Ruth Downie - Ruso and the Root of All Evils

Tilla pursed her lips. If any of them had seen what his Army had done in the north of her land, they would not be praying for the Emperor.

She whispered in Galla’s ear, ‘Why are we praying for him?’

‘He is appointed by God to rule over us.’

‘Didn’t the Army torture your Christos to death?’ What was the matter with these people?

‘We must try to love our enemies.’

‘But if you love them, they are not your enemies, are they?’

Galla opened eyes that shone with something alarmingly close to passion. ‘Exactly!’

Tilla felt herself growing impatient with this naivety. After the punishment the Emperor’s Army had suffered at British hands last season, the only reason a legionary would embrace a Briton would be so that he could stab him in the back instead of the guts.

As the prayers rambled on she began to wish that, since this god was everywhere, his followers would talk to him in their own time and not bore everyone else with their daughter’s barrenness or their husband’s bad temper, their chronic lumbago or their nephew who had been daft enough to sell himself to a gladiator trainer. But instead of wishing it was over, people seemed to be urging the speakers on with scattered cries of ‘Amen!’ and ‘Yes, Father!’ Perhaps they were trying to keep themselves awake.

Someone thanked the god for the brother from Arelate and prayed for the brothers and sisters facing the temptations of that wicked city full of foreign sailors. The brother from Arelate, evidently untroubled by the insult to his home town, politely responded by praying for the believers here and thanking the god for the kind hospitality they had shown him, then prayed for willing mules and a clear road home tomorrow.

Sister Agatha declined the leader’s invitation to pray, although if she had any manners she would have given thanks for all the food the god must have seen her quietly stashing away under the shawl.

‘Sister Tilla, would you like to pray?’

She hesitated. ‘Does the god understand British?’

Eyes drifted open. Heads turned towards the leader. It seemed no one had asked this question before.

‘The Lord will understand,’ he said, ‘but for the sake of the brothers and sisters, Latin or Greek would be best.’

Tilla nodded and stood up. ‘I will do my best.’ She closed her eyes, stretched out her hands and took a deep breath.

‘Mighty God who is everywhere!’ She had never tried praying in Latin. It felt like trying to run in somebody else’s shoes. ‘This is Tilla, Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae amongst the people of the Brigantes in Britannia.’ Nobody else had bothered to introduce themselves, she remembered now, but the god who was everywhere might have been busy somewhere else when she was named the first time. ‘I pray you will free my people from the Army who have stolen the land that is rightly ours and hunted down and murdered our holy men and women.’

She paused to draw breath. The ‘Amen’ that filled the gap was hesitant. ‘I pray you will heal the Medicus’ foot even though he is proud and stubborn and will not rest it.’

This time the ‘Amen!’ was fulsome.

‘Make his family wise and his sisters honourable.’

‘Amen!’ She was doing better now.

‘And I ask you to reveal the true poisoner so he will not be blamed for it.’

Silence. She opened her eyes and caught several worshippers swiftly closing theirs.

‘Great God, make his sister-in-law strong and comfort her mourning for her brother and may she know she will see him in the next world.’

There was a chorus of ‘Amen!’ and ‘Yes, Lord!’

‘And the man or men, or woman or women, who gave them that rotten old ship, may they never rest!’

A lone ‘Amen!’ from one of the old women.

‘May their crops wither and die!’ Someone coughed. ‘May their intestines tangle and rot!’ Tilla was conscious of a stifled giggle. She had to concede that traditional curses did sound rather odd in Latin.

‘Give them toothache that cannot be cured,’ she continued. ‘May their eyes fail and their skin itch and flake and be covered in warts!’

A fervent, ‘Amen, Sister!’ from the same old woman.

‘Amen,’ she concluded, and opened her eyes. Everyone seemed to be staring at her. Evidently they had never heard a British prayer before.

‘Ah — thank you, Sister. That was a very unusual prayer.’

‘I am not used to praying in Latin.’

‘Never mind. I think everyone understood.’

‘Well done, Sister!’ observed the old woman. ‘That was the best praying we’ve had in weeks!’

The leader gave a message of blessing from the lord who had, as she had expected, failed to turn up. Evidently his people were used to it. The blessing sounded well rehearsed.

Brother Solemnis’ slack mouth dropped open when Tilla tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, ‘I have something to ask you, Brother. You are from Arelate. Can you tell me anything about a ship called the Pride of the South ?’

A flush rose from his neck and began to spread up his face. He managed to stammer an apology for knowing nothing at all.

As the cloth was having its crumbs shaken off outside the door, Tilla overheard one of the women saying to the leader, ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing I mean, Brother.’ The woman glanced at her before adding, ‘We need proper rules about who can speak.’

‘I’ll think about it, Sister.’

‘The believers in town have a rule that says …’

Tilla and Galla left the conversation behind and went outside. The sun was below the horizon, and in the failing light the rows of newly turned amphorae laid out to dry behind the kiln looked like a regiment of sleeping pigs. A woman she had not seen before was walking along one of the rows, counting and noting something on a writing-tablet. Remembering where they were, Tilla whispered, ‘Who is that?’

‘The widow Lollia Saturnina,’ came the reply.

It was true, then. She was pretty. She owned a successful business. And she could read and write. Even worse, Galla now said, ‘You will meet her. I hear she is coming to the house to dinner tomorrow.’

As they set out to walk back between the rows of olive trees to the Medicus’ house Galla said, ‘It is as well to be careful what you pray about, Sister. People talk.’

Tilla wrenched her mind away from Lollia Saturnina. ‘Even about prayers?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

They were interrupted by a couple leaving the meeting who wanted to say goodbye. As Tilla stood waiting for them to finish chatting with Galla, an idea began to form. It was a ridiculous idea. It was an inspired idea. It was an idea that seemed to have come from somewhere outside herself.

As they walked between the gnarled and stunted olive trees she said, ‘How would you know if your god was telling you to do something?’

Galla thought about that. ‘Some people hear a voice,’ she said. ‘But I never have. I suppose if I had an idea about a good thing, and it would help somebody, I would try to do it.’

‘If your god told you to do something but somebody else might not like it, what then?’

‘We must obey God rather than man.’ Galla sounded as if she was quoting something.

‘And is it true what it says in that letter from the Greek man? Your god will protect his people whatever happens to them?’

‘God loves us,’ Galla assured her. ‘If we keep the faith, there is a place ready for each one of us in heaven.’

Tilla voiced the problem that had been niggling at the back of her mind: ‘But you meet in secret.’

‘That doesn’t mean we have to put ourselves in danger on purpose.’

‘Would your god protect me in Arelate?’