Ruso and the Root of All Evils

‘Huh!’ said Marcia, taking her silence for assent. ‘I knew it!’ She grabbed Flora by the arm. ‘Come on. I want to see if those earrings are still there.’

‘Mother said we’d got to give her the tour.’

‘Oh, never mind about that.’ Marcia turned to Tilla. ‘You don’t want to see a whole lot of boring old buildings, do you?’

‘No,’ said Tilla, who did not want to see a whole lot of boring old shops, either.

‘See?’ demanded Marcia of her sister. ‘She won’t know the difference anyway. They live in mud huts over there, you know. With straw on the roof.’

Tilla wondered if the girl’s rudeness had something to do with the heat inside her unnecessary layers of clothing. ‘Are we going to look for earrings?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Marcia’s smile was surprisingly childlike. ‘The most beautiful earrings you’ve ever seen!’

They had hardly gone ten paces when there was a yell from further down the street. An announcer had stationed himself at a crossroads and was shouting something about games being given to the people by the generous benefactor the magistrate Gabinius Fuscus. After more nonsense about how wonderful this Fuscus was, the man unrolled a scroll and read out a list of attractions that could be seen at the amphitheatre in five days’ time.

Several passers-by paused to listen: most carried on about their business while the man announced the promised horrors as if he were personally proud of them.

‘And you think you are better than me!’ Tilla murmured, ashamed that she did not dare to say it loud enough to get herself into trouble. She wanted to do as she had always done back in Deva: to cover her ears and walk away. She did not want to hear what this Fuscus — one of the Medicus’ people — was planning to inflict on men and animals in the name of entertainment. But what difference would it make? One foreigner’s disgust would change nothing, and sympathy for the victims would not alter their fate.

It was Marcia who caused the commotion. It was Marcia who screamed, ‘No!’ and flung herself at the announcer, trying to grab the scroll and shouting, ‘It’s not true! Show me where it says that! You’re making it up!’

The announcer backed away and made feeble attempts to beat her off with the scroll, clearly worried about doing too much damage to a well-dressed young lady. Finally Flora and Tilla hauled her back, Tilla seizing one end of the green stole and wrapping it across Marcia’s face so she was left floundering in the middle of the street as the announcer retreated and Flora shouted, ‘Just leave her to us! She’s mad!’ to the surprised onlookers.

‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ hissed Flora as they hustled her sister around the corner and thrust her into the shade of a doorway.

Tilla released the stole, and Marcia snatched it away from her face. ‘Sharp weapons!’ she cried. ‘He said they were using sharp weapons!’

‘Oh, of course they won’t!’ Flora reassured her. ‘It’s fixed. Gladiator fights are always fixed. Everybody knows that.’

‘They are not fixed!’ retorted Marcia. ‘The best fighters win. On merit.’

‘Then he’ll be all right, won’t he?’

‘You don’t understand!’

‘Tertius will be all right,’ insisted Flora. ‘He’ll make lots of money and buy himself out. Come and look at the earrings.’

‘This is all Gaius’ fault! If he had arranged the dowries, none of this would be happening.’

‘You can’t do anything about that,’ pointed out Flora while Tilla wondered what dowries had to do with gladiators, and indeed what Marcia had to do with this particular gladiator called Tertius.

‘We might as well go and look at earrings now we’re here,’ urged Flora.

Marcia’s lips pursed as if she was considering what to do. Finally she said, ‘All right. But I shan’t enjoy it now.’

15

Lucius had pointed out the previous night that the bath-boy was willing to cut hair, but the sight of Lucius’ hair was not encouraging. They were in so much debt now that a couple of coins for a professional job would make little difference. No doubt Arria would see it as an investment.

There was no mirror at the barber’s, but Ruso’s chin was smooth and his head refreshingly cool as he made his way through the narrow streets. There were competing election slogans amongst the usual announcements and nonsense daubed on the walls of the houses, including one unlikely claim that ‘all the town prostitutes say vote for Gabinius Fuscus!’ Underneath in larger letters was the assertion that all the followers of Christos were in support of one of his rivals. The prostitutes would have no vote, and unless the followers of Christos had enjoyed a sudden surge of popularity while he was away, their endorsement was unlikely to be welcome. Presumably each candidate was attempting to smear the other with these bizarre claims of support. Ruso was not sorry his father had never stood for election.

When he reached the house of the man supposedly favoured by all the town prostitutes, Ruso found that Fuscus had discovered a new way of showing off. He had set up benches outside his house for his many clients to gather upon in full view of the street as they assembled to greet him each morning. Already it was standing room only, and the official exhortations to Vote for Gabinius Fuscus! painted in red lettering were half obscured by the hangers-on who were now blocking the pavement. If the importance of a man could be judged by the number of people who turned up at his house every morning to pay their respects — or perhaps their debts — then Fuscus was a very important man indeed.

He was certainly more important now than the previous owner of the house, a political rival who had decided to challenge Fuscus over some alleged electoral corruption. Halfway through the case, the man had been mysteriously murdered by a robber in a back alley. Within months, Fuscus had bought the house at a knock-down price from his widow. No wonder so many people took the view that it was better to be in the Gabinii camp than outside it.

Ruso approached the slave who was standing in the doorway with his arms folded and a large wooden club dangling at his side. The mention of his name left the slave’s face as blank as before.

‘It’s about an urgent legal case,’ explained Ruso, not wanting to explain in front of an audience.

The slave’s expression said that it was not urgent to him, and he was the one with the club.

Ruso moved closer and added in a tone that could only just be overheard, ‘Involving the household of the Senator,’ he said, ‘and bankruptcy.’ He sensed movement on either side of him, as if the occupants of the benches had sat up to listen.

If they had hoped to hear something scandalous about the Senator, they were disappointed. The doorman stepped smartly aside, said, ‘Go through, sir,’ and Ruso found himself promoted to a better class of waiting area. The atrium pool glistened in the sunlight, and the clients loitering in the shade of the roof that overhung on all four sides were obviously richer than those left to bake out in the street. Ruso wondered if Arria had been right: he would have made more of an impression in a toga. On the other hand a toga would look ridiculous with Army boots, and the lone attempt to manage a swathe of heavy wool and a walking stick together might have ended in disaster. The few togas in evidence were so carefully arranged that it was obvious their wearers had brought slaves with them to repair any disruption caused by movement.

After the first hour Ruso concluded that they would have done well to bring a picnic, too. And a few comfortable chairs. And maybe a dose of something to keep themselves calm while men who had arrived later were admitted first. As the courtyard gradually emptied around him, the occasional reassurances of the steward that ‘the master knows you’re here, sir’ only served to reinforce Ruso’s suspicion that Fuscus was deliberately keeping him waiting.

When the summons finally came, Fuscus’ smile was as wide as his arms, and as enticing as a crocodile’s.

‘Ruso! The image of your father!’

Ruso, noting with relief that the great man was not wearing a toga either, found himself squashed against a