Persona Non Grata (26 page)

59

S
URVEYING THE LAMPLIT debris of the dinner party, Ruso could not remember when he had endured a longer eve ning. Or a more embarrassing one.

Had he not seen it, he would never have believed that the Arria of the pinned curls and the tastefully displayed cleavage could have been created from the woman who had clung helplessly to him out on the porch not two hours before. Even her voice had changed. The tremor of anxiety had been pushed aside by a new confidence. This was Arria’s dinner party, the dancing cupids were on display, and she was not going to let a little thing like a poisoning ruin it.

Even the cook had somehow managed to recover from the invasion of the investigators, and the food was not noticeably worse than usual.

Those, together with Lollia’s company, had been the best aspects of the evening. As for the worst—there were plenty to choose from.

There had been Arria’s cry of “How lovely of you to come! Gaius, you remember Diphilus, our nice builder? Diphilus, Gaius says we can’t have the outdoor dining room!”

There had been Arria’s vaunted pride in his achievements over in Britannia, and the apprehension of Lollia’s “Are you going to tell us all about them?”

There had been the awful sense of doom as Marcia offered, “We can tell you something much more interesting!” followed by a glare from Arria and an unabashed “A man’s been poisoned right here in our house!” and then Flora’s “But it’s all right, it wasn’t us.”

There was Arria’s simpering smile when Diphilus said, “It must have been a shock for all of you young ladies,” and Marcia’s “Not as much of a shock as having strange men investigating our underwear this afternoon.”

Diphilus had downed his wine in one gulp and held up his glass for the laundry maid (promoted to wine steward for the evening) to refill it.

Arria asked Lollia to tell them all about amphora production. Lollia had just said that she was afraid everyone would find it very boring when Flora finished draining the sauce from the lettuce leaf into her mouth and said, “Everything’s gone downhill since Gaius came home.”

Ruso was wondering how much wine she had consumed when Marcia stepped in with “It’s not Gaius’s fault, it’s that Tilla he brought with him. She’s turned us all into barbarians. Now she’s stolen Cass.”

“And our other brother has gone mad and run off after them,” put in Flora.

Arria told them it was not nice to talk about family business at dinner, and Lollia attempted to come to the rescue with “I’d like to have met this Tilla. Is she someone you know from Britannia, Ruso?”

He said, “Yes.”

“But now she’s gone,” said Arria, as if that were the last word to be said on the subject.

For a moment nothing could be heard but the scrape of spoons on bowls. The cupids cavorted silently across the walls while Ruso thought wistfully of Tilla’s attempts at cookery in the little room with the flowers on the windowsill.

Moments later he became aware of a strange feeling in his stomach: perhaps caused by the contents of Severus’s water bottle, or perhaps by the appearance of a bowl of reheated goats’ testicles on the table in front of him. It occurred to him that there was a certain irony about being accidentally poisoned by one’s own ex-wife. When he returned his attention to the conversation, Lollia was saying, “Just fifteen.”

Marcia’s triumphant, “See?” was wasted on Ruso since he had no idea what they were discussing.

“Lollia was married at fifteen!” Marcia was determined not to let the point go. “Lollia, tell Gaius he must sort out a dowry before I die of old age and shame.”

Lollia smiled and reached for an oyster, Arria told Marcia not to harass the guests, and Ruso said, “Did I tell you I went to the gladiator barracks today?”

There was a tinkle of metal on mosaic. Marcia reached down to retrieve her spoon. When her face reappeared, it was flushed.

“I’ve got a job there,” he explained.

Marcia’s hazel eyes were locked on to his own, searching his face for some clue to what he had found out.

“I met some interesting people,” he continued. “I’m not sure I can do much to help them, though.”

“Of course you can, dear, you’re very good at that sort of thing.” Arria turned to Lollia. “It’s all those years in the army, you see. Gaius knows everything there is to know about chopping off and stitching up. Will you be going to the Games?”

Ruso missed the effect of this on Marcia because he was distracted by a small arm appearing from beneath his couch. It was followed by a dark head, then the naked owner of both crawled forward and tried to pull himself up by grabbing the three-legged dining table on which sat the bowl of testicles. The table was a delicate creation in polished walnut, not intended for use as a ladder. Before Ruso could grab it, table and toddler had crashed onto the mosaic in a howling tangle of limbs and spilled food.

Cries from the surrounding diners were undercut by a screech of “Galla!” from Arria.

Ruso lifted off the table. To judge from the noise Little Gaius was making, he was not seriously injured. He swept the child up under one arm, ignoring the wails and waving arms at one end and the small fat legs kicking the air at the other. “Galla!” he shouted, swerving around the end of a couch and lurching toward the door just as Galla appeared. She reached for the child. “I’m sorry, sir. He ran away again.”

“Girls!” ordered Arria, seizing her chance. “Go and help Galla put the children to bed.”

The demands of “What?” were almost in unison.

“Your mother asked you to put the children to bed,” put in Diphilus, with more gallantry than sense.

Marcia said, “We don’t have to do what you say.”

Hearing echoes of his childhood, Ruso looked into the hazel eyes and said, “You do have to do what I say. Apologize to your mother, and to Diphilus.”

Marcia opened her mouth to answer, then closed it as understanding dawned. Her brother and official guardian had been to the gladiator barracks. What followed was not gracious, but it was an apology.

After the girls had gone Ruso had piled the splintered remains of the table in a corner beneath a cheerful cupid who was driving a chariot pulled by two goats. Returning to the couch, he took refuge in his wine while the staff scoured the floor for potsherds and testicles and Diphilus explained in detail to the three remaining diners why fixing the drains would involve digging up most of the garden. Arria was so intrigued that she did not notice the glass in her hand gradually tilting and tipping its contents onto the floor.

To Ruso’s alarm, Lollia glanced across at him and winked.

60

A
RRIA BRUSHED A stray olive aside and sank onto the couch while the cleaning girl and the laundry maid lit more lamps and bustled around her with cloths and brooms. “We can’t go on like this, Gaius. Those wretched girls!”

“Lollia said it was a very entertaining evening.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. And that child! At this rate we shall have no furniture left.”

“There’s too much of it, anyway.”

Arria picked at a piece of fluff on the cushion. “I know you and your brother aren’t interested, but your father always wanted us to have a nice home.”

“At the moment we’re lucky we’ve got a home at all.”

She looked up. “Well, I’m sorry to have to say it, dear, but whose fault is that?”

Ruso stared at her.

“Your father was wonderful with money!” she said. “And always so generous. I can’t understand how you two have grown up the complete opposite. He worked so hard to set up all those investments, and neither of you seems to have the faintest idea how to manage them.”

Ruso started to laugh. “Father didn’t have investments, Arria, he had loans! Loans to pay for all the things you insisted on buying. All the plans that got bigger and bigger—”

“He agreed to the plans. I never bought anything without consulting him first.”

“He never intended to build a temple that was going to cost a fortune to run forever and ever. And he didn’t live long enough to agree to all these cupids.”

“He would have liked them!” cried Arria. “Do you want us to live in a mud hut like your barbarian?”

Ruso took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was no longer nine years old. He was a grown man and he was responsible for what was left of the family. “No,” he said, wondering how many times Lucius had already tried to explain this to her, “I want us to live within our means. I know Father didn’t tell you all the details, because he didn’t tell us, either, but a lot of the money was never really there. Now we have all this . . .” He glanced around the dining room. “We have all these things, and we have to find a way to survive while we pay for them.”

Arria’s hand crept to her mouth. “Are you saying your father lied to me?”

“I’m saying,” said Ruso, trying to remember what Cass had told him and wishing she were here to deal with this, “he was very fond of you and he wanted you to be happy. Now you won’t be ordering anything else, will you?”

Arria sniffed. The paint in the outer corner of one eye had smudged, giving her a black streak like an Egyptian. “It isn’t my fault, Gaius,” she insisted. “Not all of it. Not the court case and everything. And all those children!”

“We’ve all contributed,” Ruso conceded. “But you have to listen, Arria. The only way out of this is to stop spending money.”

“Not even a little outdoor dining room? It won’t cost much. Diphilus is such a nice man.”

“No. We have to concentrate on keeping things going while Lucius and Cass are away, and we have to get these wretched investigators off our backs.”

Arria shook her head. A pin tumbled out of place and landed unnoticed on the couch. “There never was any money? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“No more lovely things?”

“Just enjoy the lovely things you have.”

She was saying sadly, “Poor Diphilus will be so disappointed,” when a voice from the doorway announced, “Never mind poor Diphilus. When are you going to make Gaius give me a dowry?”

Ruso growled, “Not to night.”

“Then what about Tertius?”

Ruso said, “Tertius made a choice,” at the same time as Arria said, “Who is Tertius?”

“I need money, Gaius.”

“So do we all.”

“Then Tertius is going to die!” cried Marcia, bursting into tears. “And all you want to do”—this was addressed to Ruso—“is to make money out of cutting him up! It’s all your fault, Gaius! I hate you!”

“Then you shouldn’t have called me home,” said Ruso.

61

A
FTER A RESTLESS night throughout which one of them waited in dread for mice and the other for spiders, Tilla was relieved to open her eyes and find she could make out the hump that was Cass’s shoulder. Beyond it she could see the outline of the shutters. She closed her eyes again and slid her hands up over her ears in case the movement she was about to make should disturb anything with four paws and a tail and send it scuttling across her face. Then, with a move sudden enough to scare it away, she sat up.

Beside her, Cass muttered and groped for the blanket, pulling it over her head. Tilla peered at the floor, decided there was nothing moving down there, and padded across the room to open the window.

The chilly air out in the yard smelled of dung and wood smoke. A donkey shifted and stamped, banging its bucket in the hope of food. Somewhere beyond the walls, a bird chirruped an early call.

“Wake up!” she hissed, shaking her companion by the shoulder. “Wake up. We have to go and find Phoebe’s Bar.”

The sun had risen by the time they had tidied themselves, rejected the woman’s offer of breakfast, and made their way through the waking streets to join the early traffic crossing back over the floating bridge. Safely on the opposite shore, they headed downstream to where the merchant ships were moored along the wharf.

A swaying crate was being guided into a hold by men shouting instructions to the crane operators. They dodged out of the path of a slave lugging an amphora just as a long train of laden mules began to pass along the road in front of them. An old man wheeling a trolley of boxes of fish plodded by in the opposite direction. As they approached, the screech of metal on stone signaled the opening of warehouse doors.

Cass was muttering something that sounded like, “Oh dear, oh dear . . .”

Tilla said, “I hope this Phoebe serves breakfast.”

They were barely past the first warehouse when she stopped.

“Is it here?” Cass was gazing around her. “I can’t see it.”

“Something else.”

The sight of chained slaves was not unusual. What Tilla had not expected was that the grimy and dejected figures slumped on the dockside ready for loading would be dressed just like the people she had left at home. She hurried forward, ignoring the guard who was busy chewing and examining his own teethmarks in a hunk of bread.

Kneeling by the nearest woman—the trader had at least had the decency to chain the men separately from the women and children—she whispered in her own language, “I am Darlughdacha of the Coriono-tatae among the Brigantes. What is your name, sister?”

The woman’s sunken eyes held no expression.

“We are nobody,” said the girl chained next to her. “We are prisoners. Leave us alone.”

“You must have a tribe. Your accent is—what? Selgovae?”

“We have no tribe.”

“Of course you do! Selgovae? Anavionenses?”

“What does it matter?” demanded the girl. “In a few days we’ll dock in Ostia and they’ll put us up for sale like cattle.”

“What is she saying?” demanded Cass, crouching beside Tilla. “Does she know my brother?”

The girl looked at them both, asking in British, “What does that one want? Why are you here?”

“Tilla! What is she saying?”

Tilla put a hand over Cass’s. “She doesn’t know your brother. She has her own troubles.” She turned back to the girl. “I cannot help you,” she said, “and our own gods cannot hear you from here. But I have found out there is a great god who is everywhere, a god with no name who answers if you call him ‘father.’ ”

Several of the nearby slaves were paying attention now. The guards were watching too.

“My friend needed to travel to this place, and straight away this father god sent a man with a cart to bring us,” continued Tilla. She glanced around before adding, “He is more powerful than the emperor. He has a son called Christos and the Romans tried to kill him and he came back to life. You should try praying to him.”

The girl held out both palms. “We have nothing to give.”

“He does not want your gifts. He likes . . .” Tilla paused, wondering exactly what this god the father did want. “He likes songs and long prayers,” she said, “and sharing food and— oh, you must stop doing sins and you have to forgive people and then Christos will come back from heaven and fetch you.”

“What are sins?” asked a woman.

“Forgive which people?” demanded one of the men.

Tilla, who was not exactly sure what sins were herself, said, “People who need forgiving, I suppose.” Somehow this new way of life did not seem as attractive here as it had in the company of the other believers.

“So,” said the woman, “if we honor this father god and forgive the guards, will he help us escape?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Tilla. “But they say that if you love this god and obey him, he will take you to live with him in the next world when you die.”

“Huh,” retorted the man. “We’d like a bit of help before then.”

Tilla got to her feet. “You will never know till you try,” she said. Turning to the girl, she said, “Courage, sister. I have been a slave to a Roman. He is a good man. It may not be as bad as you fear.”

“I hope not,” agreed the girl, “because what I fear is very bad indeed.”

As Tilla and Cass began to walk away the man called after them, “Oy! What tribe did you say you were?”

“Corionotatae. Of the Brigantes.”

“I might have known!” retorted the man. “Trust a Brigante to be playing both ends against the middle.”

“That’s enough!” called the guard, putting his bread down. “No more talking!” He turned to Tilla. “If you’re not buying, don’t interfere with the stock.”

Tilla sighed. “My people,” she said sadly, gazing out between the masts to where a lump of driftwood was swirling on the current. “Always the same.”

Cass said, “What is the matter with your people?”

“Nothing,” said Tilla, setting out once more along the wharf. “They are clever and brave. But when you offer them something good they can always find a reason why it will not work. I tried to tell them about Chris-tos.”

“Justinus believed Christos would take him to heaven,” Cass mused, falling into step with her. “But how will Christos find him when his body isn’t buried?”

“I don’t know,” said Tilla. “I have only been to one meeting. I think there are some things I have not found out yet.”