Persona Non Grata (12 page)

27

W
HILE 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 house hold, 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 laundry maid 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, orga nized the farm slaves’ supper, dealt with a tantrum from Little Gaius, and invited Tilla to join her in a late retreat to the bathhouse. 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 Cas-siana 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 is he 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 around. 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 draft 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

T
ILLA 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 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 around and around. And around. And around. Although she supposed a donkey might relieve itself all over the grapes. She was tempted to pee in that horrible woman’s grape juice herself, except that it would not be fair to 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’s 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 after the apology was accepted, they proceeded to blame her for their woes. Why had she made such a great fuss about nothing, running all over the town “instead of waiting for us like Galla does?”

At this moment Arria, who must have been listening inside the hall, marched out onto the porch and demanded, “What do you mean, ‘like Galla does’ ?”

Summoned, the terrified slave had finally confessed that yes, when she chaperoned the girls into town, they did sometimes go off on their own.

“Where do they go? Who with? You stupid girl! How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”

The girls were sent back to their room and told that Arria expected to hear some music practice. Galla was informed that since she could not be trusted to look after the family, she was now to consider herself a farm laborer.

When Tilla intervened to say it was not fair, Arria snapped, “And you can go too. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, young woman!”

“Why did you never tell her that the girls ran away from you?” asked Tilla, changing hands again on the rope.

“Because I am more afraid of them than of her, miss.”

“You do not have to call me ‘miss,’ ” Tilla reminded her. “We are in the same trough.”

“No, m— Tilla. If I had known they were taking you to town, I would have warned you.”

“Where do they go?”

“I told the mistress. I don’t know.”

“But you can guess,” said Tilla, who had spent enough time as a slave to know that servants knew far more than they dared tell.

Safe from the wrath of Arria and her daughters, Galla did not need much prompting. “I think they hang around the gates of the gladiators’ barracks.”

Tilla paused to scoop a drowning beetle out of the pulp. She set it on the wall of the trough, shook off the slimy grape skins that were clinging to her fingers, and said, “Is it something to do with a fighter called Ter-tius?”

“Tertius is a very stupid boy,” said Galla. “Marcia thinks he is going to marry her.” Leaving unspoken the obvious conclusion that Marcia was not very bright, either, Galla added, “Did she wear the green stole?”

Tilla gripped the rope again and swung around to face her. “How did you know?”

“They did that to me too. They wear something bright on top. Then when they run away, they take it off. So you are looking for a girl in a green stole . . .”

“. . . who is nowhere,” said Tilla, realizing how they had made a fool of her. Marcia had deliberately wrapped her in that necklace like a chain. She spotted a pristine bunch of grapes, took aim, and splattered it with her left foot. “How do you put up with this?”

“I have never done it before.”

“I mean the family.”

“I pray to be able to forgive,” said Galla unexpectedly.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Some days it is easier than others,” Galla agreed, shuffling sideways. “And at least I am not often beaten.”

“She hit you today.”

“Today is a bad day. So was yesterday.”

Tilla pondered this for a moment. “Were you there when that man died yesterday?”

Galla trapped a stray grape between her toes and squelched it before answering, “I’m sorry, miss—”

“Tilla.”

“I’m sorry, Tilla. The master told me not to speak of it.”

Tilla had to admire the girl’s loyalty, but it was frustrating to find Galla just as reluctant to reveal the last words as the Medicus had been.

She tried, “Do you know the master’s old wife?”

“Not well.”

The slave was both loyal and tactful. It was very annoying.

“Severus’s sister cried when she came to fetch the body,” Galla said suddenly, as if she had finally thought of something safe to talk about. “I felt sorry for her.”

“It is a terrible thing to lose a brother.” They stopped trampling. Tilla could hear the juice trickling down into the vat. She said, “My brothers were killed by men from another tribe.” Here, surrounded by high walls and sunny vineyards, gardens and olive groves, it seemed almost impossible to believe that such things could happen.

“Mistress Cassiana’s brother is dead too. He went on a ship and drowned.” Galla pushed back a strand of hair that was stuck to her forehead and moved to an untrodden corner of the trough.

“I heard. I am sorry for her.”

“When the man came with the news he sent me to fetch her. While I was gone little Lucius climbed up the ladder and fell off the roof and broke his arm. So it was a bad day for everyone.” She sighed. “The mistress is right, she can’t trust me to look after the family.”

“Maybe the mistress needs to learn to forgive,” suggested Tilla.

“It is the only way,” Galla agreed, not sounding very hopeful.

“It is one way,” said Tilla. She had never forgiven the raiders from the North who had killed her family and at the moment she was not eager to forgive the Medicus’s stepmother and sisters, either. “Do you think Severus’s family will forgive whoever killed him?”

“I hope so. It is the only way to stop things from getting worse.”

“But there must be justice. A man who has done wrong must be made to pay the price, or there is nothing to stop him from doing it again.” Tilla swilled the juice around with one foot, searching for strays. “Or her,” she added.

“I’m not saying his family should not have justice,” said Galla, “but justice may not come in this world.”

Here was something Tilla could grasp. Her own family were waiting for her in the next world, although the shortage of druids at home meant that no one was able to explain that world to her in a way that made sense. It had already occurred to her that if she were to die here, her spirit might not be able to find its way back to them any more than the lost spirit of Justinus could return until someone built a tomb and called him home.

“So,” she said, pushing further at the door Galla had begun to open, “who do you think should be forgiven for killing this Severus?”

“I don’t know.”

“I am not asking you to know. I am asking you to guess.”

Galla pursed her lips. “He never seemed like a nice man.”

“Somebody must have been very angry with him. Perhaps his wife?”

“Oh no, Claudia’s very respectable!”

Tilla changed hands on the rope and said nothing.

“Really. That would be terrible, a woman—”

“Terrible,” agreed Tilla. “It must be somebody else.”

“Perhaps Claudia’s father.”

“Because he did not like his son-in-law?” Tilla prompted.

“Or because of the ship,” mused Galla.

When Galla seemed disinclined to continue, she prompted, “The ship?”

“The ship where Mistress Cassiana’s brother was drowned.” Galla paused.

Tilla took a long, slow breath. Getting this story was like pulling teeth. She was about to prompt again when Galla said, “I heard something in the market the other day. After the mistress asked the fish sellers if they had heard of the
Pride of the South
. I said nothing because it wouldn’t bring her brother back and I thought it would upset her more.”

“Go on.”

“They told her they didn’t know anything. But after she had gone I heard one of them tell his friend that the
Pride of the South
was so rotten he was surprised it had made it out of port.”

Galla stopped, and looked at her as if waiting for reassurance. It seemed this was the climax of the story. When Tilla did not reply she said, “Do you think I will be in more trouble for not saying this before?”

“I will tell the Medicus,” Tilla said. “But at the moment he is busy trying to find out who killed Severus.”

“That’s why I’m telling you!” exclaimed Galla. “It was Severus who chose which ship to invest in.”

Tilla thought about that for a moment. “That would be a good reason for Cass to want revenge on him.”

“Oh dear!” Galla looked as though she was about to burst into tears. “No, no. I’m sorry. I’m not very good at explaining. Severus chose which ship to invest in but he had no money. That was why Justinus was on board.

He was there to make sure everything was done properly, because the money all came from his master. Probus. Claudia’s father.”

Tilla swung around to face Galla with her weight resting on the rope. “And when this rotten ship disappeared, the father lost his steward and his money, and it was all the fault of Severus?”

“I suppose so.”

The crunch of footsteps outside spurred them back to work before a bulky silhouette appeared in the doorway. The Medicus’s brother grunted a greeting and approached with, “The lads want to be in here before long to set the press up.”

Tilla guessed from the abruptness of his tone that he was not sure how to address them. He bent to peer at the green slop, grunted again, and stirred it around with a stick. “Every single grape,” he reminded them. “I don’t want any still whole when they come through the press.”

Tilla did not dare to ask how something as soft as a grape could possibly emerge whole from beneath the massive press beam built into the wall of the winery. Instead she groped dutifully in the mush with her toes, hunting for escapees and wondering whether a man would really murder his son-in-law for making a bad choice of ship.