Persona Non Grata (3 page)

5

R
USO STRETCHED OUT his legs, leaned his back against the rail of the ship, and gazed up at a seagull perched on the mast. He felt queasy. The roll of the vessel did not combine well with the smell of the fleece Tilla had insisted on bringing with her, and which she was now contentedly spinning beside him in the afternoon sunshine.

How, he wondered, did seagulls keep themselves so clean? Compared with the bird, the white bandage that encased his leg from hip to toe was disgustingly grimy. It was also much bigger than necessary, and Ruso had wondered as it went on whether Valens was going too far. What he wanted was convalescent leave, not an irrevocable medical discharge from the army. Valens, however, had been confident.

“Three months to recuperate, two months’ winter leave, that takes you to . . . sometime in December. And don’t worry about leaving us in the lurch: I’ve said I’ll do extra nights if they need the cover.”

Ruso blinked. “Really?” He could remember only one occasion on which Valens had offered to do extra night duty, and that was because he was trying to hide from a fierce centurion with a grudge. “Can’t they get one of the new men in?”

Valens tied the end of the bandage and tucked it in. “I’m a married man these days. You must remember what it was like.”

“I try not to.”

“It wasn’t too bad when it was just her,” said Valens. “But now she’s got the twins.”

“Well, that’s your fault.”

“Indeed,” Valens agreed. “But a chap has to sleep sometime, doesn’t he? And it’s not as if she’s on her own with them. That nursemaid cost me a fortune. I’m not the sort of husband who shirks his responsibilities, you know.”

“So you come to work for a rest?”

“Just as well, now that you’ve gone and let everybody down by dancing about in the river. Did you know your rescuers have all been put on latrine duty for a month? Drunk and disorderly.”

Ruso was about to remark that they had got off lightly when there was a knock at the door.

“Ah, here’s the chap who’s going to sign for you.” Valens retrieved a writing tablet from the desk and handed it to a fresh-faced young doctor who must have arrived with the latest batch of reinforcements. “Here you are. Sign in the space at the bottom.”

The man glanced at the impressive bandaging, ran one finger over what had been written on the document, and signed without making any attempt to verify it. “Sorry I can’t stop to chat,” he said to Ruso. “I have to go and take a leg off. Oh, and thanks for the chair.”

“Chair?” inquired Ruso after he had gone.

“Well, you won’t be taking it with you, will you?” said Valens. “So I assumed you’d be offering it to me, but as you’re in need of a favor I’ve told him he can have it.”

“My chair? The one I’ve had since Antioch?”

Valens’s handsome face looked pained. “I could hardly ask him to sign without offering him something, could I? Don’t worry, I’ve told him you’ll need it when you get back.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be coming back. It depends on what’s going on at home. My contract with the Legion runs out in January.”

For once Valens looked genuinely shocked. “You mean you’ve got me arranging all this just so you can desert me?”

“I might decide to sign on again.”

“You will,” Valens assured him. “You’ll miss all this fun when you’re down on the farm, you know.”

At the time Ruso had insisted he would be glad to get back to a civilized country. It was something he had been saying ever since he’d arrived in Britannia. But now, sprawled on the deck of a troop ship that had brought over reinforcements and was now carrying back wounded, he realized he would miss Britain’s misty green hills and the chilly streams that never ran dry. There had been many times during the horrors of the rebellion when he had wished himself almost anywhere else, but he knew now that he would be sorry to leave the army.

He shook his head. At this rate he would soon be imagining he missed Valens.

The seagull launched itself off the mast, gave one lazy flap, and was soon left behind by the speed of the ship. Beside him, Tilla’s left arm rose to draw out the brown fibers while her right thumb and forefinger set the spindle twirling.

Ruso allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation. He had removed Tilla from the control of an ignorant oaf back in Deva in the full expectation that even if she survived, the injury the man had inflicted on her arm was so serious that he would have to amputate. Instead, she had surprised everyone, not only by surviving but by dragging Ruso into an investigation of the mysterious deaths of the local bar girls.

As he watched the hand that he had saved twist the woolen fibers into a neat thread, it occurred to Ruso that Tilla was about to become a surprise once again. He really should have found a way to mention her to his family while he was serving in Britannia. It was too late now. A last-minute letter could travel no faster than they were traveling themselves. He would have to make some hurried explanations when he arrived.

Perhaps the one good thing about this mysterious family crisis was that nobody would have time to worry about the arrival of an unexpected Briton.

Seeing him watching, she said, “The wool will be a gift for your stepmother. Does she like to weave?”

“I don’t think so,” said Ruso, imagining Arria’s horror at the prospect of making her own clothes. “But I’m sure one of the staff will be able to weave it for her.”

“What does she like to do?”

Ruso shifted to get a better view of the horizon. “She’s very keen on home improvements.”

“Ah.”

“It’s a big house,” he added, not feeling well enough to explain that to a woman like Arria, “home improvements” involved far more than a pot of wildflowers on the table and a patched scarlet curtain between the bed and the cooking space.

Tilla said, “It is good she has your sisters to help her.”

Ruso grunted something noncommittal. It was hard to imagine his sisters helping anyone, but perhaps they had improved in his absence. He tried to take his mind off the way his stomach was moving in dependently of the ship by telling Tilla about brilliant blue summer skies and air filled with the song of cicadas. About the olive grove and the vineyards. About his brother’s precious winery, and about his sister-in-law, the one who sent presents from home and produced all the nephews and nieces.

Tilla said, “I think I will like your home.”

Ruso felt another pang of guilt about his failure to mention her to his family. “To be honest,” he said, “I don’t know what we’ll find after that letter. Something must have gone terribly wrong.”

“How wrong can it be? There is sunshine, and trees that grow oil, and no soldiers.”

“Soldiers are one problem we don’t have at home,” he agreed. “Nar-bonensis has been practically part of Italy for generations.” A thought occurred to him. “You’ve never really seen what peace is like, have you?”

When they docked on the west coast of Gaul, the last of the genuinely maimed veterans who had traveled with them left for their own destinations. Ruso removed the extra dressings. He gave one of the crutches to a surprised beggar and then regretted it when he realized how feeble his leg muscles had become during their enforced rest. Still, it was a relief to feel the fresh summer breeze on his chafed thigh and to see the limb that had been the color and shape of a giant maggot return to a normal-sized leg. He now wore only a long sock of bandage and, provided he was careful, could put his heel down to the ground without instant regret.

He clambered without assistance onto the river barge that would take them on the next stage of their journey. The joy of in dependence was only slightly diminished by Tilla’s observation that he now had one brown leg and one that looked as though he had just got it out of winter storage.

Following the river as it wound its leisurely way across the flat lands of southwest Gaul, their lives settled into a pleasant rhythm. He taught her to play board games, and discovered she was a shameless cheat who laughed when she was caught. At last he made a serious effort to learn to speak British, and she discovered that there was a language that resembled it called Gaulish, which he tried to teach her in return. They squabbled over space in the tiny bunk, tried sleeping top to toe, and quickly decided that was worse. He bought her a straw hat to keep the sun off, and she adorned it with the wildflowers she picked on the riverbank.

As they left the barge behind in Tolosa and climbed into the carriage to make the last stage of the journey through the mountains by road, it occurred to Ruso that there were whole days now when he hardly thought of the dreadful events they had left behind in Britannia. He abandoned the last crutch for a stick as his body began to heal along with his mind. He could not remember a time when he had been happier.

It was a pity he knew it wasn’t going to last.

6

B
ROTHER! WHAT ARE you doing here? What’s the matter with your foot?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the army, Gaius?”

“Uncle Gaius! Did you kill all the barbarians?”

The greetings and hot embraces filling the painted hallway gave no hint of the crisis that had brought him home.

“Gaius, dear, is it really you? What a surprise!”

“Mother!” he said to Arria. He had practiced the word until he no longer had to grit his teeth to say it. He thought it came out rather well.

“You’re wounded!”

“It’s nothing much,” he assured her, and took Tilla by the arm. “Arria, this is—”

“Uncle Gaius! Uncle Gaius, I’ve got a loose tooth!”

He bent awkwardly, leaning on the stick. “Want me to pull it out for you, Polla?”

His niece frowned and backed away. “I’m not Polla, Uncle. That’s Polla.” She pointed at an older sister. “I’m Sosia.”

“Sosia? Gods above, you’ve—” He stopped himself just in time. “Of course. Sorry, Sosia. Good to see you. Everybody, this is—”

Someone was prodding his shoulder. “I’m Marcia,” put in a girl who looked alarmingly like a young woman. “I’m your sister. Remember me?”

“No, really?” said Ruso, who remembered only too well. Her embrace warmed slightly when he murmured, “I haven’t forgotten about your dowry, you know.”

“I need it now,” she hissed. “And I’m not going to marry some rich old goat with spindly legs and hair in his ears, understand?”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” he agreed. “Marcia, where are Lucius and Cass?”

His sister shrugged. “Doing something boring on the farm, I suppose.”

Still no clues. Evidently Lucius had not told their sisters about the letter.

He correctly guessed the names of two nephews and limped across the hall to greet the row of waiting staff like a general addressing his troops at a surprise inspection.

“Hello, Galla.” The nursemaid’s hair had turned gray in his absence. The kitchen boy had expanded upward, the laundry maid width ways, and Arria’s personal maid in all the right places. The cook’s apron was now being worn by a sour-faced man, the stable lad still smelled the same, and the bath boy, who had been ancient when Ruso was a child, managed to impress simply by remaining alive. “It’s good to see you all,” he said.

He was dredging his memory for names when his stepmother’s voice rang across the hall in a tone he remembered only too well.

“Gaius, dear, who is this?”

Glancing around at the assembled company, all now surveying the slender blond figure just inside the doorway, the absurdity of the notion that he would be able to slip Tilla into the house hold almost unnoticed became clear.

A small voice at nephew level announced, “She’s got a red face.”

“She’s got blue eyes.”

“Why is her hair like that?”

“Because she’s a barbarian, stupid!” explained one of the nieces.

“She’s British,” said Ruso, as if that explained not only her appearance but her presence. “Everybody, this is Tilla. She’s our guest, so I want you all to make her welcome.”

This had the unfortunate effect of unleashing more curiosity.

“Can she talk?”

“Can we touch her?”

“Is she fierce?”

“Aaah!” This last was from a dribbling toddler who had evidently learned early that he had to speak up to be noticed.

“Yes, she can talk,” said Ruso, looking around in vain for his sister-in-law to get the small interrogators under control. “And no, you can’t touch her. We’ve had a long journey and she’s tired.”

One of Ruso’s sisters whispered something to the other and they both giggled. Tilla’s expression was one he could not read and dared not speculate on, but the child was right. Her cheeks were even pinker than the sunburn on her nose. Tendrils of hair, dark with sweat, were stuck to her forehead. “Sorry about this,” he murmured to her.

Tilla grasped his hand and whispered, “What did you tell them about me?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” he assured her.

The hastily assembled greeting party was evidently expecting a formal speech.
Those eyes aren’t really blue
, he wanted to tell them.
Not up close.
“Well,” he said, searching desperately for something more appropriate. “Yes. Hello, everybody. It’s good to be home.” He was not sure it was true, but it was necessary to say it. “You all look very, uh . . .”

The eldest nephews had lost interest and begun to roll across the floor punching each other. A niece shouted, “Stop it!” while Galla made a futile attempt to intervene. Ruso glanced at the bust of his late father, impassively surveying the chaos from its niche beside the garlanded house hold shrine, and wondered what the old man would have made of this performance.

“Children!” Arria’s voice rose again over the babble. “Your kind uncle Gaius has brought a real barbarian home for us all the way from Britannia. Isn’t that nice of him?”

There were confused murmurs of assent.

Ruso tried again. “Tilla,” he said, gesturing toward Arria, “this is my stepmother, Arria—”

But Arria had not finished. “We must all set her a good example and look after her,” she continued. “Galla, go and tell the driver to bring in the master’s luggage. Children, why don’t you all go and take—what do you call her?”

“Tilla.”

“Take Tilla to the kitchen and Cook will find her something to eat and drink. I expect she would like that.” She turned to Ruso. “What do they eat, Gaius?”

The words, “Small children,” were out before he could stop them. “Arria, where’s Lucius?”

* * *

The nieces and nephews were finally ushered away to the kitchen, taking both of Ruso’s half sisters with them to protect them from the child-eating barbarian. Ruso, faintly ashamed of himself, was left alone with his stepmother.

“Gaius, dear, what are you doing home? Are you on leave? What’s wrong with your foot?”

Evidently Arria knew nothing about Lucius’s letter. “Home to convalesce,” he explained. “I need to see Lucius.”

“I’ve sent one of the servants to fetch him. I must say, that’s a very strange young woman you’ve brought with you. Why is she dressed like that in this weather?”

“Because those are her clothes.” As far as Ruso was aware, Tilla had two sets of perfectly adequate second-hand clothes. These, if pushed, he could describe as “blue.” He could differentiate between them only as The One She’s Wearing and The One That’s Being Washed.

“She can’t wear heavy wool like that here. I’ll ask one of the staff to find her something else.”

“Is everything all right here? Where’s Cass?”

Arria sighed. “Who knows? As you see, the children are quite out of control. It’s such a relief to have you home, Gaius. Poor Lucius really has no idea. He’s letting everything go to waste— Gaius, dear, are you listening?”

Ruso rubbed his tunic against the small of his back to wipe away a trickle of sweat. “No.”

Arria sighed. “You must be tired after traveling. But I have to tell you this while I have the chance. You see how things are here. Your father would be so disappointed, after all that he did. I was hoping we would have your sisters married by now—Marcia, at least—”

“I’ll sort out the girls’ dowries now I’m home,” promised Ruso, hoping Lucius was not going to tell him there was nothing to settle on either of their half sisters.

“In the meantime your brother and his wife do nothing but breed children who run around making sticky fingerprints on the furniture. The smallest one has no idea what a pot is for and the staff are constantly sweeping up what they’ve broken. They’ve driven away three tutors already. Cassiana just indulges them and Lucius is too taken up with his vines and his legal squabbles to notice. Galla’s worn out, and—”

“What legal squabbles?” said Ruso, suddenly paying attention.

“He keeps telling me we can’t afford to replace Galla, but I’m sure we could—”

“What legal squabbles, Arria?”

“Do talk to him about it, dear, will you? It’s such a wretched nuisance. And now he’s got your sisters involved in it.”

“Involved in what?”

“Oh, something about a— seizure order, is it?”

“Holy gods, Arria! There’s someone trying to auction off everything we own?”

His stepmother put one manicured finger to her lips. “Please don’t shout, dear. We’re not supposed to talk about it. Do what I do—just pretend you don’t know.”