Vita Brevis (34 page)

As to who had told Squeaky that Ruso was threatening to report the trade in bodies to the authorities—Ruso had given that a great deal of thought on the walk back, and he was beginning to fear that Squeaky might have made the whole thing up in order to extort some cash. Which made his own attack on Simmias—and the threat to send Squeaky ’round to visit him—all the more embarrassing. Despite Tilla’s reassurances, he really was beginning to wonder if he was just as bad as all the liars, cheats, and bullies around him.

Then there was the wretched business of the medicine. He had pushed the costly bottle of theriac Xanthe had sold him to the back of the shelf, but he could no longer push its history to the back of his mind. The best he could hope for was that Tilla would have got some sense out of Horatia, and that Accius might by now have seen reason and told Metellus to abandon his investigations.

He reached for the note Esico had just remembered to hand him, allowing himself to hope that it might be from Accius, apologizing for all the bother he had caused and confirming that he had given up his unwise plan to threaten his rival with a murder charge.

It wasn’t.

Metellus Paullus to Ruso
.

I have something of interest to tell you. Meet me at the Greek library in the Forum of the Divine Trajan this afternoon at the eighth hour. That is the Forum library, not the baths.

Telling himself Metellus could never resist the chance to look mysterious, Ruso snapped the message into small pieces and
dropped it into the embers of the kitchen fire where he had disposed of yesterday’s
GO HOME
.

Whatever Metellus had to say had better be very interesting indeed. The library was in one of the most distant Forums the man could have chosen. No doubt if Ruso tried hard enough, he could watch an anatomy demonstration on the way or a medical miracle or a public debate between rival doctors who were united only in their ignorance. But he wasn’t going to try very hard. Somehow—since the body and the awful business with the medicine—the idea of critiquing the professional performance of his colleagues had lost its appeal.

Meanwhile, Ruso inspected the kitchen to see if there might yet be any evidence for Narina’s claim that she could cook.

Ruso’s brief meeting with the Emperor Trajan had involved an earthquake, a collapsing wall, and a great deal of panic and confusion. It was hard to imagine the dust-covered figure of his memory being responsible for this gracious hall. The high walls echoed to the murmurs of hushed voices as the library slaves padded back and forth in the dusty shafts of sunlight from the high windows, taking requests and searching out scrolls. A sudden screech made him jump, but it was only a stool scraping across a marble floor. Ruso ran his eye down the rows of readers hunched over the long desks, but Metellus was not among them. He decided to climb the stairs to the balcony.

The twin library opposite—the one with its inscription over the door in Greek—had a matching balcony, positioned to give a similarly fine view of the column that rose between them. Ruso leaned over to see the base, where Trajan was buried, then craned upward to take in the grand bronze of the man himself. The tales of his exploits in Dacia filled the column in between: carved squads of handsome disciplined troops unrolling around it like a giant scroll. They said the architect had ordered a whole hillside cut away in order to build here, then had this column put back to show the
height of what had been moved. It was an odd, perhaps defiant resting place for a man who had survived that catastrophic shift of the earth beneath Antioch. Tilla would have said that it was pointless showing off.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” enquired a voice at his elbow. Metellus leaned out and surveyed the balcony opposite. “Not there yet. Good. It’s best you know before they turn up.”

Ruso said, “Who?” but naturally Metellus was not going to answer a straight question.

Moving away from a couple of youths who were leaning out over the balcony to comment on the girls passing beneath, he said, “You need to tell your man why he’ll be giving up any claim to Horatia.”

Ruso frowned. “The last time I looked, he was your man too.”

“Sadly, after consideration of the facts, I’ve come to realize I made the wrong choice. Curtius Cossus is in the right.”

So much for the loyalty of old comrades.

“Beneath that naïve exterior, Ruso, you’re very good. You nearly had me fooled.”

“Did I?”

Metellus glanced across at the balcony opposite. “Oh look. There he is. He’s not looking well, is he? Now here comes Horatia.”

The mourning clothes were unmistakable. Ruso guessed her chaperone had been told to wait downstairs. As he and Metellus watched, she ran up to Accius and flung her arms around him.

“She’s undeterred, then,” said Metellus. “That’s interesting.” When the lovers moved to stand side by side, gazing down over the balcony, he said, “She’ll be breaking the news to him now.”

“What news?”

“That she can’t marry him. It’s for his own safety— Yes, see? He’s looking shocked and asking what she means. Tragically, if she loves him, she has to give him up.”

“What?”

“I suppose once you—I’m guessing it was you, not Accius—found out what Kleitos was up to with the dissection, it was easy enough to blackmail him to leave so you could take his place. That was the secret opportunity you told me about, no?
It might look rather odd, an established man offering his job to a virtual stranger, but your reputation is good, so who could argue?”

“You think I got rid of Kleitos to take his job?”

But Metellus was raising questions, not answering them. “Everyone knew Balbus was afraid of being murdered. Dosing himself with theriac. You must have been dancing with joy when Balbus put on that show of handing over medicine in front of Cossus.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t remember you having much need for poisons and antidotes with the Legion, but suddenly here you are prescribing them. And making visits to a notorious poisoner.”

“I wasn’t prescribing them! I went to Xanthe afterward for advice!” Before he had finished the second sentence he was already regretting it, but Metellus was busy watching the lovers.

“What do you think? I’d say it’s not going well. She’ll have bruises if he hangs on to her arm like that.”

“Are you saying—”

“Gently, Doctor.” Metellus drew him farther away from the youths. “We don’t want this all over the city.”

Ruso lowered his voice. “Are you saying Accius and I murdered Horatius Balbus?”

“No. I’m saying you did. At his instigation.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Please don’t descend to insults.”

“But why would he ask you to investigate if he—if we—were guilty?”

Metellus nodded. “I had to ask myself the same thing. Perhaps he assumed that even if I worked out that you’d done it, I wouldn’t notice that he was behind it. He’s a young man with a good background and fine education, but … I reached the conclusion in the end that he simply isn’t very bright.”

“This is ridiculous. I—” He stopped. Over on the far balcony, Horatia had escaped her lover’s clutches and was running for the door that led to the stairs. Accius sprinted after her, but found his way barred by a couple of burly slaves.

“They’ll have been told he was bothering her,” Metellus observed as Accius and the slaves wrestled in the doorway.

“By whom? You?”

“Don’t worry. Her own people will meet her downstairs and take her home.”

“This is crazy,” Ruso said, turning toward the stairs himself. “I’m going to talk to Accius. None of it makes sense. Why would he do something like that?”

“Because the father was standing in the way of his marriage plans. I think it could be made to sound very convincing in the hands of a good lawyer, don’t you?”

Ruso spun ’round. For one terrible moment he saw himself lifting Metellus off his feet and pitching him over the balcony to crash on the paving below. Then he saw the youths sauntering toward him, grinning at some shared joke, oblivious to the drama all around them, and the vision faded.

“Cossus is unlikely to take this further,” Metellus told him. “All he wants is the wife who was promised to him. And as long as nobody tells Horatia’s cousin any of this, you’re probably safe from prosecution too.”

“You promised Accius—”

“A mistake. I should have known better than to be swayed by old loyalties. Especially after I warned you about him myself. The only way to get on in Rome is to back the winning horse.”

“Or to switch horses in midrace.”

“Besides,” Metellus continued, ignoring him, “you and I were being asked to find evidence against an innocent man. We both know Cossus never had the slightest intention of murdering anyone. Horatia was only one opportunity among many.”

“That’s all he thought of her?”

“Don’t be silly, Ruso. Daughters of rich families are part of the business. They’re born knowing that. It’s their duty to contribute, and since they can’t do much else, the least they can do is provide helpful alliances and grandchildren. Not everyone can marry for love and live on beans like you do.”

Ruso glanced across at the other balcony. Both Accius and Horatia had disappeared now. “I’m going to find Accius.”

“Good idea,” Metellus agreed, pushing the door open and standing back to let him pass. “She may not have remembered all the details she was meant to tell him. You’ll be able to explain why
he needs to keep all of this quiet. Horatia seems to believe he’s innocent, but nobody else will.”

“This is blackmail.”

“Which is exactly what Accius intended to do to Cossus with our help,” Metellus pointed out. “So unless you want to be brought down with him, you’ll persuade him to live with it.”

A lesser man might have been literally thrown out of the library doors for pestering a young lady and fighting with the staff. The former tribune and his two bemused slaves were politely, but firmly, escorted from the building and advised to read elsewhere in the future.

Seeing the white of Accius’s face and the pink of his eyes, Ruso withheld the suggestion of repairing to the bar around the corner. Instead he attempted to guide him toward the nearest fountain where he might dip his head into the water tank. But Accius was in no mood to cool down. The conversation was conducted at a smart military pace along the middle of the street, with awkward and irritable pauses when the slaves scuttling along in front failed to clear pedestrians and livestock out of the way.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d given him your own antidote mixture when I asked you to investigate Cossus?”

Ruso’s explanation that it hadn’t seemed relevant was not well received.
Because you only wanted to hear things that would support your case
would have fared even worse.

Recriminations about the past were interspersed with glum speculation about the future. “She says she’ll try to stave him off
by claiming her full year of mourning, but after that—ugh! He’ll be even older by then! It makes me shudder to think of him having her in his bed.”

Don’t think of it, then.
“A lot can happen in a year, sir.”

“Well, he might die, obviously, but what if he doesn’t?”

“That’s probably not the best thing to be discussing in the street in the circumstances, sir.”

“I should have known Metellus couldn’t be trusted.”

Yes, you should. Because I told you.

“But he was the governor’s security officer.”

Precisely.

“Well? Say something, man!”

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

“Sorry? That’s hardly going to help, is it? I could be banished, and you could be—well, I expect they’ll just cut your head off, and she’ll be left alone with—What have we stopped for now?”

The slave stood out of reach while he explained that this was the place of sir’s afternoon meeting.

“What meeting?”

“To discuss the appeal against the levying of fines on the fishmonger by the Theatre of Marcellus, sir. Because of the regular dumping of fish guts in the street.”

“Fish guts?” Accius ran one hand through his hair. “Let him off. I don’t care. I’ve got more important things to worry about.”

The slave was immobile, his face carefully blank.

Ruso said as gently as he could, “You do need to carry on as normal, sir.”

Accius glared at him for a moment, then muttered, “Fish guts. Gods above!” and executed a perfect parade-ground turn to face the direction his staff were indicating. As Ruso walked away he heard a voice floating down the street after him, “And don’t even think about trying any of that boiled lettuce nonsense with me!”

She asked him to repeat the word, not daring to believe it the first time.

“Home,” he said again, scanning her face as if he were keen to see how she liked this surprise gift. She threw the laundry she was folding down on the bed, gathered him into her arms, rubbed her cheek against his scratchy one and kissed him. “Home,” she whispered, breathing in the scent of him. “Thank the gods!” Then, drawing back, “Can I tell the others?”

But she could not—not yet—because there was much he needed to say to her. About the visit to Squeaky’s boss that had unexpectedly left them with the spare cash for the journey. About the shipping agent and catching a barge to Portus. About the
Notus
, a ship due to sail from Portus to Massalia the day after tomorrow. About the relative safety of traveling up through Gaul by river. All details she knew she should take in, but she was longing for them to be over so she could fling open the kitchen door and announce, “There is good news!” and wait until she had the slaves’ full attention before declaring, “We are all going home!”

He was talking about visiting his family. “I don’t suppose you’ll
want to go there, but I’m sure Cass would be delighted to see you. And the nieces and nephews will all love Mara.”

It was like a cold hand around her throat. “Me? What about you?”

“You’ll have both the staff with you.”

“Me?”