The Baby and the Battlefield

Chapter Fifty-Six: Rufus and Marilla

Upon leaving Marcus, Mulberry was angry. She had stomped off into the house and down a corridor before she realised that she wasn't entirely sure where she was. The house was large, and all Mulberry could tell was that the hallway she was in was not lined with narrow doors to tiny bedrooms. There were doors, of course, but they were wide. Wide enough that some of them might actually lead to other corridors. Thoughtfully, Mulberry tried a door, and immediately tried to back out of it.

“Oh!” she had exclaimed. She had found a bedroom, and was surprised to see the young boy lying, awake but silent, on the bed. “I’m in the wrong place, I’m sorry.”

The little boy looked up at her, his milky pallor contrasting grotesquely with his gingery hair. His expression was weary, but there was a spark of interest in his eyes. He looked about eight years old, but could easily have been a year or two older, just scrawny and sickly. The room was large, with shelves of books, and little metal models of imperial soldiers set out on the floor. There was a desk, covered in ink-blotted papers. The boy looked dwarfed by the bed, almost drowned by the thick, red coverlet.

“I'm sorry, I'm just leaving,” Mulberry began to pull the door closed.

“No,” the boy said, begging her, “Please stay. Stay and talk with me.”

Silently, Mulberry stepped into the room as the boy had requested. She closed the door behind her, then came and sat on the chair beside the bed,

“You’re the new slave, aren’t you?” The boy asked, “Uncle Marcus' slave?”

Mulberry nodded, wondering who the boy was, and how much he knew about her. “Yes, my name is Mulberry.”

“Grandfather told me about you. He said that you belong to Uncle Marcus. And,” he narrowed his eyes at her accusingly, “I have a new cousin.”

Mulberry struggled with answering all of this, and finally said, “You must be Rufus. Gaius’ son.”

Rufus rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I was Gaius’ son. But he’s dead. Uncle Marcus came and told me.”

“Oh. So then you know.”

“Of course I know!” the boy protested, before starting to cough. It seemed to take forever for the coughing to end, Rufus’ small body shaking with every cough. Mulberry wondered if she should call for help, but just as she was going to run from the room, the boy forced the coughing under control.

“I’m an orphan,” the boy finally said, sounding miserable.

“I'm a widow,” said Mulberry, trying to sympathize with the poor kid.

“I don’t care,” the little boy pouted.

Mulberry got up, intending to leave the room. It was clear she wasn’t helping the child by being here.

“No! Wait!” Rufus protested, “Just sit here, okay?”

Mulberry returned to the seat, watching the boy. He continued to stare up at the ceiling and did not look at her. A few small tears formed, filled his eyes, and dripped down his cheeks, and still he didn’t say anything. Mulberry wanted to put her arms around him, but she suspected it wasn’t appropriate. He was a little boy, but he was the heir to the house, and she was a slave girl owned by his ne’er-do-well uncle. The boy needed someone to comfort him, but she wasn’t, couldn’t be, that person.

She was still sitting awkwardly when the door flew open with a crash. A girl of perhaps 13 threw herself onto the foot of the bed. Her hair was the exact shade of brown as Marcus’, but spiralled down her back in tight ringlets that bounced up as she leaped. She landed within inches of Rufus’ feet, her plum-coloured skirts spreading out over the coverlet. Mulberry gasped, but the little boy struggled into a sitting position, smiling at the older girl.