Tabula Rasa by Ruth Downie Read Free Book Online Page A

that she was not enjoying this, placed him next to Tilla. The animal pelt covering the bench tickled the backs of his legs. The bench rocked as Virana lowered herself down onto the other end of it.
    Senecio said, “We hear you rescued a man from the fallen rocks.”
    “Yes.”
    “First the sky is against you with the rain, and now the earth.”
    Ruso hoped the old man wasn’t going to veer off into craziness. Or religion. There were stories of him yelling at thunderstorms as well as singing to trees. “It is good of you to invite us.”
    “Darlughdacha is very much like her mother,” said Senecio, reaching for a cup made of turned wood. “We have been recalling good friends long gone. Her mother and I were very close at one time.”
    It felt strange to hear Tilla called by her native name. As though this man had some sort of ancient claim upon her. Meanwhile Enica scowled at Tilla as if looking like one’s mother were some sort of crime.
    The man continued. “Friends are always welcome at my hearth.”
    “And at ours, Grandfather,” put in Tilla. “When we have one.”
    “Yes,” said Ruso again, putting an arm around his wife in a gesture that he hoped looked protective, and not as if he were clinging to her for support.
    “Soldiers have no homes,” Conn said, looking round at the household as if he were explaining something new. “This is why they do not understand what it is to turn people off their land.”
    Tilla said, “My husband’s family has a farm in the south of Gaul. His brother looks after it.”
    “The south of Gaul?” Senecio raised one white eyebrow. “I hear the land there is very dry in the summer.”
    “There is not much rain,” Ruso agreed.
    “How many cows do you have?”
    “Just the one.” Aware that the Britons would think he was a pauper, he added, “We have a lot of vines and olives. Some . . .” He turned to Tilla for the native word, then realized there wasn’t one. “Some peaches,” he said, “and a little wheat.”
    “Wine and oil,” Senecio mused. “You can feed a family on these things?”
    “We sell them.” Not very profitably.
    “Ah.” It was Senecio’s turn to explain to his audience. “The Romans have to use coins,” he explained, “because they cannot feed themselves on what they grow.”
    Conn said, “This is why they come here wanting our good land to grow real food on.”
    Ruso felt Tilla’s thigh press up against his own. He wanted to tell her not to worry. If they wanted to score points at his expense, he would put up with it. It was only one evening, and if these people were gullible enough to believe that he had been lured away from the sunny vineyards of southern Gaul by windswept grass and reedy bogs, nothing he said would change their minds.
    He waited for the next challenge, but instead Senecio said, “You have a good understanding of our tongue, healer. This is not usual in a foreigner.”
    Ruso put a hand on Tilla’s knee. Perhaps they really were clinging to each other for support. “I have a good teacher.”
    “That is as well. We do not speak Latin in this house.”
    “Never mind!” put in a cheery voice from the other end of the bench. “Now my mistress is here, she can teach you!”
    Tilla hissed, “Sh!” and Virana subsided with, “But I was only saying—”
    “Sh!”
    Ruso was fairly sure that there was a difference in British between We do not speak Latin and We cannot speak Latin . Perhaps Senecio too wanted to lay down some boundaries.
    Senecio handed his cup to Enica. As she poured the beer, he reached back and squeezed her thigh.
    This was unexpected. Either Ruso had made the wrong assumption about Enica and Conn, or he had at last found evidence of Julius Caesar’s assertion that the Britons shared their wives. Was that what very traditional meant? He hoped he wasn’t expected to share his own wife. Or, indeed, anyone else’s.
    Senecio took a gulp and held the cup out. Enica, whom Ruso no longer knew