished, but the slaves were always there, and always listening. She knew that because once she had invented an overpriced diamond and spoken of having it imported from India, and sure enough the emperor had later accused her of wasting money. He had not been in the least perturbed when she complained about him spying on her. “Of course,” he said, as if it were as natural as breathing. “Do you have something to hide?”
“How could I?”
“Precisely.” He had turned away to discuss the defense of Lower Pannonia, and that was the end of the interview.
Now, of course, he really would have to buy her some jewelry.
The sound of hammering and sawing rose from the wharf: They were starting the repairs on the ships already. She turned to Tranquillus. “I begin to understand why you refused your first posting here.”
Tranquillus turned pink again and mumbled something about not refusing exactly; it was simply that at the time he had been inconveniently unable—
“Do you know whether one can travel by road to the place where the hot springs rise?”
“It is even farther from here than from Londinium, madam.” Tranquillus’s apologetic tone suggested this was his own fault.
“What about the land of endless day?”
“Many miles to the north of us, madam.”
She sighed. “Well, if you can think of anything at all that might relieve the ghastliness of this place, please do suggest it.”
Chapter 18
She had dreamed the dream again.
Tilla lay in the warmth of the blankets, gazing past the empty bed beside her to the bright streaks of light around the shutters. The storm seemed to have blown itself out during the night. Sparrows and pigeons and a blackbird were celebrating the morning in the courtyard, hardly disturbed by the slap of sandaled feet passing along the walkway.
The house in the dream was always endless. Last night there had been a broad fan of gray damp spreading from one corner, but the rest was always the same: empty rooms and steps and corridors that she wandered through with no clear idea of where she had come from or how she would ever get out.
She had dreamed about it so often that when a traveling interpreter came to Deva, she had paid good money to find out what it meant.
“Ah, yes!” The interpreter had looked into her eyes while clasping his hands together as if he could squeeze the meaning out from between his palms. “And are the rooms collapsing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Any smoldering or ash?”
“No.”
“I am happy for you, mistress. If a room burns brightly without falling down, then you will come into riches.”
When she failed to look pleased, he said, “You are quite sure there is no ash? Because damage warns that something bad is on the way. A burning bedroom signifies ill fortune for a wife. Damage to the men’s rooms means ill fortune for a man.”
“I see.”
“The meaning is quite clear, even if only one wall is collapsed. The wall with the door in it represents—”
“What if the rooms are not on fire at all?”
“Not on fire?”
“No.”
The man laid his hands flat on the
table. “Then it is very hard to say.”
She was glad she had not told her husband where she was going.
She could see now that the meaning was obvious. It did not matter that she had risen from slave to housekeeper, from housekeeper to wife. It did not matter how many babies she helped other women to bring into the world. Marcia’s letter had been a sharp reminder that her days were destined to be spent moving between empty rooms, with no family of her own to fill them.
She closed her eyes, listening to the voice of her mother.
It’s no good moping, girl. There’s work to be done.
But, Mam, the slaves do all the work in a mansio, and I cannot make women have babies to deliver. Besides, do you not see how it breaks my heart to hold them when I have none of my own?
Have you forgotten? Nobody likes a person who feels sorry for herself.
I try not to, Mam. And when we get back to Deva, I shall have plenty to do.
Lighting fires and fetching water? Cooking?
Not every day. Some days we rent next door’s kitchen girl.
What other wife of a Roman officer ever does those things? You shame us by marrying him and then you shame him by acting like a slave!
He is not ashamed of me!
No? What do his friends think? Why were you not invited to dinner with the tribune?
Nobody’s wife was invited, Mam. And I had a patient to see.
You spent the evening with a silly girl who said you were no help, and reading about dead sparrows. I don’t know what to make of you. One minute you are cleaning his armor like a slave, the next you are trying to read as if you were some rich foreigner.
You were the one who told me to get on and do things and stop moping, Mam! Now I am doing things and still you are not satisfied!
She could hear again the sniff of disdain that meant her mother might be losing the argument, but she was still right. You are trying to be many people at once, daughter. But you know from the dream that you are not going to be a mother, and you are a terrible cook. Why do you not ask your husband to buy some help?
We cannot agree on what sort of slave to buy.
Nonsense. That is an excuse.
Mam, I am not going to be one of those wives who hang around the bathhouse all morning eating cakes and complaining about everything.
Then find yourself something better to do!
Tilla, who in low moments long ago had considered trying to join her lost family in the next world, decided she was glad she had stayed in this one.
The blackbird was still singing outside. Over in the fort, the sacrifice to Jupiter would be complete. It was a good morning to make a new start. Then perhaps the dream would go away.
Chapter 19
Ruso yawned and made his way across to the hospital to shed his gear and see what fate had decreed for Austalis, owner of the wounded arm. As he approached, the acrid smell of burning filled his nostrils. A couple of bonfires were alight in the middle of one of the unused streets. The Twentieth were clearing out their rubbish and preparing to leave.
The room opposite the office had a different and worrying stink, and Ruso was annoyed to see that nobody had opened the shutters. He was not fooled by We didn’t want to wake him, sir. When had hospital staff ever shied away from waking their patients?
The light revealed a figure whose sunken eyes were too bright. Sweat-darkened hair lay flat against his scalp, and the sheets were damp with perspiration. When Ruso spoke, he tried to reply but seemed unable to form the sounds into words. His pulse was still fast and faint. Ruso turned to the man who was hovering at the door.
“I left orders for someone to call me if there was any change.”
The only response was a meaningless “Yes, sir!”
As Ruso suspected, nobody had checked the catheter. Another food bowl, this time of thin gruel, had gone almost cold beside the bed. Apparently Austalis had been fed a couple of spoonfuls earlier and had vomited. So much for not wanting to wake him.
Ruso gave a few terse orders and the dressings tray finally appeared in the hands of the chalk-faced youth, who seemed to be the one given the jobs nobody else wanted and now looked as though he might faint at any moment. He was followed by a porter, who delivered a jug of clean water and a smaller jug of vinegar inside an empty bucket and then hurried out as if he was afraid he might be asked to assist. Ruso called him back and ordered him to summon all the staff to the office at the start of the next watch.
The chalk-faced youth seemed to have some idea of what to do, but Ruso was forced to stamp on his toe as the bandages were unwrapped. It was not until the wound had been cleaned out and redressed with a poultice of ground pine needles and they were splashing water over their hands down in the latrines that he could explain.
“Looking at a wound and saying “Ugh” is hardly going to boost the patient’s confidence, is it?”
“Sorry, sir,” said the youth. “I didn’t think he could hear me.”
“That belief has been the downfall of many great men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ruso found the driest corner of a towel that someone should have changed this morning. “Apart from that, you did well.”
“Thank you, sir.” A little color appeared in the youth’s cheeks as he ventured, “I haven’t done anything like that before, sir.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Ruso promised him, wondering if that sounded more like a threat.
“He will be all right, won’t he, sir?”
Ruso handed the towel over. “If we keep on with the treatment, there’s a slim chance he might get better by himself and still have two arms.”
“What if he doesn’t, sir?”
“Taking the arm off might save the rest of him. But the longer we wait and the weaker he gets, the worse his chances are.”
The color in the cheeks drained away again. “I can’t believe any man would do that to himself, sir.”
Ruso said, “I doubt he intended it to end up this bad. Any idea what drove him to it?”
The youth looked around him, but the wooden rows of latrine seats provided no inspiration. He said, “You could try asking Centurion Geminus, sir.”
Geminus, the man who seemed to know the answer to every question. The man with two shadows.
By the time the trumpet sounded the next watch, Ruso had been relieved to find that Austalis was the only neglected patient. He had discharged a couple of men who looked sorry to be leaving; admitted another who arrived doubled over with stomach cramps; and been almost certain that the recruit who claimed to have walked into a door was the man who had been marched away by Geminus’s shadows. He checked on the wrist and the injured foot from yesterday, and looked in on Austalis again. When all the staff on duty had crowded into the office, he chose the most sensible-looking orderly to be responsible for Austalis. “I want him kept clean and comfortable, and I want to be told straightaway if anything changes. And I want it made known that he’s allowed a visitor. Just one friend, and very briefly. I don’t want him worn out.”
The orderly raised a hand. “Sir, he’s supposed to be in isolation.”
“I take it his centurion wants to put the others off trying the same trick?”
If any men in the room had dared to guess at the centurion’s intentions, they were not fool enough to admit it.
“I’ll square it with Geminus,” he assured them. “And given the condition of the patient, I think we can count on his visitor to spread the word about the stupidity of self-inflicted injuries.”
Chapter 20
The mansio slave’s directions were good. It was barely two hundred paces upstream along the muddy path from the wharf to where the old willow bent to dip its leaves into the glittering silver of the river. She raised one arm, counted to three, and flung the coin. The small splash was washed away in the flow. While the gift was sinking, she said a prayer to the river and to the goddess to look kindly on her husband and keep him safe. Then she asked for a blessing on her
new start, and for courage, because the decision that had seemed so clear this morning had faded in the sunlight.
Who has ever heard of a woman being a medicus?
What will your husband say?
You can hardly read Latin, and nearly all the recipes for medicines are written in Greek. You cannot even understand Greek, let alone read it …
Who will do all the work you do now?
Do you really want another woman in the house?
What if you get the wrong sort of slave—one who needs constant watching, or one like Minna? That would be even worse. What if …
Something white caught her eye. Two swans, a cob and a pen, were gliding downstream. She watched as they drifted past the fort walls, smoothly changed direction to pass behind the approaching ferry, and disappeared beyond the warehouses. It was a sign. She let out a long breath and whispered a prayer of thanks, remembering the wounded Brigante warriors she had tended with stolen bandages and medicines during the troubles. None of them had complained about her being a woman.
All will be well. All will be—
“There you are! They told me you were here! What are you doing? Can I help?”
She turned, startled and not pleased. The pink dress was no cleaner than yesterday. “Good morning, Virana.”
“Are you looking for plants for healing?”
“Not this morning.”
Virana parted the fronds of the willow as if she hoped there might be something interesting beyond them, then let them fall. “This is where Sulio came to pray for the soul of Dannicus.”
“Is this where he drowned?”
“No, farther down by the ford. Sulio tried to save him but he couldn’t, and then the Centurion had to get Sulio out too.”
“It must have been frightening.”
“I suppose so. I was at home with my family.” She hauled the beads out of her cleavage and hung them down the front of the pink dress. “They were all being horrible to me, as usual. Did you hear the trumpets this morning? They don’t usually sound like that. Was it because of the sacrifice?”
