‘I’m glad you said “we”.’
‘I have to. You are not much use on your own.’ She pushed past him and slipped in through the gateway. ‘Stay there.’
She heard the crutches tap on the cobbles as he hissed, ‘Wait for me!’
She was waving a hand to tell him to stay where he was when she heard the scream. Then a man’s voice. Then some sort of muffled thump.
‘In that building over there.’ She jumped when she realized that the Medicus had moved close enough to whisper in her ear without her noticing.
After what seemed an age keeping lookout with her back against the warm stone of the building while the Medicus peered through a gap by the door hinge, Tilla began to wonder if they had been mistaken. The sounds she could make out from inside the building sounded more like work than murder. The sharp crunch and rattle of earth being dug and shovelled away. Indistinct murmurs of conversation. Then a hollow clunk as if something were being smashed, the slosh of liquid and, seconds later, the rich smell of grape juice. This must be the estate winery.
Beside her, the Medicus crouched down, trying to get a better view.
She slid down the wall to breathe in his ear, ‘What can you see?’
He did not seem to have heard. When she repeated the question he took her arm, pointed to the narrow gap between the door and the wall and eased himself back to his feet.
Tilla closed one eye and pressed her face against the gap. For a moment she could make no sense of what she was looking at. She had expected an ordered winery like the one back at the Medicus’ house: rows of buried jars brimming with sparkling foam. Instead she was watching an unlikely bunch of people deliberately and silently wrecking the place. As far as she could make out in the lamplight, jars had been dug up and smashed. Piles of earth and broken pottery had been dumped against the walls and inside the juice vats. The wreckers, several men and a bedraggled woman with smeared make-up and short, strangely coloured hair, were squelching about in a quagmire of mud mixed with fermenting juice. It was hard to see why they were doing it, since they did not seem to be enjoying themselves. As she watched, one of the men picked up his shovel and deliberately shattered the shoulder of the closest jar. The woman stepped aside to avoid the juice that was forming a glistening pool around her feet and glanced towards the door. For a moment Tilla thought she had sensed there was someone watching her. Then she realized the woman was looking at something inside the winery.
‘Who said you could take a rest?’ The voice was familiar, and alarmingly close.
Tilla grabbed the nearest part of the Medicus, which turned out to be his knee. She was about to whisper, ‘Stilo!’ when the woman aimed her shovel at the next jar, missed, slipped in the mud and landed on her backside. As the woman put her head in her hands and began to sob, something moved and blocked Tilla’s line of vision — but not before she had recognized the one who called himself Calvus stepping forward across the mud.
The slap and the order to shut up were followed by a third, oddly strangled-sounding voice: a girl, who seemed to be standing just behind the door where Tilla was listening. ‘Please!’ she whimpered. ‘Please, just do what they want!’
‘I can’t!’ wailed the woman.
‘You can!’ insisted the girl.
Tilla, still unable to see, straightened up. From inside the winery she heard Calvus say, ‘All right. Put your shovel down and get back in the corner. You — yes, you — move across and take over.’
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ It was a thin, officious voice.
‘No,’ said Stilo. ‘Shut up and dig.’
‘Only it would be more efficient if we — ’
His suggestion was drowned by a squeal of pain from close by the door. Tilla winced.
‘See?’ said Stilo. ‘That’s what happens when you make suggestions. Just find the money. Then nobody gets hurt.’
Tilla felt the warmth of the Medicus’ breath on her cheek. ‘They’ve already got the steward in there,’ he whispered. ‘Go across to the bunkhouse, find out who’s in charge and get them to send a couple of sensible men into town to tell Fuscus what’s going on, and fetch Probus.’
‘Will they send help?’
‘I doubt they’ll get here in time. Tell the rest of the men to round up every sort of weapon they can think of — there should be plenty of scythes and things in the barns — and come over here and surround the exit to the building without making any noise.’
‘What if the slaves are all locked in for the night?’
‘You’ll think of something.’
‘What are you going to do?’
The Medicus straightened his crutches and hitched himself forward. ‘I’m going in for a chat with our so-called investigators,’ he said.
81
Ruso had intended to wait until the farm slaves were armed and in position before making a move, but a long wait followed by a reverberating crash loud enough to wake the spirit of Severus and all the Senator’s illustrious ancestors told him that the slaves had indeed been locked in, and that Tilla had thought of something.
He hopped back out of the way just as the heavy door creaked open and a head appeared.
‘Calvus!’ he said, guessing in the poor light.
The head swivelled round to face him.
‘Sorry about all the racket,’ he continued. ‘Mind if I come in?’
‘Ruso? What are you doing here?’
‘Bloody crutches,’ said Ruso, ignoring the question. ‘Knocked over some old piece of farm junk out here, sorry. I’ll have to apologize to them in the morning. Can I come in and sit down? This wretched foot’s playing up again.’
Calvus stared at him for a moment, then stepped back. The door opened wider, and Ruso swung in. Calvus closed the door and gave him a shove that nearly sent him flat in the mud.
‘Get over there with the others.’
For the first time, Ruso was able to see what was going on in the parts of the winery that had not been visible through the crack in the door. As he picked his way across the slippery upheaval of the floor he could make out frightened faces watching him from the far wall, lined up behind a pair of looming winepresses very much like the one at home. One of the faces belonged to Flaccus the kitchen-boy. The one that cried out ‘Gaius!’ as he approached was Claudia.
‘You must do something, Gaius!’ she urged. ‘They’re going to murder us one by one if we don’t find Severus’ money!’
Ruso seated himself on the corner of the tank surrounding the first winepress. As he had guessed, Stilo had repeated this afternoon’s hostage trick and was now standing behind the door with a wide-eyed Ennia clutched up against him. A knife glinted at her throat. In front of them, he recognized the slender figure of Zosimus amongst the half-dozen wretched diggers struggling to unearth the money that Calvus and Stilo evidently believed was buried under one of the wine-jars.
‘Don’t just sit there, Gaius!’
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘I don’t know! Think of something.’
‘Well,’ he said casually, ‘I have got the building surrounded by armed men.’
Stilo gave a snort of contempt.
‘For goodness’ sake, Gaius! This is no time for your silly jokes.’
‘Take a look,’ suggested Ruso mildly, wondering if Tilla had them organized yet.
Calvus and Stilo glanced at each other. Before Calvus could take up his suggestion, he added, ‘I’ll order them to let you get away if you give up and release Ennia now.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Stilo.
