Terra Incognita: A Novel of the Roman Empire Read Free

ignore for some months.
    He had been careful. Extremely careful. Far more careful than his slave, who on first being introduced to modern methods of contraception had fallen into a fit of disrespectful and uncontrollable laughter. He had insisted, of course, citing three years of successfully child-free marriage—something Tilla evidently thought was nothing to boast about. He had finally persuaded her to complete her part by squatting on the floor, taking a cold drink, and sneezing, but over the months Tilla had proved just as reluctant as Claudia to face the chill of a winter bedroom. Her sneezing too had shown a disappointing lack of commitment. He had given up trying to argue with her. Now he supposed he was going to have to face the consequences.
    The horse, sensing his tension through the reins, tossed its head.
    “Do you really think,” Ruso said, “that this is the best time to tell me?”
    “No, but you must know one day, and you will be happy.”
    “I see.”
    “Close your eyes, my lord.”
    “What for?”
    “It is nothing bad.”
    “But why—”
    “Is nobody looking.”
    Ruso glanced around to verify this before obeying. As the view faded away he was conscious of his body shifting with the pace of the horse. Something touched his thigh with a chink, and rested there.
    “Is for you, my lord.”
    He opened his eyes. Hooked over one of the front saddle horns was the leather purse he had given her for the housekeeping money. He felt the muscles in his shoulders relax. Whatever this was, it was not what he had feared.
    As he lifted the purse he glanced at his slave. Tilla was watching him, and looked very pleased with herself.
    He loosened the drawstring, slid two fingers into the pouch, and pulled out a large warm coin. “What’s this?”
    “A sesterce.”
    “I can see that.” He really must have a word with Tilla about this literal interpretation of questions. It was bordering on insolence, but so far he had failed to find a way to phrase the reprimand that did not suggest he could have worded his questions better. “Why,” he tried again, framing the sentence with care, “are you stealing when you have this much cash?”
    Her smile broadened. “I know my lord has no money.”
    “That’s my business, not yours. You aren’t going to help by pinching bread and getting into fights.”
    She pointed at the purse. “All for you.”
    Ruso tugged at the drawstring and peered inside.
    ‘Gods above!’ he exclaimed, weighing the purse in his hand again. He lowered it quickly as an army slave leading a string of pack ponies looked across to see what was happening. When the man had lost interest he investigated the contents of the purse again and leaned down to murmur, “This is a lot of money. Where did you get it?”
    Tilla’s shrug turned into an expansive gesture that suggested the coins had mysteriously fallen upon her in a rain shower.
    “This can’t possibly belong to you!”
    “I save up.”
    Ruso sat up and frowned. He had little spare cash. He had certainly not offered any of it to his slave. He assumed she was sometimes paid for helping to deliver babies, and it was quite normal for slaves to try and build up enough funds to buy their freedom. But why would she hand him her personal savings? Besides, this was too much for a handful of babies, no matter how grateful their parents. He glanced at her. “Tilla, how have you . . .” The answer crept up on him as he spoke, stifling the final words of the question.
    Tilla had become his housekeeper not long after his arrival in Britannia. Since she knew more about shopping than he did—in fact, almost everyone knew more about shopping than he did—he had never bothered to inquire too deeply into the relationship between cash and catering. He had begun by insisting that she render a weekly account. But after the first week she seemed to have forgotten about it and he had been too busy to insist. In any case, what was the point of having a