Get Out or Die Read Free

and trade and education. And as they become civilised they become our equals.
    Isn’t that what they want? Of course it is. It must be.
    But…. “Get out or die….”
    Taurus came in with the brazier. He saw the expression on my face, and asked, “What is it, Mistress Aurelia?”
    I held out the little bone disc with its grisly skull drawing, and read him the message.
    He thought for a while, then shook his head slowly. “It can’t be meant for us. It says ‘get out.’ But we belong here. We’ve got nowhere to go to. This is where our home is. Not Rome. I’ve never even been to Rome.”
    “Neither have I.” I regret that sometimes. Stuck in the wilds here, it feels as if I’ll never get there now. Our family home was in Pompeii, and after we lost that, we left Italia. Britannia was the coming province, the place for Romans to make their fortunes, or so my father believed. Father had left the army by then, a successful centurion with a good reputation and a nice little nest-egg. First we lived in an army settlement, and then—no, you don’t want the whole long story. The important point is that he got the concession to set up the mansio here seven years ago, and Albia and I gradually took over the running of it. It’s in our brother Lucius’ name of course, but we all knew he’d never settle down to being an innkeeper, and though I say it myself, Albia and I have made a pretty good job of it. All the same, I shouldn’t like to think I’d never see Italia again.
    “I was still a girl when we came to Britannia,” I said. “And you were only a lad yourself, Taurus.”
    “Yes.” He gave his slow grin. “Your dad bought me for a page-boy. Only I kept spilling things.”
    I smiled, remembering a couple of disastrous dinner parties where expensive wine ended up splashed over even more expensive gowns. “You’re an outdoor man, no doubt about it. Which is more useful when your home’s in a frontier province.”
    “So we do belong here, then. And this warning must be for new people coming over from Rome now. Don’t you think so?” His dark eyes looked anxiously for reassurance.
    “Yes, it must.” But I felt a shiver of cold doubt inside me. The message said “All Romans,” and we’re Romans. Me, Albia, Taurus, and the half-dozen others we brought with us from Italia…a handful of Romans, surrounded by countless thousands of native Britons: peasants, craftsmen, traders, and of course our locally bought slaves. We think we’re at home, established and permanent. We’ve made Britannia part of the Empire. But this Shadow of Death, whoever he is, sees things differently and wants us out.
    It came to me then, with frightening clarity: supposing other native Britons want us out? Supposing they all do?

Chapter II
    I shook myself out of my gloomy pondering and went into the private dining-room where Albia had served bread and cheese and olives, and some reasonable Rhodian to go with it. Junius’ friend Marius had surfaced by now, and so had our other three guests, two military contractors and a silver mine expert. The smell of the new bread reminded me I hadn’t eaten yet, so I cut a crusty hunk of it, and had a drink—water, not wine, in deference to my hangover, which had started to recede. I began to feel better as I listened to the young tribunes cheerfully planning their day’s hunting.
    I began planning my own day. I must go outside and check on the stables. The stable-lads were short-handed, but they should cope. All the same, it did no harm to make sure they weren’t cutting corners. We’re an official mutatio, a posting-station where travellers on government business change horses or mules, and our operation has to be clean and efficient. There was the farm work, too; I liked to keep an eye on our farm foreman, who was competent enough, but inclined to be lazy. Then there was a delivery of olive oil due from one of the wholesalers, and his men needed supervising because they seemed to be