Ruth Downie - Ruso and the Root of All Evils

Justinus was lying in the stinking dark of the ship’s hold, bruised and beaten, feeling every breath twist hot knives in his chest.

The light that trickled in through the worrying gaps in the hull showed the angle of the ladder above him. Beyond it, thin, bright lines betrayed the position of the hatch. He remembered the slam, and the rattle of the bolts. Now he heard the sharp yell of a reprimand over the thumps and footfalls up on the deck of the Pride of the South , a ship that could hardly have been less appropriately named.

Whatever they were up to, it seemed he didn’t need to die for it. If they had planned to kill him they could simply have thrown him overboard. Perhaps they would maroon him on a remote island somewhere while they sailed off to enjoy spending his master’s money. He would eat berries, spear fish and wait to be rescued. Sooner or later he would return home, thinner and browner and with a well-rehearsed apology to his master.

He forced himself into a sitting position just as the ship heeled to starboard. Cold bilge that should not have been near the cargo sloshed over his legs. Beneath him, he felt the stacked amphorae slide out of position and begin to tip and roll with the movement of the ship. Dark shapes swarmed out from amongst them and ran squealing along the sides of the hold.

‘Hey!’ he shouted, grasping at the ladder to steady himself and wincing at the pain in his chest. ‘Captain!’

No response.

‘Copreus!’ He banged on the ladder with his fist before he shouted the words that should bring the crew running. ‘The cargo’s shifting!’

There was a muffled shout from above, then something thudding against the side of the ship, scurrying feet and the bark of orders. Between the other sounds, he was almost certain he could hear waves breaking on a shore near enough to swim to.

‘Hey!’

Struggling over the rolling necks of the amphorae, he pressed his face against a gap in the planking of the hull. Outside, he could see nothing but brilliant blue. He crawled back and smashed two of the loose amphorae against each other. Nothing happened. He heaved one up — thank God, for some reason this one was empty and relatively light — and swung it against the other. The heavy pottery cracked. Praying that by some miracle he could make a gap big enough to escape from before the sea started pouring in, he began using a broken handle to batter at the worm-eaten hull.

‘Let me out!’ When he stopped to catch his breath he heard footsteps retreating across the deck. There was a series of small bumps against the hull before the shout of an order and the irregular splash of rowers getting into rhythm. After that there was nothing but the creaking of wood and the slop of water.

Moments later, he smelled the burning.

For a moment he could make no sense of it. Then, ignoring the pain in his chest, he took a deep breath and shouted through the gap, ‘You bastards! Get me out!’

Only the sound of water. The scuffle of a rat.

‘Fire! Don’t leave me here!’

Still no reply. The Pride lurched violently, rolling him up the inside of the hull and drenching him with more cold water as the amphorae crashed and tumbled around him.

‘Don’t leave me!’

Smoke was seeping down into the hold, forming ghostly fingers in the thin shafts of light. The water was rising. The Pride was listing badly now, as if she were settling down on her side to sleep.

‘Help me!’ he screamed, the pain stabbing his chest with every movement as he struggled to get upright. He cried out in panic as he felt himself slip down towards the water. Seconds later he came to rest against a fallen amphora. An expanse of long, pale cylinders was shifting about in front of him.

He realized suddenly that every one of them was empty. That was why they were all bobbing about on the surface of the bilge. The cargo he had authorized, and seen loaded, had vanished — probably while Copreus had been buying him drinks back in Arelate the night before they sailed.

One of the amphorae gurgled and sank out of sight. The others rolled in and closed over the gap. Justinus shut his eyes. He prayed for strength. Then he edged along the ladder, which was now lying sideways, and aimed a kick at the hatch. Nothing happened.

He kicked at it again. ‘Let me out!’ he screamed. ‘I won’t say anything!’

A rat swam past him, scrabbled to get a grip and finally managed to hook a paw over a handle and pull its dripping body out of the water.

Justinus closed his eyes. ‘You can forgive them if you like,’ he growled to his god. ‘But they don’t deserve it.’

He said a prayer for his sister and his many nephews and nieces in case he did not see them again in this life. Then he began to give a last account of his sins and stupidities, all the time kicking at the locked hatch, because anything was better than listening to the creaking and splintering of old wood and the crash as something else gave way out there. Anything was better than noticing the way the cold was creeping up around him, and seeing the fingers of light in the smoky air being extinguished one by one by the rising flood, and coughing, and knowing that, drowning or burning, the end would be the same.

He was still praying and kicking the hatch when the Pride of the South vanished below the surface of the sunlit water, its passing marked only by a thin drift of smoke and a swell that was barely noticed by the men hastening away in a distant rowing boat.

The legionaries were still in full kit but presumably off duty, since they were swaggering down the street outside the fort with the belligerent cheer of men who had been sampling the local brew. Ruso, never keen to meet one loud drunk in possession of a sword, let alone five, walked past and ignored them. The light was fading, and there was hardly anyone else about. The trumpet would sound the curfew in a minute. If this bunch didn’t get themselves in through the fort gates soon, their centurion would be out to round them up.

He was halfway up the wooden steps to his lodgings when he heard the cry. He paused. The raucous laughter told him some silly girl hadn’t had the sense to steer clear. The gang had found a victim.

The night guards who patrolled the streets to frighten off scavenging wolves and marauding Britons would not be on duty yet, and none of the civilians living out here would want to tackle a gang of legionaries bent on mischief. Ruso didn’t want to tackle them either, but he supposed it was his duty to go and take a look. He clattered up the steps, assured Tilla, who was waiting for him, that he would be back to eat in a minute and left before she could ask where he was going or — worse — insist on joining him.

The soldiers were not difficult to find: he only had to follow the sound of overexcited young men urging each other to do stupid things. Instead of making their way back to barracks, they had drifted down towards the river. Despite the noise — or perhaps because of it — Ruso seemed to be the only other person on the streets. The snack bar had put up its shutters for the night. The tenants of the nearby houses had chosen to bar their doors and mind their own business.

The men had their victim pinned against the wooden parapet of the bridge. None of them seemed to notice the Army medical officer making his way towards them through the rough grass of the riverbank. As he drew closer he was surprised to see that the small figure was not a woman, but a native boy of about nine or ten. His captors, jostling around him like crows squabbling over a corpse, were accusing him variously of thieving, of spying and of being a snivelling little British bastard.