Ruth Downie: Terra Incognita

“One of the soldiers’ women?”

“Yes.”

“What on earth was she doing traveling in that condition?”

Tilla shrugged. “When a man marches away, who knows if he will come back? He might find a new woman. The army might send him across the sea. Then what will she do?”

Ruso, who had no idea what she might do, said, “So what happened to her?”

His slave jerked a thumb backward over her shoulder. “She is giving her daughter a bumpy welcome on a cart.”

“She’s a very lucky woman,” observed Ruso.

“The goddess has been kind to her.”

Ruso retrieved the crumbling remains of the snack and passed them across. “It’s a bit dry. Sorry.”

She wiped her mouth and hands on a clean patch of tunic before accepting it. “Thank you, my lord.”

“There’s to be no more stealing from now on, Tilla. Is that quite clear?” He gestured toward the mud. “You see where it leads.”

A smile revealed white teeth in the unusually brown face. “I know where it leads.” She patted the outside of her thigh. From beneath her clothing he heard the chink of money. Ruso was not impressed. “I had to pay that woman more than you saved to get you out of trouble,” he said.

Tilla eyed him for a moment as if she were considering a reply, then crammed the remains of the food into her mouth, dropped into a crouch at the roadside, and began to scrabble about under her clothing. Ruso glanced around to see one or two people watching, and decided the most dignified reaction was to ride on and pretend he had not noticed.

Moments later he heard her running up behind him. He turned. “Was that really necessary?”

She nodded, and drew breath before announcing, “I have been waiting a long time to tell you something, my lord.”

A sudden and deeply worrying thought crossed Ruso’s mind. A thought he had been trying to ignore for some months.

He had been careful. Extremely careful. Far more careful than his slave, who on first being introduced to modern methods of contraception had fallen into a fit of disrespectful and uncontrollable laughter. He had insisted, of course, citing three years of successfully child-free marriage-something Tilla evidently thought was nothing to boast about. He had finally persuaded her to complete her part by squatting on the floor, taking a cold drink, and sneezing, but over the months Tilla had proved just as reluctant as Claudia to face the chill of a winter bedroom. Her sneezing too had shown a disappointing lack of commitment. He had given up trying to argue with her. Now he supposed he was going to have to face the consequences.

The horse, sensing his tension through the reins, tossed its head.

“Do you really think,” Ruso said, “that this is the best time to tell me?”

“No, but you must know one day, and you will be happy.”

“I see.”

“Close your eyes, my lord.”

“What for?”

“It is nothing bad.”

“But why-”

“Is nobody looking.”

Ruso glanced around to verify this before obeying. As the view faded away he was conscious of his body shifting with the pace of the horse. Something touched his thigh with a chink, and rested there.

“Is for you, my lord.”

He opened his eyes. Hooked over one of the front saddle horns was the leather purse he had given her for the housekeeping money. He felt the muscles in his shoulders relax. Whatever this was, it was not what he had feared.

As he lifted the purse he glanced at his slave. Tilla was watching him, and looked very pleased with herself.

He loosened the drawstring, slid two fingers into the pouch, and pulled out a large warm coin. “What’s this?”

“A sesterce.”

“I can see that.” He really must have a word with Tilla about this literal interpretation of questions. It was bordering on insolence, but so far he had failed to find a way to phrase the reprimand that did not suggest he could have worded his questions better. “Why,” he tried again, framing the sentence with care, “are you stealing when you have this much cash?”

Her smile broadened. “I know my lord has no money.”

“That’s my business, not yours. You aren’t going to help by pinching bread and getting into fights.”

She pointed at the purse. “All for you.”

Ruso tugged at the drawstring and peered inside.

‘Gods above!’ he exclaimed, weighing the purse in his hand again. He lowered it quickly as an army slave leading a string of pack ponies looked across to see what was happening. When the man had lost interest he investigated the contents of the purse again and leaned down to murmur, “This is a lot of money. Where did you get it?”

Tilla’s shrug turned into an expansive gesture that suggested the coins had mysteriously fallen upon her in a rain shower.

“This can’t possibly belong to you!”

“I save up.”

Ruso sat up and frowned. He had little spare cash. He had certainly not offered any of it to his slave. He assumed she was sometimes paid for helping to deliver babies, and it was quite normal for slaves to try and build up enough funds to buy their freedom. But why would she hand him her personal savings? Besides, this was too much for a handful of babies, no matter how grateful their parents. He glanced at her. “Tilla, how have you…” The answer crept up on him as he spoke, stifling the final words of the question.

Tilla had become his housekeeper not long after his arrival in Britannia. Since she knew more about shopping than he did-in fact, almost everyone knew more about shopping than he did-he had never bothered to inquire too deeply into the relationship between cash and catering. He had begun by insisting that she render a weekly account. But after the first week she seemed to have forgotten about it and he had been too busy to insist. In any case, what was the point of having a slave to look after the house if he still had to do all the thinking himself?

A voice rose unbidden from the depths of his memory. For goodness’ sake, Gaius, it said. If it weren’t for me the staff would walk all over us!

He was glad Claudia was not here to see him now.

“Tilla,” he murmured, “Tell me you don’t make a habit of stealing.”

She looked surprised. “Oh no, my lord.”

“Good. So what is this?”

“I am your servant,” she continued. “I will not let you be cheated.”

“What?”

“I make things fair.”

“Are you telling me,” said Ruso, glancing around again to make sure he could not be overheard, “that if you don’t approve of the price you help yourself?”

“Is not right that people grow fat on cheating when my lord is a good man and has no-”

“That’s hardly the point, Tilla!” Ruso sat back in the saddle, frowned at the whiskery ears of his horse, and wondered how to explain something so fundamental it had never occurred to him to question it. “Ever since I began my work as a doctor,” he observed, “I have done my best to build up a good reputation.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I want men to say, ‘There is Gaius Petreius Ruso, the medicus who can be trusted.’ ”

“Yes, my lord.”

“ ‘He doesn’t pretend to know everything, but he does his best for his patients.’ ”

“Yes, my lord.”

“This has been my ambition.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If it ever becomes my ambition to have them say, ‘There is Gaius Petreius Ruso, the man who sends his servant out to steal for him,’ I will let you know.”

“I understand this,” came the reply. “I am doing it before you tell me.”

Felix was going to have to do something about the native. The man had been pestering him for days. Now he had stepped right up to the table in front of everyone in Susanna’s and started jabbering again about honor. About the law. About compensation. Felix had explained, politely, that he couldn’t be breaking his promise, because he’d never made one.