Ruth Downie - Ruso and the Root of All Evils

‘I heard. I am sorry for her.’

‘When the man came with the news, he sent me to fetch her. While I was gone, little Lucius climbed up the ladder and fell off the roof and broke his arm. So it was a bad day for everyone.’ She sighed. ‘The mistress is right, she can’t trust me to look after the family.’

‘Maybe the mistress needs to learn to forgive,’ suggested Tilla.

‘It is the only way,’ Galla agreed, not sounding very hopeful.

‘It is one way,’ said Tilla. She had never forgiven the raiders from the north who had killed her family and at the moment she was not eager to forgive the Medicus’ stepmother and sisters, either. ‘Do you think Severus’ family will forgive whoever killed him?’

‘I hope so. It is the only way to stop things getting worse.’

‘But there must be justice. A man who has done wrong must be made to pay the price, or there is nothing to stop him doing it again.’ Tilla swilled the juice around with one foot, searching for strays. ‘Or her,’ she added.

‘I’m not saying his family should not have justice,’ said Galla, ‘but justice may not come in this world.’

Here was something Tilla could grasp. Her own family were waiting for her in the next world, although the shortage of druids at home meant that no one was able to explain that world to her in a way that made sense. It had already occurred to her that, if she were to die here, her spirit might not be able to find its way back to them any more than the lost spirit of Justinus could return until someone built a tomb and called him home.

‘So,’ she said, pushing further at the door Galla had begun to open, ‘who do you think should be forgiven for killing this Severus?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I am not asking you to know. I am asking you to guess.’

Galla pursed her lips. ‘He never seemed like a nice man.’

‘Somebody must have been very angry with him. Perhaps his wife?’

‘Oh no, Claudia’s very respectable!’

Tilla changed hands on the rope and said nothing.

‘Really. That would be terrible, a woman …’

‘Terrible,’ agreed Tilla. ‘It must be somebody else.’

‘Perhaps Claudia’s father.’

‘Because he did not like his son-in-law?’ Tilla prompted.

‘Or because of the ship,’ mused Galla.

When Galla seemed disinclined to continue, she prompted, ‘The ship?’

‘The ship where Mistress Cassiana’s brother was drowned.’ Galla paused.

Tilla took a long, slow breath. Getting this story was like pulling teeth. She was about to prompt again when Galla said, ‘I heard something in the market the other day. After the mistress asked the fish-sellers if they had heard of the Pride of the South . I said nothing because it wouldn’t bring her brother back and I thought it would upset her more.’

‘Go on.’

‘They told her they didn’t know anything. But after she had gone I heard one of them tell his friend that the Pride of the South was so rotten he was surprised it had made it out of port.’

Galla stopped, and looked at her as if waiting for reassurance. It seemed this was the climax of the story. When Tilla did not reply, she said, ‘Do you think I will be in more trouble for not saying this before?’

‘I will tell the Medicus,’ Tilla said. ‘But at the moment he is busy trying to find out who killed Severus.’

‘That’s why I’m telling you!’ exclaimed Galla. ‘It was Severus who chose which ship to invest in.’

Tilla thought about that for a moment. ‘That would be a good reason for Cass to want revenge on him.’

‘Oh dear!’ Galla looked as though she was about to burst into tears. ‘No, no. I’m sorry. I’m not very good at explaining. Severus chose which ship to invest in but he had no money. That was why Justinus was on board. He was there to make sure everything was done properly, because the money all came from his master. Probus. Claudia’s father.’

Tilla swung round to face Galla with her weight resting on the rope. ‘And when this rotten ship disappeared, the father lost his steward and his money, and it was the fault of Severus?’

‘I suppose so.’

The crunch of footsteps outside spurred them back to work before a bulky silhouette appeared in the doorway. The Medicus’ brother grunted a greeting and approached with, ‘The lads want to be in here before long to set the press up.’

Tilla guessed from the abruptness of his tone that he was not sure how to address them. He bent to peer at the green slop, grunted again and stirred it around with a stick. ‘Every single grape,’ he reminded them. ‘I don’t want any still whole when they come through the press.’

Tilla did not dare to ask how something as soft as a grape could possibly emerge whole from beneath the massive press-beam built into the wall of the winery. Instead, she groped dutifully in the mush with her toes, hunting for escapees and wondering whether a man would really murder his son-in-law for making a bad choice of ship.

Ruso tried to imagine what he would do if Claudia were not his ex-wife or, conversely, if the woman he was about to visit were not Claudia.

What was the correct course of action if a husband who was intending to be unfaithful to his wife arrived at someone else’s house, collapsed and then died with the words ‘The bitch has poisoned me!’ on his lips? Should his host keep these words a secret and then go straight away next morning to reveal them to the widow?

Probably not.

The trouble was, he could not picture Claudia poisoning anyone. Shrieking at them, yes. Throwing things, yes. Sulking, yes. Poisoning — no. Why go to that bother when, as they both knew, one could simply get a divorce?

On the other hand, if not Claudia, then who? He had still not managed to question Cass, but it was inconceivable that his sister-in-law, a woman so tolerant with her children and so generous with her time, would have murdered somebody.

The gatekeeper of the big estate was a fearsome creature with only one eye. He went to consult the steward, leaving Ruso to guess whether man and guard dog had gained their scars in a fight with each other, or whether there had been others involved.

Ruso was wondering whether the gatekeeper had wandered off and forgotten him when the heavy gate finally swung open on silent hinges to reveal the weasel-faced steward. He announced, ‘The agent’s widow will see you now,’ in a tone that suggested he had to obey his instructions but he didn’t have to like them.

Ruso followed the man in through the gates. The white roses trained around the pillars of the house contrasted with the dark cypress branches of mourning hung above the front door. From somewhere within came the sound of wailing. Ruso was relieved to be led away to the right, where a walled garden dotted with statues separated the house from the farm buildings. The garden occupied the sort of space the Army would have deemed adequate for five hundred infantrymen, their stores, their officers, and all their officers’ friends, relations and horses. As he crunched along a shaded pathway past a fishpond the size of a swimming pool, Ruso suspected that the slaves currently hoeing the flowerbeds were waiting to pounce on the gravel and rake away his footprints.

The place radiated the genteel elegance to which his stepmother aspired, but which she would never achieve. And access to this was what the charmless Severus had to offer that he himself didn’t, and never would have. The words of Lollia Saturnina came back to him: Claudia has made some very bad decisions in the last few years .

Oh, Claudia, he thought, you fool.

The steward motioned him to wait and approached a high-backed wicker chair facing away from them beneath the shade of a summerhouse. All Ruso could see of its occupant was one slender foot in a grey sandal. After a brief and inaudible conversation the man beckoned him forward.