Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

Tilla swallowed. Why did she not lower the torch and light the pyre? Who would be willing to speak on behalf of Julius Asper? From the humblest slave to the wealthy visitor and his flunkies, all the mourners had their eyes fixed anywhere but on the woman who was asking them to honor her man. Tilla no longer believed he was a thief, and she knew the Medicus did not, either, but how could they explain that to everyone in the middle of a funeral?

“Magistrate?” Camma’s voice was hoarse.

The fat man stopped tapping and leaned across to mutter something to his companion, who looked even more worried than before.

“Chief Magistrate Gallonius!” Camma was addressing the seated man by name now, still holding the torch away from the pyre. “You represent the Council. This man collected your taxes. Will you speak?”

The magistrate said something else to his companion, who explained, “The magistrate is here to observe in a private capacity, madam. He cannot speak on behalf of the Council without their agreement.”

“Can he not speak as a man?”

No reply.

“You, Nico? You worked with him.”

The little man raised his palms as if he were trying to fend her off, but she had already turned away.

“Dias?”

No reply.

“Not one of you?” She sighed. “Not a single one of these cowards dares to open his mouth.”

Tilla and the Medicus looked at each other. He frowned, giving her a look that said a man working for the procurator should not get involved in tribal affairs, and neither should his wife.

“Just light it, woman!” The rich bass of the magistrate Gallonius was that of a man well used to making himself heard. “We haven’t got all day.”

Camma bent over the body. The few words she spoke were whispered to Julius Asper. Then at last, to everyone’s relief, she lowered the torch. Flames began to lick and crackle around the brushwood. Black smoke rose into the sky as she moved around, touching fuel with fire. Finally she knelt and thrust the torch into the base of the pyre. The oil-soaked logs disappeared behind a curtain of flame.

The baby had drifted off to sleep in Tilla’s arms. He would not be aware of the smell of the burning, nor feel the heat that was already wafting toward the mourners.

He would not see the bewildered expressions of those mourners as his mother faced that pyre with her hands raised to the gods.

He would not hear the scream that sent the birds fluttering out of the trees with cries of their own as she shrieked her curse upon Caratius and strode toward the flames. He would not share the horror of the onlookers when they realized what was happening.

Figures were rushing toward the pyre as Tilla lunged for a fistful of Camma’s skirt. The Medicus and the guards grabbed Camma by the arms and the hair and everyone dragged her back from the fire. Tilla thrust the baby into the arms of a bemused cemetery slave and went to help the Medicus and the guards beat at the sparks gleaming in Camma’s clothes and frizzling the unruly red hair.

Camma’s face was flushed with the heat. She looked confused, as if she had just been woken from a dream.

“I will deal with her,” Tilla insisted, shooing the men out of the way. “What is the matter with you?” she hissed, pulling Camma’s clothes straight and tutting at the scorch marks in the wool. “How can you get justice if you are dead too?”

“I will die cursing him and be with Asper in the next world!”

“You will not!” Tilla insisted. “I have not gone to all this trouble just so you can die. Now stay there. I will speak, and you will listen.” She beckoned to the nearest guard, who stood ready to grab Camma if she made another dangerous move.

Tilla could feel the warmth on her flesh as she stepped toward the pyre. She had no idea what she was going to say. She turned and glanced around at the pitiful collection of mourners. Dias, she realized, had not moved at all during the commotion. The fat magistrate had gotten to his feet but was now seated again and looking exasperated. The flunky that Camma had called Nico was chewing his thumbnail. She did not look at her husband. She was not supposed to get involved. Well, it was too late now.

“This man,” she announced in Latin, “was Julius Asper.” That was safe enough. “He lived for thirty-four winters.” She hoped she had remembered that correctly. “He collected taxes for Rome, and he and his brother were cruelly murdered before he could see the beautiful son who has been born to him.” At least the Medicus would approve of that much.

Conscious of the flames at her back, she raised her hands and cried, “Whatever sacred gods may be willing to listen to us, we ask you to guide Julius Asper safely into the next world. Holy Christos, if you are up there sitting at the right hand of your father…”-she was deliberately not looking at her husband-“we will be glad if you lean across and ask him to forgive what this man did in this life. Look after him in the next life. Protect his family…” She glanced around at the magistrate and the guards and the slaves. It occurred to her that someone would tell Caratius about Camma’s fresh curse. They might mention the Northern woman who had come forward to support her, and Caratius would know who it was. She had a feeling the Medicus was going to be very cross indeed.

It was no good worrying about that now. “Give courage to all these people who have come to honor him,” she cried. “Make them speak the truth! Make them tell how an enemy lured Julius Asper to his death so that there will be justice!”

The flames were roaring now. She could feel sweat breaking out on her back. The wool of her tunic felt prickly. It was a relief to say “Amen!” and step away. Without waiting to see the reaction, she collected the baby from the slave who was holding it as if it might bite him, and took Camma by the hand.

“Come, sister,” she said, leading her away through the cool spring grass. “He is gone, and you have a son to look after.”

Ruso strode through the cemetery with his fists clenched, ignoring Dias and Gavo, who were hurrying to keep pace with him. Tilla had just flouted all his instructions. Thanks to that bizarre-not to mention illegal-public prayer, the whole town would soon know that the wife of the procurator’s man was taking Camma’s side in the dispute. She had more or less accused Caratius of murder.

She had undermined the credibility of his investigation. She had put him in an impossible position. She had… he was running out of words to describe what she had done. What was more, he knew that when he objected, she would come up with some irrational way of justifying it.

Get out of town as fast as you can.

He would like nothing better than to get out of town, but he had accepted the job, and, besides, if he abandoned the investigation, what would Metellus do?

He didn’t want to find out.

Word must have spread about the discovery of Bericus’s body: At the far end of the cemetery a gaggle of adults, youths, and even half a dozen scruffy children were gathered just beyond the reach of the guards. There was a murmur of interest as he passed between them on his way to the cart that had been parked well away from the pyres. When he turned they were craning to see what he would do next. He restrained an impulse to tell them that the dead man had not been brought here for their entertainment.

A pot-bellied man with straggly gray hair and a tunic spattered with old blood was crouching in the back of the cart. He was reaching forward with one hand and clutching a cloth over his nose with the other. Ruso paused to tie his neckerchief over his own nose and mouth before swinging up to sit backward on the worn wooden seat, tuck his feet well out of the way, and observe what was happening.