Tilla said, ‘It is good she has your sisters to help her.’
Ruso grunted something noncommittal. It was hard to imagine his sisters helping anyone, but perhaps they had improved in his absence. He tried to take his mind off the way his stomach was moving independently of the ship by telling Tilla about brilliant blue summer skies and air filled with the song of cicadas. About the olive groves and the vineyards. About his brother’s precious winery, and about his sister-in-law, the one who sent presents from home and produced all the nephews and nieces.
Tilla said, ‘I think I will like your home.’
Ruso felt another pang of guilt about his failure to mention her to his family. ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what we’ll find after that letter. Something must have gone badly wrong.’
‘How wrong can it be? There is sunshine, and trees that grow oil, and no soldiers.’
‘Soldiers are one problem we don’t have at home,’ he agreed. ‘Narbonensis has been practically part of Italy for generations.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘You’ve never really seen what peace is like, have you?’
When they docked on the west coast of Gaul, the last of the genuinely maimed veterans who had travelled with them left for their own destinations. Ruso removed the extra dressings. He gave one of the crutches to a surprised beggar and then regretted it when he realized how feeble his leg muscles had become during their enforced rest. Still, it was a relief to feel the fresh summer breeze on his chafed thigh and to see the limb that had been the colour and shape of a giant maggot return to a normal-sized leg. He now wore only a long sock of bandage and, provided he was careful, could put his heel down to the ground without instant regret.
He clambered without assistance on to the river barge that would take them on the next stage of their journey. The joy of independence was only slightly diminished by Tilla’s observation that he now had one brown leg and one that looked as though he had just got it out of winter storage.
Following the river as it wound its leisurely way across the flat lands of south-west Gaul, their lives settled into a pleasant rhythm. He taught her to play board games and discovered she was a shameless cheat who laughed when she was caught. At last he made a serious effort to learn to speak British, and she discovered that there was a language that resembled it called Gaulish, which he tried to teach her in return. They squabbled over space in the tiny bunk, tried sleeping top to toe and quickly decided that was worse. He bought her a straw hat to keep the sun off, and she adorned it with the wild flowers she picked on the riverbank.
As they left the barge behind in Tolosa and climbed into the carriage to make the last stage of the journey through the mountains by road, it occurred to Ruso that there were whole days now when he hardly thought of the dreadful events they had left behind in Britannia. He abandoned the last crutch for a stick as his body began to heal along with his mind. He could not remember a time when he had been happier.
It was a pity he knew it wasn’t going to last.
6
‘Brother! What are you doing here? What’s the matter with your foot?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be in the Army, Gaius?’
‘Uncle Gaius! Did you kill all the barbarians?’
The greetings and hot embraces filling the painted hallway gave no hint of the crisis that had brought him home.
‘Gaius, dear, is it really you? What a surprise!’
‘Mother!’ he said to Arria. He had practised the word until he no longer had to grit his teeth to say it. He thought it came out rather well.
‘You’re wounded!’
‘It’s nothing much,’ he assured her, and took Tilla by the arm. ‘Arria, this is — ’
‘Uncle Gaius! Uncle Gaius, I’ve got a loose tooth!’
He bent awkwardly, leaning on the stick. ‘Want me to pull it out for you, Polla?’
His niece frowned and backed away. ‘I’m not Polla, Uncle. That’s Polla.’ She pointed at a bigger sister. ‘I’m Sosia.’
‘Sosia? Gods above, you’ve — ’ He stopped himself just in time. ‘Of course. Sorry, Sosia. Good to see you. Everybody, this is — ’
Someone was prodding his shoulder. ‘I’m Marcia,’ put in a girl who looked alarmingly like a young woman. ‘I’m your sister. Remember me?’
‘No, really?’ said Ruso, who remembered only too well. Her embrace warmed slightly when he murmured, ‘I haven’t forgotten about your dowry, you know.’
‘I need it now,’ she hissed. ‘And I’m not going to marry some rich old goat with spindly legs and hair in his ears, understand?’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he agreed. ‘Marcia, where are Lucius and Cass?’
His sister shrugged. ‘Doing something boring on the farm, I suppose.’
Still no clues. Evidently Lucius had not told their sisters about the letter.
He correctly guessed the names of two nephews and limped across the hall to greet the row of waiting staff like a general addressing his troops at a surprise inspection.
‘Hello, Galla.’ The nursemaid’s hair had turned grey in his absence. The kitchen-boy had expanded upwards, the laundrymaid widthways, and Arria’s personal maid in all the right places. The cook’s apron was now being worn by a sour-faced man, the stable lad still smelled the same, and the bath-boy, who had been ancient when Ruso was a child, managed to impress simply by remaining alive. ‘It’s good to see you all,’ he said.
He was dredging his memory for names when his stepmother’s voice rang across the hall in a tone he remembered only too well.
‘Gaius, dear, who is this?’
As he glanced round at the assembled company, all now surveying the slender blonde figure just inside the doorway, the absurdity of the notion that he would be able to slip Tilla into the household almost unnoticed became clear.
A small voice at nephew level announced, ‘She’s got a red face.’
‘She’s got blue eyes.’
‘Why is her hair like that?’
‘Because she’s a barbarian, stupid!’ explained one of the nieces.
‘She’s British,’ said Ruso, as if that explained not only her appearance but her presence. ‘Everybody, this is Tilla. She’s our guest, so I want you all to make her welcome.’
This had the unfortunate effect of unleashing more curiosity.
‘Can she talk?’
‘Can we touch her?’
‘Is she fierce?’
‘Aaah!’ This last was from a dribbling toddler who had evidently learned early that he had to speak up to be noticed.
‘Yes, she can talk,’ said Ruso, looking around in vain for his sister-in-law to get the small interrogators under control. ‘And no, you can’t touch her. We’ve had a long journey, and she’s tired.’
One of Ruso’s sisters whispered something to the other, and they both giggled. Tilla’s expression was one he could not read and dared not speculate upon, but the child was right. Her cheeks were even pinker than the sunburn on her nose. Tendrils of hair, dark with sweat, were stuck to her forehead. ‘Sorry about this,’ he murmured to her.
Tilla grasped his hand and whispered, ‘What did you tell them about me?’
‘I’ll explain in a minute,’ he assured her.
The hastily assembled greeting party was evidently expecting a formal speech. Those eyes aren’t really blue, he wanted to tell them. Not up close. ‘Well,’ he said, searching desperately for something more appropriate. ‘Yes. Hullo, everybody. It’s good to be home.’ He was not sure it was true, but it was necessary to say it. ‘You all look very, ah — ’
The eldest nephews had lost interest and begun to roll across the floor, punching each other. A niece shouted, ‘Stop it!’ while Galla made a futile attempt to intervene. Ruso glanced at the bust of his late father, impassively surveying the chaos from its niche beside the garlanded household shrine, and wondered what the old man would have made of this performance.
‘Children!’ Arria’s voice rose again over the babble. ‘Your kind Uncle Gaius has brought a real barbarian home for us all the way from Britannia. Isn’t that nice of him?’