Ruth Downie - Ruso and the Root of All Evils

‘Not now,’ said Ruso, catching himself about to call Fuscus ‘my lord’, then remembering he was just an old and more successful friend of his father. ‘And I’m not really a hero. There are plenty of men who — ’

Fuscus held out a hand to silence him. ‘Forget the modesty. It’s no good being self-effacing these days. Boy? Fan!’

A third slave stepped forward from the shadows and began to wave a feathered fan above the great man’s head. Ruso hoped the remaining figure in the background, a hefty man wearing a scowl and a large knife, would not be the next to be called into action.

‘Left a bit,’ commanded Fuscus, and as the slave obediently moved the fan into position he leaned across the desk as if he were about to share a confidence with Ruso. ‘I’m told our lads took a mauling from the natives over there.’

‘There were losses,’ agreed Ruso, carefully vague. ‘But order’s pretty much restored now. Fuscus, Lucius says — ’

‘Restored, thanks to men like you.’ Fuscus gestured towards the doors. ‘People out there,’ he said. ‘No idea what they owe to the Army.’

‘True,’ said Ruso, wondering how much idea Fuscus had himself. Men whom Ruso admired had been cut down and died in agony. Hundreds of others had survived only to face an uncertain and painful future, mutilated in mind and body. None of them would make it here to receive the honour that they deserved and he didn’t. ‘There were plenty of heroes,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t one of them. Medics don’t usually fight in the front line.’

‘Nonsense. How many men did you save?’

‘Not enough.’ Not anywhere near enough.

Fuscus scowled. ‘What did I just say about modesty?’ He stopped. ‘Not married, are you?’

‘Divorced,’ said Ruso, hastily sifting through his memory in the hope of confirming that Fuscus did not have a marriageable daughter.

‘Probus’ girl, wasn’t it? She’s done well for herself, you know. Married the agent of my cousin the Senator.’

‘So I hear,’ said Ruso, suspecting that Fuscus enjoyed the sound of ‘my cousin the Senator’. ‘Actually that’s why I — ’

‘Never mind. The point is, you’re single. Men will respect you, and women will fight over you.’

This was an alarming, if unlikely, prospect. Ruso cleared his throat. ‘You do know the agent of your cousin the Senator is threatening me with a seizure order?’

Fuscus frowned. ‘Is that still going on? Your brother came to see me. I did my best for him, as an old friend of your father, but he didn’t seem very grateful.’ He held out two pink palms. ‘My hands are tied, you see, Ruso. That’s the burden of office.’ He shook his head sadly, as if contemplating the effect of the burden in his own reflection on the desk. ‘Leadership never wins a man popularity.’

Privately Ruso doubted that Fuscus would have been popular whatever he did. At least in his current position he had influence. He could impress people by putting on games, buy them by lending them money they couldn’t repay and then employ men with large knives to demand they give it back.

‘These are difficult times, Ruso,’ Fuscus was complaining. ‘Who’d have thought we’d live to see a good man like yourself in danger of going under? And your brother. How many children is it now?’

‘Five.’

‘I hear those sisters of yours aren’t married yet.’

‘No.’

Fuscus shook his head. ‘A great shame.’ He looked up as if a good idea had only just struck him. ‘Of course, your being part of the family team might impress Severus. He’s a relative of mine, you know. Very distant. He’s a good man, but he might have been a little hasty. Doesn’t know how we do things up here. He might take some time to think before he asks for the case to be sent up to the Praetor.’

‘My being part of the family team?’ repeated Ruso, wondering if that would add Fuscus to the list of his other inescapable relatives.

‘He might be persuaded to drop it altogether. It was only ever his word against your brother’s, wasn’t it?’

‘It was,’ agreed Ruso, not adding ‘but that didn’t make any difference before.’

‘I want you with me at the games.’

‘As a medic?’ tried Ruso, without much hope.

‘I need the veterans’ votes,’ Fuscus was saying. ‘They’ll listen to you. Wear your armour so they can see who you are.’

‘I didn’t bring it home.’ Ruso was well able to imagine what the local veterans would say if a legionary medic turned up at the games clad in iron and helmet and tried to tell them who to vote for. ‘I’ve got an army belt.’

‘Will people know what it is?’

‘The people who count will,’ Ruso promised, still not clear about what he had just agreed to and appalled to find that he was already talking like a political campaigner.

Fuscus summoned the clerk. ‘Forget the veterans’ seats. I want the town’s very own life-saving war hero sitting up with me on the balcony. Ruso, remember what I said. No pretending to be modest. Everyone sees through it these days. Did I mention that Severus is here for dinner this evening?’

‘You really think you can get him to change his mind about the seizure order?’ said Ruso, trying not to picture himself hobnobbing with Fuscus’ councillor cronies at the amphitheatre.

The crocodile smile appeared again. ‘Dear boy, you’ve been away with the barbarians too long. What are friends for?’

Ruso suspected this was just the sort of equivocal answer Fuscus had given to Lucius. He said, ‘There is one other thing I wanted to ask you about.’

The smile faded.

‘On behalf of a friend.’

Fuscus’ expression lifted slightly at the prospect of making someone else beholden to him.

‘A relative of mine was on a ship from Arelate that sank a couple of months back. The Pride of the South .’

‘Probus’ man?’

‘Justinus. His sister’s trying to piece together what happened to him so she can arrange the memorial. If I wanted to find out, who would I talk to?’

Fuscus shrugged. ‘Who knows the ways of Neptune?’

‘I realize it won’t be easy.’

‘Then make up something to tell her, and don’t waste any more time on it. We’ve got campaigning to do.’ He snapped his fingers, and the clerk scurried forward. ‘Find out the names of all the local veterans with a vote and draw up a list. Ruso, I want you back here tomorrow to pick it up, and then I want you to contact each one personally on my behalf.’

The newest member of Fuscus’ team should have said yes , but all he could manage was a strangled sound in his throat.

‘One more thing, Ruso. Your little game at the gate? That’s how false rumours start. You won’t ever mention my cousin the Senator and bankruptcy in the same sentence again. Understood?’

Ruso turned the corner to find another election slogan — genuine, he supposed — that told him he was not the only one who owed Fuscus some sort of favour. Evidently the local silversmiths did too. He shivered, despite the heat of the day. After that meeting, he felt in need of a wash. And a drink.

There was a snack bar on the next corner. Hunched over a cup of watered wine, he ran over the conversation again. How was he going to explain to Lucius that, in exchange for a vague promise of possible support, he had agreed to become one of Fuscus’ yes-men? He had even managed to get himself warned off asking questions about the sinking of the Pride of the South .

Ruso took a long swig of the wine. He had always supposed that, when a man made a sacrifice in a good cause — and his family was, he supposed, a good cause despite its manifold eccentricities — he would feel proud. But he had never imagined that the sacrifice would be one of self-respect.