Persona Non Grata (6 page)

11

R
USO LEANED ON the balustrade and stood taking in the view from the front porch. The lanky shadows of the pergolas had swung away from the walkways they were built to cover and were now stalking the flowerbeds. He sniffed. The drains needed to be flushed out. Lu-cius had been letting things go. A bird fluttered out from the ivy covering the wall that Arria had insisted on having raised to separate garden from working farmyard, and swooped to stab at an insect in the dry fountain. Even from this distance, the crack in the side of the pool was obvious, as were the failed attempts to patch it. It was an uncomfortable reminder of the emptiness of the family coffers.

Pretend you don’t know.

That was what he had been doing in Britannia. Lucius was right. He had been finding ways to distract himself from his responsibilities back at home.

A waft of smoke was rising from behind the bathhouse. In a moment he would go and sweat out the dirt of traveling. Then, newly clean, he would submerge himself in the cold plunge and hope for inspiration about how to tackle the Gabinii’s plans to extend their empire across his own small farm.

His musing was interrupted by a roar of, “Sit down!” from inside the house.

“From now on, you’ll all sit still and eat with your mouths shut!” bellowed Lucius, with more fury than logic. “The next one to speak will be whipped!”

There was a brief pause, followed by an exasperated, “You know what I mean!” Then louder, as if someone had opened a door, “Because I’ve had enough! If you won’t discipline them, I will.”

Ruso sighed and told himself it was no use feeling nostalgic for the army. He supposed he should go and find out what his sisters had done with Tilla, and whether he needed to rescue her from it.

He was reaching for his stick when he detected a waft of perfume and heard the ominous words, “Gaius, dear! We must have a little chat!”

“Little chats” with Arria usually consisted of her telling him what she wanted him to do, followed by him explaining why he was not going to do it. “Before we start,” he said, leaning back against the balustrade as if it would support his arguments, “have you seen Tilla anywhere?”

“That girl?” said Arria in a tone that suggested Tilla was of no more importance than a piece of luggage. “Oh, your sisters are showing her around. I don’t expect they have houses like this in Britannia, do they? It must be quite exciting for her.”

Ruso motioned his stepmother toward the stone bench, where they sat side by side in an atmosphere of lavender and drains.

“I’ve been talking to Lucius,” he said, “about the way things are.”

“It’s really too dreadful, isn’t it?”

“It’s very worrying,” he agreed, relieved that she had at last begun to acknowledge the seriousness of their situation. “I’m going to see what I can do to sort it out tomorrow.”

“Oh do, please,” she said. “Diphilus says it’s because the man who put the fountain in did something to the water. He offered to send somebody to look weeks ago. But no, your brother wanted to do it himself. I said, Lucius, dear, you’re very good at making wine, but what do you know about plumbing? So he lifted some stones up and had a poke about with a stick, but it did no good and now he says he’s too busy. How can I invite people into the garden? It gives such a terrible impression.”

Evidently his perception of the family’s main problem did not coincide with Arria’s. “Who’s Diphilus?”

“The builder, dear. You remember. The contractor who helped us with the Temple of Diana.”

Fleeced us
might have been a better expression, but Ruso was determined not to get into an argument. Not yet, anyway.

“He’s nearly finished the mausoleum he’s working on,” she said. “If we let him know quickly, he can fit us in for a summer dining extension before he goes onto a big villa contract.”

“We don’t need a dining extension.”

“Oh, not a big thing. An outdoor room. You know, with stone couches around three sides and a nice table or two in the middle. Diphilus says it wouldn’t take more than a week to put up. Your father always said we should have one. Over there, so we can listen to the fountain. When Diphilus has found us someone to mend it, and seen to the drains. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Why don’t we ask the original plumber to come back and fix the fountain?”

“Because he’s gone off to join the army, dear.”

Ruso hoped the army had posted him somewhere deeply unpleasant.

“Diphilus is doing us a favor offering to look at it. I’m sure he’ll be very reasonable.”

“We’ll have a better idea of what we can afford before long,” said Ruso, determined not to be sucked into discussing details. “If anything.” He knew from watching the way she had worked on his father that Arria would interpret any interest as agreement.

“We don’t have to spend on cushions for the couches yet,” she assured him, as if that would make all the difference. “The staff could bring the old ones out from indoors just to tide us over. I’m sure nobody would mind.”

A picture of a siege engine floated across Ruso’s mind: a great tower lumbering relentlessly forward, its covering of animal hides impervious to all weapons hurled at it by the beleaguered defenders.

“Actually,” he said before Arria could start again, “money is what I wanted to talk to you about. I haven’t forgotten about the girls’ dowries—”

“Oh, the girls can wait.”

“But we can’t make any decisions till— what did you say?”

“The girls can wait, dear. Young women are too impatient these days.”

Ruso blinked. Arria had first started harassing him about the dowries over a year ago, and nothing Lucius said had hinted that she had changed her mind. “Well,” he said, aware that his sisters would be furious, “I’m glad we’re agreed.”

“I’ve had a much better idea about how to get you boys out of trouble.”

As usual, Arria was not put off by a wary silence. For some reason she was extolling the virtues of the amphora factory whose land adjoined the eastern edge of their own. “It’s a marvelous business, you know,” she said. “All the farms need them and nobody ever brings the empties back.” When Ruso failed to enthuse she added, “Do they?”

“Not often,” he said, careful not to show any interest until he knew where this was leading.

“Well, he’s dead now, so it’s all hers.”

Ruso realized that something relevant must have drifted past him. “Who’s dead?”

“Lollia Saturnina’s husband, dear. Do try and listen. At least a year and a half ago. Now here you are, a handsome young officer, single, just home from the Legions. What could be better?”

There were many things that could be better, but Ruso could not think how to explain what they were.

“Don’t scowl, Gaius, please. You would be such a nice-looking boy if you tried to look more cheerful. It would be quite a reasonable house with a little care and attention, and it’s not far to move. I was thinking—”

“What about Tilla?”

“The barbarian?” Arria glanced around in alarm, as if Tilla were about to pounce on her from behind one of the legs of the pergola. “I know you didn’t want to be lonely over there, dear, but really— is it fair to bring people like that back to a civilized place?” Leaning closer, she added in a stage whisper, “And especially not home with you, Gaius! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking you’d make her welcome.”

The painted eyes widened in alarm. “Gaius, you haven’t done something very silly, have you?”

“Frequently.”

“Tell me you haven’t married her.”

“She wouldn’t have me,” he said. “She says I’m too foreign.”

“Foreign? You? Well, thank goodness for that. Now then . . . I’m sure we can find a nice family to take her on if she doesn’t want to go home.”

“She doesn’t need a nice family, Arria. She’s got me.”

Arria let out a long sigh that seemed to express weariness not only with her stepson’s present stance, but with past years of argument, obstinacy, and mutual incomprehension. “Gaius, dear, please try and be sensible.” She turned away and wiped at an invisible tear with her middle finger. “If only your poor father were here to talk to you!”

Ruso folded his arms, “Even father couldn’t imagine that the widow next door is going to welcome the advances of a bankrupt.”

“But you’re a war hero, dear!”

“Of course I’m not! You haven’t gone around saying that to people, have you?”

“Please try, Gaius. It’s for the sake of the family. Poor Lucius has gotten us all into a dreadful mess and I can’t think what else we can do, can you? I suppose you could try talking to Claudia, but she doesn’t have much influence over him, anyway.”

Ruso was not sure how or why his former wife had appeared in the conversation. Suspecting he was about to be scolded yet again for not listening, he asked, “Over who?”

“That Severus, dear.”

When his face remained blank she said, “But surely Lucius told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Claudia is married to Severus now.”

Ruso’s astonishment was such that all he could say was, “Oh.” He scratched his ear with his forefinger and pondered this unexpected complication. It was, of course, completely irrelevant. It was also . . . he was not sure what it was. His own former wife was married to an unscrupulous business agent who was related to the Gabinii. Surely even Claudia had more sense than that? Surely she had more taste?

Surprise was followed by a brief moment of smugness. He had demonstrated—according to Claudia— many faults and failings during their marriage, but wresting land from innocent families and doing deals for the fourteen-year-old sisters of men who owed him money were not among them.

“Claudia was never the right girl for you, anyway,” continued Arria. “I always said so. But Lollia is a nice woman. She could run her business— everyone says she’s far better at it than he was—and you could still carry on with your doctoring. She has some very good connections, you know. People who could pay you properly for a change.”

Ruso recalled Valens once suggesting back in Britannia that what he needed was a rich widow. The thought was no less appalling now than it had been two years ago.

“I’ve told her all about you,” continued Arria.

“I see. And have you told her I’m looking for a wife?”

She winced. “Oh dear. I suppose this is what happens when you mix with soldiers all the time. You will have to learn to be more subtle, dear. Now, I’ve invited her for dinner tomorrow night, but when you meet her you mustn’t say a word about what we’ve discussed. We don’t want to frighten her off.”

“I think it’s more likely to be the other way around.”

The paint on Arria’s lips stretched across a smile. “You’ll like her, Gaius. Trust me. I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought you weren’t suited. Now, before you disappear into the bath house, you must help me choose a menu.”

You must help me choose a menu.
Claudia had said that once, early in their marriage. He thought he had done rather well until she told him she would do it on her own the next time.

“I really don’t think this is the time to be holding dinner parties.”

Arria sighed. “Gaius, you’re not going to be awkward, are you?”

“I’m not being awkward, I’m being practical. And I’m never any good at this social chit-chat business, anyway.”

“Never mind, dear. We’ll blame that on the army. I’ll invite Diphilus; he’s good company. You can ask Lollia about her cough. And do try to look a little happier. She won’t be interested if she thinks you’re sulky. I’ll have your clothes brushed and pressed, and promise me you’ll have a shave and a haircut in the morning. You’re not in Britannia now, you know.”

“I’m beginning to wish I was,” said Ruso, remembering with fondness the little room at the top of the steps, with the pot of wildflowers on the windowsill and the mystery products of Tilla’s cooking on the table.

Arria was promising, “. . . chicken in dill sauce, of course, your favorite . . .”

Was it? Perhaps it had been, once. Doubtless she would be able to tell him exactly where and when he had expressed this rare burst of enthusiasm.

“—and I’ll ask her to have her cook send over the recipe.”

“Good,” said Ruso, having no idea what else Arria had just proposed, and no interest in finding out.

“You like them too? Lovely! You see, already you both have something in common.”

“Do we?”

“Oh, Gaius! Are you listening to anything I’m saying? Roast testicles!”

“Roast testicles?”

“With pepper and pine nuts.”

“Ah,” said Ruso.

12

R
USO LAY BACK, feeling a faint breeze from the window cool his skin. This was the first night for weeks that he had gone to bed alone. Tilla had been sleeping when he checked her room an hour ago, but his resolve to let her rest was weakening.

He had planned to introduce her properly this evening when the family gathered for dinner, only to be informed as the salad was served and the girls turned up without her, that she had “gone to play with the children.”

He had found her sitting on the floor of the children’s room having her hair combed by the nieces. A cheerfully naked toddler was sprawled across her lap, ignoring Galla’s attempts to interest him in the pot.

Tilla took the pot from Galla and set it between her feet. Then she grasped the toddler under both arms, lifted him up, and set him on it, facing toward her. “There!” She leaned forward and said to the toddler, “We will both sit here and see who can do it first.”

The girls giggled.

“Ready?” Tilla asked Little Gaius. She screwed up her eyes, bared her teeth, clenched her fists, and made a straining noise that sounded like, “Nnnnnnnn!”

Little Gaius shrieked and bounced with delight on the pot while the girls cried, “She’s making a poo noise! Uncle Gaius, listen! Listen, Galla!”

Ruso was no longer sure she deserved an invitation to dinner, but he was not going to be ignored in favor of his small namesake. “Dinnertime,” he said, realizing that she was still clad in her hot British wool. “Didn’t the girls lend you something cooler to wear?”

Unable to turn her head without having her hair pulled, Tilla said, “Your stepmother has something yellow for me tomorrow.”

He raised his voice. “That’ll have to do, girls. She’s mine now.” To Tilla he said, “Come and get something to eat.”

She stilled the efforts of the nieces by grasping the comb. “I have just had a big bowl of broth and half a loaf at the kitchen table. Then they gave me stewed apple and wine with water. What must I eat now?”

“Dinner. Whatever the cook was making while you were in there. Didn’t anybody tell you?”

The eyes that were not really blue widened in alarm. “Nobody said I must eat again! It is too hot!”

“Just come in and have a little. I want to introduce you to the family.”

“I do not think they want to meet me again.”

“Of course they do.”

“No they don’t, Uncle Gaius!” put in one of the nieces helpfully. “Grandmother Arria said—”

“Never mind what Arria said,” interrupted Ruso, knowing full well who must have instructed the cook to cram Tilla with food. “You’re welcome to join the family for dinner.”

“I will come if you want, but I am tired, and hot, and full up.” There was a rare note of anxiety in her voice.

To his shame, he felt relieved. As far as he knew, Tilla had never attended a proper dinner before. In Britannia she was officially his house keeper. It had never occurred to him to invite her on the rare occasions when he dined with other officers. He had never discussed it with her, but he was certain she would not have wanted to go. That was just as well, because he would no more have been expected to bring her than he would be expected to bring the family dog.

When he returned to the dining room he admitted none of this to Ar-ria, to whom he explained that there had been a misunderstanding, that Tilla was weary from the journey but that in future she would be eating with the family.

He was glad she was not there to see the expression on Arria’s face.

By the time dinner was over, Tilla had already gone to bed.

Something creaked out in the corridor. Footsteps passed by. Somewhere at the far end, a door clamped shut.

Ruso wondered whether to go and fetch her. He really should let her sleep. He really should sleep himself, instead of lying here going over the events of the day and wondering what he could do tomorrow to stop mess sliding into disaster.

He rolled over and scowled at the old cupboard in the corner. It reminded him of the childhood nights when Lucius had refused to let him snuff out the lamp until he had checked that those cupboard doors were locked. It was vital that they were locked after dark, because of the monsters.

Until now he had never thought to wonder how the monsters had installed themselves in the cupboard— or in Lucius’s mind— in the first place. They even had names: Gobbus was a male monster with matted hair, green teeth, and breath that smelled of rotten eggs. Mogta was his sister, or perhaps his wife—their precise relationship, being of no interest to seven-and nine-year-olds, was never defined. What was clear was that Mogta liked to slide her sharp fingernails into the soft flesh of small boys in the night, and then skin them alive while they cried for their mothers.

As he watched the shadow of the cupboard breathing against the pale wall with the drifting of the lamp flame, it occurred to Ruso that the monsters must have appeared at around about the time a winter fever had taken away their own mother. Lucius had lain in this room with the same fever for what seemed like weeks, although it had probably only been a few days. The house had been full of weeping and strangers. Adults whom Ruso did not recognize, but who knew his name, told him how sorry they were and how brave he was being.

Nobody except Ruso had time to listen to a small boy’s tales of what he had seen coming out of the cupboard in the fevered night. To Ruso’s shame, he had found it funny— until Lucius kept him awake, crying and cuddling up to him for comfort. Then he veered between sympathy— now their mother was gone it was his job to protect his little brother— and exasperation. In fact, he had felt then much as he felt now. Except that this time the monsters were real.

Gobbus no longer lived in the cupboard, but on the senator’s estate down the road, and there was no locking him away now. Ruso wondered if even Lucius appreciated just how serious this seizure business was.

If the praetor in Rome ruled in favor of Severus, the house hold would be turned off the land they had worked for decades. The men who had been cutting the grapes this afternoon would be put up for auction. Galla, the new cook, the ancient bath boy who had been stoking the fire since Ruso was a child . . . all would be sold off to the highest bidder along with Arria’s trea sured tables and couches and cushions.

As for the family— his sisters would have to find husbands where they could: old goats perhaps, but unlikely to be rich ones. Lucius would have to look for work as a farm manager, one step up from slavery.

After the sale, the profits would be divided between the creditors. Given the size of the debts, it was obvious that no one would get as much as he was owed— and that was when the real trouble would begin. Lucius might be able to wriggle out of it, because technically it was Ruso who was their father’s heir. It was Ruso who would fail to pay off the balance of the debts. It was Ruso who would be declared
infamis
: the disgraced man with no rights, no legal standing, no money, no good name . . .

Despite the warmth of the room, Ruso felt a sudden shiver run down his back. No good name . . . how could a man who was
infamis
serve as an officer in the army?

He lay back, eyes wide, staring at the shadowed ceiling as if he had never seen it before. His contract with the Twentieth ran out in January. The Legate would never bring shame upon the Legion by reappointing a dishonored man. If Ruso could not persuade this Severus to drop the case, he might never get another posting back to Britannia. If Tilla wanted to go home, he would not be able to take her. Severus had not only enticed him home: He had trapped him here.

He tensed, sensing movement outside the door. The latch clicked and someone entered the room.

“Your stepmother does not like me,” announced Tilla.

One of his hands made contact with hers in the dark. He heard a shuffle of fabric. When she slid into the bed and pressed her back against his chest, she was naked.

“I thought you were asleep,” he murmured, sliding one hand around her waist.

“Your stepmother is spying on me,” she said. “There is a slave sleeping outside my door.”

He shifted one leg so it lay between hers and said, “Perhaps in case you need anything.”

“I do not think so.”

“No,” he agreed.

She wriggled. “You are too hot.”

“You’re lovely and cool.”

“You did not tell them about me.”

“I should have,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She rolled over to face him. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“No.”

“I have wrong clothes and funny hair.”

“So do I.”

She said, “Your sisters are taking me shopping tomorrow. They said I must ask you for money.”

“Your hair can’t be that funny, then. They’re very particular.”

She seemed to think about that for a moment, then she said, “What did your brother say about the letter?”

He had expected her to be angry when she found out about the forgery. Instead she said, “I think the gods have made this wicked man write to you. Now you are here, you can help your brother to fight him.”

If only it were that simple. “He’s from a powerful family,” he explained. “And he can use the law to back him up.”

“I will help you.”

He was not going to tell her that there was nothing she could do to help and that bringing her here had been a huge mistake. She did not need to know that if the wicked man won, they would not be able to return to Britannia together. Instead he bent forward to kiss her, feeling her hair brushing against his face in the darkness, and tried to think of something else to talk about.

Only as he was halfway through “Arria thinks I should save the family by marrying the rich widow next door” did he realize that Tilla might not find it funny. When she said nothing he added, “But I said,
What about Tilla?
”

The silence from the other side of the bed told him that he was digging himself deeper into a hole.

Outside, he heard the faint cry of a child and more footsteps. He had a sudden memory of Cass’s brother scrambling down that corridor on all fours with two of the nephews on his back squealing, “Faster, faster!”

“Tilla,” he said, clutching at a new subject, “while we were traveling, do you remember anybody saying anything about a ship called the
Pride of the South
?”

She did not, nor did she seem interested until he explained about Cass’s brother. “She is the one who sent you the gloves and the socks and the olives?”

“Yes.” Justinus’s ship had vanished back at the beginning of the summer. Cass was right: It was very odd that Probus had turned up here just a couple of weeks ago to ask if he was still alive. Perhaps Probus had heard some kind of rumor about his lost ship and was trying simultaneously to follow it up and keep it quiet. It was typical of the man that he had not considered the effect of his inquiries on the dead man’s sister. He said, “Probably nobody will ever know what happened to him.”

“It is a sad way to lose a brother, far from home.”

“I’d like to get over to Arelate and ask around, but I need to get into Ne-mausus first thing tomorrow so I can try and stave off this bloody court case.” He sighed. “Then I need to find some work. Even if this Severus is prepared to settle, we’ll have next to no cash left for the rest of the bills. The whole thing is a mess.”

“You are tired,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “Everything will seem better in the morning.”

“Perhaps.” Perhaps not.

She moved his hand up and placed it on her breast. “I have told that slave she can sleep in my bed,” she said, wriggling closer to him. “That way, she will not tell your stepmother what I am doing.”

“Good,” murmured Ruso, bending forward to nuzzle her ear. “Neither will I.”