by Ruth Downie
Getting rid of Felix, of course, had not been part of anybody’s wider view. Catavignus had just seized the opportunity to solve his own debt problems and get rid of an unsuitable suitor for his daughter. Implicating Rianorix had been a smart move, though. Rianorix was a known rebel sympathizer who had asked awkward questions about the loss of Tilla’s family. Once he had made a threat against a soldier he was definitely ripe for clearing up.
He supposed they would execute Catavignus. It was a messy solution to a messy problem. And an ironic one, because the man had been struggling to establish, in his own twisted way, a civilized town full of loyal Romans on the very edge of the barbarian world.
The proprietor of We Sell Everything was standing outside his shop with his arms folded. Behind him, a small figure was sweeping the step. The trouble was, prosperity here depended on the presence of the soldiers, and the presence of the soldiers depended on the whim of the emperor, and that was beyond mortal prediction. By the time Thessalus’s daughter had children of her own, this fort could be sunk back into the ground, the bathhouse in ruins, the houses rotted away, and sheep wandering over the great green swell of rampart on which he was now standing. Or, whoever was emperor could have decided to launch another building project like Deva: a grand reminder of Rome’s power set in stone. That had been Catavignus’s vision. It was a fine vision for a ruler with legions at his command, but played out on a smaller stage by a provincial brewer with a borrowed knife, it was simply—
Ruso’s deep musings skidded to a halt. He clattered down the steps, dodging past a surprised sentry who was halfway up, and sprinted toward the gates.
“Tilla!” he shouted, sliding on the gravel and barely bothering to return the salute of the gate guards who stepped aside to let him pass. “Tilla!”
She paused, using one knee to lift the big brass cooking pot around which her arms were encircled. She was back in her own clothes now: the old blue tunic, the shawl, and the battered boots.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye,” he said. “I didn’t know where to find you.”
“Aemilia will stay away until it is all over,” said Tilla, not needing to explain what she was referring to. “Rianorix is no friend of the Romans but he will make sure the brewery men do their work for her.”
He could not resist saying, “What does a basket maker know about brewing?”
“The men know what to do. And they know that if they fail, he has the power of the curse. Look what he made Catavignus do to Felix.”
“I suppose so,” he said, realizing sadly that he would never now have the time to argue her into a more rational position.
She seemed not to know what to say either. “I have come into town to buy this,” she told him, lifting the pot. “Rianorix has nothing left, and we do not trust him to go shopping.”
“I see.” What was he supposed to say now? That he hoped they all cooked many fine meals in it and lived to a happy old age?
“Dari liked you so much she has run away to Ulucium to find herself a legionary,” said Tilla. “Lydia is working for Susanna now.”
“Ah,” said Ruso. “Good.” No doubt Lydia and her child would find a home here among the rest of the strays washed up on the shores of the empire.
Tilla was looking past him and down the street. “Is that—?”
He followed her gaze. “Yes,” he said, seeing Valens and his very new wife. “They spent most of the night trying to make the Second Spear a grandfather. I know because I was in the next bedroom.”
“She is allowed into the fort?”
“Valens seems to have weaseled his way into the governor’s favor,” explained Ruso. “Or perhaps the gate guards didn’t dare to argue with her.”
“Or perhaps because she is a Roman.”
Ruso shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Where will you go now?”
“I haven’t decided,” he said. Going west would reunite him with Postumus and the men from the Twentieth. Going south would take him back to Deva, where he could slot into the role Valens had vacated. He doubted the army would care which of them was at which post. He had a feeling that sooner or later they would all be going north anyway, unless Rome found a new and painless way of rooting out the Stag Man and any other similarly minded rabble-rousers from the relative safety of the tribes beyond the border.
“And I suppose,” he added casually, “since you’re inexplicably fond of him, you’ll marry Rianorix and have lots of blond babies.”
“Blond babies, yes. That would be nice.”
“Yes.” He scratched his jaw. “Good.” He was not going to beg. He had decided as he lay awake last night that the most dignified way to deal with the loss of Tilla was to pretend this had been his intention all along. As if he were releasing a pet creature back out into the wild before it became too dangerous to live with. “In that case,” he said, “I suppose I should thank you for, um . . . well. You know. Lots of things.”
She glanced down at her scarred right arm, curled around the cooking pot. “And I must thank you too. I will pray for you.”
He hesitated. “I do realize you meant well with the stolen money.”
“And you with the room at the inn.”
“Yes,” he said. “Tell me. Would you have used that knife on me?”
She paused. “I would have been sorry afterward.”
It was not the answer he had been hoping for.
She shifted her grip on the cooking pot again.
He said, “I expect you’ll want to be getting back.”
“I have to take this,” she said, glancing down into the pot.
“Yes,” he said. “Well, um—this is rather difficult, isn’t it?”
“I will make it easy for you,” she said, turning her back on him and walking away.
92
THE GOLDEN FLEECE was open for business, but Ruso was not going to make the same mistake twice. There was plenty of time to get to the next town before dark, and he had stocked up on food at Susanna’s. He had also salved a small part of his ailing conscience by leaving the last of the stolen money with Susanna, who had promised to pass it on to Aemilia as an investment in the brewery. Finally Susanna had revealed that she was the one who had summoned help to get Catavignus out of the burning malt house.
“I’m in your debt,” Ruso said.
“I never liked the man,” she said, “But he was a fellow member of the guild. And if we don’t help each other in a place like this, what hope is there for any of us?”
He slowed the horse, reached into the saddlebag, and drew out a sausage in pastry. The secret of happiness, he reminded himself, was to enjoy simple pleasures, and not to spoil that enjoyment by thinking about the past. Or the future. About how empty the house would seem when he got back to Deva. Or about how different things would have been if he had never volunteered for this wretched posting in the north. Valens was wrong. He didn’t like to be miserable. Being miserable was no fun at all.
He had just sunk his teeth into the pastry when he heard fast hoof-beats approaching from behind. He nudged the horse aside to give the messenger plenty of room.
Instead of passing, the rider reined in his horse and drew up alongside. Ruso sighed and prepared to abandon his lunch for another medical emergency.
“Where is your chair and your boxes?” demanded an unexpectedly familiar voice.
“I’m having them sent down later,” he said, staring at her. “You haven’t ridden all this way to remind me about lost luggage, have you?”
She said, “I have been walking home with the cooking pot and thinking about you.”
“I see.”
“And about Aemilia. And about Rianorix.”
“I see.”
“You are right; I am very fond of Rianorix.”
“That’s obvious.”
“He is brave and honorable and handsome, even with his front tooth knocked out.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“He is like a
brother to me,” she said. “We were children together. I understand his mind.”
“I see.”
“But he is not very clever,” she said. “Aemilia tells him to do things and he does them. He is selling the beer to Susanna who is selling it to the army. He does not like the army. But he is happy because he can give all his friends free beer.”
“I see.”
“He would have died for Aemilia,” she said. “He would not die for me.”
Ruso did not know what to say.
“So I tell him I am not going to marry him. He can ask her if he wants.”
“I see.”
“You are saying I see a lot. Never mind what you see. What are you thinking?”
He surveyed her for a moment, wondered if she had stolen the horse, and decided he didn’t care. “I am thinking,” he said, “that the sun has brought the freckles out on your nose. And I am thinking that it will be very lonely back in Deva without you.”
“I will tell you what I am thinking now,” she said. “I am thinking that perhaps you are still wondering whether I want to marry you.”
“Ah.” So she had heard after all. He shifted in the saddle and wondered what to say. The last person he knew who had withdrawn a proposal to a British girl had ended up dead in a back alley.
“But I do not want to marry you because you are foreign and you do not trust me.”
“You did threaten to stick a knife in my back,” he pointed out, feeling relieved and faintly ashamed.
She said, “You were working for Metellus.”
“So were you.”
She did not reply. He broke off half of the pastry and handed it to her. Ahead of them a native couple were bumping toddler twins along the road in a handcart.
“Tell me something, Tilla,” he said. “In this place the man is expected to bring money to the marriage and the girl’s family doesn’t have to pay a dowry?”
“That is right. A bride price.”
“Hm.”
She said, “Now what are you thinking?”
“I am thinking,” he said, “that if you promise to keep away from the knives, perhaps I should introduce you to my stepmother.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There was “serious trouble” in Britannia at the start of Hadrian’s reign, but fortunately for novelists hardly any of the details have yet come to light. What we do know is that shortly after this story is set, the need to separate the Romans from the Barbarians became so pressing that the border was solidified into Hadrian’s Wall.
The Tenth Batavians rode into existence during the planning of the novel. At present nobody knows who manned the wooden fort that stood at Corbridge in 118. Present-day visitors to the site will find fascinating remains, but Ruso would have been a great-grandfather by the time most of the stones now visible were laid, and the civilian settlement that once spread across the surrounding fields can only be seen in archaeological records and crop marks. The river, of course, remains.
Lest anyone should wonder, there is plenty of evidence for the widespread consumption of beer and wine among Batavian and other units stationed farther along the border at Vindolanda. Sometimes authors don’t need to make things up.
The Votadini, however, deserve an apology. For all I know they may have been a fun-loving and friendly bunch not at all given to rape and pillage. Apart from their names, we know precious little about most of the British tribes in the area at the time, and all the contemporary histories were written by Romans. I hope any ancestors watching from the next world—and their descendants—will forgive the guesswork, invention, and slander with which I have padded out the available sources.
Anyone who wants a more dependable account of the times will enjoy:
Women in Roman Britain, 2nd ed., Lindsay Allason-Jones
Garrison Life at Vindolanda: a Band of Brothers, Anthony Birley
Roman Medicine, Audrey Cruse
A Brief History of the Druids, Peter Beresford Ellis
The Gods of the Celts, Miranda Green
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would have been considerably worse without the generous assistance of several people.
Georgina Plowright, Dr. Martin Weaver, Barbara Evans Rees, and Terry Frain all provided help with the archaeology. Lindsay Allason-Jones advised on Roman rings, Alison Samuels advised on Latin, and Veldicca would have had fewer problems with her bees if she had consulted David Chantler. (Incidentally, “king” bees can be found in the works of Pliny the Elder.)
Suggestions and sources on medicine ancient and modern were kindly provided by Professor John Scarborough and Dr. Vicki Finnegan.
Mari Evans, Gillian Blake, Peta Nightingale, and Araminta Whitley gave a huge amount of editorial advice, and Kathy Barbour, Guy Russell, Sian Parrett, and Kate Weaver read through the manuscript and made helpful suggestions.
None of the above holds any responsibility for any errors which may have resulted from my inexpert mangling of the help they provided.
Finally, thanks to family and friends who put up with my grumbling, to Lynda Preston, who now knows far more about the Romans than she ever wanted to, and to Andy Downie, a husband of (almost) infinite patience.
KEEP READING!
More intrigue and bad luck lie ahead for Gaius Petreius Ruso. Turn the page for a sneak preview of the next installment in the Medicus series,
PERSONA NON GRATA
At long last, Gaius Petreius Ruso and his companion, Tilla, are headed home—to Gaul. Having received a note consisting only of the words “COME HOME!,” Ruso has (reluctantly, of course) pulled up stakes and brought Tilla to meet his family.
But the reception there is not what Ruso has hoped for: no one will admit to sending for him, and his brother Lucius is hoping he’ll leave. With Tilla getting icy greetings from his relatives, Lucius’s brother-in-law mysteriously drowned at sea, and the whole Ruso family teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, it’s hard to imagine an unhappier reunion. That is, until Severus, the family’s chief creditor, winds up dead, and the real trouble begins . . .
The new novel by Ruth Downie
PERSONA NON GRATA
Hardcover $24.00
Bloomsbury USA
Available wherever books are sold
1
JUST US WAS LYING in the stinking dark of the ship’s hold, bruised and beaten, feeling every breath twist hot knives in his chest.
The light that trickled in through the cracks in the hull showed the angle of the ladder above him. Beyond it, thin bright lines betrayed the bad seal around the hatch. He remembered the slam, and the rattle of the bolts. Now he heard the sharp yell of a reprimand over the thumps and footfalls up on the deck of the Pride of the South, a ship that could hardly have been less appropriately named.
Whatever they were up to, it seemed he didn’t need to die for it. If they planned to kill him they could simply have thrown him overboard. Perhaps they would maroon him on a remote island somewhere while they sailed off to enjoy spending his master’s money. He would eat berries, spear fish, and wait to be rescued. Sooner or later he would return home, thinner and browner and with a well-rehearsed apology to his master.
He forced himself into a sitting position just as the ship heeled to starboard. Cold bilge that should not have been near the cargo sloshed over his legs. Beneath him, he felt the stacked amphorae slide out of position and begin to tip and roll with the movement of the ship. Dark shapes swarmed out from amongst them and ran squealing along the sides of the hold.
“Hey!” he shouted, grasping at the ladder to steady himself and wincing at the pain in his chest. “Captain!”
No response.
“Copreus!” Justus banged on the foot of the ladder with his fist before he shouted the words that should bring the crew running. “The cargo’s shifting!”
There was a muffled shout from above, then something thudding against the side of the ship, scurrying feet and the bark of orders. Between the other sounds, he was almost cert
ain he could hear waves breaking on a shore near enough to swim to.
“Hey!”
Struggling over the rolling necks of the amphorae, he pressed his face against a gap in the planking of the hull. Outside, he could see nothing but brilliant blue. He crawled back and smashed two of the loose amphorae against each other. Nothing happened. He heaved one up— thank God, for some reason this one was empty and relatively light—and swung it against the other. The heavy pottery cracked. Praying he could make a gap big enough to escape from before the sea started pouring in, he began using a broken handle to batter at the worm-eaten hull.
“Let me out!” When he stopped to catch his breath he heard footsteps retreating across the deck. There was a series of small bumps against the hull before the shout of an order and the irregular splash of rowers getting into rhythm. After that there was nothing but the creaking of wood and the slop of water.
Moments later, he smelled the burning.
For a moment he could make no sense of it. Then, ignoring the pain in his chest, he took a deep breath and shouted through the gap, “You bastards! Get me out!”
Only the sound of water. The scuffle of a rat.
“Fire! Don’t leave me here!”
Still no reply. The Pride lurched violently, rolling him up the inside of the hull and drenching him with more cold water as the amphorae crashed and tumbled around him.
“Don’t leave me!”
Smoke was seeping down into the hold, forming ghostly fingers in the thin shafts of light. The water was rising. The Pride was listing badly now, as if she were settling down on her side to sleep.
“Help me!” he screamed, the pain stabbing his chest with every movement as he struggled to get upright. He cried out in panic as he felt him-persona self slip down towards the water. Seconds later he came to rest against a fallen amphora. An expanse of long pale cylinders was shifting about in front of him.
