by Ruth Downie
As Ruso headed for the bathhouse doors, a voice called, “Good afternoon, sir!”
The man, more alert than he seemed, had sprung to his feet.
“How are you today?”
“Dirty,” said Ruso.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, sir!” The barber was beside him now, making ushering motions with his arms as if he were hoping to round Ruso up and pen him into the shop like a sheep for shearing. “What can we do to help? Haircut? Shave?”
Ruso rubbed his chin. What he felt beneath his fingers was no longer stubble. Unfortunately, from what he had seen of the chins of the Tenth Batavians this afternoon, Hadrian’s famous beard had so far failed to inspire any imitators here. Since he was now in charge of the infirmary until the new man turned up in four days’ time, he supposed he should make an effort to resemble the Batavians’ image of an officer.
“Take a seat, sir.” The barber had trotted ahead and was indicating a stool next to the native. “Guaranteed the best in town, or your money back!”
“Just a shave,” he said, subsiding onto the stool and adding, “Take it steady, will you?” lest this should be one of those enthusiastic razor-wielders who valued speed above accuracy.
“Don’t you worry, sir!” chirped the barber, draping a stained cloth across Ruso’s chest and pulling his own stool closer. “You just close your eyes, relax, and it’ll be over in no time.”
This sounded alarmingly like the sort of thing surgeons said to patients: not because there was nothing to worry about, but because worrying would make no difference.
Ruso checked that the letter Albanus had given him was still safely in his belt, and closed his eyes.
“So,” said the barber, slapping cold water onto the doomed beard, “have you come a long way, sir?”
“Deva,” said Ruso, making no effort to stimulate the conversation since in a moment he would only be able to answer in grunts.
“Deva! Well!”
Ruso heard the water bowl being put down.
“You’ll be with the Twentieth, then, sir?”
Presumably the razor had been picked up. Just to be on the safe side, Ruso’s reply was confined to, “Uh.”
A voice close to his left ear said, “Just keep still now, sir,” and he felt the scraping begin at the lower left-hand side of his jaw. “It’s an honor to shave an officer from the legions, sir. Especially the Twentieth. It’s a grand legion, the Twentieth, isn’t it?”
“Uh.”
“A lot of people will be very pleased to have you here, sir. What with all the bother we’ve been having lately.’
Ruso, unable to explain that most of his comrades were leaving in the morning, said, “Uh.”
“We have to expect a few robbers and thieves around, I suppose, sir, don’t we? Low types too lazy to earn an honest living. And if people don’t keep an eye on their things in the bathhouse, they’ve only got themselves to blame, haven’t they? But it comes to something when the roads aren’t safe to travel in daylight, and now an innocent man’s been horribly murdered right in the middle of—”
“Festinus!”
The rich bass voice could only have come from the native. Ruso opened his eyes, but his head was being held over to one side and all he could see was glinting light alternating with the shadow of a hand as the blade scratched at his left cheek.
“Festinus,” continued the voice, “don’t alarm our guest.”
In truth Ruso was less alarmed by talk of horrible murders than by the discovery that he was being shaved by a man whose nickname was Hasty.
“I’m not trying to alarm him,” said Festinus, pausing briefly to wipe his blade. “I’m just making conversation. And it’s only fair to warn visitors if there’s something funny going on. You’d rather be warned than murdered, wouldn’t you, sir?”
Ruso grunted an assent. He wished he could find a way of asking the stranger not to distract the man who was sliding a razor up under his left ear.
“Nobody knows what they did to him, but it must have been nasty. They won’t let no one see the—”
“Festinus!”
“ ’Course, I don’t expect you’ll have no bother at all, sir,” the barber continued. “I always said Felix would get into trouble one day. He was a bit too clever, sir; that was his problem.”
“No danger of you being in trouble, then, is there?” put in the woman’s voice. “Don’t you listen to him, sir. Poor Felix was a nice friendly young man. Not like some of them we get around here.”
The barber snorted. “A bit too free with his friendship, if you ask me.”
“Nobody did ask you,” pointed out the woman. “And you shouldn’t be talking like that before he’s even buried.”
The barber, ignoring her, urged Ruso to “Straighten up a little, please, sir,” just as a gray mustache appeared in his line of vision and its owner said, “Pleased to meet you, officer. Catavignus. I represent the local people in the guild of caterers.’
Ruso had the vague sensation that he had seen him somewhere before, but could not think where.
The barber paused again to wipe the razor. Ruso seized the moment to introduce himself to Catavignus, who was evidently a native who had added a Latin ending to his name.
Catavignus bowed. “Welcome to Coria, Doctor. Sorry to hear about the accident. I hope you’re not hurt?” The accent was similar to Tilla’s, but his Latin demonstrated a grasp of grammar that Tilla seemed to have decided was not worth the effort.
Ruso offered a double-barreled “Uh-uh,” and a wave of the hand to indicate that he had survived the accident unscathed.
“Good. Don’t let this blabbermouth bother you.”
The slave repositioned the stool in front of Ruso, who hoped the sudden waft of beer was coming from Catavignus and not the barber.
“If you’ll allow me to explain,” continued Catavignus, seating himself and indicating his remarkably fine head of hair to the slave, who reached for a pot of lotion. “This is a decent, law-abiding place. A safe place to run a business and raise a family. We welcome the army. Losing one of our soldiers like this is a great shock to everybody. We don’t expect that sort of thing around here.”
Evidently Catavignus’s opinion of the natives’ loyalty was much higher than that of Metellus, although Ruso supposed a lot of the residents of this decent law-abiding place wouldn’t be Britons anyway. They would be relatives of the soldiers, or veterans, or the traders Metellus was so eager to welcome in exchange for their taxes.
“The caterers are keen to help the investigation in any way we can,” continued Catavignus. “Felix was well known to all of us.”
“We’ve been over to pray to Apollo Maponus,” said the barber’s wife. “You can’t be too careful.”
“I heard it was a native what done it,” put in the barber. “Chin up, please, sir.”
Catavignus cleared his throat. “If it is, then he’s a disgrace.”
Ruso clenched his teeth as the blade scraped another channel up the underside of his chin.
“Fell out with him over at Susanna’s,” continued the barber.
“At Susanna’s?” Catavignus seemed surprised.
“I told you you should have gone and seen what that shouting was about,” put in the barber’s wife.
“I must go and speak to Susanna,” put in Catavignus, getting to his feet. “She will need the support of the guild after something like this.”
“I told you, didn’t I?” continued the woman. “I said, ‘There’s something going on over there.’ ”
“If I got up every time you heard something in the street I might as well sleep on the doorstep,” said the barber. “Besides, if I’d got involved that native might have gone for me too. He was wild, sir, that’s what I heard. Raving. Shouting about sheep. Or was it cows?” The man paused. “Perhaps it was goats.”
“Never mind what he was raving about,” retorted the woman. “The point is, if somebody had stepped in, Felix might still be alive
.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?”
Catavignus paused in front of Ruso, who was willing the barber to keep a steady hand while arguing with his wife. “Doctor. The caterers are giving a private dinner across at Susanna’s snack bar on the eve of the governor’s visit. Celebrating the start of the British summer in a modern style. We’d be honored if you’d join us.”
“Uh,” said Ruso, who had once responded to his wife’s suggestion that they attend a dinner party by pointing out that he would rather leap naked into a tankful of starving lampreys.
“We’ll look forward to it. Tell me. Are you treating civilians during your visit?”
“Uh.” Ruso did not want the complications, but he did want the money.
“I ask because my daughter Aemilia is not well. If she’s no better tomorrow, can I refer her to you?”
Ruso decided he could risk saying, “Do.”
“Thank you. I’m sure you know what these young women are like.”
“Mm,” said Ruso, not sure whether knowing what young women were like was a sign of medical competence or something less desirable.
“A pleasure to meet you,” continued Catavignus. “Call on me anytime you’re passing the brewery. Aemilia and I will be happy to welcome you.”
“There he goes. Look,” muttered the woman after he had left. “Straight over to Susanna’s. Any excuse. Well, she’ll be thrilled.”
“More slime than a bucket of slugs, that one,” said the barber. “Never turn your back on the natives, sir, that’s my advice. Even if they are in some fancy guild of caterers. They’re all the same. Women as well. Smile at your face and stab you in the back. I said to that centurion what was in here earlier, what we want around here is a few more patrols on the streets. You only ever see them marching past on the way to somewhere else. I said to him, I’ll offer free services to any man what—oops! Sorry, sir. Just put that on it for a moment, will you?’
Ruso held the cloth against the right-hand side of his jaw, removed it, assessed that the damage was not life threatening, and replaced it quickly before the blood dripped onto his clean tunic.
“Ready again, sir? Nearly done. Lean that way a minute for me, please. . . .”
“So you’re the new doctor, sir?” inquired the woman.
“Aah.”
“Will it be you or Doctor Thessalus tomorrow at the clinic?”
“Uh?”
“Doctor Ruso,” mused the barber. “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere?”
Before Ruso could respond the woman continued, “Doctor Thessalus does a clinic here every market day, sir. It’s always very popular.”
“It’s free,” added the barber, explaining its popularity.
“Ah,” said Ruso.
17
RUSO’S JAW HAD more or less stopped bleeding by the time he paused on the threshold of the bathhouse, eyeing the occupants of the main hall.
The grunts echoing around the walls came from a young man lifting weights in the middle of the floor, evidently keen to give his small audience every chance to admire his oiled biceps. The audience must have been a disappointment to him: It consisted of a couple of white-haired men hunched over a game of dice in the corner, a fat man ogling his young manicurist, and a lone attendant sweeping the floor.
The door swung back with unexpected ease. It hit the wall with a crash that reverberated around the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Ruso, then lost interest as he stepped into the less-than-appealing atmosphere of sweat and damp and overperfumed oils.
Forewarned by the pessimistic barber, he paid the attendant to guard his clothes and helped himself to a towel.
He gasped as he entered the hot room, instantly regretting the gasp as burning air scorched the back of his throat. The attendant’s assurance that it was “still good and hot in there” had been an understatement. Ruso clopped safely across the searing floor on wooden sandals and laid his towel out on a bench beneath a window before sitting down to face the alarming prospect of what he now saw, on perusing the address on the reverse, was a long letter from his stepmother.
The letter ran expensively over several thin leaves of wood bundled together. He frowned. He had never before received a letter from Arria, and this neat handwriting was certainly not her own. He cracked open the seal, unwound the cord, and began to read.
Dearest Gaius,
I send greetings and hope you are in good health. How I wish you were here with us, although we are glad that you can enjoy the green hills of Britannia, away from the cares of everyday life that burden us here. We always look forward to your letters, but it is hard to bear both the loss of your dear father and your absence.
I am delighted to tell you that the shrine to Diana that your dear father commissioned and he and I designed together
(So that, thought Ruso, explained the catastrophic expense.)
is now complete, and we have received many compliments on your father’s good taste and generosity.
Since your father’s death your poor brother has been doing his best, but it is difficult for your sisters and I without anyone in authority here to care for us. I am sorry to say that although dear Publius left many investments, Lucius’s management of them is uncertain. The simplest pleasures are often unreasonably denied to us.
Since Arria’s idea of a simple pleasure was a new suite of baths or a summer dining extension, that was hardly surprising. And as Publius Petreius had died secretly bankrupt, Lucius’s denial of them was not at all unreasonable.
These small pleasures could of course in no way make up for the loss of a happy marriage such as Publius and I shared for a few all-too-brief years and that I know he also enjoyed in earlier times with your dear and respected mother.
What did Arria know about his mother? Nothing. Ruso gritted his teeth and read on, realizing that the steamy atmosphere was not good for the letter and hoping the ink would melt into an illegible blur before he reached the request for money that no doubt lurked near the end.
Your father understood the joys of a happy union—such as I trust you will yourself enjoy again one day soon, dearest Gaius—and I know he wished the same for all of his children. I am especially anxious for your beloved sisters. Although they are, as you know, both beautiful and charming, how will they find the right sort of husbands if no suitable dowry is offered? As I have explained to your brother, one has to sow in order to reap. This is something I felt that he, as a farmer, would understand, but it seems not. Of course there is no reason why he should listen to me, but I am sure that if you, dearest Gaius, as head of the family, were to explain it to him, he would immediately understand what is required.
Naturally I have not yet mentioned this matter to your sisters, as I am hoping to avoid disappointing them. See, am signing this letter myself and send you the very kindest of greetings.
Your loving stepmother, Arria
Beneath the uneven signature,
squeezed in tiny letters, was:
Lucius and Cassia baby boy very small
Ruso slapped the letter shut, dropped it on the floor, and eyed it with all the affection he would offer a large and poisonous spider. He and Lucius had always been careful to keep their correspondence discreet, with references to their dire financial state carefully coded. No matter how firmly a letter was sealed there was no way of making sure it would not “fall open” in transit and be read by someone who would pass the contents on to one of their many creditors. Now Arria had not only written a letter that suggested Lucius was mismanaging the family finances, but it seemed she had been into town and dictated it to a public scribe.
Maybe they had been wrong not to tell Arria the exact situation in which her husband had left the family coffers. Maybe they should have told her the truth and frightened her into silence with the warning that public bankruptcy would sweep away their home, their dignity, and possibly even their freedom.
He would have to write an urgent letter to Lucius con
gratulating him on the birth of a son and delegating the challenging task of getting their stepmother under control.
The rattle of the door latch warned him someone was about to come in. He picked up the letter, slid it under his thigh, and closed his eyes.
The clatter of sandals tracked the passage of a bather picking his way across the floor. To Ruso’s dismay the footsteps passed the empty seating and came closer. Moments later his bench rocked as a heavy body lowered itself down next to him. A long breath was followed by a familiar voice. “Ruso.”
“Postumus.” Ruso acknowledged him, not bothering to open his eyes. “I was going to come and find you later.”
“Flashy room with your floozy again tonight, I suppose?” inquired Postumus in a tone that suggested this would be deeply tedious.
“Sharing a store cupboard with a beer barrel.”
“Lucky you. I’m still sharing a tent with the bloody wildlife. And I hear you’re staying on to look after my carpenter. Tell me what you’ve done for him.”
“Amputation, I’m afraid. No choice.”
“What are his chances?”
“Mixed. He’s a strong man. Most people wouldn’t survive being run over by a wagonload of lead. We’ll be able to tell over the next few days.”
“I suppose I’ll have to get a message to his woman.”
“I’ve done that,” said Ruso. “I hear you’ve been talking to Tilla?”
“I asked her some questions.”
“I can still read them on her arm.”
