by Ruth Downie
‘Did you see the man who died yourself?’
The lad explained that he had heard the dog barking and realized nobody was around. He had opened the gate himself to let in the visitor and his horse and gone to fetch someone — Mistress Cassiana was the only one he could find — from the house.
‘I’ll say the man was ill when he got here if that’s what the master wants me to say, miss,’ he offered, ‘but it’s not true. Like I told the master, the horse was lame, but I didn’t notice nothing wrong with the man on top.’
25
‘Want, want, want!’ exclaimed the cook, waving a vegetable knife towards the kitchen ceiling. ‘Always somebody wanting something. You don’t need a cook, you need a magician.’
‘That’s the nature of cooking, I believe,’ said Ruso. He had arrived back from town hot and tired and banished the protesting Marcia and Flora to their room. He was not in the mood for another argument.
‘First mistress wants a grand dinner,’ exclaimed the cook. ‘With what, I’d like to know? I can’t show my face in town till the bills are paid. Then after I’ve gone to all the trouble she decides everyone’s too upset to eat it, and she just wants a tray in her room.’ The knife sliced down through the air and stabbed into the tabletop, narrowly missing the startled kitchen-boy. ‘How can I work if nobody makes their minds up? The fire’s gone out …’ In case Ruso could not see this for himself, the point of the knife was now jabbed towards the dead coals under the grill. ‘And we’ve washed up. If you’ve changed your minds again, it’s no good. It’s too late.’
‘All I’m after is something simple and quick to eat,’ said Ruso, leaning back against the doorpost and folding his arms, ‘and some information about what happened to our visitor this afternoon.’
‘I see. Blame the staff, eh?’
‘Information,’ repeated Ruso. ‘And put the knife down first.’
‘I don’t know a thing about it.’ The knife flashed towards the kitchen-boy, who was cowering in the corner. ‘He doesn’t know a thing either. It’s no good asking him.’
‘The knife?’ Ruso reminded him, wondering if the man was genuinely deranged or just an out-of-work actor.
The cook looked at the knife as if it had just appeared in his hand, turned it over to inspect it, then wiped it on his apron and put it back down on the table beside the sharpening-stone. ‘We don’t know anything. We were getting ready for a dinner. We didn’t have time to hang around gawping. Try asking the cleaning girls.’
‘When the visitor arrived this afternoon, someone gave him a drink.’
‘That one with all the children — Mistress Cassiana. Not us.’
Ruso frowned. ‘She must have got the crockery from here. Where is it now?’
The cook gestured to the kitchen-boy, who stepped forward and pulled a stool out from beneath the table. He clambered on to it and reached up to a shelf that housed a set of slender glasses and a matching jug wisely stored out of harm’s way. He retrieved the jug and one glass.
‘You’ve washed them?’ asked Ruso.
‘Straight away,’ said the cook. ‘The man dropped dead. I’m not letting somebody else drink out of that glass without washing it first. If they dropped dead too it’d be my fault, wouldn’t it?’
Ruso turned to the kitchen-boy. ‘I suppose you washed the jug as well?’
His pessimism was justified. Apparently keeping the crockery clean was all part of maintaining standards in the modern kitchen.
Ruso examined the glass and the jug. He sniffed them. He ran his forefinger along the smooth inner surfaces, peered at the finger and then gave it a tentative lick.
‘Clean?’ demanded the cook, as if he were daring Ruso to say otherwise.
‘Pristine,’ agreed Ruso, unhappily. His household’s cavalier attitude towards evidence was not going to look good. ‘What was in it?’
Apparently the visitor had wanted nothing but water. The boy had been despatched to the well to fetch a cool supply, but he had not seen the visitor. Mistress Cassiana had taken it to the hall herself.
‘So there must have been a time when she was waiting here for the water and Severus was alone?’
The cook looked as if this was a trick question. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got enough to cope with in here, without worrying about everybody else. It’s not my fault.’
‘I didn’t say it was,’ said Ruso, wondering how many times he had heard that phrase since he arrived home. He put the glassware back on the shelf and helped himself to some sort of pastry from a baking-tray on the table. ‘Sorry about the mix-up over dinner. We’ll try not to have any more visitors drop dead. In the meantime, what else is there to eat?’
The cook looked around at the barren surfaces of the modern tidy kitchen. Then he lifted the lid off a clay pot. ‘Testicle?’
*
‘I hope he came cheap?’ inquired Ruso, meeting Lucius in the corridor outside the kitchen. ‘What happened to what’s-her-name?’
‘Part exchange,’ explained Lucius. ‘What’s-her-name went to the contractor as payment for the paint job in the dining room. Don’t look at me like that, Gaius. She was quite happy to go.’
‘I’d rather have what’s-her-name in the kitchen than a bunch of cupids dancing round the walls of the dining room. Can’t we sell him and get somebody more suitable?’
Lucius sighed. ‘Gaius, when was the last time you bought a cook? Have you any idea how much a good one costs?’
‘No,’ conceded Ruso, who had only discovered what Tilla’s cooking was really like when it was too late to get rid of her.
‘He’s perfectly all right if you don’t upset him,’ said Lucius. ‘You haven’t been in there accusing him of poisoning Severus, have you?’
‘No,’ said Ruso. ‘And now I’m going to go round not accusing everybody else. Including you. Did you see or hear anything of Severus between the time he arrived and the time he was taken ill?’
‘I was busy in the winery. I didn’t even know he was here. Cass dealt with him.’
‘I’ll talk to her later.’ Cassiana had gone to fetch the children from one of the neighbours. ‘In the meantime we need to get all the servants except the kitchen staff and the stable lad lined up, and I’ll interview them in the study one by one.’
‘You mean I need to get them lined up so you can interview them?’
It was exactly what Ruso had meant, but only now did he realize how it sounded. He said, ‘This sort of thing seems to be part of my job over in Britannia.’
‘Poisoning people?’
‘Investigating unexplained deaths.’
‘If you’d listened to me in the first place, nobody would be investigating anything.’
‘What would have happened if Severus’ own doctor discovered he was poisoned and I’d said he wasn’t?’
Whatever Lucius might have said in response was lost below a clatter of footsteps along the hallway and Arria’s cry of ‘Oh, Gaius, this is dreadful!’
‘We’ll sort it out,’ he promised. ‘We just need to stay calm and — ’
‘Oh, never mind that! I mean, nobody’s been to tell Lollia we’ve cancelled dinner, and she’ll be getting dressed!’
26
Lollia Saturnina’s establishment was a model of neatness. The drying amphorae were laid out in military ranks to catch the late-afternoon sun. The fuel was in stacks of uniform height. Vegetables were standing to attention in their beds, and beyond them, past a row of freshly painted outbuildings, a slave was stationed by the entrance of a kiln that towered above two blackened fire-holes. She was busy emptying a trolley of wide-shouldered amphorae, heaving them up to a man whose voice boomed around the hollow oven in which he was stacking them ready for firing.
Ruso approached the woman and indicated the house on the far side of the yard. ‘Do you know if your mistress is in?’
‘No,’ said the woman, wiping her fingers on her worn brown tunic. ‘I’m here.’
Ruso swallowed. ‘You’re L
ollia Saturnina?’
‘Yes.’
He had not made a good start. Ruso took in the ancient tunic, the battered sandals, the hair tied back with a simple braid. She was wearing neither jewellery nor make-up, but neither did she need them. To his consternation, beneath the pale smears of dried clay was a very attractive woman.
The woman leaned forward, called, ‘Just a minute!’ into the entrance of the kiln and was rewarded with an echoing ‘Right-oh, mistress!’
‘Perhaps,’ she prompted, moving away from the entrance, ‘when you’ve finished staring, you could tell me who you are and why you’re here.’
‘Ruso,’ he explained. ‘I live next door.’
‘Ah, Gaius Petreius, the famous medic! Your stepmother’s very proud of you.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t worry, she did warn me.’
‘About what?’
‘That women make you nervous. But apparently you’re a nice chap underneath. So could we get underneath fairly soon, do you think? I’m no good at social chit-chat either, and I need to get this finished and clean up.’
Ruso cleared his throat. ‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No, I do this all the time.’
‘I just wasn’t expecting you to be so …’
‘Scruffy? Don’t worry, I will dress up for dinner.’
Ruso bit back the honest but inappropriate ‘attractive’ and substituted ‘forthright’.
She smiled. The gap between her front teeth only added to her charm. He wondered why nobody had told him and then remembered that Arria had tried: he just hadn’t believed her.
‘Now, what did you want to say to me?’
Ruso had practised various ways of describing the problem on the walk through the olive grove that adjoined Lollia’s property. All explanations of the afternoon’s events sounded either evasive or callous. In the end he settled for: ‘Arria’s sorry, but we can’t do dinner tonight because a man who came to see us this afternoon died in my study.’
‘Oh dear.’
It was not clear whether she was expressing regret about the death or the dinner.
‘He wasn’t a patient,’ Ruso added, then wished he hadn’t. ‘Not that that matters, of course.’
‘No. Who was it?’
He explained.
Lollia said, ‘Poor Claudia.’
‘Poor Claudia,’ he echoed, silently recalling the bitch has poisoned me.
There was an awkward pause, then Lollia bent to heave up the next amphora.
‘I expect Arria will want to rearrange,’ he said.
The gap-toothed smile appeared again. ‘I expect so.’
‘You might as well know,’ he said, ‘I think he was poisoned. But it wasn’t us who did it.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘That he was poisoned, or that it wasn’t us?’
‘Both,’ she said, looking at him over the neck of the amphora. ‘I met Severus several times. Frankly, Claudia’s made some very bad decisions in the last few years. Now if you’ll excuse me, we need to get this fired up before it gets dark. Ready, Marius? Next one coming up!’
27
While Tilla slept beside him, Ruso lay staring into the darkness and wondering what he was supposed to do with the bitch has poisoned me. Despite consulting his medical textbooks and questioning most of the household, he was no further forward with finding out what had killed Severus, nor how it had been administered. Everyone had been going about their usual business, and hardly anyone had noticed the visitor before he drew attention to himself by dying. Arria had been having her hair done in her room and was only disturbed by the commotion in the study. Ruso could find only one additional sighting of the live Severus, but the laundrymaid had paid little attention as she passed through the hall and noticed him sitting on a stool. In reply to ‘How did he look?’ she said, ‘I think he was wearing a brown — ’
‘I mean, did he look well?’
The girl thought about this for some time before venturing the opinion that the visitor had been looking hot and cross.
‘But he didn’t look ill?’
‘No, sir. Just hot and cross, like you.’
The only person he had not yet questioned was Cass, who had arrived home late with the children, organized the farm slaves’ supper, dealt with a tantrum from Little Gaius and invited Tilla to join her in a late retreat to the bath-house. He would talk to her tomorrow.
The bitch has poisoned me.
At the time he had assumed that Severus was accusing either his wife or his sister, but now he realized those words could equally well have been directed at Cass. Of course, it was ridiculous to imagine that Cassiana would poison anybody, but …
‘I know you are not asleep,’ came a voice from the other side of the bed. ‘Are you angry with me about your sisters?’
‘Uh? No. It was obvious they were lying.’
‘You are thinking about the man who is dead,’ she guessed. ‘How everyone will think you killed him because you owe him money and he married your old wife.’
‘Everyone would be wrong.’
‘I know this.’
‘Good. Go to sleep, Tilla.’
‘I know, because killing him here would be very stupid.’
‘Killing him anywhere would be very stupid.’ He sighed, rolled over and reached a hand around her. ‘I’m glad someone married my old wife,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Go to sleep.’
She shifted to get comfortable against him. ‘What sort of poison he is dead from?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you catch his last breath? What did he say?’
When he did not answer she said, ‘You are still not asleep. Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me what he said.’
‘Did Cass say anything about it while you were in the baths?’
‘We talked about her brother. She does not know what to do. Her husband says she must make her mind up.’
He said, ‘I promised her I’d try to help, but I haven’t had time.’
‘She understands. What will happen about the money you owe, now the man is dead?’
He said, ‘While you were over at the baths I went through the chest in the study. There’s a stack of bills from traders in town that haven’t even been opened. And a tax assessment. None of them’s big enough to prompt a bankruptcy, but word gets round. Some of the bigger creditors might start calling their loans in.’
He felt the tremor of a giggle. ‘Not if they think you will poison them.’
‘It’s not funny, Tilla. Yesterday I was just threatened with disgrace. Now if the Gabinii turn nasty they could have me tried for murder.’
‘That is not funny,’ she agreed. ‘So, what did he say?’
‘Go to sleep, Tilla. It’s the middle of the night. I have to go and see Claudia tomorrow.’
‘Claudia, the old wife.’ Tilla kicked away a tangle of sheet and pulled it straight. ‘Will you tell her what he said?’
‘Yes. It’s only fair that she knows first.’
She fell silent.
He was drifting away from the worries of the day when he heard: ‘Cass says the rich widow next door is very pretty.’
‘Yes, she is. Go to sleep.’
‘If all those people want their money back, and you are not accused of murder, will you try to marry her?’
‘Go to sleep.’
A cool draught forced him back into consciousness as she flung back the bedding. ‘I will go to my own bed.’
‘No!’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her back against him.
Far beyond the open window, some small night creature shrieked as it fell prey to a larger one.
He said, ‘I need you.’
28
Tilla had once seen a picture of grape-treaders painted on the side of a fancy wine jug. It had seemed a delightful job: a jolly group of slaves dancing in a sunlit trough to the music of a flute. There were mountains behind and, in the foreground,
shining juice pouring from the trough into a vat.
The reality was not jolly at all. They were working in the shade of the winery, it was true, but even at this hour of the morning it was hot in here with the sun baking the roof-tiles and the walls holding back the breeze. It was surprising how quickly the thighs began to ache from trampling up and down in the shallow basin. Nor was it kind to the arms. To stop herself losing her footing in the warm slop, Tilla was having to change her grip ever more frequently on the rope that dangled from the rafters.
They could get a donkey to do this, she thought, pausing as a shadow fell across the rows of fat jars set in the floor and one of the vineyard workers strode in with another basketload to upend all over her feet. They could attach a donkey to a pole and make it walk round and round. And round. And round. Although she supposed a donkey might relieve itself all over the grapes. She was tempted to wee in that horrible woman’s grape juice herself, except that it would not be fair on Galla, who would also have to stand in it.
At least the other workers had left them alone. The men were convinced that having women’s feet crushing the grapes this morning would bring bad luck on the precious vintage. Instead of telling them not to be so silly, the Medicus’ brother had said he would find them something else to do.
‘He is being kind, miss,’ explained Galla after he had gone. ‘All the other jobs he could give us are out in the sun.’
Privately Tilla thought he was being cowardly. Surely the stepmother could not tell him who should work on his own farm?
Galla’s face was still red on one side where Arria had slapped it. Tilla suspected she herself had only escaped being struck because Arria was afraid of what the Medicus would say about it when he came back from consoling the old wife.
She had expected that yesterday’s fuss over the runaway sisters would be forgotten this morning, eclipsed by the mysterious death of the man in the study. She was wrong. The girls, finally released from their room, had emerged to offer Tilla a sulky apology for getting lost. Immediately the apology was accepted, they proceeded to blame her for their woes. Why had she made such a great fuss about nothing, running off all over the town ‘instead of waiting for us like Galla does’?
