by Ruth Downie
“He’ll send someone,” said the woman primly. “When he’s ready.”
Ruso wondered if it would be possible to get the official questioner back from wherever he had gone. This dancing around the truth was a waste of time. The gods alone knew where Branan would end up unless they got hold of him fast. Recalling the name mentioned by the brothel keeper, Ruso asked, “Has he gone to Coria to see Lupus?”
Again the man looked at the woman, and that told Ruso what he needed to know. He put one hand on the latch. “Tell him he needs to hand the boy in at the nearest army base straightaway and have them send a message back to the fort at Parva. The longer the boy is away, the worse it gets for your master.”
He stopped himself just in time from saying, Everyone will be looking out for the boy, so he can’t be sold. If that were the case, their master might think his safest course was to do away with Branan, deny all knowledge of everything, and blame his slave for talking nonsense. Instead Ruso thanked them for their help and stressed the urgency of the message.
He was at the end of the street, searching his purse for small coins for small boys, when he heard the man’s voice behind him requesting, “A quick word, sir.”
His spirits rose as the slave looked round to make sure the woman had not followed him. They sank again when he heard, “I wanted to ask about joining the Legion, sir.”
Ruso looked at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Only free citizens can enroll.”
“I’m hoping to be freed shortly,” the man explained. “Freedmen can join now.”
“Are you sure?” Ruso had heard this somewhere before. It seemed to be a common misconception.
“Your man who sold the boy. He’s a freedman. I recognized him.”
Ruso was about to respond when he heard the woman shout, “What are you doing out there?”
“You must be mistaken,” Ruso told him, willing the woman to go away. “What did you think his name was?”
The slave shook his head. “I’m no good with names, sir. And it was some years back, but I remember that face. We were sold by the same dealer. I think he went to a family down south.”
The woman was hurrying toward them. “What are you telling him?” she called. “You keep your mouth shut!”
“Describe the man you remember,” Ruso urged.
The slave looked nonplussed. “But you’ve got him locked up. You said.”
“I’m just trying to compare . . .” But Ruso was floundering, and the slave knew it. Ruso backed toward the horse and freed the reins.
“Where’s he going?” demanded the woman. “What have you said to him, you great lump?”
Ruso grabbed the saddle and vaulted up, but the slave had seized the horse by the bridle. He was saying, “Sir, my master—agh! Get off!”
Smacked on the nose, the horse unclamped its teeth from the man’s arm and danced sideways. Ruso kicked it into motion, not caring which way it went as long as it was out of there. By the time he managed to catch hold of the reins and regain some sort of control, he was careering up Vindolanda’s main street and terrified pedestrians were darting for cover. Glancing back, he saw people running after him. The slave was clutching the bitten arm, but whatever he was yelling was lost beneath the clatter of hooves on stone.
“Good horse!” Ruso told it as it swerved to avoid a pack mule and an old man with a sack over one shoulder. When he reached the road he turned east, speeding toward Coria.
Chapter 55
He tried to hail a couple of official dispatch riders on the way to Coria, but both deliberately rode straight toward him, so he had to dodge as they thundered past in a blur of flying manes and hooves. He should have paused to ask Accius for a permit, although how they would see him waving it at that speed, he did not know. Instead he pulled in down by the river at Cilurnum to give the horse a brief rest and send identical messages to Accius and Tilla:
On the way to question slave trader in Coria. Hopeful.
Coria was a busy little town on a crossroads, and like Vindolanda, it had grown up under emperors who did not dream of Great Walls. Its lush meadows and broad river valley made it a favorite leave destination, but by the time Ruso reached it he was too weary to appreciate it. Even the horse was too tired to bite anyone as it was led into the stables at the fort. There were dark patches of sweat on its coat and its mouth was flecked with foam. Ruso’s suspicion that he did not look a great deal better was confirmed when the groom directed him to the bathhouse without being asked. Instead, he left a message for the commanding officer and then hurried through the streets to the Phoenix Inn.
Nisus had stayed there for the whole of his leave, as Ruso had expected. The owner knew of the slave trader called Lupus, who was often in town, but did not know where he might be found at the moment. Since it was close, he tried the mansio next. The manager seemed to think his arrival was some kind of test and assured him that an establishment funded by taxpayers did not accommodate that sort of person. Ruso was willing to bet that it would accommodate almost any sort of person if there were no official visitors in residence and the guest was willing to pay, but he did not bother to argue. He and Tilla had spent some time in Coria a few years ago, and he knew someone who would be far more helpful in the hunt for the slave trader.
“Doctor!” cried Susanna. Her tone of surprise caused several of her customers to look up from their food. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to find someone.”
She looked perplexed for a moment, then held out both arms, offering a public embrace he wasn’t expecting. “It is good to see you! How long has it been?”
“Too long,” he said, glancing around the brightly decorated snack shop and comparing it favorably with Ria’s. He could not imagine Ria hugging anyone. Or paying anyone to paint scenery on the walls.
Susanna’s necklace sparkled and her hair was more subtly colored than before. He said, “You look well.”
“Hard work and the goodness of God, Doctor. Sit down. You look worn-out. What can I get you?”
He had intended to rush, but she was right: He was tired, and he needed to eat. He sat, leaning back against a wall on which peacocks and doves strutted in a rather blotchy garden. Before he could order anything, Susanna had joined him and dispatched one of her girls—not one he remembered—to bring them both drinks and him a bowl of pancakes with honey. “You’ll like them,” she promised. “Now, let’s see, what’s happened to everybody since you were here? I hear you and Tilla are married and having a blessing!”
“We married in Gaul,” he told her. Her face fell when he explained who he was looking for. “We heard. That poor family. Such a terrible thing, and in daylight too! They’re lucky they have you there to help.”
It was not a popular view, but he enjoyed hearing it anyway. Conscious of the couple on the next table now straining to catch every word, he leaned closer to ask a delicate question.
“Lupus?” Susanna considered her answer for a moment. Then she said, “Yes. Yes, I’d say he might. It’s a pity you weren’t here yesterday. He was sitting at that table over there.”
He blinked. Surely it couldn’t be that easy?
It wasn’t. “But he was leaving town today.”
“I need to know whether he sold the boy on while he was here,” he said. “If he didn’t, I need to find him.”
A soft hand closed over his. “You leave the locals to me, Doctor. If that little boy’s here, I’ll find out.”
After a faintly embarrassing pause while she gazed deep into his eyes, Susanna let go. “Aemilia will be sorry to have missed you,” she said. “They’re out of town.”
“That’s a shame,” he said, relieved. Tilla’s cousin Aemilia meant well, but today he did not have time to listen to her.
“In fact, I thought . . .” She stopped. “Well, I must have misunderstood.” She patted him on the hand. “You enjoy your meal while I just pop out and ask where Lupus went. I’ll get the girls to pack you up some food to take
with you.”
Ruso allowed himself to relax back against the doves and peacocks. Finally, somebody was pleased to see him. Better still, she seemed to know what to do.
The pancakes arrived, generously dolloped with honey, and as he sliced each golden surface and rolled it onto his spoon, he began to word his next message to Tilla. He would tell Accius as well, of course, but he wanted to imagine Tilla crouching beside the old man and saying, “Good news! Your boy is on the way home!” He could imagine the welcome as he rode back to the farm with the boy seated—no, two on a horse would never work over that distance. He would get a pony assigned to the boy. Or maybe they would arrive in style, in an official vehicle supplied by the local commandant. The news would have run ahead of them. Neighbors, weary with searching but elated, would be lining the road, cheering and waving. Locals and foreigners together, differences forgotten in the joy of knowing that a missing child was safe and well. Ruso would sit back in the carriage and smile the satisfied smile of a man whose efforts had been justly rewarded, and modestly tell everyone that Fortune had been kind to him and that he was glad to have been able to help.
The elation did not last.
Chapter 56
Ruso had arrived at the wrong time of day for a man who wanted a fresh horse. Everything was either out or worn out. Finally he was granted the reserve mount: a mare with a peculiarly uncomfortable gait and reins repaired with twine.
Luckily, Lupus’s cartload of caged stock trundled along no faster than the couple of dozen slaves chained behind it could walk. Three men with clubs were assigned to encourage them, but even so, the assembly was only a couple of miles out of town and heading east when Ruso found it. That was when his vision of triumph began to fade.
He surveyed the lines of chained slaves as he passed, but there was no sign of Branan. The cage held only a nursing mother and a couple of small children. There were two men at the front of the vehicle: one who was driving the mules and another whose skinny neck poking out from a mound of furs reminded Ruso of an ostrich. “Lupus?”
It was, but Lupus did not recall any native boy sold to his agent in Vindolanda.
“We know he bought him,” insisted Ruso, struck by a sudden fear that the agent might have got rid of the boy privately rather than deliver him to Lupus. “There are witnesses.”
The neck sank into the furs as if fearing attack.
“If we don’t find him, the family can still prosecute your agent for receiving stolen goods.” It ought to be true, although he had no idea whether it was.
The neck twisted round. “Piso!”
Lupus signaled Ruso away with one skinny arm while a bald-headed man with muscular shoulders and a club in one hand strode forward to speak to him. So this was the man Ruso had failed to find in Vindolanda. He guessed the big slave who had said too much would be meeting the blunt end of that club when his master got home.
After a moment’s consultation the bald man retreated and Ruso was summoned back.
“My man in Vindolanda bought the boy in good faith. The seller said the family had handed him over to pay off a debt.”
“Did he ask the boy if that was true?”
“The families don’t usually tell them. Otherwise they run away before we collect.”
“Where is he now?”
The vehicle jolted in and out of a large pothole, which gave Lupus’s “I don’t know” a kind of hiccup in the middle.
Ruso held the mare back until Lupus drew level with him again. “What happened to the boy?”
Lupus poked his index finger into his mouth and retrieved something from between his teeth. He looked at it, wiped it off on the furs, and said, “The boy escaped before they got to Coria.”
“That’s a twenty-mile trip. Where exactly did they lose him?”
“I’m very annoyed about it. Piso should have had more sense.”
Ruso said, “If any harm has come to that boy, the family will hold you responsible.”
“But the family handed him over. The loss is mine.”
“No they didn’t,” said Ruso, eyeing the scrawny neck and wondering whether he could lean across and wring it. “Haven’t you heard there’s a child been stolen?”
Lupus sighed. “Every time someone goes missing, traders like me are the first to get the blame. But the moment they want staff, it’s a different story.”
Ruso reined in the mare and let the cart go on ahead. Eventually the chained slaves were shuffling past. Ruso caught Piso’s eye and said, “Where did you lose the boy?”
Piso frowned. “The old crow’s blaming me, is he?”
“We can talk about blame later. Where’s the boy?”
“How should I know?” He stepped closer. “When we found out half the army was looking for him, I wanted to hand him in. It was the boss’s idea to let him go.”
So Branan had not run away at all. “When was that?”
“Last night. Back in Coria.”
“You turned a child loose on his own in a town miles from home? At night?”
The man shrugged. “He’ll be all right. He’s a local.”
Ruso leaned sideways and grabbed Piso’s club with one hand and the back of his tunic with the other, pulling it up so the front rose tight under his chin. The mare, taken by surprise, sidestepped away from the disturbance and Ruso would have been unseated but for one thigh hooked under the horn of the saddle. “He’s nine years old!” Ruso hissed, aware of the other guards coming back to intervene. Trying to lever himself back up without letting go, he said, “Do you know how much trouble you’re in? The Legate of the Twentieth has ordered this search. The governor himself has asked to be kept informed.”
“It wasn’t my idea to let him go!”
“You bought him. You knew who he was and you didn’t bring him back. You’d better help us find him. And catch the seller. If you’re lucky, the governor just might not throw you to the Britons.”
With that, Ruso dropped the club and pushed himself back up into the middle of the saddle. It was hard to make a credible threat if you fell off your horse while doing it.
Several natives who had paused to watch returned to clearing the roadside ditch when he glared at them. Piso retrieved his club and straightened his tunic before saying that he had no idea where Branan had gone last night. Yes, it was after dark. Down by the bridge. No, he had not been given any supplies or warm clothing. The boss had said the natives would take him in.
“In the middle of the night?” Ruso demanded. “What was he supposed to do, knock on doors?”
Piso shrugged, as if these things were no concern of his. “Ask the boss.”
“How do I know you didn’t just kill him and dump him?”
“A body is hard to get rid of. It was easier if he wandered off.”
Ruso shook his head. “You people.”
“I was just doing what I was told.”
“Tell me something useful. Tell me who sold him to you.”
“A legionary called Marcus.”
“Marcus what?”
But of course the man did not know, and since there were probably several hundred Marcuses serving with the Twentieth alone, it was a fine name to pick if someone wanted to stay anonymous. “Had you seen him before?”
“Maybe. I see a lot of people.”
“Try harder. What did he look like?”
“Sort of . . . brown hair. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin.”
“Of course not.” This was hopeless. Ruso was gathering his thoughts, ready to head back into town, when Piso said, “He had one pale arm.”
“He had what?” asked Ruso, wondering if he had heard correctly.
“One arm. It was paler than the other one. You didn’t notice until you saw the two together, but it was. The left, I think.”
Ruso eyed the bald head for a moment, wondering whether there was any point in persisting or whether already Piso was starting to make things up. Finally he said, “All this is going in my report. If you’ve l
ied to me—”
“If I’d lied, I’d have come up with something better.”
Chapter 57
He went to Susanna’s first, because that was the place to get things done. Susanna herself was out looking for anyone who had just bought a boy slave, but one of the girls promised to pass on the news. They were now looking for a child on his own who had been down by the bridge late last night. Then he went over to the fort, where a glum clerk in the CO’s office arranged to send an urgent warning downriver to the port. As the man observed, if anyone picked up the boy and put him on a ship, he would be lost forever.
Ruso needed to start where the boy had started, so he walked the familiar road down to the bridge. Back at Deva, he would have nailed up notices or scrawled on prominent walls: MISSING—Branan, nine years old, last seen on the third day before the kalends of November. Any information to . . . He could have put up signs at milestones and crossroads and public latrines. Whereas for the illiterate Britons the only way to find out something was to have someone tell you. News grew wings on market days, but the rest of the time word of mouth was hopelessly inefficient.
While Susanna spread the word around the civilians of Coria, and the local CO sent the message down to his men through his centurions, someone was going to have to ride around to every farm for miles, asking if a lone boy had been seen—especially one traveling west. And that someone would have to hope that the locals would tell him the truth. Much as the Britons complained about foreigners, they were not above using each other as slaves when it suited them. He wondered briefly whether to send an update back to everyone at Parva, then decided to wait. There was nothing they could do tonight, and with luck the boy would be found by morning.
He leaned back against the parapet of the bridge and tried to think where a boy would have gone from here in the dark. Not uphill to the town, surely. He would want to put as much distance as possible between himself and his captors. But which way? Would he stick to the roads for speed or the field paths for safety? Ruso tried to remember whether it had been cloudy last night. He had paid very little attention, but it would have mattered to Branan. During the day he would have known from the sun that he had traveled east; at night he would need the stars to find his way home. If there were no stars . . . Ruso turned to face the road that led south out of the valley, away from town. It was the main route to the rest of the province. It would have taken Branan in the wrong direction, but it was the quickest way away from here, and when the sun rose there would be plenty of farm carts that might give him a lift.