by Ruth Downie
Verax said, “Flora.”
Ruso took a pace toward her. “Get out. Just go away.”
“I’m not going until you promise—”
“Out!”
Something in his voice must have told her she had gone too far. She gave a little squeak of alarm and ran for the door, with, “You’re so horrible!”
He could hear her sobbing outside.
Verax got to his feet. “I’m ready to go back to the estate now, sir.”
“I’m not ready to take you.”
“I’ll go alone, sir. I’ll hand myself in. I give you my word.”
“Your word,” Ruso told him, “is not worth a great deal.”
This time when he locked the door, he took both keys with him and sent someone to fetch the gangly young Briton he had bought in Rome. Even after several weeks in their household the slave—only bought because Tilla felt sorry for him—still spoke next to no Latin. He didn’t seem to grasp much of the local language here either, but for once his limitations were useful. Ruso placed him on guard outside the bathhouse, confident that nobody would be able to talk him into abandoning his post.
Flora had disappeared, which was good because her brother did not want to see her any more than she would want to see him. He strode over to the stables, where the lad had finished splitting the wood and was now stacking it in a neat pile against the wall of the furnace room at the back of the bathhouse. Ruso climbed briefly onto the mounting-block to check the front gate and squint at the road beyond. Still no sign of Tilla.
“It’s ridiculous a place this size only having one vehicle,” he muttered, bending to collect an armful of wood and carry it across to the stack.
The stable lad stood beside him, slotting fresh-cut wood into the gaps in the stack. He had contrived to cut everything to more or less the same length, thus making an impressively neat display that would soon vanish when Ruso ran out of excuses not to fire up the under-floor heating. The lad said, “Verax could have built us another cart, master.”
Ruso clapped a chunk of wood on top of the stack and scowled as the pieces beneath it shifted and threatened to fall into disarray.
“He’s done lots of repairs on the one we have, master. He’s very good.”
“Did anyone ask you?”
The lad swallowed and said nothing.
If he had apologized, Ruso might even have considered making an apology himself, but since he didn’t, they stacked the rest of the wood in silence. Ruso had only intended to help out with one token armful, but now that he had put the slave in his place more firmly than was necessary, he felt oddly uncomfortable about abandoning him to finish the work on his own. So they tramped back and forth, passing without speaking, while Ruso wondered how long a man could be expected to keep on doing his best in the face of gross ingratitude.
His thoughts were interrupted by a cry of, “Someone’s coming!” and then, “Oh my goodness, is that—? Gaius! Gaius, where are you?”
He emerged to see a cloud of dust rising from the farm track and in front of it, a pair of horses cantering towards them. The carriage bouncing behind them was unfamiliar, but the driver was not.
“What is she doing, dear?” his stepmother demanded. “That’s not our cart, surely?” When he said nothing she went on, “Is that how they drive where she comes from? Does she think she’s in a race?”
The carriage flew over a large bump and Ruso was sure he saw daylight between his wife and the driver’s seat. Aware of the stable lad standing beside him, he said, “Whose carriage is it?”
“I think they’re Publius Germanicus’s horses, master.”
“Oh, gods above!”
They both ran forward to drag open the gate, Ruso fighting down his fear that it was the horses, and not his wife, who would decide when to stop.
Yet just as the lad said, “Is it true that women drive war chariots in Britannia, master?” Tilla called out something and shifted her hands and the horses slowed to a trot. The nearside wheel missed the gatepost by a couple of inches, the stable lad stepped forward to seize a bridle, and the carriage came to a reasonably controlled halt in the middle of the yard.
“Where is Marcia?” Arria rushed past Tilla and was there as the carriage door swung open. “Marcia! Are you all right, dear? You look terrible! You could have been—whoever is that?”
Tilla grasped one of the ornate metal lions flanking the driver’s seat, clambered down and handed the bundled reins to the stable lad. Her hair was wild and her face streaked with dust. “It’s Publius’s sister,” she said. “I brought her as fast as I could, husband. You have to do something.”
19
Even though Tilla had told them there was a patient in urgent need of care, none of the people gathering in the yard seemed to be interested. The stepmother was still making a fuss over Marcia, the stable lad was anxiously checking the horses and even her own husband was asking, “Are you all right, Tilla?”
“I am well,” she told him, shrugging the stiffness out of her shoulders and flexing fingers that were still gripping invisible reins. “It is Corinna we need to worry about.”
“That,” Marcia announced, flapping one hand to shoo her mother aside and stepping down from the carriage, “was disgusting.” Before Arria could interrupt she went on, “It was just as well we went over to visit her. Their staff are useless. She told them she didn’t want a doctor, so they just left her lying on a couch with a jug of wine and some honey-water.”
“But dear, why—?”
“Tilla said if we borrowed their carriage it wouldn’t be as bumpy, but it was still like being thrown down a mountain. The slave’s been holding Corinna on the bucket most of the way. I’m surprised I didn’t throw up myself.”
In a far corner of the carriage, Corinna was clutching the arm of her slave girl as if she were afraid of toppling over. The girl was holding a bowl covered with a stained cloth, ready to offer it to her mistress at any moment. Corinna looked even worse than when they had set off. Lank hair was stuck to her forehead and her dark eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. Her bloodless lips moved, but no sound came out.
“We are here now,” Tilla assured her, placing a hand on the thin shoulder and hoping she had not made a very foolish decision in subjecting the girl to such a journey. “You will be safe with us. We have sent a message to tell your brother where you are, and my husband will help me look after you. He is a very good medicus.”
A shadow filled the carriage doorway as her husband climbed in. He introduced himself to the patient, but Corinna showed no sign of noticing or caring.
Flora made surprisingly little complaint when her brother told her she would be giving up her room for Corinna. “And she’ll be borrowing some of your clothes.” After Corinna was transferred from the carriage one of the staff brought warm water and towels and then everyone was shooed away. Even Corinna’s personal maid was sent to wash and find herself some food in the kitchen. At last Tilla and Ruso were alone with their patient.
“You will feel much better when you are clean,” Tilla promised, handing Corinna a towel to wipe her mouth and wringing out a wet cloth to wash her. “I will tell my husband the things we talked about, and you can listen and make sure I tell him right, and then we will all decide what to do.”
The girl lifted a hand. “Don’t tell…”
“We will say nothing to Marcia,” Tilla promised. “Nor to—”
“Not again!” Corinna gave a sudden wail and bent forward to clutch at her stomach. “Oh please, please, somebody help me!” She began rocking back and forth, moaning softly.
Tilla gave the girl her hand to grip. “It will pass soon,” she promised, hoping she was right, because this was far more like poisoning of the stomach than premature labour, and its course was much harder to predict. Corinna gasped and rolled off the bed, just making it to the bucket in time.
When they finally put her in a clean tunic and lifted her into bed she lay in silence as Tilla told the story.
“Last month,” Tilla said, “Corinna found out she was with child. It was not a good thing for her. So she began starving herself and taking hot baths. Her brother noticed she was behaving oddly. She pretended it was grief for their father, but when she did not stop, the arguments started. Then she tried the things many women try: stepping across a viper, and over cyclamen roots, and drinking the wine of… somewhere.”
“Keryneia,” said her husband. “And she threw herself down the stairs?”
Tilla nodded. “Publius sent her to their country house to recover and someone advised him to give her that resin. Op something.”
“Opoponax,” he said.
“Didn’t work,” mumbled Corinna. “Nothing works.” She twisted to look up at Ruso. “She says you’re a surgeon.” Her hand shot up to grasp his wrist and she seemed to be trying to drag him down. “She says you can help me. You must help me!”
“We will help you, Corinna,” he promised.
“Yes! Take it away, now!”
Tilla said, “When the opoponax did not work, she tried—”
“I didn’t know it would be like this!” Corinna began to whimper. “Please. I can’t go on like this.”
“Now she is very sore and…” Tilla gestured towards the girl, who now lay on her side with one arm up over her head, hiding her face. “She is as you see.”
He asked all the questions she had asked herself, and more. Corinna struggled to pay attention and stopped several times to beg him to “take it away”.
Tilla knew what the answer would be. His explanation of why surgery was too dangerous unless her own life was at risk was as kind as it could be, but still unwelcome. When he hurried away to mix up some medicine Corinna, now too weak to sob, lay on the bed and whispered, “Let me die.”
Tilla took one of the cold hands in her own. “Listen to me,” she urged. “This is not worth dying for, do you understand me? You have your whole life in front of you.”
“My life is ruined.”
“No, it is not, Corinna. I promise you. There will be many good things ahead for you.”
The door opened and her husband reappeared. “Thorn-bush root,” he said, holding out a cup. “Lucky we had some.”
He would have said it was lucky whatever it was: healing was about encouraging the patient as well as choosing the right treatment. Tilla held the cup to the girl’s lips and the dull eyes tried to focus on her own.
Corinna mouthed, “Do you promise?”
“Many good things,” said Tilla. “I promise.”
The girl had just begun to drink when they were interrupted by someone knocking at the door. “Corinna?” called a man’s voice. “Are you in there? It’s me.”
Corinna pushed the cup away and whispered a hoarse, “No.”
“It’s me, Chubs. What’s going on?” The young man Tilla recognized as Publius opened the door anyway, took one look at his sister, and muttered, “Gods above!” He crouched beside her, putting a hand out to touch the lank hair and then withdrawing it. “What have they done to you?”
The head moved from side to side. “You said nobody would want me.”
“You—oh, Chubs!” He took the thin hand in his own. “They promised me the medicine was safe!”
“It didn’t work. I had to try something else.”
“I didn’t mean you to do something like this!”
Corinna wriggled closer to him and whispered, “I am so sorry.”
“I know.”
“I thought he liked me.”
“Shh!” he urged her. “Not now.” He looked up at Ruso. “You’re a medicus. Do something.”
Tilla passed him the cup. “This will help her. We are lucky there was some in the medicine box.”
She watched as Corinna made another effort to drink with her brother’s help. Then she heard a movement behind her. Verax was standing in the doorway. Nobody else noticed him until he said, “Sir?”
Publius glanced over his shoulder and then turned to Ruso. “What’s he doing here?”
Tilla was startled by the sharpness of Ruso’s “He thinks he’s going to marry my sister.”
Publius said, “Oh,” and turned back to Corinna. “Everything will be all right, Chubs. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Verax coughed, and said, “Sir, I can see you’re busy. I’ll go back to the estate now.”
Ruso said, “Yes,” and turned back to the patient. In the presence of such a sick young woman, what Flora’s boyfriend did or didn’t do was not important. But Publius still took the time to say, “Sorry about having you locked up the other night. It’s all sorted out now. I’ve spoken to Sabinus and told him it was the girl who did it. That’s why she lied.”
Instead of leaving, Verax stood in the doorway looking confused.
Ruso said, “Just clear off, will you?” and they were alone again with Corinna and her anxious brother.
Resting his head against hers, Publius murmured, “You should have sent for me.”
“You were angry.”
“I’m not angry now.”
The girl closed her eyes and Publius mouthed to Ruso, “Is she still…?”
Ruso looked at Tilla, who whispered, “I think so.” Babies were often much harder to dislodge than people thought.
Publius raised the medicine cup again.
“You are doing very well,” Tilla told her before turning to the brother. “Did you say you have been to tell Sabinus that the girl Xanthe killed his son?”
“Yes.”
“What will happen to her?”
Publius shifted to sit next to his sister, stretching his long legs out on the bed. “Sabinus will deal with it.”
“What will he do?”
Ruso looked up. “It’s no concern of ours, wife.”
Publius said, “He’s going to hire someone to look for her.”
“And when they catch her? Will there be a trial?”
“They won’t catch her,” Publius told her. “A girl like that can easily disappear. Change her name, move to a different town. She’s not like a decent girl with family connections.”
“But what if they do?”
“My wife liked her,” Ruso explained.
Publius sighed. “We all liked her,” he said.
Tilla got to her feet. “Will you watch your sister for a moment? I need to talk to my husband.”
20
They were in the study that looked out over the vineyard. The sort of room where Roman men hid so they could think about important things without being interrupted. As far as Tilla could tell, Roman women did not have studies. Perhaps because they could think about important things and work at the same time, or perhaps because the things they thought about were not considered important. But now there were two things that must be spoken of in private.
She pushed the door firmly closed behind her. The first thing had happened before she and her husband met. Neither of them had even mentioned it again since the day she had told him about it and she had thought it was settled, but now… “Did you refuse Corinna because of what happened to me?”
He frowned, “Did you want me to say yes to her? Put her in the danger you went through in the hands of that—whoever she was?”
She said, “When I see all those children your brother has, I think perhaps you are disappointed in me.”
For a moment he did not answer. Then he moved closer and cupped his hands around her face. “Do you seriously think,” he said, “that I want to live like my brother?”
“You are happy with Mara?”
“I’m happy with Mara. If we want more, we’ll adopt them.”
She said, “I am a lucky woman.”
“I like to think so.”
“I am much more lucky than Xanthe.”
He drew back, releasing her. “Did you bring me in here to talk about Xanthe?”
“That is the other thing.” She leaned back against the door so he could not escape. “Listen to me, husband. I do not want an a
rgument, but that young man was not killed by Xanthe.”
“What? Tilla, this really isn’t the time to—”
“If Xanthe had done it, she would make up a better lie.”
“Maybe she’s not a very good liar,” he told her. “I know you liked her, but people saw her with Ti—”
“There is more,” she said. “I told you I was there when Publius’s man was leaving her house. I heard what the doorman said to him. It was, Tell your master he can rely on Xanthe. What do you think that means?”
He said, “Who knows? Maybe Publius can rely on her turning up to the next party now she’s been paid. We ought to get back.”
Tilla felt a stab of doubt. “Anyway,” she said, raising her chin, “now Xanthe has run away with the doorman and some money.”
“Exactly as Publius predicted. She’s on the run because she killed Titus.”
“No. I think she was paid to tell a lie and run away.”
“Then she deserves to get the blame,” he said. “Can we discuss this later?”
“If Sabinus’s man catches her you know what will happen. She will not get a trial. She will be dragged into an alley and have her throat cut. Because people say Xanthe is not a decent girl. And that is what is at the bottom of all this.”
He looked her over as if he was assessing a patient. “Are you sure you don’t want an argument?”
“Corinna is a decent girl with a family. “But she is also single and pregnant.”
He sighed. “Wife, it’s no good expecting me to guess what you’re talking about.”
“Publius sent to Xanthe and her friends a while ago asking for remedies to get rid of an unwanted baby. Ask him who the father of Corinna’s baby is.”
“Why can’t I ask you? Or her?”
“She won’t tell me. But I think it is Titus. I think Publius was the one with a reason to be angry with Titus, not Xanthe. And this morning Publius sent his man to pay Xanthe to tell a lie.”
He scratched his ear with one finger: something he often did when he was thinking. “Why would he do that?”
“I do not know. But Publius said just now, that is why she lied. How did he know Xanthe lied? Did you tell him?”
