unscathed.
“Good. Don’t let this blabbermouth bother you.”
The slave repositioned the stool in front of Ruso, who hoped the sudden waft of beer was coming from Catavignus and not the barber.
“If you’ll allow me to explain,” continued Catavignus, seating himself and indicating his remarkably fine head of hair to the slave, who reached for a pot of lotion. “This is a decent, law-abiding place. A safe place to run a business and raise a family. We welcome the army. Losing one of our soldiers like this is a great shock to everybody. We don’t expect that sort of thing around here.”
Evidently Catavignus’s opinion of the natives’ loyalty was much higher than that of Metellus, although Ruso supposed a lot of the residents of this decent law-abiding place wouldn’t be Britons anyway. They would be relatives of the soldiers, or veterans, or the traders Metellus was so eager to welcome in exchange for their taxes.
“The caterers are keen to help the investigation in any way we can,” continued Catavignus. “Felix was well known to all of us.”
“We’ve been over to pray to Apollo Maponus,” said the barber’s wife. “You can’t be too careful.”
“I heard it was a native what done it,” put in the barber. “Chin up, please, sir.”
Catavignus cleared his throat. “If it is, then he’s a disgrace.”
Ruso clenched his teeth as the blade scraped another channel up the underside of his chin.
“Fell out with him over at Susanna’s,” continued the barber.
“At Susanna’s?” Catavignus seemed surprised.
“I told you you should have gone and seen what that shouting was about,” put in the barber’s wife.
“I must go and speak to Susanna,” put in Catavignus, getting to his feet. “She will need the support of the guild after something like this.”
“I told you, didn’t I?” continued the woman. “I said, ‘There’s something going on over there.’ ”
“If I got up every time you heard something in the street I might as well sleep on the doorstep,” said the barber. “Besides, if I’d got involved that native might have gone for me too. He was wild, sir, that’s what I heard. Raving. Shouting about sheep. Or was it cows?” The man paused. “Perhaps it was goats.”
“Never mind what he was raving about,” retorted the woman. “The point is, if somebody had stepped in, Felix might still be alive.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?”
Catavignus paused in front of Ruso, who was willing the barber to keep a steady hand while arguing with his wife. “Doctor. The caterers are giving a private dinner across at Susanna’s snack bar on the eve of the governor’s visit. Celebrating the start of the British summer in a modern style. We’d be honored if you’d join us.”
“Uh,” said Ruso, who had once responded to his wife’s suggestion that they attend a dinner party by pointing out that he would rather leap naked into a tankful of starving lampreys.
“We’ll look forward to it. Tell me. Are you treating civilians during your visit?”
“Uh.” Ruso did not want the complications, but he did want the money.
“I ask because my daughter Aemilia is not well. If she’s no better tomorrow, can I refer her to you?”
Ruso decided he could risk saying, “Do.”
“Thank you. I’m sure you know what these young women are like.”
“Mm,” said Ruso, not sure whether knowing what young women were like was a sign of medical competence or something less desirable.
“A pleasure to meet you,” continued Catavignus. “Call on me anytime you’re passing the brewery. Aemilia and I will be happy to welcome you.”
“There he goes. Look,” muttered the woman after he had left. “Straight over to Susanna’s. Any excuse. Well, she’ll be thrilled.”
“More slime than a bucket of slugs, that one,” said the barber. “Never turn your back on the natives, sir, that’s my advice. Even if they are in some fancy guild of caterers. They’re all the same. Women as well. Smile at your face and stab you in the back. I said to that centurion what was in here earlier, what we want around here is a few more patrols on the streets. You only ever see them marching past on the way to somewhere else. I said to him, I’ll offer free services to any man what-oops! Sorry, sir. Just put that on it for a moment, will you?’
Ruso held the cloth against the right-hand side of his jaw, removed it, assessed that the damage was not life threatening, and replaced it quickly before the blood dripped onto his clean tunic.
“Ready again, sir? Nearly done. Lean that way a minute for me, please…”
“So you’re the new doctor, sir?” inquired the woman.
“Aah.”
“Will it be you or Doctor Thessalus tomorrow at the clinic?”
“Uh?”
“Doctor Ruso,” mused the barber. “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere?”
Before Ruso could respond the woman continued, “Doctor Thessalus does a clinic here every market day, sir. It’s always very popular.”
“It’s free,” added the barber, explaining its popularity.
“Ah,” said Ruso.
17
Ruso’s jaw had more or less stopped bleeding by the time he paused on the threshold of the bathhouse, eyeing the occupants of the main hall.
The grunts echoing around the walls came from a young man lifting weights in the middle of the floor, evidently keen to give his small audience every chance to admire his oiled biceps. The audience must have been a disappointment to him: It consisted of a couple of white-haired men hunched over a game of dice in the corner, a fat man ogling his young manicurist, and a lone attendant sweeping the floor.
The door swung back with unexpected ease. It hit the wall with a crash that reverberated around the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Ruso, then lost interest as he stepped into the less-than- appealing atmosphere of sweat and damp and overperfumed oils.
Forewarned by the pessimistic barber, he paid the attendant to guard his clothes and helped himself to a towel.
He gasped as he entered the hot room, instantly regretting the gasp as burning air scorched the back of his throat. The attendant’s assurance that it was “still good and hot in there” had been an understatement. Ruso clopped safely across the searing floor on wooden sandals and laid his towel out on a bench beneath a window before sitting down to face the alarming prospect of what he now saw, on perusing the address on the reverse, was a long letter from his stepmother.
The letter ran expensively over several thin leaves of wood bundled together. He frowned. He had never before received a letter from Arria, and this neat handwriting was certainly not her own. He cracked open the seal, unwound the cord, and began to read.
Dearest Gaius,
I send greetings and hope you are in good health. How I wish you were here with us, although we are glad that you can enjoy the green hills of Britannia, away from the cares of everyday life that burden us here. We always look forward to your letters, but it is hard to bear both the loss of your dear father and your absence. I am delighted to tell you that the shrine to Diana that your dear father commissioned and he and I designed together
(So that, thought Ruso, explained the catastrophic expense.) is now complete, and we have received many compliments on your father’s good taste and generosity. Since your father’s death your poor brother has been doing his best, but it is difficult for your sisters and I without anyone in authority here to care for us. I am sorry to say that although dear Publius left many investments, Lucius’s management of them is uncertain. The simplest pleasures are often unreasonably denied to us.
Since Arria’s idea of a simple pleasure was a new suite of baths or a summer dining extension, that was hardly surprising. And as Publius Petreius had died secretly bankrupt, Lucius’s denial of them was not at all
