Persona Non Grata by Ruth Downie

covering the wall that Arria had insisted on having raised to separate garden from working farmyard, and swooped to stab at an insect in the dry fountain. Even from this distance, the crack in the side of the pool was obvious, as were the failed attempts to patch it. It was an uncomfortable reminder of the emptiness of the family coffers.
    Pretend you don’t know.
    That was what he had been doing in Britannia. Lucius was right. He had been finding ways to distract himself from his responsibilities back at home.
    A waft of smoke was rising from behind the bathhouse. In a moment he would go and sweat out the dirt of traveling. Then, newly clean, he would submerge himself in the cold plunge and hope for inspiration about how to tackle the Gabinii’s plans to extend their empire across his own small farm.
    His musing was interrupted by a roar of, “Sit down!” from inside the house.
    “From now on, you’ll all sit still and eat with your mouths shut!” bellowed Lucius, with more fury than logic. “The next one to speak will be whipped!”
    There was a brief pause, followed by an exasperated, “You know what I mean!” Then louder, as if someone had opened a door, “Because I’ve had enough! If you won’t discipline them, I will.”
    Ruso sighed and told himself it was no use feeling nostalgic for the army. He supposed he should go and find out what his sisters had done with Tilla, and whether he needed to rescue her from it.
    He was reaching for his stick when he detected a waft of perfume and heard the ominous words, “Gaius, dear! We must have a little chat!”
    “Little chats” with Arria usually consisted of her telling him what she wanted him to do, followed by him explaining why he was not going to do it. “Before we start,” he said, leaning back against the balustrade as if it would support his arguments, “have you seen Tilla anywhere?”
    “That girl?” said Arria in a tone that suggested Tilla was of no more importance than a piece of luggage. “Oh, your sisters are showing her around. I don’t expect they have houses like this in Britannia, do they? It must be quite exciting for her.”
    Ruso motioned his stepmother toward the stone bench, where they sat side by side in an atmosphere of lavender and drains.
“I’ve been talking to Lucius,” he said, “about the way things are.”
“It’s really too dreadful, isn’t it?”
    “It’s very worrying,” he agreed, relieved that she had at last begun to acknowledge the seriousness of their situation. “I’m going to see what I can do to sort it out tomorrow.”
    “Oh do, please,” she said. “Diphilus says it’s because the man who put the fountain in did something to the water. He offered to send somebody to look weeks ago. But no, your brother wanted to do it himself. I said, Lucius, dear, you’re very good at making wine, but what do you know about plumbing? So he lifted some stones up and had a poke about with a stick, but it did no good and now he says he’s too busy. How can I invite people into the garden? It gives such a terrible impression.”
    Evidently his perception of the family’s main problem did not coincide with Arria’s. “Who’s Diphilus?”
    “The builder, dear. You remember. The contractor who helped us with the Temple of Diana.”
    Fleeced us might have been a better expression, but Ruso was determined not to get into an argument. Not yet, anyway.
    “He’s nearly finished the mausoleum he’s working on,” she said. “If we let him know quickly, he can fit us in for a summer dining extension before he goes onto a big villa contract.”
    “We don’t need a dining extension.”
    “Oh, not a big thing. An outdoor room. You know, with stone couches around three sides and a nice table or two in the middle. Diphilus says it wouldn’t take more than a week to put up. Your father always said we should have one. Over there, so we can listen to the fountain. When Diphilus has found us someone to mend it, and