Terra Incognita: A Novel of the Roman Empire (14 page)

The barber snorted. “A bit too free with his friendship, if you ask me.”

“Nobody did ask you,” pointed out the woman. “And you shouldn’t be talking like that before he’s even buried.”

The barber, ignoring her, urged Ruso to “Straighten up a little, please, sir,” just as a gray mustache appeared in his line of vision and its owner said, “Pleased to meet you, officer. Catavignus. I represent the local people in the guild of caterers.’

Ruso had the vague sensation that he had seen him somewhere before, but could not think where.

The barber paused again to wipe the razor. Ruso seized the moment to introduce himself to Catavignus, who was evidently a native who had added a Latin ending to his name.

Catavignus bowed. “Welcome to Coria, Doctor. Sorry to hear about the accident. I hope you’re not hurt?” The accent was similar to Tilla’s, but his Latin demonstrated a grasp of grammar that Tilla seemed to have decided was not worth the effort.

Ruso offered a double-barreled “Uh-uh,” and a wave of the hand to indicate that he had survived the accident unscathed.

“Good. Don’t let this blabbermouth bother you.”

The slave repositioned the stool in front of Ruso, who hoped the sudden waft of beer was coming from Catavignus and not the barber.

“If you’ll allow me to explain,” continued Catavignus, seating himself and indicating his remarkably fine head of hair to the slave, who reached for a pot of lotion. “This is a decent, law-abiding place. A safe place to run a business and raise a family. We welcome the army. Losing one of our soldiers like this is a great shock to everybody. We don’t expect that sort of thing around here.”

Evidently Catavignus’s opinion of the natives’ loyalty was much higher than that of Metellus, although Ruso supposed a lot of the residents of this decent law-abiding place wouldn’t be Britons anyway. They would be relatives of the soldiers, or veterans, or the traders Metellus was so eager to welcome in exchange for their taxes.

“The caterers are keen to help the investigation in any way we can,” continued Catavignus. “Felix was well known to all of us.”

“We’ve been over to pray to Apollo Maponus,” said the barber’s wife. “You can’t be too careful.”

“I heard it was a native what done it,” put in the barber. “Chin up, please, sir.”

Catavignus cleared his throat. “If it is, then he’s a disgrace.”

Ruso clenched his teeth as the blade scraped another channel up the underside of his chin.

“Fell out with him over at Susanna’s,” continued the barber.

“At Susanna’s?” Catavignus seemed surprised.

“I told you you should have gone and seen what that shouting was about,” put in the barber’s wife.

“I must go and speak to Susanna,” put in Catavignus, getting to his feet. “She will need the support of the guild after something like this.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” continued the woman. “I said, ‘There’s something going on over there.’ ”

“If I got up every time you heard something in the street I might as well sleep on the doorstep,” said the barber. “Besides, if I’d got involved that native might have gone for me too. He was wild, sir, that’s what I heard. Raving. Shouting about sheep. Or was it cows?” The man paused. “Perhaps it was goats.”

“Never mind what he was raving about,” retorted the woman. “The point is, if somebody had stepped in, Felix might still be alive.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?”

Catavignus paused in front of Ruso, who was willing the barber to keep a steady hand while arguing with his wife. “Doctor. The caterers are giving a private dinner across at Susanna’s snack bar on the eve of the governor’s visit. Celebrating the start of the British summer in a modern style. We’d be honored if you’d join us.”

“Uh,” said Ruso, who had once responded to his wife’s suggestion that they attend a dinner party by pointing out that he would rather leap naked into a tankful of starving lampreys.

“We’ll look forward to it. Tell me. Are you treating civilians during your visit?”

“Uh.” Ruso did not want the complications, but he did want the money.

“I ask because my daughter Aemilia is not well. If she’s no better tomorrow, can I refer her to you?”

Ruso decided he could risk saying, “Do.”

“Thank you. I’m sure you know what these young women are like.”

“Mm,” said Ruso, not sure whether knowing what young women were like was a sign of medical competence or something less desirable.

“A pleasure to meet you,” continued Catavignus. “Call on me anytime you’re passing the brewery. Aemilia and I will be happy to welcome you.”

“There he goes. Look,” muttered the woman after he had left. “Straight over to Susanna’s. Any excuse. Well, she’ll be thrilled.”

“More slime than a bucket of slugs, that one,” said the barber. “Never turn your back on the natives, sir, that’s my advice. Even if they are in some fancy guild of caterers. They’re all the same. Women as well. Smile at your face and stab you in the back. I said to that centurion what was in here earlier, what we want around here is a few more patrols on the streets. You only ever see them marching past on the way to somewhere else. I said to him, I’ll offer free services to any man what—oops! Sorry, sir. Just put that on it for a moment, will you?’

Ruso held the cloth against the right-hand side of his jaw, removed it, assessed that the damage was not life threatening, and replaced it quickly before the blood dripped onto his clean tunic.

“Ready again, sir? Nearly done. Lean that way a minute for me, please. . . .”

“So you’re the new doctor, sir?” inquired the woman.

“Aah.”

“Will it be you or Doctor Thessalus tomorrow at the clinic?”

“Uh?”

“Doctor Ruso,”
mused the barber. “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere?”

Before Ruso could respond the woman continued, “Doctor Thessalus does a clinic here every market day, sir. It’s always very popular.”

“It’s free,” added the barber, explaining its popularity.

“Ah,” said Ruso.

17

R
USO’S JAW HAD
more or less stopped bleeding by the time he paused on the threshold of the bathhouse, eyeing the occupants of the main hall.

The grunts echoing around the walls came from a young man lifting weights in the middle of the floor, evidently keen to give his small audience every chance to admire his oiled biceps. The audience must have been a disappointment to him: It consisted of a couple of white-haired men hunched over a game of dice in the corner, a fat man ogling his young manicurist, and a lone attendant sweeping the floor.

The door swung back with unexpected ease. It hit the wall with a crash that reverberated around the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Ruso, then lost interest as he stepped into the less-than-appealing atmosphere of sweat and damp and overperfumed oils.

Forewarned by the pessimistic barber, he paid the attendant to guard his clothes and helped himself to a towel.

He gasped as he entered the hot room, instantly regretting the gasp as burning air scorched the back of his throat. The attendant’s assurance that it was “still good and hot in there” had been an understatement. Ruso clopped safely across the searing floor on wooden sandals and laid his towel out on a bench beneath a window before sitting down to face the alarming prospect of what he now saw, on perusing the address on the reverse, was a long letter from his stepmother.

The letter ran expensively over several thin leaves of wood bundled together. He frowned. He had never before received a letter from Arria, and this neat handwriting was certainly not her own. He cracked open the seal, unwound the cord, and began to read.

Dearest Gaius,

I send greetings and hope you are in good health. How I wish you were here
with us, although we are glad that you can enjoy the green hills of Britannia,
away from the cares of everyday life that burden us here. We always look forward
to your letters, but it is hard to bear both the loss of your dear father and
your absence.

I am delighted to tell you that the shrine to Diana that your dear father
commissioned and he and I designed together

(
So that,
thought Ruso,
explained the catastrophic expense
.)

is now complete, and we have received many compliments on your father’s
good taste and generosity.

Since your father’s death your poor brother has been doing his best, but it is
difficult for your sisters and I without anyone in authority here to care for us.
I am sorry to say that although dear Publius left many investments, Lucius’s
management of them is uncertain. The simplest pleasures are often unreasonably
denied to us.

Since Arria’s idea of a simple pleasure was a new suite of baths or a summer dining extension, that was hardly surprising. And as Publius Petreius had died secretly bankrupt, Lucius’s denial of them was not at all unreasonable.

These small pleasures could of course in no way make up for the loss of a happy
marriage such as Publius and I shared for a few all-too-brief years and that I
know he also enjoyed in earlier times with your dear and respected mother.

What did Arria know about his mother? Nothing. Ruso gritted his teeth and read on, realizing that the steamy atmosphere was not good for the letter and hoping the ink would melt into an illegible blur before he reached the request for money that no doubt lurked near the end.

Your father understood the joys of a happy union—such as I trust you will
yourself enjoy again one day soon, dearest Gaius—and I know he wished the
same for all of his children. I am especially anxious for your beloved sisters.
Although they are, as you know, both beautiful and charming, how will they
find the right sort of husbands if no suitable dowry is offered? As I have explained
to your brother, one has to sow in order to reap. This is something I
felt that he, as a farmer, would understand, but it seems not. Of course there
is no reason why he should listen to me, but I am sure that if you, dearest
Gaius, as head of the family, were to explain it to him, he would immediately
understand what is required.

Naturally I have not yet mentioned this matter to your sisters, as I am hoping
to avoid disappointing them. See, am signing this letter myself and send
you the very kindest of greetings.

Your loving stepmother, Arria
Beneath the uneven signature,
squeezed in tiny letters, was:
Lucius and Cassia baby boy very small

Ruso slapped the letter shut, dropped it on the floor, and eyed it with all the affection he would offer a large and poisonous spider. He and Lucius had always been careful to keep their correspondence discreet, with references to their dire financial state carefully coded. No matter how firmly a letter was sealed there was no way of making sure it would not “fall open” in transit and be read by someone who would pass the contents on to one of their many creditors. Now Arria had not only written a letter that suggested Lucius was mismanaging the family finances, but it seemed she had been into town and dictated it to a public scribe.

Maybe they had been wrong not to tell Arria the exact situation in which her husband had left the family coffers. Maybe they should have told her the truth and frightened her into silence with the warning that public bankruptcy would sweep away their home, their dignity, and possibly even their freedom.

He would have to write an urgent letter to Lucius congratulating him on the birth of a son and delegating the challenging task of getting their stepmother under control.

The rattle of the door latch warned him someone was about to come in. He picked up the letter, slid it under his thigh, and closed his eyes.

The clatter of sandals tracked the passage of a bather picking his way across the floor. To Ruso’s dismay the footsteps passed the empty seating and came closer. Moments later his bench rocked as a heavy body lowered itself down next to him. A long breath was followed by a familiar voice. “Ruso.”

“Postumus.” Ruso acknowledged him, not bothering to open his eyes. “I was going to come and find you later.”

“Flashy room with your floozy again tonight, I suppose?” inquired Postumus in a tone that suggested this would be deeply tedious.

“Sharing a store cupboard with a beer barrel.”

“Lucky you. I’m still sharing a tent with the bloody wildlife. And I hear you’re staying on to look after my carpenter. Tell me what you’ve done for him.”

“Amputation, I’m afraid. No choice.”

“What are his chances?”