Ruso and the Root of All Evils

  Ruso and the Root

  of All Evils

  R. S. DOWNIE

  To the excavators of Whitehall Roman Villa, none of whom appears in this book.

  ‘Do not heap up upon poverty, which has many attendant evils, the perplexities which arise from borrowing and owing …’

  Plutarch, Moralia

  ‘The love of money is the root of all evils.’

  1 Timothy 6:10

  Ruso and the Root of All Evils

  in which Gaius Petreius Ruso, our hero, will be:

  Lied for by

  Valens, a fellow medic

  Harassed by

  Marcia and Flora, his half-sisters

  Organized by

  Arria, his stepmother

  Put straight by

  Cassiana, his sister-in-law

  Cook

  Complained at by

  Lucius Petreius, his brother

  Intrigued by

  Lollia Saturnina, a neighbour

  Puzzled by

  Justinus, his brother-in-law (missing feared drowned)

  a very short letter

  Insulted by

  Claudia, his former wife, daughter of Probus (see ‘thrown out by’)

  Informed by

  a security guard whose name he cannot remember

  Flaccus, a kitchen-boy

  Galla, a servant

  Valgius, a snake-charmer

  Attalus, an undertaker

  Solicited by

  Gabinius Fuscus, a politician and cousin of a Senator

  Tertius, a gladiator

  Diphilus, a builder

  Confused by

  Polla, Sosia, Little Lucius, Little Publius and Little Gaius, his nephews and nieces

  Pursued by

  Calvus, an investigator

  Stilo, his sidekick

  Annoyed by

  Brother Solemnis, a follower of Christos

  Threatened by

  Severus, the agent in charge of the Senator’s estate (see ‘in debt to’)

  Copreus, a sea captain

  Ponticus, a shipping agent

  Thrown out by

  Ennia, sister of Severus

  Zosimus, a house steward

  Probus, a banker, Ruso’s former father-in-law

  Employed by

  Gnostus, an old colleague with a new name

  Almost poisoned by

  a stable lad

  In debt to

  many people, including:

  Probus (see ‘thrown out by’)

  Gabinius Fuscus (see ‘solicited by’)

  the Senator, a character frequently mentioned but never appearing

  assorted tradesmen

  Argued with, slept with and abandoned (again) by

  Tilla, otherwise known as Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae amongst the Brigantes

  Chapter 1

  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.

  Chapter 2

  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.

  Ruso strode up on to the bridge and adopted a friendly tone for ‘Where did you find this one?’ just as a couple of the men hoisted the boy up on to the parapet, seized his ankles and tipped him backwards. The boy’s shrieks of terror provoked more laughter as they dangled him head-first above the rocky bed of the river. Someone shouted above the din, ‘Shut up or we’ll drop you.’

  Ruso vaguely recalled a couple of the faces but could not name them. Perhaps they had been patients. There were thousands of troops in the north of Britannia, and there had been so many casualties at the height of the rebellion that he could remember only a blurred succession of mangled bodies. He raised his voice. ‘What’s going on here?’

  The shrieking stopped. There was some confused shuffling about as the men realized they were being addressed by an officer. One of them attempted a salute, with limited success.

  Finally the man holding the nearest foot announced, ‘We caught a spy.’

  The man’s upper lip was distorted by a fresh red scar that reached to the corner of his eye. Ruso recalled stitching one very much like it. Probably neither of them had been in a fit state to remember the other.

  He glanced over the parapet. The captive was a skinny creature whose ragged tunic had fallen over his face. Tails of mousy hair were dangling just clear of the water. ‘That’s a spy?’

  ‘What’s he doing snooping round at this hour, then?’ demanded the scarred one.

  ‘Let’s get him up and ask him.’

  The man looked askance at Ruso, as if he was wary of being tricked. A voice behind him hissed, ‘Let him up, mate. You’ll get us all in trouble.’

  Ruso said, ‘He’s only a child.’

  ‘They use kids,’ said the man.

  ‘And women,’ chipped in somebody else.

  ‘Yeah, kids and women. Don’t ya?’ The man gave the bare foot a shake, as if its owner was responsible for the unsporting practices of the British rebels.

  The child responded with a howl.

  ‘He’s frightened enough now,’ said Ruso. ‘Get him back up.’

  From somewhere behind the man came, ‘Come on, mate, that’s enough!’ to which he hissed, ‘Shut up, I’m dealing with it!’ He turned back to Ruso. ‘We’re not finished yet. It’s no good being soft on ’em. You think he’s scared? This is nothing. If you knew what his lot did to our lads on the pay wagon –’

  ‘I saw exactly what they did to the lads on the pay wagon,’ said Ruso, not wanting to be reminded of it. He had ridden out with the rescue expedition in the forlorn hope that some of the victims of the ambush would still be able to use medical help.

  ‘You’d best stay out of this, sir,’ suggested one of the men Ruso had seen before somewhere.

  ‘He can’t,’ prompted the man holding the other foot. ‘He’s got a native girlfriend.’

  Ruso squared his shoulders. ‘My name is Gaius Petreius Ruso, Senior Medical Officer with the Twentieth Legion, and I’m taking that Briton into custody. Lift him back on to the bridge. That’s an order.’

  ‘We already got him where we want him,’ growled the man.

  ‘Now,’ said Ruso. At that moment the blare of the trumpet from the fort announced the curfew.

  It was never clear whether they dropped the boy on purpose or by accident. One second his arms were dangling above the water, the next there was a scream and a splash, and the thin body began to slide downstream between the rocks while his captors began shouting at him to swim and quarrelling about whose fault it was and who should get him out.

  The last thing Ruso wanted to do was haul several none-too-sober men out of the river. Ordering two to fetch help and the rest to stay where they were, he placed one hand on the parapet and vaulted down on to the bank.

  The river god was kinder to the boy than the Army had been: his body had wedged against a boulder, and was being held there by the force of the flow. Ruso stepped into the rush of peat-brown water that, even in late July, still carried the cold of northern hills. It was not deep but it was moving swiftly, and he felt the tug against his legs. The only way to reach the boy was to wade out to where he was marooned. Ruso slithered and splashed, trying not to lose his footing on the slippery rocks, occasionally bending to grab at the top of a boulder to keep his balance. Yells of encouragement and advice came from the bridge. Ahead of him, the boy lifted his head and began to move.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Ruso shouted over the sound of the water, afraid the child would dislodge himself and be swept further down. There was a channel at least four feet wide between him and the boy. Now he was closer he could see that the river, thwarted in other directions by the boulders, flowed through the gap fast and smooth and deep. A tentative step told him that, as soon as he let go, the force of the water would sweep him off to be battered against the rocks downstream.

  He should have told those men to fetch a rope. He turned to call to the others, but they were so busy shouting suggestions, bawling, ‘Man in the river!’ and warning him to be careful that they weren’t listening. The boy called something in British and tried to pull himself up. The only effect was to shift him closer to the deep channel.

  ‘Don’t move!’ called Ruso, holding up one hand in a ‘stop!’ gesture. He added, ‘I’ll come and get you,’ with more confidence than he felt. He could make his way back to the bank, cross the bridge and try from the other side, but the boy might be swept away in the meantime. He could try to
get a grip in a crack in the rock this side and reach across …

  It almost ended in disaster. He managed to haul himself back and clung to the nearest boulder, gasping with the effort and the cold, vaguely aware of more cries from the bridge as the boy’s body slid closer to the channel. He dragged himself upright and struggled to unfasten his belt with stiff fingers. It was not the form of rescue he would have chosen, but it was the boy’s only chance. He pulled the belt tight around his wrist, prayed the buckle would hold, gripped the rock behind him again and flung the loose end of the belt towards the boy.

  The child managed to grab it on the third attempt. ‘Wrap it round your wrist!’ yelled Ruso, hoping the boy was stronger than he looked and waiting for him to get a good hold with both hands. He was about to shout, ‘Ready?’ when the boy launched himself into the flood and was instantly swept down the gap. Ruso felt the jerk as the belt tightened. The force of the water on the child’s body dragged at his arm. His grip on the rock began to slide, and he felt himself being pulled into the flow.

  Suddenly there was a hand clamped around his arm. Someone else was dragging at his tunic, wrenching him back up and out of the power of the water. He felt the blessed scrape of dry rock beneath him.

  Miraculously, the child had managed to keep hold. He scrabbled up on to the boulder, then got to his feet and fled across the exposed rocks while Ruso’s rescuers were still congratulating each other and telling him he didn’t want to go in the river by himself like that, sir – what was he thinking?

  If they had left him to recover at his own pace, the accident would never have happened. But his rescuers seemed determined to make up for their earlier misdemeanours. Having pulled him to safety, they now decided to form a human chain across the rocks and hustle him to dry land as fast as possible. The moment he attempted to stand on feet numb with cold, the nearest man grabbed him and pushed him towards the bank. The movement pulled Ruso off balance. His foot caught an uneven ledge of rock, bent sideways, and gave way beneath him in an explosion of pain.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Broken metatarsal?’ suggested Valens, leaning further over his colleague’s misshapen foot to view it from a different angle.