Tabula Rasa(16)

A child’s voice declared, “He doesn’t like it.”

Someone said, “Sh!”

“Give him a chance!” hissed Branan.

He glanced at Tilla. She made a small scooping motion with one hand. Was this some sort of a test? Tilla had urged him to eat. He must not let her down. He lifted the spoon again.

There was a soft shuffle of feet and fabric as his audience shifted to get a better view, and he was struck by the thought that they might be trying to poison him.

The edge of the spoon seemed cooler now.

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.”