Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

Camma said, “I have never seen that before.”

“It’s been burned,” said Tilla, turning it sideways and peering at the rounded edges to see if there was anything that looked like writing. The tile was clumsily made. “Why is it in the treasure box?”

Camma sat down and reached for one of the empty bags. “I don’t know.”

Watching her, Tilla felt a sense of relief. Money was a nuisance that her own people had not needed before the Romans came, and greed for it was a curse, but she had to admit that the discovery of Asper’s savings was useful. Not only that, but seeing Camma seated at the table calmly counting forty-seven silver coins back into a bag was a comfort. The frightening events of the funeral seemed a long way away, and perhaps best forgotten. She said, “I made porridge.”

“In the middle of the day?”

“That was before you told me there was plenty of money.”

A small wail from the front room announced that the baby would be joining them for lunch.

Tilla placed the bowl of porridge on the corner of the table so Camma could reach it without moving and glanced across at the baby with approval. “He is feeding well.”

Camma picked up the spoon without having to be persuaded. It was a good sign. She said, “What will happen to Caratius?”

Tilla reached for her own bowl and began to drizzle an uneven golden spiral of honey around the surface. She said, “Tell me about him.”

“He is the son of chiefs,” Camma said, “but he has no sons of his own. He is old and angry, and he is not interested in women.”

“Why did he marry?”

Camma shrugged. “I think because having friends among a neighboring tribe might give him a stronger voice here. But instead of living in the grand town he told my people about, I had to stay out in that house miles from anywhere with the servants and the horses and his terrible old mother.”

“His mother’s mind is going.”

“Some days she knew who I was. Other days I had to keep away from her because she was frightened of me.”

It could not have been easy to avoid her in that lonely house. In such a place, with such a husband, why would any wife have wanted to stay?

Camma said, “I tried to be friends, but it made her worse. Did she talk about the silver?”

“She thought we’d come to steal it.”

“She thinks that of everyone. She thinks her father’s savings were buried under the floor when his workshop burned down.” She pointed with her spoon toward the door. “It was just along the street, near where the market halls are now. From the way Caratius likes to stand and watch whenever the men dig up the drains, I think he half believes her himself.”

Tilla cut into the honey spiral with the edge of her spoon. She shifted the spoon sideways to make a half-moon crater in the porridge and watched as the milk flowed in. As the morning wore on, she had grown increasingly uncomfortable about her speech at the cemetery. “Caratius was not how I expected,” she said.

Camma’s smile was bitter. “If he looked like the man he really is, I would never have married him. Now, I curse him!”

Tilla busied herself blowing ripples across the milk. “I hope you’re right, Sister.”

“You have doubts?”

“If he wanted revenge, it would have been easier to catch Asper alone in town.”

“Of course. But if his enemies could say Caratius had killed a tax man, they might throw him off the Council. So he sent a secret message and invited him to his death and everyone thought the brothers had run away.”

It was a good reply. “Somebody sent a message,” Tilla agreed. “Caratius says it wasn’t him.”

“Of course he does! He thought he was safe because nobody here would believe what I told them. He never thought I would dare go to the procurator.”

At that moment the outside door opened. A small figure stepped into the kitchen. “ She said you wanted me back,” announced Grata, pointing an accusing finger at Tilla. Her bag landed on the table with a thud, making the treasure box and the porridge bowls bounce. Before anyone could speak she added, “I never liked working in that bakery anyway.”

Whatever she had thought of the bakery, returning to housekeeping seemed to give Grata no pleasure, either.

Silent and tight lipped, she threw a faded old tunic over her clothes. Then she crashed the kitchen stools up onto the table, grabbed the broom, and began to sweep the floor as if it had just insulted her.

Camma said, “I am sorry about Bericus.”

Tilla said, “And so am I.”

“You never met him,” snapped Grata.

Camma said, “You were not to know Caratius’s message was a trap.”

Grata carried on sweeping the floor as if she had not heard.

Camma and Tilla exchanged a glance over the legs of the upturned stools. Camma said, “I am feeling stronger now. There is money, and I would like to go out in the sunshine and buy food. Come with us, Grata.”

“She needs the right food to make her strong again,” put in Tilla, pleased to see Camma taking an interest in someone else’s troubles. “Eggs and lentils and honey and butter and bread. And pigs’ feet to thicken the milk, and while we are out I want to find a scribe to write a letter.”

Camma said, “Grata, I shall need your help to carry everything.”

“I’m busy.”

“The stalls will close soon. The floor will still be here when we get back.”

Grata flung the broom back into the corner with a cry of exasperation. It bounced off the wall and clattered down against the table. Camma retrieved it and put it away. “I did not know you were so fond of Asper and Bericus.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Come with us.”

“What for?”

“Because we need more vegetables and meat and cheese.”

Grata snorted. “Nobody will talk to us, you know.”

“Are you afraid of them?”

Grata straightened up. “A few gossiping women?” She wiped her hands on the old tunic. “No. There are far worse things to be afraid of, believe me.”

Safely outside the chaos of the Council chamber, Ruso turned to Dias. “I appreciate the personal escort,” he said, “but you must have more important things to do.”

If the guard captain suspected that Ruso was trying to get rid of him, he did not show it. Instead he appeared to be thinking about the idea. Finally he gestured toward one of the offices that opened onto the walkway around the Forum. “I could do with some time over at headquarters,” he said. “We caught a sheep stealer last night, so there’s a flogging to organize. We’ve only got twenty-nine lads and a couple of clerks on the books here, so I’d rather not waste men keeping him locked up till market day.”

It sounded like a speech designed to allay the fears of visiting officials. As a former soldier, Dias must be well aware that Rome kept an eye on native militias. Ruso said, “I’m sure you could have done without extra escort duties.”

“We’ve had two murders already, sir,” said Dias equably. “We don’t want anything happening to you.”

“Do you think it’s likely?”

“I’d say the closer you get to finding out who did it, the more danger you’ll be in.” When Ruso did not answer, he continued, “That note you found this morning. You seemed a bit shaken up.”

Unable to think of a plausible lie, Ruso said, “Someone wants me out of town.”

Dias frowned. “If you’ve been threatened, we need to know. Did you bring it with you?”

“I burned it,” said Ruso, knowing a sensible investigator would do no such thing, but if the writer really was a well wisher, the last thing he deserved was a visit from Dias.

“What did it say, exactly?”