by Ruth Downie
“Yes, sir,” agreed Ruso, remembering last night’s chicken dinner. “I will.”
25
F IRMUS MUST HAVE been waiting for Ruso to leave the procurator’s office, because he appeared from somewhere and latched on to him as soon as he emerged. “So, what do we do now?”
He seemed to have decided they were a team. Ruso said, “I’m going straight up to Verulamium to try and track down the money.” And to find a way of keeping Tilla out of this business without mentioning Metellus. If there was even the slightest chance that she might be pregnant, he did not want to frighten her.
Firmus was insisting on knowing what his uncle had said about the letter.
Ruso said, “All it shows is that Asper was ill and confused.”
“I don’t agree. With all respect to my uncle, of course. I think Asper was about to expose some sort of crook who had him murdered.”
Ruso loyally defended the procurator’s position, aware that he was talking too much and it must be obvious that he was lying. Aware too that he should never have allowed Firmus to get so deeply involved in this. The lad had been sent here by his mother to work in an office, not to chase thieves and murderers, and certainly not to get within the striking range of vipers like Metellus.
Finally Firmus gave up. “So what do we do now?”
“While I’m away, I’d be grateful if you’d forward any news that comes into the office.”
The aristocratic nose wrinkled. “That sounds boring.”
“Most investigating is boring, sir,” Ruso assured him, adding the “sir” to try and reestablish the distance that he should have had the sense to keep between them all along. “It’s just collecting detailed information, and most of what you find out turns out to have nothing to do with what you want to know.”
They were almost at the gatehouse now. Seeing them approach, Albanus raised one hand and hurried toward them, cramming his official writing tablets into his satchel. “Sirs!”
“I was just explaining to the assistant procurator that investigating isn’t as exciting as it sounds,” said Ruso, noticing to his discomfort that Albanus’s eyes were bright and he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he was eager to say something. “For example, you’ve just spent the afternoon recording—how many sightings of the missing brother?”
“Twenty-four, sir. Sir, I—”
“Twenty-four. And how many of them are credible?”
“Probably about three, sir. And even those contradict one another.”
Ruso fixed him with what he hoped was a meaningful stare. “So would you say investigating was exciting, Albanus?”
“It was a tedious afternoon, to be honest, sir.”
“Exactly,” said Ruso.
“Until I found out what Room Twenty-seven really means,” continued Albanus, unable to resist beaming with pride as he destroyed all Ruso’s good work in a sentence.
“Oh, well done!” cried Firmus. “I knew you were wrong, Ruso!”
At Albanus’s suggestion, they moved across to stand by the hitching rail on one side of the courtyard. Horses might hear, but they would not talk.
Apparently as he sat listening to the various accounts of sightings of men with mangled ears, Albanus had watched the stream of people going in and out of the Residence. Among them had been several couriers, most of whom delivered their items to the guard house at the gates to be distributed.
“And that’s when I thought again about the letter, sir. And about the way my aunt’s letters got forwarded on to me after I left the army, and that’s when it dawned on me. It doesn’t matter what you write on the outside. What matters is that the person who receives it knows what to do with it.”
Albanus paused here, perhaps waiting for his listeners to catch up.
“So where’s the real Room Twenty-seven?” demanded Firmus.
“We saw it earlier,” Albanus said. “But that’s not the point. The point is, when the men in the sorting room here get letters with addresses that don’t make sense, they put them all in the bottom right-hand pigeonhole. And there they stay, until somebody comes to look for them.”
So that was how Metellus did it. It was ridiculously simple.
“Or until there’s a clear-out, whichever happens sooner.”
“But that doesn’t prove that Room Twenty-seven means anything,” said Ruso, attempting to head them off. “It could just be a mistake by a dying man.”
“It could, sir,” agreed Albanus, “but the post room clerk says somebody’s been writing to it every week. And the pigeonhole hasn’t been cleared for a month, but there aren’t any Room Twenty-seven letters in there.”
“Somebody’s been collecting them!” exclaimed Firmus. “Oh, well done, Albanus! So all we have to do now is keep a watch on the post room—”
This was like trying to stop a runaway horse. “If the collector knows that Asper’s dead, he won’t come back for any more,” said Ruso, hoping the youth would not stumble over someone seeking messages from other informers. Would Metellus use the same system for several people? He had no way of knowing, nor any way to contact him and warn him.
Holy gods. He was starting to think in terms of warning Metellus now.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m supposed to be finding the money, not tracking down missing correspondence.”
“You are,” agreed Firmus, “but I’m not. I’m supposed to be learning about administration.” His smile was triumphant. “Administration includes post.”
Ruso restrained an urge to grab the front of his tunic and shake some sense into him. He sent a disappointed Albanus back to the gate to see if there were any more sightings of men with only one and a half ears before continuing, “Listen to me, Firmus. This isn’t a game. I don’t know what Asper was caught up in, but it might well be the business that got him murdered. Whoever follows the trail is going to run into the same people, and you’re not …” He hesitated.
“I’m not what?”
“You’re not supposed to be involving yourself in this sort of thing.”
“You were going to say, You’re not suitable because you can’t see past the tips of your fingers.”
“That too,” said Ruso, who wasn’t.
Firmus drew himself up to his full height, which was at least half a head shorter than Ruso despite the fancy hairstyle. “I am the assistant procurator,” he announced. “You have been given your orders. While you’re in Verulamium, I shall take whatever steps I consider to be necessary.”
Ruso sighed. That was the trouble with the upper classes. They were very friendly until you tried to cross them. Then they pulled rank on you.
This was going to be painful, but it was necessary. “Firmus,” he said, “I have a job to do. If I think someone—anyone—is compromising my investigation, not to mention getting himself into danger, then I won’t hesitate to report him to the procurator.”
The shortsighted eyes narrowed, as if the youth were trying to assess whether he was joking.
“I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me, but it’s got to stop. Straightaway.”
“But I thought …” There was a tremor in the youth’s voice. “Ruso, I thought you were my friend.”
Ruso felt his stomach clench, just as it used to in the early days when he was about to amputate a limb in the hope of saving the owner’s life. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, seeing hurt and bewilderment in the lad’s eyes. “I hope I’ve served you well. But we can’t ever be friends.”
Firmus’s chin rose. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you for reminding me. I am the assistant procurator of Britannia and you are a man who chases criminals for money.” He turned to peer around the courtyard and then strode off in the direction of Pyramus, who was waving at him from a doorway.
There was a bitter taste in Ruso’s mouth as he watched him go. No matter how often he told himself he had done that for the youth’s own good, he knew there would still be a whisper suggesting that he had done it
to get himself out of trouble. And the whisper would have the smooth tones of Metellus.
26
T HIS IS IT,” Camma said.
Tilla stretched, stiff from the long journey, and shifted her balance on the seat as the carriage began to descend another slow incline. Nearer the town, the road was lined on both sides by graves and grand carved wooden memorials. It occurred to her that Asper would not be allowed such an honor even if Camma could afford it. In a town where she had no friends and a powerful enemy, she would be lucky if she were allowed a stick to mark his place. Tilla watched as she gathered up her shawl and the remains of the bread that neither of them had felt hungry enough to finish, and wondered whether she had thought of that. If the people here really believed Asper had betrayed the town, his remains might not be welcome here at all.
How did you honor a disgraced man? It was one of the many questions the Druids would have been able to answer, but Rome had seen to it that Druids were hard to find these days. Tilla was not sure she had ever met one. Nowadays ordinary people had to muddle along with only memory and tradition and guesswork, while the leaders of the tribes squabbled over whatever power the governor was prepared to give them. With no one to settle the dispute over his wife, Caratius had been left to take his revenge. The whole thing had led to this dreadful mess—and it was not finished yet.
There was a shout from the roadside. The carriage drew up beside the deep ditch and gatehouse that marked the edge of the town. Someone was asking the driver if he had seen a man called Bericus on the road. Camma whispered, “They have still not found him.”
The driver denied all knowledge of the missing man and the carriage jerked into motion again.
Camma leaned forward to direct the driver. They passed a triangular temple precinct that smelled of incense and a grand inn that boasted glass windows and entered a busy street full of bars and shops and lodging houses—all, Tilla supposed, placed to tempt the travelers passing through. A couple of local men with chain mail over their scarlet tunics were lounging against a wall as if they had nothing better to do. Tilla peered into a bone worker’s shop and was startled when the workman glanced up and winked at her. Farther along, a woman dressed in gold and green plaid shouted at a tethered donkey while one of her children howled and clutched at his foot.
Tilla rejoiced in the unfussy hairstyles, the bright jewelry, and, among the plain workaday browns, the bold stripes and cheerful colors that spoke of a people not afraid to enjoy themselves. After the pale and washed-out drapery that the Medicus’s people thought was tasteful, it was like a feast for the eyes. Yet oddly, instead of having ordinary round houses, this southern tribe dressed in their no-nonsense tunics and trousers seemed to live like foreigners. Straight-sided buildings were crammed in precise rows. Beyond them rose the dome of a bathhouse and the red roofs of a Forum and a Great Hall like the one they had left behind.
She had not expected a tribal gathering place to look like this. Londinium was a town of soldiers and merchants, created by Rome in its own image—but she had expected Verulamium to look more like home. How could you roast an ox over a good fire in the middle of all those buildings? Where could you all sit in a circle around the embers with the soft grass beneath you and your backs to the dark and children falling asleep in their mothers’ arms, listening to the stories of your people? The Catuvellauni had turned their meeting place into something that was more welcoming to strangers from across the sea than to the people of their own island.
Out in the street, progress slowed to a crawl and then stopped altogether. A man rapped on the back of the carriage and cried, “Looking for a bed, travelers?” before glancing in at the shrouded body and hastily backing away. The driver reached into his bag for the remains of his lunch.
Tilla stood up and peered past him. A string of pack ponies had somehow spread themselves across the road and got tangled up with a flock of sheep. Passersby were making futile grabs as woolly brown shapes leapt between shying ponies, parked vehicles, and a man trying to deliver barrels. A terrier had decided to join in the fun and was rushing about snapping at the sheep, ignoring the whistles of its frantic owner. A couple of men in chain mail arrived and began to shout orders, but nobody seemed to be listening.
By the time there was a clear route through the chaos, a manure cart had drawn up behind them. “Take the first on the left, up by the bakery,” Camma called, grimacing at the stench.
“I hope you ladies aren’t wanting to stop near the Forum.”
“No, go on past, by the meat market.”
They were moving again. Mumbling something that ended in, “after a bloody market day,” the driver swung the vehicle around and urged the horses forward in the shadow of the Great Hall that made up one end of the Forum. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the road in such a way that there was barely room to fit another carriage in between. To Tilla’s disgust, the manure cart followed them. She lifted her overtunic and inhaled through the fabric. It made no difference.
Beyond the hall the driver called over his shoulder, “I’ll have to drop you ladies and move on.”
“But we need help to unload!” Tilla insisted, careful not to announce to the girl scuttling past with a basket of eggs and her nose pinched shut that they had brought a body with them. “My friend has just had a baby. She should not be lifting things.”
Especially that sort of thing.
Instructed by Camma, the carriage passed a meat market on the right and then drew up in the middle of the street outside a row of narrow timber-framed houses and workshops. The driver jumped down. “I can’t wait here, missus.”
“You must help!” insisted Tilla. “My husband paid you extra.”
The driver’s eyes, red with the dust of travel, met her own. “They’ll have me for blocking the traffic.”
“The housekeeper should be home from market,” put in Camma, handing the box containing the sleeping baby out to the driver. He lifted it above the inquiring muzzle of a tethered mule and placed it in the doorway. “Grata will help us,” she said, accepting the man’s offer of a hand as she climbed down from the carriage. “She will be waiting for us.”
The complaints from the drivers jammed behind them fell silent as Julius Asper was unloaded onto the pavement. Even so, when their own man looked as though he might be stopping to help, there was a roar of, “If you don’t get a move on, sunshine, we’ll bury you and all!”
“Don’t stir yourself to help, will you?” retorted the driver, jabbing his middle finger into the air just to make sure his point was clear.
A voice from farther back yelled, “She don’t need no help taking his weight. She’s been doing it for months!”
Camma’s face was blank. With the shrouded body set down at the side of the street, the driver clambered back into his seat and urged the horses into a trot. The carriage jolted away down the street and the queue of traffic began to move at last.
Camma turned to one of the house doors with her hand raised ready to knock, and froze. “What’s this?”
Tilla frowned at the dribbly limewash letters slapped across the wood and decided it was probably just as well neither of them could read. She wrinkled her nose. Now that the cart had gone, there was a sharp stink of urine around the front of the house.
“Grata should have done something about this.” Camma bunched her fist and raised her arm, ready to thump on the lettering.
Tilla seized her wrist before she could make contact. “Wait!” There were pale gashes of freshly splintered wood where the lock met the upright of the door frame. “Don’t go in there.” She pushed the door ajar with the tip of her forefinger and drew back.
“But Grata is—”
“There is somebody inside,” murmured Tilla, hearing a crash from somewhere inside the building, “but I don’t think it’s your housekeeper. Who else is allowed in there?”
“Nobody,” said Camma, frowning. “Unless—” She stopped. “No, Bericus would have a key.”
&nbs
p; Tilla turned back toward the street and called to the nearest driver, “We need help!”
“Sorry, missus. Can’t stop here.”
The next one said the same. The workshop next door was shuttered and padlocked. The guards who had been directing the traffic had disappeared. The only pedestrians in the street were a wizened old lady and a boy being pulled along by a goat.
Camma said, “We could try to find that guard.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“No.”
Tilla eyed the two bodies laid out at the foot of the wall: father and son, dead and alive.
“We can’t leave them lying here in the street.” She fingered the hilt of her knife. “We shall have to help ourselves.”
27
T ILLA PICKED HER way past a patch of leeks and cabbages and bean seedlings in the back garden. The shutters of the back window were open. She crouched under the rough sill to listen. Indoors, heavy footsteps were clumping about. Someone whistled a snatch of a dancing tune that pipers played at feasts. Whoever was in there was making no effort to keep quiet.
She risked a quick glance through the window. The embers beneath the fancy cooking grill were dead. The table held a bowl whose contents were now a sunken and congealed brown mass. Whatever had been poured into the delicate cup next to it had a thick skin on the top and there was a smell of rancid milk. Camma’s housekeeper had not been there for some time.
She ducked back out of sight as the footsteps grew louder. A deep voice shouted to someone in British to get a move on. Another man replied that he couldn’t manage by himself.
The first intruder gave a heavy sigh. The fading sound of footsteps suggested he had gone to help.
So. There were only two of them. She had the advantage of surprise, but that would not last long. If she cornered them, they might try to fight their way out. If she did not, they would run out of the front door and if Camma had still not found a guard to help by then, they would escape with whatever they could carry.