by Ruth Downie
“Serena!” His hands clamped over his groin as his eyes met the piercing gaze of a woman, who, had she been male, would have been considered handsome. He swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
“My cousin thought she recognized you.” The thick brows met in puzzlement. “Why are you hiding behind the door?”
“I thought you were a slave,” he explained with a lack of clarity that he felt was excusable in a man who had just found himself naked in a bedroom with his best friend’s wife. “Then I thought you might not be. Uh—how are you?”
Serena looked him up and down and gave a sigh that suggested the weariness of a woman who was used to dealing with naughty boys. “Put some clothes on, Ruso.”
As he fumbled his way gratefully into the clean tunic, he heard, “I suppose he’s sent you to ask me to come home.” Before he could reply she said, “Well, don’t bother. I shan’t listen.”
Finally emerging into daylight, he said, “To be honest, I didn’t know you were here.”
She pondered that for a moment. “But he knew you were coming?”
“Valens?”
“Who else?”
Ruso, seeing where this was heading, tried, “Possibly.”
“Possibly,” she repeated, as if she was trying the word to see whether or not she liked it. “Well, did he, or didn’t he?”
Ruso straightened a crease across his shoulder. “Yes.”
“So,” concluded Serena, raising the eyebrows and arching her neck in a way that reminded him of an intelligent horse, “my husband knew you were coming here, and he knows I am here, but he didn’t even trouble himself to send a message.”
Ruso reached for his belt. “I wouldn’t say he didn’t trouble himself, exactly …”
“No,” said Serena, seizing the door handle. “I don’t suppose you would. But then, what do you know about it?”
Before he could answer, the door slammed shut. “Not a lot,” he confessed, gazing past the space where she had just been standing and wondering if that crack in the plaster had been there before.
32
C LUTCHING HIS BATH token, Ruso stepped out of his private exit and into the alley that separated the mansio’s accommodation from its transport yard. The smell of hot metal and horse dung grew stronger, and the clang of hammer on iron signaled that even this late in the day, the stable workshops had a repair job under way. He locked the door behind him, dropped the key into his purse, and turned left. He must set aside for the moment the awkward and embarrassing coincidence of Serena’s cousin being married to the mansio manager. He must restrain the urge to scrawl a rude note to Valens, who should have warned him. He must get himself cleaned up, make an attempt to report to the Council—with luck it would be too late today—and then find Tilla.
He was approaching the doors of a bathhouse that would not have disgraced a small town at home when he heard a pair of studded boots striding up behind him. A voice said, “Investigator?”
It was another of the local guards. This one not only had the red tunic, the chain mail, and a silver-buckled belt, but also flamboyant scarlet braids woven through dark hair that hung below his shoulders. No attempt to emulate Rome here, then.
“Dias.” The man, slightly out of breath, was holding out a hand. “Captain of the town guard. We’ve been looking into the theft of the tax money. When do you want me to brief you?”
Ruso need not have worried about translation. The locals’ grasp of Latin was as impressive as their eagerness to cooperate. “I was going across to the baths,” he explained, “but if there’s somewhere we can talk …”
Dias assured him that the baths would be fine. Ruso handed his token to the attendant on the door and entered the echoing din of the entrance hall. The guard captain sauntered past with a nod. Moments later Ruso was seated beneath the high window of a private and overscented warm room. The other occupants had grabbed their towels and clattered out in their wooden bath shoes as soon as they saw Dias enter. Ruso felt his skin begin to prickle with sweat. Since the native was sitting upright on the bench opposite without so much as loosening his belt, it did not seem appropriate to undress.
Dias turned out to be the exact opposite of Caratius. His hairstyle might be unmilitary but his summary was professional and concise, and it confirmed what the magistrate and the stable overseer had already told him. Asper had collected the tax money from the town strong room without requesting a guard, and set off in the rain. He and his brother had last been seen driving out through the gates on the Londinium road. Next morning, the carriage had been found abandoned just off the main road between the second and third milestones. “I’m told Asper got to Londinium by boat,” he said. “My men searched the area where the carriage was found and we had a look downriver, but we still can’t find Bericus.”
“No, I haven’t traced him, either.” Ruso unpeeled his tunic from his back. “Asper was already alone when he took the boat, though, so they must have parted near here.” The dark eyes widened as Ruso explained about his inquiries into the river monster a couple of miles away.
Ruso hoped he had not just wrecked Lund’s moneymaking activities. “Your men don’t need to bother with the farmer,” he said. “He’s told everything he knows and he’s harmless.” He wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead before venturing into more difficult territory. “I gather one of your magistrates had a personal grudge against Asper?”
Dias nodded as if he had been expecting the question. “Asper got Chief Magistrate Caratius’s wife pregnant. She left, or Caratius kicked her out, I don’t know which—but Asper had to take her in.”
“Do you think it’s relevant?”
“You mean, did the chief magistrate have a reason to have Asper murdered? Or did Asper have a reason to get out of town with no woman, no guards, and a big bag of somebody else’s money?”
“It certainly doesn’t seem to be a random theft,” said Ruso, deciding not to mention the claim that Asper had really been on the way to visit the chief magistrate when he vanished. For all he knew, Dias would be reporting the conversation back to the Council.
“We think the brother turned on him,” said Dias. “They used to argue a lot.”
As Ruso was considering this nugget of fresh information, Dias said, “I hear you haven’t brought any men with you. I’ll assign you a couple of guards.”
“If this whole thing was engineered by a dead man and a brother on the run, I doubt I’ll be in much danger.”
Dias grinned. “True,” he said, “but I don’t want your pals in Londinium thinking the natives don’t know how to make a man welcome. I served in the army too: I know the sort of things that get said about us. Besides, my lads can help you find your way around.”
The military service explained the Latin. “I was with the Twentieth for a while,” said Ruso, realizing Dias had noticed his old army belt, now adapted for civilian use. “You?”
“Five years with the Third Brittones over in Germania,” said Dias, adding, “Medical discharge” to explain the short duration of a service that would normally last a couple of decades. “Back trouble.”
Ruso eyed the lithe form, the good bone structure that meant Dias would grow old still handsome, and the colorful native hairstyle. “There’s a lot of back trouble in the army,” he observed. Much of it was completely unprovable, but he was not going to insult the man by saying so.
“It’s settled down now,” said Dias. “How about you?”
Clearly Ruso did not look like an aristocrat who had served briefly on the way to greater things, and he was not going to admit that he was a doctor with a short-term contract. He lifted one leg and said truthfully, “Broke my foot.”
Dias gestured toward it. “All right now, is it?”
“Fine.”
The native stood up, apparently satisfied that they had established some sort of connection.
Ruso said, “I’ll need to report to the Council.”
“No chance at this hour,” said Dia
s. “But there’s a few of them hanging around here. Don’t worry, they’ll find you.”
His visit to Tilla would have to be postponed.
“I’ll have a couple of lads waiting by the time you’ve finished cleaning up,” Dias said, adding as if he had only just noticed, “Hot in here, isn’t it?”
Half an hour later Ruso was cleaner but no more enlightened. He had been offered opinions by glistening men with rats’ tail hair in the hot room, by fat old men playing board games in the hall, by a masseur with a large mole on his nose, and by a couple of weightlifters with thick necks and veins bulging around the outsides of their oiled muscles.
Several were off-duty councillors. One or two suggested that Asper might have been the victim of a robbery, but most were convinced that he had stolen their money himself. There were dark mutterings about That Woman. The fact that he had been murdered was explained as divine vengeance. He had insulted the emperor, the chief magistrate, the Council, and the whole tribe. When they realized the money was missing, the magistrates had sacrificed a ram to Jupiter and a dog to Sucellus—whoever he was—and the thief had gotten what he deserved.
It was further evidence for Albanus’s view that the Britons were not interested in logic.
Most people, though, were less interested in the fate of Julius Asper than in knowing what the procurator would do if the money did not turn up. Would he insist that the councillors make good the loss? Would everyone have to pay their taxes twice?
Ruso’s refusal to speculate did nothing to allay their fears. He had picked up his towel and was fending off requests from opposite sides to champion one design for the new theater over another when the word Investigator! boomed and echoed around the exercise hall.
Ruso gave his hair one final rub and dropped the towel onto the changing bench. A large expanse of exposed flesh was approaching with one pudgy bejeweled hand outstretched. The flesh tapered up into a fashionable beard and neatly trimmed hair framing a broad smile. “Gallonius,” it introduced itself. “Chief Magistrate.”
“Joint Chief Magistrate,” chimed in a second voice over the sound of footsteps. Ruso looked over the shoulder of the first speaker to see Caratius striding across the hall with his cloak billowing out behind him.
“Please excuse the informal welcome, investigator,” continued the large man, pumping Ruso’s arm up and down with one hand and making a grab for his slithering towel with the other. “They’ve only just told me you’re here. I hope they’re looking after you over at the mansio. This has all come as a bit of a shock.”
“I’ve already told the investigator the facts,” put in Caratius.
“Your guard captain’s briefed me on the inquiries so far,” said Ruso, “but I’ve got a few questions. I’ll need to talk to you both separately.”
While Gallonius nodded approval, Caratius said, “Of course. You’ll have to question everyone involved.”
Ruso said, “Did Asper have any trouble collecting the taxes?”
Both men looked taken aback. “No more than anyone else would,” Gallonius told him. “Collecting the corn tribute is always a slow business, but we get there in the end.”
“It’s a matter of honor,” said Caratius. “Verulamium always pays on time.”
This impressive show of unity and loyalty was followed by an awkward silence. Ruso said, “Perhaps we could talk at a more convenient—”
“Dinner tonight,” said Caratius.
Taken by surprise, Ruso cast about for an excuse. He had barely slept last night and it had been a long day with a tiring ride, but he could hardly say he had been looking forward to an early acquaintance with the scented sheets of Suite Three.
“I insist,” said Caratius.
Gallonius’s expression might have been indigestion, or it might have been the effort of holding back an opinion.
“I’ll send a man to escort you out to the house in an hour,” said Caratius, promising a private conversation with “a few details there wasn’t time to explain yesterday.”
Ruso supposed he wanted to give his side of the marriage story. Meanwhile Gallonius was still looking as though his internal workings were badly out of balance.
Ignoring the complaints from his own stomach that an hour was a long time to wait, Ruso accepted. “There’s no need for an escort,” he said. “I’ve already been assigned a couple of guards.”
Was that annoyance on the magistrate’s hard features? Finally he said, “I’ll call in at the stables and tell Rogatus to give you one of my horses,” as if Ruso had just bargained him down. “You can use it for as long as you’re here.”
He did not much want the horse, either, but it seemed churlish to refuse. Caratius gave his fellow magistrate a look of triumph before departing with, “Good! I’ll see you later.”
When he had gone, the big man beckoned Ruso back toward the stifling room in which he had already endured the conversation with the guard captain. “A word in private, Investigator.”
Ruso, wishing he had not just put all his clothes back on, was obliged to follow.
Gallonius threw his towel along the bench under the window. His lips made the sound of a deflating bladder as he slowly collapsed himself to a seated position. “Sorry about Caratius,” he said. “Still thinks he’s in charge of the place.”
Ruso, feeling overdressed, said, “I gather he comes from a long line of influential men?”
Gallonius chuckled. “On one side only. His other grandfather was an ordinary craftsman like mine. And the famous one with the Roman education is nothing to be proud of. He failed to organize any defenses for the town and then ran off as soon as there was trouble.”
Ruso had the word Boudica? on the tip of his tongue when he remembered the procurator’s injunction.
“Things are much better organized these days,” Gallonius continued. “These days we elect our Council in the Roman way.”
“So I see,” said Ruso, noting that Caratius’s family seemed to be at the top no matter what system was in place. “Asper didn’t have any other duties, did he?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know,” said Ruso, not wanting to explain about the reference to evidence in the unfinished letter. “Security? I’ve been told about the woman, but I wondered if there was any other way he might have made enemies.”
“His contract was to collect the taxes, which wouldn’t make him popular. Are you suggesting it wasn’t a robbery?”
“Just trying to get the full picture.”
“Our own guards deal with security. Within the limits of the Constitution, of course. For anything else we consult the governor.”
It was a speech designed to reassure visiting officials. “So what do you think happened to your money?”
Gallonius’s forefinger sank into the soft flesh of his chin as he stroked his beard. “You could say it was taken by robbers,” he said. “Or you could say that Julius Asper realized he had made a foolish mistake over the woman, tried to run off with the money, and chose the wrong accomplice.”
None of this was anything new. Ruso noted that the indigestion look had reappeared. “What else could you say?” he prompted.
Gallonius lifted a towel from the stack farther along the bench and wiped his forehead. “I wouldn’t say it,” he said. “And I wouldn’t even want to think it. Not of a fellow magistrate.”
“If you have any proof that—”
“If I had any proof, Investigator, I would offer it for the good of the town. As it is, we’re relying on you.”
When Ruso escaped to the relative cool of the exercise hall, he found two burly guards in the familiar red tunics waiting by the main door. One of them was the big youth again. He introduced himself as Gavo and announced that they were at the investigator’s service. Neither showed any surprise when he asked them to escort him to Julius Asper’s house, where he intended to make sure they were out of earshot when he told Tilla he had just agreed to dine with Camma’s estranged husband.
&nbs
p; 33
T ILLA KNEW PEOPLE were lying to her. She knew because she would have done the same if a Catuvellauni woman had turned up at home and started asking questions about one of her own neighbors: even one as distinctive as this Grata seemed to be. She wished she had thought to ask Dias where the housekeeper had gone. Instead she had hoped that if she hung around near the water-pipe on the corner for long enough, she could strike up a conversation with somebody who could tell her. But the Catuvellauni townsfolk had come and gone, shaking their heads as they splashed water into their jars and buckets and sometimes over their feet. Several people knew who Grata was, but none admitted to knowing where to find her.
Tilla glanced around the streets that had been busy when they arrived. Most of the carts had gone now, taking their owners home from market. There was still plenty of light but the evening chill was beginning to creep in, and there was hardly anyone about. People who needed water had already been to fetch it. Now they were in their homes preparing their dinner. She should get back. Camma should not be left too long on her own. She bent to heave up the two buckets she had taken from the deserted kitchen.
At that moment she saw a small brisk woman in her midtwenties hurrying from the direction of the Forum. The woman was dressed in the fine-woven plaid of a local, but her coloring spoke of ancestors in one of those impossibly hot and dry places across the sea. Tilla lowered the buckets to the ground.
The woman walked straight up to her and said in British, “Who are you, and why are you asking for me?”
Tilla explained, adding, “Camma was expecting to find you at the house.”
Grata tilted up her chin. “The master and his brother disappeared,” she said. “She went off to Londinium, and I’m left with people banging on the door at all hours shouting “where’s our money?” And they were the polite ones. The council came around wanting to know where he was and searching the house and then I woke up in the middle of the night with a bunch of drunks outside trying to piss through the window.”
