Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

Ruso climbed down, fixing him with the same look that had frightened Albanus’s young followers and the innkeeper’s wife. The driver did not seem to notice.

“Was it the natives?” asked the girl, peering wide eyed from behind her mother’s skirts.

“Of course it was,” the boy said. “I bet they tied him up and stuck a big spike through his-”

“No they didn’t!” said Ruso and the mother in unison.

At that moment the riders who had been escorting the family yesterday clattered out of the stables and halted, two in front of the vehicle and two behind. Ruso had just promised the mother that she would be perfectly safe when Serena’s voice called out from the top of the mansio steps, “Of course you’ll be safe! I hope Ruso hasn’t been frightening you with some silly nonsense about the natives?”

The woman was looking up at Serena with the expression of a stray dog begging to be taken in.

“Absolutely not,” insisted Ruso.

“Good,” said Serena. “There’s no need to worry about the natives down here. You’ll meet the dangerous tribes in the North.” After these words of doubtful comfort, she added, “Have a good journey!”

“You’ll be fine,” Ruso assured the woman. “You’re on the main road and you have a good escort.”

“But that poor man who was-”

“He was a native himself,” said Ruso, knowing that would reassure her. “He was known to be carrying a lot of money and he had no guards with him.”

The woman said, “Why not?”

“That’s what I’m trying to work out.” He glanced across at Dias, who seemed to be more interested in the maid sweeping the steps, and wondered whether he knew.

Before leaving he stepped back inside the mansio and told Serena and the cousin that if there were any urgent messages, he would be out at the cemetery with Dias to supervise a postmortem examination and then he was going to report to the Council.

Dias, who must have overheard, greeted him with something that might have been a smile. Or a smirk. Without knowing what the man was thinking, Ruso had no way of telling the difference.

The morning had not started well. Tilla woke to the sound of the baby crying and the pallbearers hammering on a door that bore a damp streak and a fresh tang of urine. Camma looked haggard and smelled unwashed. When Tilla asked if she had slept, she did not seem to know. She had insisted on huddling under some blankets on the couch, sharing the front room for one last night with her lover. Tilla had gone to lie awake in the curtained space just off the kitchen that used to belong to Grata. The second bedroom had a better bed, but it held Bericus’s clothes and smelled of his hair oil, and neither of them could face going in there.

The kitchen fire had collapsed into a pile of warm ash. There was no time to revive it. While the men loaded up the bier, Tilla encouraged Camma to wash in the cold water from the bucket and pull on some fresh clothes.

At the last minute Camma decided there should be a coin in Asper’s mouth, just in case a man who collected taxes for Rome needed to pay the ferryman, and then decided she could not face placing it there. Tilla searched her purse, took a deep breath, and did it herself.

They set off while the sun was barely more than a red tinge below a streak of cloud in the east. Dias had not only kept his word, but instead of leaving it to the cemetery slaves, he had sent four guards to carry the body, all smartly dressed in their scarlet tunics and chain mail. One of them had brought a torch, which he handed to Tilla.

If the pallbearers were impressive, the party of mourners following Julius Asper on his final journey through the chilly streets of Verulamium was pitifully small. Two women and a baby, only one of whom had known the deceased when he was alive. Several early risers stopped to watch them pass, but none chose to join them. Tilla could not help noticing that the watching faces bore more curiosity than sorrow. She had wondered if Grata might come, but there was no sign of her. Her new job was in a bakery: She was probably at work.

By the time they passed through the town gates and out along the road, the sky was pale and clear. The soft wailing of the small procession blended with the morning birdsong. Almost as if he understood, the baby woke up and began to cry as well.

There was a faint scent of bluebells drifting across from the woods behind the cemetery. The dew soaked into Tilla’s boots as they picked their way between the grave markers to the circle of trampled grass that must have seen many Catuvellauni dispatched to the next world. The cemetery slaves had already stacked two pyres. With Asper laid out on the nearest one, they began to place more brushwood and dried holly over the body. Tilla guessed that the second pyre was for Bericus. She hoped Camma had not noticed the cart parked behind the workers’ hut at the far end of the cemetery. The two guards who seemed to be responsible were standing well away from it.

More men appeared from the direction of the town. A group of four stationed themselves on the far side of the clearing without acknowledging the widow. One of them, a servant, opened up a folding stool. The fat one with the short hair and close-cropped beard sat facing the pyre and tapping a jeweled forefinger on his knee, as if he was a busy man who was counting the time he was spending here. His smaller companion stood slightly to one side. He was fingering some sort of charm around his neck and looking around warily, as though something might go wrong at any moment and when it did, he expected to get the blame.

She was pleased to see the Medicus arrive with Dias and another of his troop. They too stood facing the pyres. Tilla decided there must be a wondrous number of town guards if four pallbearers, their captain, and a sixth man could be spared to see off Julius Asper and his brother. Perhaps they were embarrassed that a double murder had taken place almost on their doorstep.

There was, of course, no sign of Caratius.

The cemetery staff finished their work and stood back. The wailing fell silent. Nearer to the road, a family of starlings erupted into a noisy squabble over some tidbit in the grass. Around the pyre, there was a foot-shuffling, glance-exchanging pause that suggested somebody was supposed to be doing something, but nobody knew who or what it was. Dias was gazing into the middle distance as if none of this had anything to do with him. Tilla guessed that he had not thought beyond organizing the cremation.

Finally Camma whispered, “Should someone speak?”

Tilla whispered, “Go on.”

“What can I say?”

Anything would be better than this lengthening silence. Tilla said, “Give the call and send him on his way. His son is too small to light the flames: You will have to do it.”

With some difficulty they exchanged torch and baby, Camma murmuring an unnecessary “Look after him for me” before she stepped forward across the well-trodden ground.

The cry of “Julius Asper, wake up!” silenced the birdsong. As expected, the corpse made no response. The baby began to cry again. Tilla licked the top of her little finger clean and slid it between his lips. She felt the warm wet gums clamp around it. The crying stopped.

Careful to keep the torch away from the wood, Camma reached for the jug one of the slaves had placed at the foot of the pyre. The scent of roses wafted across as the oil dripped down through the brushwood and soaked into the shroud.

Camma stumbled several times as she circled around the pyre with the torch raised. When she came to a standstill she looked white faced and exhausted. Instead of lowering the torch, she looked around the small company. “Someone should speak.”