Persona Non Grata by Ruth Downie

Author:Ruth Downie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2009-08-29T16:00:00+00:00

Two early shoppers had paused to chat in the shade of the Forum wall. Ruso was relieved to see that the latest exhortation to support Fuscus, partially obscured behind them, was not long enough to begin with “G. Petreius Ruso, veteran of the . . .” His relief was shortlived. Glancing back over his shoulder as he rode past, he saw the wall from a different angle.

He had just made out, “The town poisoner says vote for . . .” when the shorter of the two women shouted, “Oy! Who d’you think you’re staring at?”

Ruso urged the mule on down the street, pursued by a cry of, “We’re respectable married women! You keep your eyes to yourself!”

The Games were not taking place for another two days, but as he squinted up at the glaring white stone of the amphitheater he could see small silhouettes moving about on the parapet, slotting in the masts for the sails that would be pulled across to shade the audience from sunstroke. Below them, other shapes appeared and vanished again, hurrying around the stone lattice of arches and corridors that formed the massive and elegant oval in which Fuscus’s entertainment would take place.

A cart piled high with animal cages was being maneuvered beneath the carved bull’s heads that adorned the main entrance. Whatever was in the cages was smelly but silent and hidden by a sailcloth that had been thrown over the top as a rough shade. Ruso rode on around the outside of the building. As he passed, some sort of animal noise—a roar or a bellow, it was hard to say which—echoed from deep within the arches. The mule pricked up its ears, but plodded on past the municipal slaves busy sweeping the flagstones. Presumably whatever had made the sound would have its blood mixed in with the sand of the arena in a couple of days.

Farther on, someone was applying fresh paint to the entrance numbers on the sides of the arches. Traders were unloading their vehicles. A sweet stall, a fritter vendor, and a souvenir salesman had already claimed the shade under the trees across the street, hoping to attract early trade. All were no doubt grateful to Fuscus for the opportunity to make a little extra money. As, in a roundabout way, was Ruso.

The gladiators’ barracks in the building next door were marked by a gaggle of excited females clustered around the heavy gates, waiting for a glimpse of their heroes. Ruso hoped that Marcia and Flora had never stooped to cupping their hands around their mouths and yelling encouragement through the cracks in the woodwork. Still, these alarmingly forthright young women might be of use to him now. Their devotion would have armed them with the information he needed.

Ruso dismounted and led the mule into the haze of competing perfumes.

“What’s the name of the doctor in there?” he asked a couple of pink-cheeked girls whose diaphanous outfits were made even more distracting by the way they stuck to their owners in the heat.

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