Ruso and the Root of All Evils Read online
PENGUIN BOOKS
Ruso and the Root of All Evils
Praise for R. S. Downie’s novels:
‘Ruso is a comic invention whose fumblings lead him to the truth in spite of himself, and a character you can warm to’ Guardian
‘A lot of buzz surrounds the debut novel by R. S. Downie, a comic, Roman crime mystery … Downie’s got a nice sense of humour and the novel moves at a good pace’ Observer
‘A good yarn, with all the ingredients of a serial soap opera’ The Times
‘Downie’s auspicious debut sparkles with beguiling characters and a vividly imagined evocation of a hazy frontier’ Publishers Weekly
‘[Downie’s] novels demonstrate a talent for evoking second-century Britain’ The Times Literary Supplement
‘A strong start for Downie, whose series joins those by Lindsey Davis and Steven Saylor on the Ancient Rome beat but delivers a bit more humour to the mix of period detail and suspense’ Booklist
‘Charming … lavishly, often hilariously, detailed. Ruso is a wonderful character, fuelled by a dyspeptic machismo and sullen charm’ Kirkus
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R. S. Downie is the author of Ruso and the Disappearing Dancing Girls, which was a New York Times bestseller under the title Medicus, and Ruso and the Demented Doctor, both of which are bestsellers published by Penguin. She is married with two sons and lives in Buckinghamshire.
To find out more about R. S. Downie and other Penguin crime writers, go to www.penguinmostwanted.co.uk.
Go to www.rsdownie.co.uk to hear more about Ruso and all things Roman.
Ruso and the Root
of All Evils
R. S. DOWNIE
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
www.penguin.com
First published 2010
Copyright © Ruth Downie, 2010
All rights reserved
Published in the United States as Persona non Grata
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject
to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-141-95895-8
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
To the excavators of Whitehall Roman Villa, none of whom appears in this book.
‘Do not heap up upon poverty, which has many attendant evils, the perplexities which arise from borrowing and owing …’
Plutarch, Moralia
‘The love of money is the root of all evils.’
1 Timothy 6:10
Ruso and the Root of All Evils
in which Gaius Petreius Ruso, our hero, will be:
Lied for by
Valens, a fellow medic
Harassed by
Marcia and Flora, his half-sisters
Organized by
Arria, his stepmother
Put straight by
Cassiana, his sister-in-law
Cook
Complained at by
Lucius Petreius, his brother
Intrigued by
Lollia Saturnina, a neighbour
Puzzled by
Justinus, his brother-in-law (missing feared drowned)
a very short letter
Insulted by
Claudia, his former wife, daughter of Probus (see ‘thrown out by’)
Informed by
a security guard whose name he cannot remember
Flaccus, a kitchen-boy
Galla, a servant
Valgius, a snake-charmer
Attalus, an undertaker
Solicited by
Gabinius Fuscus, a politician and cousin of a Senator
Tertius, a gladiator
Diphilus, a builder
Confused by
Polla, Sosia, Little Lucius, Little Publius and Little Gaius, his nephews and nieces
Pursued by
Calvus, an investigator
Stilo, his sidekick
Annoyed by
Brother Solemnis, a follower of Christos
Threatened by
Severus, the agent in cha
rge of the Senator’s estate (see ‘in debt to’)
Copreus, a sea captain
Ponticus, a shipping agent
Thrown out by
Ennia, sister of Severus
Zosimus, a house steward
Probus, a banker, Ruso’s former father-in-law
Employed by
Gnostus, an old colleague with a new name
Almost poisoned by
a stable lad
In debt to
many people, including:
Probus (see ‘thrown out by’)
Gabinius Fuscus (see ‘solicited by’)
the Senator, a character frequently mentioned but never appearing
assorted tradesmen
Argued with, slept with and abandoned (again) by
Tilla, otherwise known as Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae amongst the Brigantes
1
Justinus was lying in the stinking dark of the ship’s hold, bruised and beaten, feeling every breath twist hot knives in his chest.
The light that trickled in through the worrying gaps in the hull showed the angle of the ladder above him. Beyond it, thin, bright lines betrayed the position of the hatch. He remembered the slam, and the rattle of the bolts. Now he heard the sharp yell of a reprimand over the thumps and footfalls up on the deck of the Pride of the South, a ship that could hardly have been less appropriately named.
Whatever they were up to, it seemed he didn’t need to die for it. If they had planned to kill him they could simply have thrown him overboard. Perhaps they would maroon him on a remote island somewhere while they sailed off to enjoy spending his master’s money. He would eat berries, spear fish and wait to be rescued. Sooner or later he would return home, thinner and browner and with a well-rehearsed apology to his master.
He forced himself into a sitting position just as the ship heeled to starboard. Cold bilge that should not have been near the cargo sloshed over his legs. Beneath him, he felt the stacked amphorae slide out of position and begin to tip and roll with the movement of the ship. Dark shapes swarmed out from amongst them and ran squealing along the sides of the hold.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, grasping at the ladder to steady himself and wincing at the pain in his chest. ‘Captain!’
No response.
‘Copreus!’ He banged on the ladder with his fist before he shouted the words that should bring the crew running. ‘The cargo’s shifting!’
There was a muffled shout from above, then something thudding against the side of the ship, scurrying feet and the bark of orders. Between the other sounds, he was almost certain he could hear waves breaking on a shore near enough to swim to.
‘Hey!’
Struggling over the rolling necks of the amphorae, he pressed his face against a gap in the planking of the hull. Outside, he could see nothing but brilliant blue. He crawled back and smashed two of the loose amphorae against each other. Nothing happened. He heaved one up – thank God, for some reason this one was empty and relatively light – and swung it against the other. The heavy pottery cracked. Praying that by some miracle he could make a gap big enough to escape from before the sea started pouring in, he began using a broken handle to batter at the worm-eaten hull.
‘Let me out!’ When he stopped to catch his breath he heard footsteps retreating across the deck. There was a series of small bumps against the hull before the shout of an order and the irregular splash of rowers getting into rhythm. After that there was nothing but the creaking of wood and the slop of water.
Moments later, he smelled the burning.
For a moment he could make no sense of it. Then, ignoring the pain in his chest, he took a deep breath and shouted through the gap, ‘You bastards! Get me out!’
Only the sound of water. The scuffle of a rat.
‘Fire! Don’t leave me here!’
Still no reply. The Pride lurched violently, rolling him up the inside of the hull and drenching him with more cold water as the amphorae crashed and tumbled around him.
‘Don’t leave me!’
Smoke was seeping down into the hold, forming ghostly fingers in the thin shafts of light. The water was rising. The Pride was listing badly now, as if she were settling down on her side to sleep.
‘Help me!’ he screamed, the pain stabbing his chest with every movement as he struggled to get upright. He cried out in panic as he felt himself slip down towards the water. Seconds later he came to rest against a fallen amphora. An expanse of long, pale cylinders was shifting about in front of him.
He realized suddenly that every one of them was empty. That was why they were all bobbing about on the surface of the bilge. The cargo he had authorized, and seen loaded, had vanished – probably while Copreus had been buying him drinks back in Arelate the night before they sailed.
One of the amphorae gurgled and sank out of sight. The others rolled in and closed over the gap. Justinus shut his eyes. He prayed for strength. Then he edged along the ladder, which was now lying sideways, and aimed a kick at the hatch. Nothing happened.
He kicked at it again. ‘Let me out!’ he screamed. ‘I won’t say anything!’
A rat swam past him, scrabbled to get a grip and finally managed to hook a paw over a handle and pull its dripping body out of the water.
Justinus closed his eyes. ‘You can forgive them if you like,’ he growled to his god. ‘But they don’t deserve it.’
He said a prayer for his sister and his many nephews and nieces in case he did not see them again in this life. Then he began to give a last account of his sins and stupidities, all the time kicking at the locked hatch, because anything was better than listening to the creaking and splintering of old wood and the crash as something else gave way out there. Anything was better than noticing the way the cold was creeping up around him, and seeing the fingers of light in the smoky air being extinguished one by one by the rising flood, and coughing, and knowing that, drowning or burning, the end would be the same.
He was still praying and kicking the hatch when the Pride of the South vanished below the surface of the sunlit water, its passing marked only by a thin drift of smoke and a swell that was barely noticed by the men hastening away in a distant rowing boat.
2
The legionaries were still in full kit but presumably off duty, since they were swaggering down the street outside the fort with the belligerent cheer of men who had been sampling the local brew. Ruso, never keen to meet one loud drunk in possession of a sword, let alone five, walked past and ignored them. The light was fading, and there was hardly anyone else about. The trumpet would sound the curfew in a minute. If this bunch didn’t get themselves in through the fort gates soon, their centurion would be out to round them up.
He was halfway up the wooden steps to his lodgings when he heard the cry. He paused. The raucous laughter told him some silly girl hadn’t had the sense to steer clear. The gang had found a victim.
The night guards who patrolled the streets to frighten off scavenging wolves and marauding Britons would not be on duty yet, and none of the civilians living out here would want to tackle a gang of legionaries bent on mischief. Ruso didn’t want to tackle them either, but he supposed it was his duty to go and take a look. He clattered up the steps, assured Tilla, who was waiting for him, that he would be back to eat in a minute and left before she could ask where he was going or – worse – insist on joining him.
The soldiers were not difficult to find: he only had to follow the sound of overexcited young men urging each other to do stupid things. Instead of making their way back to barracks, they had drifted down towards the river. Despite the noise – or perhaps because of it – Ruso seemed to be the only other person on the streets. The snack bar had put up its shutters for the night. The tenants of the nearby houses had chosen to bar their doors and mind their own business.
The men had their victim pinned against the wooden parapet of the bridge. None of them seemed to notice the Army medical officer making his way towards them through the ro
ugh grass of the riverbank. As he drew closer he was surprised to see that the small figure was not a woman, but a native boy of about nine or ten. His captors, jostling around him like crows squabbling over a corpse, were accusing him variously of thieving, of spying and of being a snivelling little British bastard.
Ruso strode up on to the bridge and adopted a friendly tone for ‘Where did you find this one?’ just as a couple of the men hoisted the boy up on to the parapet, seized his ankles and tipped him backwards. The boy’s shrieks of terror provoked more laughter as they dangled him head-first above the rocky bed of the river. Someone shouted above the din, ‘Shut up or we’ll drop you.’
Ruso vaguely recalled a couple of the faces but could not name them. Perhaps they had been patients. There were thousands of troops in the north of Britannia, and there had been so many casualties at the height of the rebellion that he could remember only a blurred succession of mangled bodies. He raised his voice. ‘What’s going on here?’
The shrieking stopped. There was some confused shuffling about as the men realized they were being addressed by an officer. One of them attempted a salute, with limited success.
Finally the man holding the nearest foot announced, ‘We caught a spy.’
The man’s upper lip was distorted by a fresh red scar that reached to the corner of his eye. Ruso recalled stitching one very much like it. Probably neither of them had been in a fit state to remember the other.
He glanced over the parapet. The captive was a skinny creature whose ragged tunic had fallen over his face. Tails of mousy hair were dangling just clear of the water. ‘That’s a spy?’
‘What’s he doing snooping round at this hour, then?’ demanded the scarred one.
‘Let’s get him up and ask him.’
The man looked askance at Ruso, as if he was wary of being tricked. A voice behind him hissed, ‘Let him up, mate. You’ll get us all in trouble.’
Ruso said, ‘He’s only a child.’
‘They use kids,’ said the man.
‘And women,’ chipped in somebody else.
‘Yeah, kids and women. Don’t ya?’ The man gave the bare foot a shake, as if its owner was responsible for the unsporting practices of the British rebels.
The child responded with a howl.
‘He’s frightened enough now,’ said Ruso. ‘Get him back up.’