by Ruth Downie
The truth, of course, was quite different. The truth was that when foreigners desecrated your land, cut down your trees, fouled your water supply, and made impressive speeches about bringing peace in return for taxes, nothing good could possibly come of it. She could imagine what her family would be saying now if they were watching her walking toward the gates, knowing there was a soldier waiting for her inside.
“It was all I could do, Mam,” she whispered. “He is a good man. He helps people.”
She was almost at the gatehouse now. It was nowhere near as grand as the smallest of the gatehouses at Deva. The irrepressible grass had crept up around the feet of the supporting timbers, reminding any soldiers who took the trouble to read the signs that the spirit of the land could not be destroyed. Beyond it, through the open gates, she could see two men slapping clean white lime wash onto the end of a building as a squad marched past them and—
“Halt!”
The crossed spears in her path had appeared so quickly from the shadows that the soldiers holding them must have been watching her approach.
“Password?” demanded the shorter of the two.
“I do not know it. My master is only just arrived.”
“Password,” he repeated, perhaps thinking she had not heard the order, although she was close enough to see the yellow teeth and the black hairs sprouting from his nostrils.
She backed away to a more comfortable distance. “I do not know the password,” she explained again. “My master is a doctor with the Twentieth Legion. He comes today with an injured man.”
“Gate pass?”
“I am just arrived too.”
“No entry without a pass.”
“I cannot get a pass without going in.”
“Not our problem.”
“But I am his housekeeper!”
The two men exchanged glances. They seemed to find this amusing. The symmetry of the crossed spears wavered as they relaxed.
“Come to cook his dinner, have you?” inquired the taller one.
She lifted the bag that contained damp clothes needing to be hung out to dry, and now two apples and the pastries she had brought from Susanna’s snack bar for supper. “Yes.”
“Tuck him into bed?” suggested hairy nose.
Tilla pointed past them to the white buildings. “I will live in there.”
“Then you’ll have to get a job with the prefect’s family.”
“Or marry him,” suggested the taller one.
“We don’t know what you’ve been getting up to with the legion,” said hairy nose, “But ’round here, women and children live out there.” He shifted his spear to indicate the road outside. “Run off and find yourself a bed, and the doctor will come and give you the treatment later.”
Tilla had met enough ignorant guards to know that showing annoyance would make matters worse. The only things that would impress them were fear of their superiors, and cash. “My master,” she said, trying the cheaper option, “is Senior Medical Officer Gaius Petreius Ruso. My name is Tilla. I ask you to send a message—”
“We’re the Tenth Batavians,” the taller one interrupted. “We don’t run messages for the legions.”
“Why don’t you put your request in writing, Tilla?” suggested his companion: a remark they both seemed to think was extremely witty.
Tilla, who could no more write than fly—and they knew it—placed her hands behind her back, gripped them tightly, and counted to five. Then she reached into her purse and brought out the last coin she possessed. As hairy nose hid it somewhere on his person, she said, “Tell my master—”
“Sorry, love,” he said. “We’re not allowed to run messages for girlfriends.”
“But I have paid you!”
“Have you?” He held his hands wide and looked down his chest as if he was searching for it. “Are you sure?”
“Take the message, or give me my money back.”
“I didn’t see any money.” He jerked a thumb toward his friend. “He didn’t see any either.”
“I will report you to my master and you will be in trouble!”
“Tell you what,” he suggested. “I’ll try doing a trick. Give me a kiss and I’ll see if I can make it reappear.”
Tilla looked them both up and down. “You are not worth it,” she said, turned on her heel, and strode away down the gravel road.
As she was passing the men who were clearing the ditch, the taller guard called after her, “Hey, whatsyourname!”
“Tilla,” prompted hairy nose.
“Tilla! Do you want to leave a message or not?”
“Go on, Tilla!” urged some interferer from the depths of the ditch.
“You can give me a message any day, Tilla!” added one of his comrades.
Tilla was tired. She was hungry. She was at the end of a long journey. The thought that her family was in the next world was no consolation for the fact that they were not here to greet her in this one. Now she had been humiliated by the men her master thought of as comrades. She stopped. She turned to face the men in the ditch. In her own dialect, speaking fast so they would not understand, she said, “I have a message for you.”
There was a chorus of cheers.
“You are very stupid and ugly men,” she informed them, smiling sweetly, “and the gods of this land will curse you for the disrespect you show when you hack holes in it.”
This time the cheers were more uncertain. Someone said, “What did she say?”
“She says she loves me!” roared one of the men, scrambling up the side of the ditch toward her. “Come here, Tilla—”
“Back to work!” bellowed a voice from farther along the ditch. “And you, girl, clear off before I feed you to them.”
20
RUSO SLUMPED DOWN the roughly plastered wall until he was sitting on the floorboards with his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes were level with the body of the carpenter, whose pulse had faded some time ago but whom he had tried desperately and hopelessly to revive. He stared at the body, which could have been asleep. He knew from experience that amputations were best performed on the spot: Crushed legs did not travel well. But he now realized the internal injuries would have killed the man eventually wherever the surgery was carried out. His fate had been sealed from the moment the wagon hit him. His doctor’s insistence on interfering had merely prolonged his suffering and given false hope to his comrades and his family.
There were sound reasons why Ruso had made the decisions he had made, but he knew only too well that logic would not lift the burden of failure. Nor would the memories of past successes: the amputees who survived to swing out through the hospital doors on their crutches; the fevers cured; the eyesight saved; Tilla, whose shattered right arm had seemed almost beyond hope. There was no relief to be found in reason. The only comfort he could offer himself was a reminder that this feeling will pass.
He got to his feet. Postumus would be here in a moment. He neatened the bedding and drew the sheet up over the carpenter’s face. Then he went to the door and summoned Albanus to take a report.
He was just finishing dictation when Postumus arrived. The centurion was freshly shaved. He had a heavy red scrape down one side of his face. In other circumstances, Ruso would have enjoyed that.
Once the centurion had paid his respects to the corpse, he and Ruso withdrew to the corner of the room. The men of the Twentieth had been scheduled to march out at dawn, but now they would stay for a funeral.
“There’s a child,” said Ruso.
“I know. Didn’t even have time to name it, poor sod.”
“Yes he did,” insisted Ruso, hoping Postumus would not demand the details. “I was there. They did it early.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Tilla was the midwife.”
“What did he name it?”
“I can’t remember.”
The black eyes met his own. “He must have had a premonition.”
“So it seems,” agr
eed Ruso, suspecting Postumus knew full well that the carpenter hadn’t officially named his daughter—why would he, when he would have expected to be alive eight days later to do it at the proper time?
Postumus frowned. “Even if he did, the girlfriend’s not entitled to anything. We’re not a bloody benevolent fund.”
“But if he’s named the child, and there isn’t any other family . . .”
Postumus glanced across at the bed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Standing on the threshold between the images of the healing gods, the centurion paused and turned. “I’ve just lost one of my best men,” he said. “When we catch that bastard who cut the brake, I’ll nail him up myself. And if you ever recommend another barber like that one, I’ll do the same to you.”
21
THE SOUNDS OF the fort had faded in the distance now. Tilla paused by the beech tree that had been split by lightning. She hid the pin of her shawl down inside the cleft trunk, in gratitude to Taranis, god of thunder, for keeping Lydia safe. Perhaps for sending a messenger in the shape of Cernunnos too, although she could not think why he had come or what he had wanted to tell her. But the next day he had appeared on a horse in front of everyone, and no one could explain why the cavalry had been unable to catch him. The spears had fallen short. The slingshots had missed. And although he had not touched it, that wagon had crashed just after he appeared. It was a mystery.
She sat on a stone and ate one of the pastries she had bought for supper and one of last season’s apples grown soft and wrinkled with age. It occurred to her that perhaps she should have left a message for the medicus with Lydia. It was too late now. She smoothed out the holes where the pin had pierced the shawl, knotted it in place, and carried on.
Just above the dell where the sacred spring rose, she laid the remaining pastry she had bought for the medicus at the foot of the oak as a gift to the goddess. Then she stood and raised her hands to the tree, which, Mam always said, was not the goddess but showed her strength. She gave thanks for a safe journey home. She prayed for courage to face what she would find here. She prayed for her lost family in the next world, and for protection for herself and for the medicus. She prayed that Lydia’s man would live, but that he would be of no further use as a soldier to the emperor, who should never have sent him to desecrate this land in the first place. Then she waited in silence, in case the goddess wished to speak.
A soft breeze rustled the new leaves of the oak. A movement to one side caught her attention and she saw a robin perched on the rock that marked the spring. It eyed her for a moment, then flew off.
It was not a clear message. But it was a sign that she had been heard. Tilla picked up her bag and set off along the stony path that led to her uncle’s house and to the place she had once called home.
She was walking behind a long shadow of herself. A chill in the breeze lifting the shawl reminded her that the night would be cold and that nothing in her bag would keep her warm. She quickened her pace.
She could see the house now. On her left was the flat land where the stream rested before taking its journey down the hill. Cows were grazing with their young around tufts of marsh grass. The far end of the field had been fenced off, and a couple of sheep were settling down for the night in the shelter of the hurdles. Beyond them, the field was empty. As she approached, she could see that someone seemed to have been digging up the ground. A pile of stone had been collected and dumped on the far side of the enclosure. Propped against the stone were a hand cart, two spades, and a pick. Drawing closer, she could make out orange rust on the blade of the pick. Careless, she thought. Da would never have allowed that. Tools were precious. They should be oiled and put away.
She dropped her bag into the long grass and leaned over the wall. Slashed through the rough turf in front of her were two long straight ditches that met at a right angle. Heavy foundation stones had been laid in them. The ditches followed lines marked out by twine stretched between wooden pegs. More twine and pegs formed the other sides of a large rectangle, with its long side facing south toward the path and out over the green valley. Tilla frowned. She knew what this was, but she had never seen anything like it here before. She could not imagine what Da would have said about it. Mam would have warned whoever it was about the anger of the gods. Her brothers would have scoffed. What a stupid place to put a grand Roman house.
She shouldered her bag again, calling out a greeting as she approached her uncle’s home. A skinny hound appeared from an outbuilding, rushed across the yard, and flung itself at the gate, barking furiously. She drew back. She and this dog did not know each other.
“Hush!” she urged it. “I have not come to hurt you!” But the animal could hear nothing over its own din.
From inside the round house, someone yelled at the dog to shut up. It took no notice. Moments later a lank-haired woman in a dingy tunic emerged, folded her arms, and shouted, “What do you want?”
Evidently the gods had not favored her uncle. This was not the standard of welcome—or of woman—anyone would have found here in the old days.
The woman snatched up a stick, shrieked, “Will you shut up, dog?” and strode down toward the gate. The animal saw her approach, gave a last defiant bark, and slunk away.
“He is a good guard dog,” remarked Tilla, not adding that he would be better if he were properly fed and trained by someone who knew what they were doing.
“He is a nuisance,” retorted the woman, placing a protective hand over the top of the gatepost. “What do you want?”
Tilla, dispensing with the usual greetings since the woman clearly knew nothing about politeness, said, “I have come to visit my uncle.”
“We haven’t got any uncles here.”
“Who is your master?” demanded Tilla, realizing with relief that this was a servant and not a wife.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “We work for Catavignus the brewer.”
“Catavignus is my father’s brother. My family used to live up on the hill.”
The woman backed away. “That family are all dead. Killed.”
Tilla frowned. “How do you know this?”
“Everyone knows it.”
“Everyone is wrong,” she said. “My name is Darlughdacha, niece of Catavignus.” She could not help the smile from showing. “And I am come home at last!”
Instead of smiling back the woman looked around as if she was hoping someone would appear to tell her what to do. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “We’ve only been here two years.”
“Where is my uncle?”
“He lives in town.”
“You mean outside the fort?”
“Near the bathhouse.”
Tilla stared at her in disbelief. “I have just come from there!” It seemed her uncle was in a house yards away from the one where she had left Lydia. She had walked all the way up here for nothing.
The woman eyed her for a moment. “I expect you’re wanting to come in, then?”
“I am tired.”
The woman shifted her hand on the gate. “I suppose, if you really are the master’s kin . . .”
“My uncle will thank you,” promised Tilla, hoping it was true.
The woman untwisted the frayed loop of twine that held the gate to the post. “The master doesn’t allow strangers on the land,” she explained, dragging the gate just wide enough to let Tilla squeeze through. “We don’t want trouble ’round here.”
Tilla had seen plenty of trouble here in the past, none of which would have been stopped by an inhospitable woman with a half-starved dog.
“We don’t want to get tangled up with the rebels,” said the woman, tying the gate and setting off up the yard toward the house. “The gods have sent us enough problems already. We sacrificed a lamb but it didn’t make any difference. My husband says we’re cursed.”
“What rebels?”
“There isn’t much to offer you. Only a drop of beer, or milk.”
“I will have milk,” said Tilla.
“What rebels?”
The woman seemed surprised that she needed to ask the question. “I hear they call themselves warriors. Followers of some Messenger of Cernunnos.”
“I have seen him!”
The woman frowned. “I do not want to.”
Tilla followed her past a scrubby vegetable patch. The thatch above her uncle’s porch was collapsing and there were unfilled cracks in the walls. Evidently the curse these people were suffering from was laziness.
“Nobody knows the name of this messenger,” said the woman. “He wants to throw the army off our lands. His warriors turn up asking for hospitality and no sooner is it given than the soldiers come and arrest everyone for harboring criminals. Sometimes they burn the house and take all the livestock.”
“The warriors?”
“The soldiers. To teach a lesson. That’s why the master says we mustn’t let anyone in. If there’s any trouble here we will be turned out.”
“I have not come to cause trouble.”
“Wait there,” said the woman, pushing open the door and kicking something out of the way as she entered the house.
Tilla seated herself on a heavy log set under the eaves. Her feet were aching. Her shoulder was stiff from the weight of the bag. She leaned back against the cracked wall and closed her eyes. Last night’s grand room at the inn seemed a thousand miles away, and not so bad after all.
“This is all we have.”
Tilla opened her eyes to see a very small cup of milk being offered. She wondered if the household was genuinely short of milk. With three cows in the paddock, it did not seem likely. But perhaps Catavignus had most of his produce delivered into town.
“Nobody told us you were coming.”
“No,” agreed Tilla. “I am sure they did not.”
“My husband will have to talk to the master. This is only a poor house for servants now.”
“Who is building the house with corners?”
The woman frowned. “That house has nothing to do with us. We don’t know anything about it. The builders do as they please. We just look after the master’s land.”
