Terra Incognita

by Ruth Downie

  It was a good time to be a burglar. It was also a good time to sidle up to a man and murmur over his shoulder that he might like to follow you to somewhere more private.

  Trenus’s bodyguards closed around her immediately, but he motioned them to stand back. “What do you want?”

  Tilla murmured, “Have you forgotten me so soon, my lord?”

  He turned and looked her up and down, taking in the pinkened cheeks. The low neck of the blue tunic.

  She forced herself to slide a hand around his thick waist. She hoped he would not notice that the borrowed sandals were too big.

  “You ran off,” he said.

  “You should ask your wives who took me,” she said. “And ask them what they did with the profit.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My wives? What profit?”

  Her hand slid lower. “I have missed you, my lord.”

  A smile twitched beneath the mustache.

  “Quick, while my uncle is not here.” She moved away from the crowd and stepped toward a gap between two houses.

  Incredibly, he seemed about to follow. Then he seemed to regain some grip on common sense and glanced at the bodyguards. One pushed her aside and strode into the narrow alleyway. The other gestured to her to follow him.

  The alley smelled of urine and the walls on either side were green with old dampness. She thought, Only a fool would come down here in the company of an enemy.

  There were footsteps behind her. Trenus was following while the other bodyguard watched the entrance.

  Moments later there was a cry ahead of, “Clear, boss!” and she emerged into the daylight to find the bodyguard leaning against the back wall of the house, gazing across an empty yard with his arms folded. Just as she remembered Trenus’s other men doing years before. As if what was about to happen to her was nothing to do with them.

  She thought, If I had a knife I might take him now. But of course she had not been allowed a knife. Besides, back at the fort, thirty-three people, who should have known better but who did not deserve to die, were depending upon her.

  So when Trenus emerged from the gap between the houses, she seized his hand, led him under the cover of an almost-empty wood store, and said crisply, “I have to speak with you, my lord.”

  Her arm was rammed up behind her back. The smell of his breath made her want to vomit. “Let me go!”

  “I didn’t come here to talk.”

  “Let me go, or I will tell you nothing.”

  He slackened his grip, frowning. “What can you tell me?”

  “It is private,” she said. “Tell your man to stand farther away.”

  He eyed her for a moment, then gave the order.

  “Farther still,” she demanded. When the man was out of earshot she said, ‘I know you are helping us to get rid of the Romans. If my people knew that, they would feel as I do. But they might wonder why. They might think you were trying to get rid of the army so you can take what we have for yourself. They might ask whether you can be trusted.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “They will not follow a man who will not give his reasons.”

  “And they’ve sent a girl to tell me that?”

  “No. What I want to tell you is that the soldiers have the Stag Man’s horse keeper among the prisoners in the fort. Sooner or later someone will give him up. And the Romans will find a way to make him talk.”

  There were cheers from the street. They must have caught sight of the governor. Trenus said, “Who told you?”

  “I saw him. I was taken too. But the Romans trust me. I’m with an officer, and Catavignus is my uncle. They think I’m on their side. They don’t know that I remember the Stag Man and I remember him coming to your house to collect the horse. If that prisoner talks you are in danger.”

  The noise from the street grew louder. The bodyguard was distracted, trying to peer down the alley.

  “And you’re telling me this,” said Trenus, “because you like me?”

  “I never liked you,” she said, pulling her arm free. “And I don’t like you now. If you touch me again I shall scream rape.” Nobody in the noisy crowd would hear, but she hoped he would not think of that. If only she had a knife. “When my uncle heats the mash, he leaves the windows open to clear the steam,” she said. “I was outside in the street. I heard you arguing with him. I know now why he thought I was dead. And I know that I owe you a debt.”

  “Catavignus wanted us to finish the lot of you,” said Trenus. “In return for the livestock. But I thought that was a waste.”

  “You showed me mercy,” she said, forcing herself not to be distracted by what she could see going on behind him. “This is why I am warning you now. Get out before the army arrests you.” She hesitated. “And think about giving my people reason to trust you.”

  He grinned. “Tell your people the Votadini don’t like being told what to do by Rome any more than you do. When the time comes, we’ll be there.”

  “Good.” Tilla smiled, and stepped back out of the way. “You have told me everything I wanted.”

  Too late, he sensed movement behind him.

  As the soldiers dragged Trenus and his hapless bodyguards off toward the fort, Metellus appeared. “Nicely done,” he said. “And I understood nearly every word without the interpreter. If anyone asks, we’ve just rescued you from an attempted rape.”

  “Do not speak to me,” she said, rubbing the pink off her cheeks and kicking off the sandals she had borrowed from the maid of the prefect’s wife. “I owed him a debt, and I have paid it.”

  “So I gather,” said Metellus. “You should be working for me. Have we really got the horse keeper?”

  “No. And I would never work for you.”

  “But you just have,” pointed out Metellus. He turned to a soldier who had appeared from the alley. “All going smoothly out there?”

  “Fine, sir. All cheering like they mean it.”

  “Excellent.” He seized Tilla by the wrist. “I don’t imagine you want to pay us another visit, so stay out of trouble.”

  She lifted her chin. “The others should go free.”

  “Of course. You have the prefect’s word. When we have time, we’ll let them all out.”

  “You will not hurt them?”

  Metellus frowned. “I don’t remember that being part of the agreement.”

  86

  THE PRISONERS WHO had been cluttering the headquarters courtyard had been shifted somewhere out of the way, the waste buckets removed, and the gravel hastily raked into military lines. Ruso’s preparations had been less precise. They had consisted of rushing into the infirmary, ducking his head around Albanus’s door, and saying, “Glad to see you awake!” before wiping off the worst of the soot, flinging on his best tunic, seizing the sword he had failed to sharpen, diving into armor that looked remarkably clean considering he had forgotten to ask anyone to polish it, and strapping everything up on the run across to headquarters.

  As he slipped onto the end of the row of officers beside Metellus, he realized the aide was also out of breath. Mercifully the governor was still taking his time. Staring straight ahead, Ruso murmured, “Catavignus came home late on the night of the murder in bloodstained clothing.”

  “Not now, Ruso.”

  “Where’s Tilla?”

  “You stink of soot.”

  Audax, stationed at the end of the row opposite, glared at them.

  “The servant saw him,” Ruso insisted, struggling to talk without moving his lips. “His daughter heard him say he’d had a nosebleed.”

  “I shall be glad when this is over,” muttered Metellus. “Even Gambax is trying to pretend he knows who did it now.”

  Ruso risked a glance at him. “What’s he saying?”

  “Who cares? If he knew, why didn’t he come forward when it happened? He’s trying to do a deal to save himself.”

  Ruso was not able to argue, because at that moment the governor strode into the courtyard.

  Everything
that could gleam had been polished, including the top of his head. Everything that could jingle or glitter had been attached. Leaving his flunkies lined up by the entrance, the governor made his way around the silent and rigid rows of Batavians, with Decianus one pace behind, inspecting and commenting and pausing to chat with several of the men. Each side was clearly determined to impress the other, and Ruso curled his toes in frustration. He wanted to know what Metellus was going to do about Catavignus. He wanted to know what had happened to Tilla since she had been marched out of the prefect’s house. Instead, he was compelled to stand like a statue while the governor—admittedly the nearest thing to a god that was likely to visit Coria this summer—wandered about at his leisure.

  The great man was progressing down Ruso’s row. He could hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. Somewhere ahead of him, a man tried to stifle a sneeze. There was movement in front of Ruso now. The footsteps paused. Ruso hoped the great man would not inhale too deeply and choke on the stink of soot.

  “Has this officer come straight from duty?”

  “From the infirmary, sir,” agreed Decianus.

  The great man moved to stand directly in front of Ruso. “I take it things are busy at the infirmary?”

  The required answer was, Yes, sir. The appropriate tone was one of enthusiasm, gratitude for being singled out, and a sincerity that would imply that Ruso’s scruffy turnout was the result of heroic and self-sacrificial devotion to the emperor’s service. Yes, sir.

  “No, sir,” said Ruso. “I’ve been trying to catch a murderer so that you don’t end up condemning an innocent man to death later today.”

  There was a brief and terrible silence, during which the whole courtyard seemed to hold its breath. “Very good,” said the governor benignly, and moved on down the row, leaving Ruso wondering if he had heard anything at all.

  87

  WHEN HE WOKE up cold and dripping with three angry women standing over his bed, Catavignus must have thought his hangover had turned into a nightmare.

  Aemilia put down her empty bucket. Tilla nodded at Veldicca, who lifted the second bucket and poured the stream directly onto his nose so the others had to dodge back to avoid the splashing. He tried to reach out to defend himself. From her hiding place in the corner, Ness laughed, because she was the one who had tied his hands together. He opened his mouth to protest, and Tilla rammed in the dirty sock. Only when he tried to sit up did she put the kitchen knife to his throat and say, “You said the Romans would bring us peace and justice, uncle. We have come to help them. Get out of bed.”

  He blinked the water out of his eyes and looked around at them. She wondered if he knew why they were there. No matter. All being well, there would be plenty of time to explain.

  Catavignus, of course, had a great deal to say for himself, but since she had tied the sock in place with his belt and Ness had pulled a sack down over his shoulders, all that came out as they prodded and dragged him across to the malt house was an agitated moaning noise. After much stumbling—helpfully corrected by Ness jabbing him in the ribs with the other kitchen knife—they lined him up in front of the open door of the malt house, gave him a good shove, and enjoyed the sight of him falling face-first into the warm grain. Tilla slammed the door before he could get to his feet.

  “And do not expect the men to come!” shouted Aemilia as she slid the lock across. “I have given them the day off!”

  There was no response from inside the malt house.

  “Perhaps we have killed him,” suggested Veldicca, tucking the key inside her breastband.

  “We will think of that later,” said Tilla, slipping the knife into her belt and glancing around at her coconspirators. Ness, grimfaced as usual, seemed to be waiting for orders. Aemilia was wild haired and as flushed as if she had just come from the steam room. Veldicca leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “What now?”

  Tilla, suddenly aware that she had not given a great deal of thought to what would happen next, pushed the hair out of her eyes. “He has a right to know why he is a prisoner,” she said. “We will all tell him our grievances. Who’s first?”

  “Me!” insisted Aemilia, pushing her way past Ness to sit on the stone step and bang on the door with her fist. “I know what you did, Daddy. Do you hear me? You tried to turn Felix against me, and then you followed him and killed him! You have ruined my life and I hate you!”

  There was a series of grunts and moans from behind the door, then a hefty thump from inside that made the lock rattle.

  “Lean against it,” ordered Tilla, wishing they had tied him up more thoroughly. He was a big man. The door was thick, designed to hold the heat in, but the lock was only there to keep out the curious and it did not look strong. If he shoulder charged it, they could be in trouble. “Veldicca and Ness, fetch something to wedge the door.” She leaned closer to Aemilia. “I’ll hold the door. Go and stoke the fire.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course you! As hot as you can. I don’t know how long we can keep him in there. It won’t kill him, but it will give him a good fright.” She braced herself against the door and shouted, “Better sound the alarm, uncle! You are being attacked!”

  There was more moaning and grunting from within, but no further attempt to break out.

  “Surely your family will come to help?” she cried. “But no, perhaps they will not! Perhaps they are the ones who arranged it! Perhaps they want you out of the way so they can get on with making lots of money from the army!”

  She moved aside as Ness and Veldicca maneuvered a heavy table out of the back entrance of the brewery and rammed it against the door.

  Aemilia ordered Ness to bring more wood. The servant eyed her as if wondering whether to argue, then limped toward the neat stack of split logs under the eaves of the brewery.

  “How’s the malt doing in there, uncle?” called Tilla, glancing up at the smoke that had made its way under the floor and was billowing from the top vent of the flue.

  “Sh!” Veldicca had her finger on her lips. “Shout at him quietly, daughter of Lugh. They will hear us in the street.”

  She was right. They had got rid of the brewery staff, but if they were overheard, then some passerby might be misguided enough to fetch help.

  Veldicca reached over the table and rapped on the door with a stick. “You had my brother falsely arrested and tortured, Catavignus!”

  Ness took the stick from her. Tilla put a hand on her arm. “You do not have to do this,” she assured her. “There may be trouble afterward.” They both knew that a slave who attacked a master would be shown no mercy.

  Ness pushed her aside. “I have waited a long time for this,” she said, and rapped the stick against the heavy wood. “Is the malt drying well, master?” she called. “Is there anything else I can get you? You are lucky to have me, you know. I could have been killed along with my old master and mistress.”

  A muffled bellow of “Get me out! You’re all mad!” came from behind the door.

  “Oh, good!” announced Tilla, secretly worried that his voice would carry into the street. They had no way of quieting him now: He had probably wrenched his hands free and the doorway was too narrow for more than one person at a time to tackle him. “You can talk to us! Perhaps you can tell us why we should not set light to the thatch and leave you to burn like you left my family!”

  88

  RUSO HAD NOTHING to lose now. Feeling slightly guilty about Valens’s complaints that he hadn’t meant he would cover all of Ruso’s duties, he walked out of the east gate and back to do battle with Catavignus. It was probably hopeless—why would a man confess when there was nothing to prove him guilty?—but he could not think of anything else to try.

  There was no answer from the house next to the brewery. It seemed even the servant was out. He was about to try the brewery itself when he heard something odd going on behind it. Some sort of native chanting, interspersed with a rhythmic thump. The sound evoked the hideous memory of last night. He shud
dered. He was about to turn back and fetch help when a voice he knew very well indeed called some sort of command. There was a pause, and then the chant began again. He hurried to the back of the brewery, flattened himself against the wall, then peered around into the yard.

  A fierce fire was crackling in the stoke hole where he had groped in vain for the missing evidence this morning. Tilla and her friends were circling the malt house, chanting something over and over again, each of them clutching a burning brand in one hand. At the end of the chant they beat the brands against the thatch. Embers broke off. The larger pieces rolled down the thatch and fell into the mud beneath. The sparks and smaller chunks sank down into the straw. The chant began again, the circle moved on, and the thatch began to smolder.

  Tilla, Aemilia, Ness the housekeeper, and Veldicca, the secret lover of Thessalus were circling around the malt house in some peculiar native ritual perhaps designed to call down the gods to save Rianorix. He supposed it had as much chance of success as anything he had tried himself.

  It was only when he heard a muffled male shout that he realized they had somebody trapped in there.

  “Stop!” he yelled, scrambling over the wall and dropping down into the brewery yard. The chant died. The women halted, looked first at him and then at Tilla, the smoking brands still raised in their hands.

  “Help me!” cried the voice, in Latin this time. “Get me out!”

  Aemilia looked flushed and excited. Tilla had a kitchen knife tucked in her belt, tangled hair, and an expression that suggested if he came too close, he would end up locked in the malt house himself.

  “Help!” came Catavignus’s voice again. “Is there anybody out there?”

  “It’s the doctor!” shouted Ruso.

  “Apollo-Maponus be praised! They’re trying to roast me to death!” The door rattled. “Get the key!”

  Ruso looked Tilla in the eye. “What are you doing?”