Ruso and the Root of All Evils Read online

  During the meal the leader and another man took turns to entertain the diners with Greek read from a battered scroll, while a woman translated into Latin. The story was not a patch on the stories they had at home. It was not a story at all. It seemed to be just some sort of letter urging people somewhere else to cheer up because their god was looking after them even if they ran out of food or clothes or if people attacked them. For a moment she wondered what was the point of worshipping a god who refused to defend his followers, then it occurred to her that this was uncomfortably close to the situation at home.

  When most of the food was gone and one of the old women had hidden half a loaf of bread under her shawl, it was time to pray to the god again. Tilla glanced around at the faces: the two old women, five or six sun-browned men with the hard hands and patched tunics of farm slaves, the girl stroking the striped cat, the leader and his wife, three women who were not wealthy, a couple of child slaves, and the bony youth from Arelate. All had their eyes closed. She supposed they were busy trying to picture the god they could not see but who, according to Galla on the way over here, was everywhere and loved everybody. Tilla let her own eyes drift shut and tried to imagine this god, but without success. How would you recognize him? Without a statue to show what he looked like, or even a tree or a rock to mark his special home, how could anyone tell whether he was somewhere – or nowhere?

  Since it seemed anyone could pray and everyone wanted to, the prayers went on a long time. Some of them were in Gaulish or Greek. One of the ones she understood was a request to the god to protect and guide the Emperor.

  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 Sa
turnina. ‘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?’

  Galla stopped. ‘Why would you go there?’

  ‘I am only thinking about it,’ explained Tilla. ‘Arelate is the place to find out about the missing ship. I was thinking, if this Brother Solemnis has a cart …’

  ‘You can’t go somewhere on your own with a man. And Arelate is full of sailors, and where there are sailors there are bad women.’

  Tilla said, ‘But your god is everywhere.’

  ‘What about Master Gaius?’

  ‘The Medicus is a problem,’ Tilla agreed.

  ‘There are many things you don’t understand about the faith.’

  ‘I understand what it is to lose a brother.’ She also understood that if she did not find a way to avoid it, she was going to have to eat her first ever Roman dinner tomorrow night in front of the Medicus’ family and be compared with the rich and beautiful Lollia Saturnina, who knew how to read and write.

  Before Galla could object, she gathered up her skirt and ran back down between the trees, past the squat boundary stone and the drying amphorae and into the yard, where the driver was standing chatting to some of the workmen. ‘Brother Solemnis!’ she cried. As his skinny neck reddened and his eyes widened in alarm she said, ‘I may need to go to Arelate. What time do you set off in the morning?’

  Chapter 43

  The surface of the bench was still warm beneath her, but the late-evening air was mercifully cool. Tilla wrapped her hands around her shoulders and gazed at the house that was the Medicus’ home, but not hers. A yellow glow around the dining-room shutters reminded her of how he had changed the subject when she asked if he was thinking of marrying Lollia Saturnina.

  A shape appeared in the doorway, clattered down the steps and hurried towards her. Resolving itself into Galla, it hissed, ‘Mistress Cassiana is coming!’

  This was good. Cass was friendly. Perhaps they could talk over the problem.

  ‘I think she’s cross with us!’

  Tilla frowned, wondering what she had done to offend now. Before Galla could explain, a second shape emerged from the house, and Galla fled.

  Cass seated herself on the bench, folded her arms and said, ‘I hear you cursed the person who supplied the ship.’

  Tilla felt her stomach clench. She wished she had said her prayer to the god in private. What had possessed Galla to relay it to her mistress? She said, ‘I was trying to help. I know what it is to lose a brother.’

  ‘Galla told me because she is loyal,’ explained Cass, answering her unspoken question. ‘She wanted me to know before I heard any gossip.’

  When Tilla did not reply, she continued, her tone suddenly sharp, ‘What do you know about it?’

  Tilla wished she could crumble away into the dry ground under her feet. Even trampling about in that slimy grape-trough was better than feeling the churning in her intestines. The only people who had shown her much of a welcome since she had arrived here were Cass, Galla and the worshippers of Christos. Galla had kept a secret from her mistress out of kindness, and Tilla had just betrayed her with that stupid prayer.

  ‘I know Galla is a follower of Christos,’ said Cass. ‘I don’t care about that. My brother was one too. What do you know about the ship?’

  Tilla cleared her throat. There was no way out of this but to tell the truth. ‘Galla heard a rumour that it was a rotten old ship that should never have gone to sea.’

  Cass seized her arm. ‘I knew there was something! I knew there was something not right!’

  ‘That is why I cursed the person who hired out the ship to Severus,’ explained Tilla. ‘He must have known. He deserves to die too. Your brother is dead because that person was greedy.’

  ‘What else did Galla tell you? Why would the captain try and get to Ostia on something that wasn’t seaworthy? Has she heard anything else?’

  ‘I do not know. You must ask her.’

  ‘But it means there are people who know things!’

  ‘She overheard this from the fish-sellers at the market.’

  Cass’s face fell. ‘I’ve already tried them. They won’t talk to me. Lucius won’t go to Arelate and ask, and Gaius has too much to do already.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tilla, wondering whether this new god could be speaking in the words of Cassiana. ‘I know.’

  Chapter 44

  Tilla was nervous walking through the garden in the cool of the morning, clutching her bag in one hand and a borrowed straw hat in the other. The air around her was silent apart from the call of a bird and the plants rustling in the breeze. The screeching insects had not woken up yet.

  The dog at the gate sniffed at her curiously as she slipped back the bolts, but he was trained to stop people coming in, not going out. She pulled the gate gently shut behind her and said a silent goodbye to the strange household where she had spent the last three days. She had her savings, four and a half denarii, and her comb in a little leather pouch hung around her neck. Her cloak was bundled inside her bag in case she had to sleep outdoors, and her knife was strapped to her belt.

  Travelling alone and unprotected to a strange city seemed far more dangerous this morning than it had last night. She had almost lost her nerve as she watched the Medicus sleeping. She heard the steady rhythm of his breath falter. Heard him mutter something as he dreamed. Waiting, motionless, until he settled again, she told herself both their lives would be less complicated if she were away for a couple of days. Indeed, their lives would be less complicated if they had never met, but she did not want to think about that. She only knew that, if she stayed, she would have to face an evening lying across a dining couch in a borrowed dress – probably yellow again, so that her skin would look grey and her hair would look dirty – while all these foreigners wished she had not come so that the Medicus could propose to Lollia Saturnina.

  She had kissed him lightly on the forehead, picked up her things and crept out of the room.

  Reaching the roadside, she trained her eyes on the western approach and watched for the cart to appear. She reminded herself that she had the protection of the God Who Is Everywhere. Just in case the god needed a reminder, she lifted her hands and prayed that he would keep her safe. That he would look after the Medicus while she was away. That he would help her find out about the Pride of the South. That Lollia Saturnina would have a laugh like a donkey, or dribble down her chin. ‘Amen,’ she added at the end, remembering the formula. It was important to get the words right, or the prayer would not be heard. Everyone knew that, and besides, it would not do to get on the wrong side of a god who was everywhere and saw everything.

  There was a great deal she did not understand about this Christos, and she fe
lt no better for praying to him. But she understood that Cass’s brother had died because of someone else’s greed, and that a means of getting to Arelate to find out the truth had been presented to her while she was in the presence of the god’s worshippers. She had upset Cass last night without meaning to, and she needed to make amends. Besides, she was the only one who could help. The Medicus was too worried about debts and murder, and Cass’s husband was no use. Most of the household must have heard him shouting at her again last night. The Medicus, who had barely spoken to Tilla since she had returned from the meeting next door, had pinched out the lamp and observed that Lucius and wine were not a good combination.

  ‘You should talk to him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t listen.’

  She said, ‘I hear the widow next door is coming to dinner.’

  ‘And Diphilus the builder.’

  ‘She is the one who is very pretty and very rich.’

  There was only a brief pause before, ‘Diphilus isn’t.’

  ‘Even if you find out who did poison that man, you will still have no money.’

  She felt the warmth of his sigh on her shoulder. ‘I’m going to have to face a difficult decision before long, Tilla.’

  She did not ask what that decision was. She did not need to. All she said was, ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘No.’ He nestled his head in against her. ‘Not tonight.’

  A train of donkeys loaded with panniers of lettuces and onions plodded past on the way to market. Minutes later the driver of a cart reined in his mule, called, ‘Oi! Gorgeous! Going into town?’ and pointed to the seat beside him. She told him she was waiting for someone, and he drove on.

  Tilla tried to push away the memories of the last time she had been taken away on a cart from a place she did not want to be. She hoped she was not making another terrible mistake. Instead of rescuing her, that driver had turned out to be even worse than the people from whom she was fleeing. If it had not been for the Medicus’ intervention she would not be alive now. What if Brother Solemnis turned out to be another crook? He had not looked like a criminal – in fact he had looked distinctly alarmed at being asked for a lift by a strange foreign woman. But she had been wrong last time. She shivered and rubbed the scar on the arm that her kidnapper had smashed when she tried to escape. The arm the Medicus had insisted on trying to mend when others would have played safe and left her to try and survive with only one hand.