There was a brief moment between the tasting and the burning, a further brief moment in which he thought that a gulp of air would help, and then the pain in his mouth was gnawing its way down his throat and into his chest.
“It’s very good!” he gasped. “Very-” He must have snatched at his beer, because much of it seemed to miss his mouth and course down his chin.
“Very good!” he repeated, wondering if the Britons knew the story of the Roman prisoner who had died after being force-fed with molten gold.
“He likes it!” declared someone.
He saw smiling faces at last. The child who said, “He made a mess!” was ignored, and Enica busied herself serving everyone else. So he probably hadn’t been poisoned, then. But if he thought the difficult part was over, he was wrong. Senecio had been softening him up.
“We hear, healer, that you are a friend of the emperor.”
Gods above, how had that rumor reached the ears of an old man in a mud hut? It was the last thing Tilla would have told anyone, even if it were true. And it was the last thing he wanted these people to believe. Ruso emerged from another swig of beer and said, “Not exactly, sir. We have met.”
“I have another fine and handsome son waiting for me in the next world, sent there by the emperor’s men during the troubles.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir,” said Ruso, who was not supposed to have seen the security report.
“My family and I would like to know,” said Senecio, “why the emperor wants to build a wall across our land.”
A list of possible answers scurried around Ruso’s mind and were chased away by the burning in his throat. The official reason, to separate the Romans from the barbarians, made no sense. There were barbarians on both sides, and army posts too. To collect customs tolls? To defend the land? To fix the limits of the empire? To give the troops something to do? To mark Hadrian’s footsteps in a province where a new city-his usual legacy-would be as useful as a straw spear? None of it sounded convincing in the face of a man who had lost a son and half his farm, and he certainly wasn’t going to repeat the common view amongst the men, who believed the wall was an admission that Britannia would never be fully brought under Roman control.
“It is the fault of the Northerners,” put in Tilla. “If they stayed at home and kept their hands off other people and their property, there would be no need for a wall.”
Senecio nodded. “Your family was a great loss to us all, child.” He turned to Ruso. “And you, do you think the great Emperor of Rome was troubled by the Northerners killing our people and stealing our cattle?”
Ruso doubted that Hadrian was in the least bit troubled, but he was not going to say so. “If it stops the raiding, it will be a useful thing for everyone.”
“Oh, it’ll stop that all right,” put in Conn. “It’ll stop farmers getting their animals to pasture, and families from visiting, and traders from going to market.”
Ruso took another long swallow of beer while somebody said something he did not catch.
“Gateways?” sneered Conn. “They’re miles apart!”
Everyone wanted to join in now. The conversation shifted around the hearth, and Ruso had a few moments to finish his own drink and most of Tilla’s while trying to convince himself that his throat was not swelling shut. Around him there were complaints about the stream, which as far as he could make out had turned undrinkable lower down since the landslide and . . . something about the soldiers buying up all the food and damaging field walls and leaving gates open. Tilla was looking uncomfortable, and he wondered if they grumbled like this every evening or whether it was for his benefit. If it was, they needed to enunciate more clearly.
The one-eyed man was complaining about a cart that the soldiers had borrowed and damaged.
“You told us they paid for that,” put in someone else.
The one-eyed man said that was not the point. Ruso, struggling to maneuver a chunk of vegetable onto his spoon, was fairly certain he heard, “You said it was falling apart anyway.”
Senecio stepped in. “As you see, my people are not slow to join an argument.”
Ruso said, “I didn’t mean to start one.”
The old man gave a dramatic sigh. “It is the tragedy of these islands. Our tribes saw Rome coming and, instead of uniting, the leaders fell to quarreling amongst themselves.”
Ruso tried to form a facial expression that showed he was paying attention. He felt slightly detached from what was going on, but he was not drunk enough to offer opinions on the Britons.
“So now,” Senecio said, “your people and ours must live side by side until Rome decides to go away again.”
“Yes.” The old man must have been disappointed when the building started; it was clearer than ever now that his people were in for a long wait.
Senecio said, “There should be no more killing.”
“I agree.” Ruso raised his beer cup in approval, but the old man had not finished.
“Marriages between our women and your men are not always successful.”
Not sure how this was connected with killing, Ruso said, “My wife and I have known each other a long time.” He was still just about sober enough to censor whereas you only met her last week.
Senecio raised his own cup. “Mara’s daughter has made her choice. Until your people leave our land, healer, we will look for ways to live together.”
Ruso drank, relieved that he was safe here but hoping the old man did not imagine he was talking to someone with any power to agree to anything. Even the blankets and buckets that he had made the absent Candidus order had failed to turn up. He realized now how unimportant that was. The Legion seemed a long way away and curiously irrelevant. He could not remember why the emperor had bothered coming here in the first place. He understood completely why the Britons were baffled and irritated by the army’s interference. They should all stop quarreling. It was all remarkably simple. There was no need for fighting. They should respect each other. If they all gathered together around warm hearths to share peace and beer, there would be no need for a wall.
As the murmur of conversation rose around him again, Tilla said, “You did well. He likes you.”
“Good.” He wondered how long it would be before he could eat comfortably again.
She scooped up a spoonful and drew back as it touched her lips. “Ach! This is still hot! Is this why you spilled the drink?”
He said, “I didn’t want to spit it out.”
“They would have thought you were rude,” she agreed. “Now they just think you are a man who is desperate for beer.”
Chapter 7
The meal had ended. People were moving about the house: men going out to fetch firewood and check the animals; women throwing down bedrolls in the shadows beyond the partitions and urging children to have one last drink, one last wee, and be sure to wash dirty hands and feet. At last Virana had the chance to get up and help, and had come back with the news that these people knew Cata, who was lucky her jaw was not broken, and that another girl had run away some time ago and nobody knew where she had gone.
“That is what happens when you choose the wrong man,” Tilla told her. From behind one of the partitions she could hear the repeated whuf of someone punching a feather pillow into shape. The evening had gone better than she had feared. Her husband was on the far side of the fire listening to Senecio with the slightly cross look on his face that meant he was tired and having to concentrate to understand.
Then Senecio was beckoning her over to join them, and that was when she spotted the Thing for the first time, and forgot all about long-suffering girlfriends.
“I have been speaking with your man,” Senecio told her.
“I am glad of it.” Tilla tried to not to stare at the Thing. It was stark and obvious now that it had slipped outside the cream wool of her husband’s best tunic.