Caveat emptor

71

When Tilla looked back on their time in Verulamium, the things she would remember most were not the grand buildings or the busy markets, the sight of Camma nursing the baby beside the kitchen fire, or even the terror of waking in Suite Three to find that someone had tried to suffocate her. What she would remember was the funerals.

This was the last of them: a farewell to the woman who had drawn her into this and become a friend. Now Camma was following her lover to the next world: being sent off by a man who had married her, perhaps out of vanity, but certainly with no malice and perhaps even some hope of good.

A surprising crowd had turned out to watch the baby that still had no name see the flames lit for a second time. She supposed it had to be expected: Camma’s life had ended in scandal, and the number of onlookers, the sound of wailing, and the sight of the official carriages drawn up on the roadside was causing other travelers to stop and see who was being cremated.

There was another, more modest pyre already burning on the other side of the clearing. A little knot of mourners clustered around it defensively as the crowd and the noise swelled. Tilla approached one of them. “This was your child?”

“Six years old,” said the woman. “She had a fever.”

“I am sorry.”

The woman looked at the baby. Tilla was glad she did not try to touch him. You could never tell how bad luck might spread. The woman said, “Treasure that one while you can, sister.”

Six years old. Six years of caring for a child, only to lose her as so many were lost to illness and accidents against which neither midwife nor the Medicus had any power.

She had not yet found the right time to tell him that she had woken late in Serena’s room with a familiar dragging sensation in her lower belly and risen to confirm that the medicine had failed. She would wait until they were well away from this place to break the news that the child who lived only in their hopes was as far away as ever.

Tilla moved back toward the fresh pyre on which the slaves were laying the shrouded form of Camma. On the far side of the clearing, a squad of guards was forcing its way to the front of the crowd, making way for Gallonius, here to be seen yet again paying his respects. As if anyone was likely to care. She recognized Gavo and, behind him, lurking in the third row, Dias. Even here, she thought, he cannot leave us alone. She wanted to march up to him, wrench the spear from his hand, and shout, “That child over there was six years old! Is there not enough death and misery without men like you dealing out more?”

When the slaves had done their work, Caratius stepped forward and unwrapped the shroud to reveal Camma’s face. Dias was looking across the pyre with a smug expression. Tilla followed his gaze and realized it was aimed at Grata. Grata’s expression was sullen, but what could one woman do? As if he had asked and answered that question himself, Dias gave her a half smile and turned to say something to the man next to him.

The Medicus appeared on the far side of the circle, out of breath and seemingly lost in his thoughts. If he did not do something soon, their final duty in this place would be over. They would be on their way back to Londinium with a shameful tale of fear and deceit, but also with the news that the tax would be paid, which was very likely all anyone would care about. The procurator would accept the tax and then send the money north to pay the army, who were there to keep her own people under the emperor’s thumb.

If there was any honor in this place, it was very well hidden. She would be glad when the Medicus went back to treating the sick.

He was moving now. Striding across the grass to say something to Caratius, who looked surprised and annoyed, and who finally said something brief in return. Then the Medicus stepped aside and Caratius moved forward to stand at Camma’s feet, facing the pyre. The onlookers fell silent. Everyone wanted to know what a man could say to honor a wife who had abandoned him for a tax collector.

“You are Camma of the Iceni,” he announced, “and you were my wife.”

Someone close to Tilla put in, “Till she ran off with a thief!” and several people sniggered. The comedian, a short man with buck teeth, grinned and took a swig from a flagon. Caratius said, “You are beautiful in death as in life.” The comedian surfaced from the flagon and managed to get out, “And you stole our money!” before Tilla snatched the flagon and hurled it onto his foot. His howl mingled with the sounds of mourning from the other pyre.

Caratius was still speaking but nobody seemed to be listening. There was some sort of disturbance behind them. A dozen horses and riders had broken out of the woods and were thundering across the grass toward them. Someone shouted, “The Iceni!” There were screams of “The Iceni! The Iceni have come!” as the crowd scattered, mothers grabbing children and dragging them away in search of safety. Some headed for the slaves’ hut, some tried to hide among the graves, and others rushed back toward the road and the town gates. Valens and Serena had snatched up the twins and were running for the carriage. Dias was yelling orders to the guards, who gathered around Gallonius.

Suddenly Grata was standing beside Tilla, with Albanus firmly in front of them both as if he stood some chance of defending them. Caratius was left unprotected beside the pyre as the riders circled around it. Their eyes were fierce. Their scars spoke of old battles and their long swords of readiness for new ones. All wore rough clothes topped with thick leather jerkins to protect them against weapons, and it was a moment before Tilla realized that a couple of them were women. She stood her ground, trying not to be afraid. These were her friend’s people: the family she had summoned. One of the women had hair like Camma’s, and also like the baby she was clutching against herself in case the Iceni chose to seek revenge on the nearest people they could reach.

The Medicus had not run, either. He was walking around the pyre toward her when a rider with thick fair hair roared in British, “Who is responsible for this?”

Dias gave an order and the town guards raised their spears. They were probably wishing they too had armed themselves with their swords. Well, that was what happened when you groveled to Rome.

“You!” the leader shouted at Caratius. “We trusted her to you, old man.”

Caratius was looking stunned, as if he could not understand what was happening.

Tilla called, “This is not his doing!”

The leader turned to glare at her and gestured with a tattooed hand to Albanus to get out of the way.

Albanus visibly jumped with fright, but he stayed where he was. Tilla put a hand on his shoulder and stepped around him to stand beside the horse. “I am Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae among the Brigantes,” she told the man, using the name he would understand. “Sometimes called Tilla. I am the midwife.” She held up the baby. “And this is your kin.”

He did not bother to look at the baby. “You sent the letter.”

She said, “I had hoped to give you a happier welcome.”

The Medicus was almost beside her now.

“Who is responsible for the death of my sister?” He glanced at the Medicus, swung around, and jabbed the point of the spear against his chest. “You,” he said in Latin. “Keep still. Tell us why my sister is dead.”

From behind the safety of other men’s spears, Gallonius shouted, “Your sister brought shame on you. She deserted her husband and ran off with a thief.”

The Iceni had stopped moving about now. Everyone was listening.

“You’re the thief,” called the Medicus.

Gallonius’s body jolted in sudden outrage, or perhaps fear. “I am the one trying to keep order here!”

Ruso turned to Caratius. “He told me both your grandfathers were craftsmen, sir-they were metalworkers, weren’t they?”

Caratius nodded. “What of it?”

“His meat market is on the site of your grandfather’s workshop, and everyone knew about the buried silver. I think he found it after your own men’s digging disrupted the drainage.”

“Nonsense!” put in Gallonius. “I’ve never seen any silver.”

“You showed some of it to Satto and said it was your savings.” The Medicus turned to Caratius, talking faster and faster, trying to get his story out before he was stopped. “That’s how he knew the old money could be identified, so he started melting it down and making his own, but the forgeries weren’t good enough, so he forced Nico to switch them with the theater fund money-”

“Enough!” roared the Iceni leader, giving the Medicus a poke with the spear that sent him staggering backward.

Dias’s voice was calm as he said, “Your sister was killed by a madwoman. I saw what happened. It was an accident.” He pointed at Tilla. “The Brigante woman is not to be trusted. She’s married to that rambling foreigner and he’s one of the procurator’s men.”

The leader turned to Gallonius. “You! We are not interested in coins and silver. Explain why my sister is dead.”

“It was an accident,” repeated Gallonius.

The Medicus said, “No wonder he wanted all this covered up. He’s been systematically robbing his people and getting the captain of the guard and the stable overseer to do his dirty work. The baby’s father found out what was going on and they killed him. Yesterday they silenced Camma too.”

Now that Valens had stowed his family safely in the carriage, Tilla could see him hurrying toward them across the grass. The mother of the six year old had crept back to keep vigil beside her pyre.

Gallonius began to speak in rapid British, explaining to the Iceni that the procurator’s man had been interfering in local business, jumping to all sorts of conclusions, and demanding money. “You know how men from Rome like to throw their weight about,” he said. “Take no notice of him.”

“We will speak in Latin,” the leader commanded. “Did you order my sister killed?”

“Of course not!”

Dias said, “It was an accident. The old woman pushed her and she fell and hit her head.”

Tilla shouted, “You killed her!”

“I tried to save her,” said Dias.

The Medicus said, “You were the only one who saw what happened. You and an old woman whose mind is gone.”

The Iceni were looking toward their leader, waiting for him to make a decision. It was plain that he did not know whom to believe. That was when Grata saw her chance. “That guard is a liar,” she said, pointing at Dias. “He made me give a false message to lure two men to their deaths. Do not believe him.”

Dias’s handsome face was twisted with anger. “She’s a jealous bitch. Take no notice of her.”

Why was Serena standing in the doorway of the carriage, waving and pointing toward the road south? Why was Valens hurrying back toward her?

Tilla stood on tiptoe to crane past the riders and around the slaves’ hut, but she heard them before she saw them. Everyone did. The rumble of horses at full gallop. Before anyone could move, streams of cavalrymen in glittering armor swept through the cemetery and surrounded the graves, the hut, the mourners, the pyres, and the startled Iceni.