Tabula Rasa: A Crime Novel of the Roman Empire

by Ruth Downie

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Oh.” He withdrew the hand. It was going to be one of those you-ought-to-know-what-I’m-thinking moments.

  There was a time when he had unjustly assumed these moments were peculiar to his first wife. Or even that it was his own fault—that he had missed a crucial link in the chain of reasoning that would explain how a perfectly normal conversation had suddenly arrived at a place where he knew only two things: firstly, that he had no idea why Claudia had taken offense; and secondly, that whatever it was, she was not going to tell him.

  “I’ve been to see Senecio,” he said, guessing.

  “I do not suppose either of you spoke of the wedding blessing.”

  “No.”

  She sighed.

  Ah. The wedding blessing. It would be a while before he was forgiven for that one. If only she had never gotten involved with those people.

  Her hair was tickling his nose. He pulled away and lay facing the faint lattice of the rafters and the dark bulge where he had hung Candidus’s kit bag, and thought of the time when those blonde curls had been gray with grime and so hopelessly matted that he had threatened to cut them off. Then, months later, when she had become much more than an unwanted slave, there had been that peculiar conversation in the middle of the night. She had wriggled about for the umpteenth time and muttered something, and he had tried to hide his irritation with “Can’t you sleep?”

  Afterward he had lain pondering her reply, wondering what British concept she had intended the Latin words to convey. In the end he had said, “You just told me your hair wakes you up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your hair?”

  “I forget to tie it back. When I turn over, the hair is caught under my shoulder. Or yours. I must wake up to move the hair so I can move my head.”

  “I knew you should have let me cut it off.”

  He was glad she hadn’t.

  It was raining again. He could hear it dripping off the thatch. “I’m sorry about the wedding blessing.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for you.”

  No reply. He wondered whether it was worth trying again, or whether that would just make things worse. “It must be lonely for you sometimes, trailing around after me.”

  She said, “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you do.”

  It was too much to hope that she might say she was glad too, but after a pause he felt a hand groping for his own. She said, “I’m hungry.”

  He drew the hand up to his lips and kissed it. “Can you wait?”

  “How long?”

  “Half an hour?”

  Afterward, when they were dozing in each other’s arms amidst a tangle of bedclothes, he heard, “That was not half an hour.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  She giggled. “No.”

  They lay listening to the world outside, in no hurry to join it. Feet scurried across the room below them. Conversation rose and faded as the bar door was opened and closed. There was more dripping. Boots marched down the street. Someone whistled for a dog.

  She said dreamily, “Can you stay here tonight?”

  “I wish I could,” he said, guiltily remembering that he was supposed to be asking her about the body-in-the-wall rumor, and then remembering Candidus’s knife. “Night duty.”

  “You are always on night duty!”

  “Not the night we went to Senecio,” he pointed out. “Although I might as well have been.”

  She sighed. “I know. ‘It is a small hospital. There is only one doctor.’ ”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “They should give you a proper clerk.”

  “Not after we carelessly lost the last one.”

  “He has caused a lot of trouble.” She nuzzled his ear. “Tell Albanus he must look for him himself.”

  “I’d rather Albanus didn’t find out. I don’t want to upset him even more after Grata.”

  She propped herself up on one elbow. “What about Grata?”

  “He and Grata have fallen out. No marriage.”

  “When did you hear this? Why did you not tell me?”

  “I forgot,” he admitted.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I’m more worried about his nephew.”

  “You are hopeless,” she told him. “And I am still hungry. At least stay to eat.”

  As they groped for their clothes she said, “It is Albanus’s own fault. He should never have told you that such a silly boy was a good clerk.”

  “I’m not sure that he did,” Ruso admitted. “He was just doing his best to look after him.”

  “Albanus knows nothing of people,” she told him, pointing one slender foot in the air and hiding it inside a sock. “He spends too long with words and writing. He thinks I am bad for you.”

  “I’m sure he’s never said that.”

  “He thinks I lead you into trouble.”

  “You do.”

  By way of reply, Tilla dragged a shawl off the end of the bed and gave it a vigorous shake.

  He said, “Have you heard any rumors about the wall?”

  “Which rumor would you like?” she offered, flinging the shawl around herself and ramming in the pin. “It will fall down when the snow comes. It will be fifty feet high. People on opposite sides will have to pay money to visit their families. It is an abomination and the gods will have revenge. They have already started in the quarry.”

  “About a dead person.”

  She thought for a moment. “Was there not a man over near Banna whose friend fell off the scaffolding and landed on top of him and killed him?” she said. “Then there was a carter bringing supplies who was trampled by his own oxen, and in the summer a man fishing in the dark river found a body that was so rotted away that only the hair told them it was a woman.” She pulled her skirts straight. “Are you trying to find out something for the army?”

  “There’s a new rumor about a body and they want to know how it got started.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A Roman or one of the people?”

  “I don’t even know that,” he admitted. “Nor where’s it’s supposed to be.”

  “Are you sure it is dead?”

  “It might not exist at all. It’s rather like one of our centurion’s ailments.”

  She shook her head. “That is a rumor with no legs or wings, husband.”

  He said, “I’m not supposed to spread it.”

  “Ah, a secret rumor.” When he did not tell her more, she said, “I do not care. This time I cannot do any spying for the Legion even if I want to. Because of you, nobody will talk to me.”

  “That’s more or less what I told Accius.”

  There was a creak on the ladder. An unsteady glow rising from the square of the hatch signaled a lamp being carried up toward them.

  “Tell me something sensible and I will see what I can find out,” Tilla said as Virana’s head appeared at floor level. “And then I will decide whether to tell you.”

  Virana heaved herself up through the opening. “Is that you, master?”

  “It is,” agreed Ruso, wondering who else she thought it might be.

  “There are still seventeen sausages and eight tarts left because of the bad weather and the curfew. Ria has gone to visit her brother, so her husband says you can have some half price as long as nobody tells her. What will you find out, mistress? Can I help?”

  “You already help us by working,” Ruso assured her.

  “I like working.” Virana grinned. “You find out all sorts of things in a snack bar. Did you know there is a dead body buried in the emperor’s wall?”

  Husband and wife exchanged a glance. He said, “It’s just a wild rumor, Virana. It isn’t true.”

  “But it must be!” she exclaimed. “If Branan over at the farm will still talk to you, you can ask him yourself. He saw a man put it there.”

  Chapter
22

  Ruso shed his cloak and shook off the worst of the water outside the hospital entrance. He hung it on a nail and went to find Gallus just as the curfew sounded.

  The evening ward round was quiet, and he had more time than he wanted to think. The rumor of the body was surely no more than an attempt at sabotage: a tale spread in anger and guaranteed to feed on existing fears, especially with Samain coming up. It was certainly feeding on plenty of fears of his own. What was Candidus’s knife doing up at the wall?

  Meanwhile, while he was worrying instead of concentrating on dietary advice to combat chronic wind, Candidus might have spent the day relaxing in a warm bathhouse, eating honey cakes, glad he had escaped Nisus’s terrifying threats to murder him and wishing he had brought his loaded dice.

  If only he had known earlier that Senecio’s youngest son had been spreading the rumor. He could have confronted the old man about it this morning. As it was, Tilla had agreed to try and talk to the family tomorrow. They were unlikely to tell her anything, let alone the truth. But she had a better chance than anyone else he could think of, and until he knew the tale about the body was a lie or until Candidus turned up, he knew he would be uneasy. She would go there on the pretext of warning them to prepare for another visit from the soldiers, who would soon be there demanding to know what Branan had seen. After that . . . “If you’re going to say or do anything you shouldn’t,” he told her, “then don’t tell me about it.”

  She had said, “You know I will not,” and kissed him.

  He had no idea whether she had meant she would not do anything untoward or that she would do whatever she thought was necessary but not tell him about it. It was true that a man had to be master in his own house, but there were times when it was best not to know.

  He had deliberately left Pertinax until the end of his round. The man continued to make remarkable progress. It was a shame he did not appreciate it. Despite being trapped in a hospital bed, he seemed to consider himself still on duty and obliged to keep up standards by pointing out any shortcomings that came to his attention. Or, as Valens would have put it, he was well enough to grumble. Ruso resisted the temptation to try and cheer him up by telling him his daughter was on the way. It was anyone’s guess what state the roads were in, and in his experience, no matter how skilled they were at terrifying grown men, fathers always worried about their daughters.

  He was concentrating on examining the wound, making the usual checks for inflammation and hemorrhage, when he became aware that Pertinax’s complaints had turned to “. . . this half-baked nonsense about a body in the wall. I suppose you’ve heard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The centurions need to work them harder,” said Pertinax. ”If they want something to be frightened of, they can be frightened of us.”

  Ruso said, “Can I ask who told you, sir?” Whoever it was, the man clearly needed a good fright himself. Ruso was looking forward to administering it until Pertinax said, “That tribune with the bad smell under his nose. What do they call him?”

  “Accius,” supplied Ruso. It was not like Pertinax to forget a name.

  “Him,” Pertinax agreed. “Came in here this morning. I told him you need a better clerk straightaway.”

  Ruso felt his mouth fall open and closed it again. After repeating the words to himself to check that he had understood correctly, he said, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me,” growled Pertinax, swiftly closing the chink of generosity as if he were embarrassed by it. “The place is a shambles. I can tell that even from here. How many times have I got to ask before I get a pair of crutches?”

  Chapter 23

  Ruso placed the lamp on the table in the doctor-on-duty room and flipped open the writing tablet he had chosen from the vast selection of used items in the office. Someone had already tried to obliterate what appeared to be a shopping list from the surface of the wax, so he had decided to wipe it clean and put it to better use.

  If Albanus did not manage to call in here on the way over to Arbeia, he would arrive at his new job completely unaware that the nephew was missing.

  To—Albanus, Tutor at the House of the Prefect, Arbeia

  In the absence of the prefect’s name or unit, he would have to entrust this to somebody with some common sense and hope for the best.

  From—G Petreius Ruso, Medical Officer, XXVV, Parva.

  Ruso to Albanus.

  I hope you have arrived safely in Arbeia.

  He tapped the stylus on the casing of the tablet for a moment, then began:

  I am writing to you about your nephew Candidus. He worked here at the hospital for three days but I am sorry to say that we have not seen him since the ninth day before the kalends of November. He left no message and we have been unable to trace him. I am hoping you may have heard from him.

  As soon as he turns up I will write again. Meanwhile if you have any idea where he might be please put my mind at rest.

  Tilla and I are well and she sends her good wishes.

  She didn’t, but it would do no harm to pretend. Not knowing what to say about Grata, he ended with:

  Go well, old friend.

  Then he slapped the tablet shut, put the stylus down, and pinched out the lamp. His eyes felt gritty even when he closed them. He felt better for having written the letter, even though he was not going to send it yet. There was always the chance that when the pharmacist returned from leave—which must be soon—he would know exactly where Candidus was, and they could all stop worrying. If he didn’t, the letter would be sent, and the worrying would carry on.

  Chapter 24

  “Where is Branan?”

  This seemed an odd thing for Enica to be asking her. Tilla waited outside the gate, still unsure of her welcome, and said, “I have come to speak with him.”

  “Did you leave him with Conn?”

  Tilla was even more puzzled. “I have not seen either of them.”

  The color drained from the woman’s face. Then she ran back toward the house shouting, “Husband! He is not with her! She is here and the boy is not with her!”

  Tilla let herself in and dropped the frayed rope back over the gatepost. When she turned, Senecio was limping toward her. Despite the early-morning frost on the ground, he had not bothered with a cloak. His first words were “Did you not send for my boy yesterday?”

  Tilla felt her stomach tighten. “I did not. I have not seen Branan since I was here when the soldiers came.”

  Enica grabbed her by the shoulders. “Do not lie to me! Where is my son? What have you done with him?”

  “I have done nothing!” Tilla cried, trying to raise her hands to defend her face. Enica was powerfully built, and Tilla did not want to fight.

  The old man was shouting, “Stop! Stop, wife!”

  “Where is my son?”

  “I do not know!”

  “Stop, wife!”

  Enica loosened her grip as she was dragged away by her husband.

  “Wife, leave her. She may be speaking the truth.”

  Safely out of reach, Tilla massaged her shoulders. Enica was breathing heavily, rubbing her own arm and glaring at her husband.

  “I have not seen Branan,” Tilla repeated. “People are saying he spread a bad story. I came to warn you that there may be trouble.”

  Senecio frowned. “What story?”

  She told them.

  Enica said, “We know nothing of this. Where is my son?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The army are blaming him for something so they can take him!”

  Tilla said, “Someone told Virana it was him spreading the story. I do not know who.”

  “It is a lie!”

  Senecio rested both hands on his stick and bowed his head.

  Tilla said, “When did you last see him?”

  Slowly, as if the words did not want to be spoken, the man said, “He was out with the neighbor’s boy yesterday. Inam. He did not come back. We thought he must be with the ne
ighbors. When the light was dying, his mother went to fetch him, but Inam had gone home alone. He told her . . .” His voice cracked. He tried again. “He told her you had sent a soldier to fetch Branan.”

  “But I would have come to the house!”

  “We thought perhaps . . .” He paused.

  “We thought you were too embarrassed,” said Enica, clutching at a fistful of her shawl. “I knew we should have gone straight to the fort!”

  The other adults were beginning to gather around them now. The skinny man, the man with one eye, and his wife. Cata and her mother and sister were there too. As each one arrived the bad news was passed on: “He is not with her.” “She has not seen him.” “She says she did not send for him.”

  “Conn went out last night to fetch him back,” Senecio continued. “The patrol would not let him pass on the road because of the curfew.”

  “He should have gone by the field paths!” Enica said. “I told him.”

  “Then he would have been arrested when he got there.” Senecio looked at Tilla as if hoping for reassurance. “The patrol said they would look out for a lost boy.”

  “That was a lie too,” put in Enica. “I asked a patrol this morning and they had been told nothing of him.”

  Senecio was looking frail. “Conn has gone to find you. We thought perhaps Branan had stayed with you because of the curfew.”

  Enica said, “I have been awake all night worrying.”

  “We must talk to the neighbor’s boy again,” said Tilla.

  Enica glanced at her husband. “How do we know she is speaking the truth? Her man is the cause of all this. Ever since they came here—”

  “She would not lie to us,” he said. “She is Mara’s child.”

  “Hah! And was not Mara the best liar of them all?”

  He raised his stick. “You never met her!”

  Enica stepped back. “I am just saying—”

  “Daughter of Lugh knows the soldiers,” he said. “She can help us.”

  Enica gave Tilla a look that said she had better not take advantage of the old man’s desperation.