Caveat emptor

2

Gaius Petreius Ruso stepped over a coil of rope, leaned on the starboard rail of the ship, and wondered, not for the first time, if he was making a very big mistake.

Britannia would only ever be a province. Careers were made by men who visited these damp green islands at the edge of the world and then went back to somewhere more civilized, telling tales of survival. Ruso, on the other hand, was returning without any intention of going home again. In fact he had no plans at all, beyond a keen desire to arrive safely and practice his profession in a place where his wife was not considered a dangerous barbarian.

He moved farther along the rail, keeping out of the way as orders were shouted and the crew scurried about, preparing to bring the ship into port.

Over on the bank the scatter of dumpy thatched round houses began to give way to the red roofs of modern buildings squared up along the street grid of Londinium. He felt his usual sense of detachment when he arrived somewhere by river: gliding into town like a ghost, able to see and hear what was going on but not able to participate.

The breeze carried the tang of stale beer across the water. He could even make out the dingy waterfront bar it was coming from, and catch the strains of native music. It was one of those long, swirly tunes he had first overheard a slender blond woman singing up in Deva, in the days when he had thought that no sensible man would choose to live here.

His doubts were interrupted by the woman’s arrival. She placed a hand over his own and took up the tune in a husky voice. At what seemed to be the end of a section she paused and said with obvious delight,

“They sing this at home in the North!”

“I remember.”

Very softly, she began to sing again.

Tilla had plans, of course. Women always did. It seemed almost every conversation on the journey had begun with, “When we are home…” He had stifled the desire to point out that it might be her home, but it was not his.

He only hoped Valens had remembered the promise to find him a job, because he suspected that now they were here, “When we are home,” would turn into “When we have somewhere to live,” and then they would be back to, “When we have children,” and there was only so much planning a man could stand.

He blamed the crockery. Despite Tilla’s unfortunate origins, there was a clear expectation from the female side of the Petreius family that any man who had been presented with a matching set of tableware as a wedding present would hurry to provide a table to put it on, and somewhere to put the table, and a brood of little Petreii to eat at it.

Evidently Tilla’s thoughts were not far from his own. As the sailors positioned themselves to throw the mooring ropes, she said, “I want to watch them unload. I am not bringing all those cups and bowls this far to have them dropped on the dockside.”

“Good idea,” he agreed. “I’ll go and tell Valens we’ve arrived.”

The side of the ship bumped gently against the massive planking of the wharf. Ruso felt a surge of energy at the thought of getting back to work. He would have something useful to do at last.