by Ruth Downie
Tilla wondered if the girl’s rudeness had something to do with the heat inside her unnecessary layers of clothing. ‘Are we going to look for earrings?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Marcia’s smile was surprisingly childlike. ‘The most beautiful earrings you’ve ever seen!’
They had hardly gone ten paces when there was a yell from further down the street. An announcer had stationed himself at a crossroads and was shouting something about games being given to the people by the generous benefactor the magistrate Gabinius Fuscus. After more nonsense about how wonderful this Fuscus was, the man unrolled a scroll and read out a list of attractions that could be seen at the amphitheatre in five days’ time.
Several passers-by paused to listen: most carried on about their business while the man announced the promised horrors as if he were personally proud of them.
‘And you think you are better than me!’ Tilla murmured, ashamed that she did not dare to say it loud enough to get herself into trouble. She wanted to do as she had always done back in Deva: to cover her ears and walk away. She did not want to hear what this Fuscus — one of the Medicus’ people — was planning to inflict on men and animals in the name of entertainment. But what difference would it make? One foreigner’s disgust would change nothing, and sympathy for the victims would not alter their fate.
It was Marcia who caused the commotion. It was Marcia who screamed, ‘No!’ and flung herself at the announcer, trying to grab the scroll and shouting, ‘It’s not true! Show me where it says that! You’re making it up!’
The announcer backed away and made feeble attempts to beat her off with the scroll, clearly worried about doing too much damage to a well-dressed young lady. Finally Flora and Tilla hauled her back, Tilla seizing one end of the green stole and wrapping it across Marcia’s face so she was left floundering in the middle of the street as the announcer retreated and Flora shouted, ‘Just leave her to us! She’s mad!’ to the surprised onlookers.
‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ hissed Flora as they hustled her sister around the corner and thrust her into the shade of a doorway.
Tilla released the stole, and Marcia snatched it away from her face. ‘Sharp weapons!’ she cried. ‘He said they were using sharp weapons!’
‘Oh, of course they won’t!’ Flora reassured her. ‘It’s fixed. Gladiator fights are always fixed. Everybody knows that.’
‘They are not fixed!’ retorted Marcia. ‘The best fighters win. On merit.’
‘Then he’ll be all right, won’t he?’
‘You don’t understand!’
‘Tertius will be all right,’ insisted Flora. ‘He’ll make lots of money and buy himself out. Come and look at the earrings.’
‘This is all Gaius’ fault! If he had arranged the dowries, none of this would be happening.’
‘You can’t do anything about that,’ pointed out Flora while Tilla wondered what dowries had to do with gladiators, and indeed what Marcia had to do with this particular gladiator called Tertius.
‘We might as well go and look at earrings now we’re here,’ urged Flora.
Marcia’s lips pursed as if she was considering what to do. Finally she said, ‘All right. But I shan’t enjoy it now.’
15
Lucius had pointed out the previous night that the bath-boy was willing to cut hair, but the sight of Lucius’ hair was not encouraging. They were in so much debt now that a couple of coins for a professional job would make little difference. No doubt Arria would see it as an investment.
There was no mirror at the barber’s, but Ruso’s chin was smooth and his head refreshingly cool as he made his way through the narrow streets. There were competing election slogans amongst the usual announcements and nonsense daubed on the walls of the houses, including one unlikely claim that ‘all the town prostitutes say vote for Gabinius Fuscus!’ Underneath in larger letters was the assertion that all the followers of Christos were in support of one of his rivals. The prostitutes would have no vote, and unless the followers of Christos had enjoyed a sudden surge of popularity while he was away, their endorsement was unlikely to be welcome. Presumably each candidate was attempting to smear the other with these bizarre claims of support. Ruso was not sorry his father had never stood for election.
When he reached the house of the man supposedly favoured by all the town prostitutes, Ruso found that Fuscus had discovered a new way of showing off. He had set up benches outside his house for his many clients to gather upon in full view of the street as they assembled to greet him each morning. Already it was standing room only, and the official exhortations to Vote for Gabinius Fuscus! painted in red lettering were half obscured by the hangers-on who were now blocking the pavement. If the importance of a man could be judged by the number of people who turned up at his house every morning to pay their respects — or perhaps their debts — then Fuscus was a very important man indeed.
He was certainly more important now than the previous owner of the house, a political rival who had decided to challenge Fuscus over some alleged electoral corruption. Halfway through the case, the man had been mysteriously murdered by a robber in a back alley. Within months, Fuscus had bought the house at a knock-down price from his widow. No wonder so many people took the view that it was better to be in the Gabinii camp than outside it.
Ruso approached the slave who was standing in the doorway with his arms folded and a large wooden club dangling at his side. The mention of his name left the slave’s face as blank as before.
‘It’s about an urgent legal case,’ explained Ruso, not wanting to explain in front of an audience.
The slave’s expression said that it was not urgent to him, and he was the one with the club.
Ruso moved closer and added in a tone that could only just be overheard, ‘Involving the household of the Senator,’ he said, ‘and bankruptcy.’ He sensed movement on either side of him, as if the occupants of the benches had sat up to listen.
If they had hoped to hear something scandalous about the Senator, they were disappointed. The doorman stepped smartly aside, said, ‘Go through, sir,’ and Ruso found himself promoted to a better class of waiting area. The atrium pool glistened in the sunlight, and the clients loitering in the shade of the roof that overhung on all four sides were obviously richer than those left to bake out in the street. Ruso wondered if Arria had been right: he would have made more of an impression in a toga. On the other hand a toga would look ridiculous with Army boots, and the lone attempt to manage a swathe of heavy wool and a walking stick together might have ended in disaster. The few togas in evidence were so carefully arranged that it was obvious their wearers had brought slaves with them to repair any disruption caused by movement.
After the first hour Ruso concluded that they would have done well to bring a picnic, too. And a few comfortable chairs. And maybe a dose of something to keep themselves calm while men who had arrived later were admitted first. As the courtyard gradually emptied around him, the occasional reassurances of the steward that ‘the master knows you’re here, sir’ only served to reinforce Ruso’s suspicion that Fuscus was deliberately keeping him waiting.
When the summons finally came, Fuscus’ smile was as wide as his arms, and as enticing as a crocodile’s.
‘Ruso! The image of your father!’
Ruso, noting with relief that the great man was not wearing a toga either, found himself squashed against a vast belly while its owner slapped him on the back as if he was a long-lost friend.
‘Publius would be proud,’ said Fuscus, releasing the pressure and holding him at arm’s length. ‘Look at you! Now I’ve got rid of the others, we can talk.’ He snapped his fingers, and a clerk approached. ‘Put Petreius Ruso on the list for veterans’ seats.’ The clerk bowed and retreated backwards into his corner. Fuscus returned his attention to Ruso. ‘I’m giving a day of games. You’ll enjoy it. My personal choice of gladiators and the best animal display the town’s ever seen.’ Fuscus waved one hand towards another slave. ‘Bo
y! A stool for our wounded hero. Sit down and rest the leg, Ruso.’
‘I’m not really a — ’
‘So. What are you doing these days?’
‘Extended leave,’ said Ruso, settling himself on the proffered stool and wondering how soon he could introduce the bankruptcy case that Fuscus seemed to have forgotten about. ‘I’m hoping to take on a few patients while I’m home.’
‘Of course, dear boy. Of course. Be glad to recommend you. People are always looking for doctors. Most of them to cure what the last one did, eh?’
Ruso forced a polite smile and said, ‘Fuscus, my brother tells me — ’
‘While you’re home, I want you to talk to my eldest. Boys these days! No idea. Soft as butter.’ Fuscus reached for a grape and popped it into his mouth before offering the bowl to Ruso. ‘I hire the best trainers,’ he said, pausing to spit out the pips, ‘and I’m putting on the games, but … boys today would rather lie around playing dice and sniggering over smutty poetry. They’ve seen too many cheap displays in the arena. Blunt weapons. No real danger. What are they going to learn from that? What we need is a few more men like you. Battle-hardened.’ He waved another grape towards Ruso’s leg. ‘Hurts, does it?’
‘Not now,’ said Ruso, catching himself about to call Fuscus ‘my lord’, then remembering he was just an old and more successful friend of his father. ‘And I’m not really a hero. There are plenty of men who — ’
Fuscus held out a hand to silence him. ‘Forget the modesty. It’s no good being self-effacing these days. Boy? Fan!’
A third slave stepped forward from the shadows and began to wave a feathered fan above the great man’s head. Ruso hoped the remaining figure in the background, a hefty man wearing a scowl and a large knife, would not be the next to be called into action.
‘Left a bit,’ commanded Fuscus, and as the slave obediently moved the fan into position he leaned across the desk as if he were about to share a confidence with Ruso. ‘I’m told our lads took a mauling from the natives over there.’
‘There were losses,’ agreed Ruso, carefully vague. ‘But order’s pretty much restored now. Fuscus, Lucius says — ’
‘Restored, thanks to men like you.’ Fuscus gestured towards the doors. ‘People out there,’ he said. ‘No idea what they owe to the Army.’
‘True,’ said Ruso, wondering how much idea Fuscus had himself. Men whom Ruso admired had been cut down and died in agony. Hundreds of others had survived only to face an uncertain and painful future, mutilated in mind and body. None of them would make it here to receive the honour that they deserved and he didn’t. ‘There were plenty of heroes,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t one of them. Medics don’t usually fight in the front line.’
‘Nonsense. How many men did you save?’
‘Not enough.’ Not anywhere near enough.
Fuscus scowled. ‘What did I just say about modesty?’ He stopped. ‘Not married, are you?’
‘Divorced,’ said Ruso, hastily sifting through his memory in the hope of confirming that Fuscus did not have a marriageable daughter.
‘Probus’ girl, wasn’t it? She’s done well for herself, you know. Married the agent of my cousin the Senator.’
‘So I hear,’ said Ruso, suspecting that Fuscus enjoyed the sound of ‘my cousin the Senator’. ‘Actually that’s why I — ’
‘Never mind. The point is, you’re single. Men will respect you, and women will fight over you.’
This was an alarming, if unlikely, prospect. Ruso cleared his throat. ‘You do know the agent of your cousin the Senator is threatening me with a seizure order?’
Fuscus frowned. ‘Is that still going on? Your brother came to see me. I did my best for him, as an old friend of your father, but he didn’t seem very grateful.’ He held out two pink palms. ‘My hands are tied, you see, Ruso. That’s the burden of office.’ He shook his head sadly, as if contemplating the effect of the burden in his own reflection on the desk. ‘Leadership never wins a man popularity.’
Privately Ruso doubted that Fuscus would have been popular whatever he did. At least in his current position he had influence. He could impress people by putting on games, buy them by lending them money they couldn’t repay and then employ men with large knives to demand they give it back.
‘These are difficult times, Ruso,’ Fuscus was complaining. ‘Who’d have thought we’d live to see a good man like yourself in danger of going under? And your brother. How many children is it now?’
‘Five.’
‘I hear those sisters of yours aren’t married yet.’
‘No.’
Fuscus shook his head. ‘A great shame.’ He looked up as if a good idea had only just struck him. ‘Of course, your being part of the family team might impress Severus. He’s a relative of mine, you know. Very distant. He’s a good man, but he might have been a little hasty. Doesn’t know how we do things up here. He might take some time to think before he asks for the case to be sent up to the Praetor.’
‘My being part of the family team?’ repeated Ruso, wondering if that would add Fuscus to the list of his other inescapable relatives.
‘He might be persuaded to drop it altogether. It was only ever his word against your brother’s, wasn’t it?’
‘It was,’ agreed Ruso, not adding ‘but that didn’t make any difference before.’
‘I want you with me at the games.’
‘As a medic?’ tried Ruso, without much hope.
‘I need the veterans’ votes,’ Fuscus was saying. ‘They’ll listen to you. Wear your armour so they can see who you are.’
‘I didn’t bring it home.’ Ruso was well able to imagine what the local veterans would say if a legionary medic turned up at the games clad in iron and helmet and tried to tell them who to vote for. ‘I’ve got an army belt.’
‘Will people know what it is?’
‘The people who count will,’ Ruso promised, still not clear about what he had just agreed to and appalled to find that he was already talking like a political campaigner.
Fuscus summoned the clerk. ‘Forget the veterans’ seats. I want the town’s very own life-saving war hero sitting up with me on the balcony. Ruso, remember what I said. No pretending to be modest. Everyone sees through it these days. Did I mention that Severus is here for dinner this evening?’
‘You really think you can get him to change his mind about the seizure order?’ said Ruso, trying not to picture himself hobnobbing with Fuscus’ councillor cronies at the amphitheatre.
The crocodile smile appeared again. ‘Dear boy, you’ve been away with the barbarians too long. What are friends for?’
Ruso suspected this was just the sort of equivocal answer Fuscus had given to Lucius. He said, ‘There is one other thing I wanted to ask you about.’
The smile faded.
‘On behalf of a friend.’
Fuscus’ expression lifted slightly at the prospect of making someone else beholden to him.
‘A relative of mine was on a ship from Arelate that sank a couple of months back. The Pride of the South.’
‘Probus’ man?’
‘Justinus. His sister’s trying to piece together what happened to him so she can arrange the memorial. If I wanted to find out, who would I talk to?’
Fuscus shrugged. ‘Who knows the ways of Neptune?’
‘I realize it won’t be easy.’
‘Then make up something to tell her, and don’t waste any more time on it. We’ve got campaigning to do.’ He snapped his fingers, and the clerk scurried forward. ‘Find out the names of all the local veterans with a vote and draw up a list. Ruso, I want you back here tomorrow to pick it up, and then I want you to contact each one personally on my behalf.’
The newest member of Fuscus’ team should have said yes, but all he could manage was a strangled sound in his throat.
‘One more thing, Ruso. Your little game at the gate? That’s how false rumours start. You won’t ever mention my cousin the Senator and bankruptcy in the
same sentence again. Understood?’
16
Ruso turned the corner to find another election slogan — genuine, he supposed — that told him he was not the only one who owed Fuscus some sort of favour. Evidently the local silversmiths did too. He shivered, despite the heat of the day. After that meeting, he felt in need of a wash. And a drink.
There was a snack bar on the next corner. Hunched over a cup of watered wine, he ran over the conversation again. How was he going to explain to Lucius that, in exchange for a vague promise of possible support, he had agreed to become one of Fuscus’ yes-men? He had even managed to get himself warned off asking questions about the sinking of the Pride of the South.
Ruso took a long swig of the wine. He had always supposed that, when a man made a sacrifice in a good cause — and his family was, he supposed, a good cause despite its manifold eccentricities — he would feel proud. But he had never imagined that the sacrifice would be one of self-respect.
He had expected Fuscus to ask for some kind of private favour. Something medical and embarrassing and strictly confidential. The last thing he had anticipated was being held up in front of the whole town as some kind of military hero. The thought of any genuinely invalided veteran seeing him showing off up on the grand balcony at the public games made him shudder.
He was not a hero. He had chosen to rush home and desert his remaining patients in the Legion. He had wriggled out of his sworn loyalty to his Emperor with a half-truth. He should never have listened to Valens. He should have gone to his superior officer, explained the situation, and …
… and been told to leave his domestic affairs outside the gate and get back on duty.
Sometimes, no matter how hard a man tried, it was impossible to do the right thing.
He swilled the remainder of the wine around the cup. In Britannia, the work had been gruelling, but at least his duty was clear. Here, he was expected to stave off bankruptcy and ruin while helping with a political campaign and taking an interest in dowries, drains and dinner parties. In the midst of it he had foolishly promised to help find out about Cass’s missing brother.
