“Tranquillus?”
“Madam?”
Watching poor Tranquillus trying to conceal his excitement at being noticed was an entertainment in itself.
“I hope you are taking notes on all this so that you can tell the world what we have had to suffer.”
“Indeed, madam.”
“Because you will hardly get a whole book out of Interesting Things to See in Britannia. A few statues of dead emperors, stones arranged in a circle, and burial mounds of people no one has ever heard of.”
“Indeed, madam.”
“I have been wondering if Clarus and I could persuade you to include the present emperor in your list of biographies.”
Tranquillus swallowed. “I am delighted to say that the present emperor is still with us, madam. It would be premature to attempt to summarize his already great achievements when there will doubtless be so many more to record.”
“Ah, yes,” agreed Sabina. “Of course.” There were times when she wondered whether she should be kinder to Tranquillus. Then he came up with an answer like that and she wondered whether he, too, was enjoying the game.
Tranquillus was not fool enough even to consider writing about Hadrian, but as the limping chambermaid from last night took her arm to escort her around a pothole, she wondered if he was thinking of the scandalous material he could include if he did. Nothing as scurrilous as the depravities that he had related from the old days, of course, but Hadrian would not want the world to read about that sordid squabble with Trajan over the pretty boy. Nor about the dubious manner in which he had become emperor. She did not believe for a moment that Trajan had named Hadrian on his deathbed. The old man’s widow, the only witness, was one of Hadrian’s collection of devoted middle-aged women. All of them thought they understood him better than she did. But what normal man preferred the company of his mother-in-law to that of his wife?
Neither she nor Tranquillus, of course, would ever mention these things. The quiet man who had appeared on the ship had vanished, but the slaves were always there, and always listening. She knew that because once she had invented an overpriced diamond and spoken of having it imported from India, and sure enough the emperor had later accused her of wasting money. He had not been in the least perturbed when she complained about him spying on her. “Of course,” he said, as if it were as natural as breathing. “Do you have something to hide?”
“How could I?”
“Precisely.” He had turned away to discuss the defense of Lower Pannonia, and that was the end of the interview.
Now, of course, he really would have to buy her some jewelry.
The sound of hammering and sawing rose from the wharf: They were starting the repairs on the ships already. She turned to Tranquillus. “I begin to understand why you refused your first posting here.”
Tranquillus turned pink again and mumbled something about not refusing exactly; it was simply that at the time he had been inconveniently unable-
“Do you know whether one can travel by road to the place where the hot springs rise?”
“It is even farther from here than from Londinium, madam.” Tranquillus’s apologetic tone suggested this was his own fault.
“What about the land of endless day?”
“Many miles to the north of us, madam.”
She sighed. “Well, if you can think of anything at all that might relieve the ghastliness of this place, please do suggest it.”
Chapter 18
She had dreamed the dream again.
Tilla lay in the warmth of the blankets, gazing past the empty bed beside her to the bright streaks of light around the shutters. The storm seemed to have blown itself out during the night. Sparrows and pigeons and a blackbird were celebrating the morning in the courtyard, hardly disturbed by the slap of sandaled feet passing along the walkway.
The house in the dream was always endless. Last night there had been a broad fan of gray damp spreading from one corner, but the rest was always the same: empty rooms and steps and corridors that she wandered through with no clear idea of where she had come from or how she would ever get out.
She had dreamed about it so often that when a traveling interpreter came to Deva, she had paid good money to find out what it meant.
“Ah, yes!” The interpreter had looked into her eyes while clasping his hands together as if he could squeeze the meaning out from between his palms. “And are the rooms collapsing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Any smoldering or ash?”
“No.”
“I am happy for you, mistress. If a room burns brightly without falling down, then you will come into riches.”
When she failed to look pleased, he said, “You are quite sure there is no ash? Because damage warns that something bad is on the way. A burning bedroom signifies ill fortune for a wife. Damage to the men’s rooms means ill fortune for a man.”
“I see.”
“The meaning is quite clear, even if only one wall is collapsed. The wall with the door in it represents-”
“What if the rooms are not on fire at all?”
“Not on fire?”
“No.”
The man laid his hands flat on the table. “Then it is very hard to say.”
She was glad she had not told her husband where she was going.
She could see now that the meaning was obvious. It did not matter that she had risen from slave to housekeeper, from housekeeper to wife. It did not matter how many babies she helped other women to bring into the world. Marcia’s letter had been a sharp reminder that her days were destined to be spent moving between empty rooms, with no family of her own to fill them.
She closed her eyes, listening to the voice of her mother.
It’s no good moping, girl. There’s work to be done.
But, Mam, the slaves do all the work in a mansio, and I cannot make women have babies to deliver. Besides, do you not see how it breaks my heart to hold them when I have none of my own?
Have you forgotten? Nobody likes a person who feels sorry for herself.
I try not to, Mam. And when we get back to Deva, I shall have plenty to do.
Lighting fires and fetching water? Cooking?
Not every day. Some days we rent next door’s kitchen girl.
What other wife of a Roman officer ever does those things? You shame us by marrying him and then you shame him by acting like a slave!
He is not ashamed of me!
No? What do his friends think? Why were you not invited to dinner with the tribune?
Nobody’s wife was invited, Mam. And I had a patient to see.
You spent the evening with a silly girl who said you were no help, and reading about dead sparrows. I don’t know what to make of you. One minute you are cleaning his armor like a slave, the next you are trying to read as if you were some rich foreigner.
You were the one who told me to get on and do things and stop moping, Mam! Now I am doing things and still you are not satisfied!
She could hear again the sniff of disdain that meant her mother might be losing the argument, but she was still right. You are trying to be many people at once, daughter. But you know from the dream that you are not going to be a mother, and you are a terrible cook. Why do you not ask your husband to buy some help?
We cannot agree on what sort of slave to buy.
Nonsense. That is an excuse.
Mam, I am not going to be one of those wives who hang around the bathhouse all morning eating cakes and complaining about everything.
Then find yourself something better to do!