by Ruth Downie
He had reached the end without interruption. It had gone better than he had feared. He was about to thank them and step down when Caratius said, “What about Asper’s letter?”
“Asper’s letter,” repeated Ruso. “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” Damn. He should have expected this. Even if it was Caratius who had arranged for the Room Twenty-seven letter to be stolen, the man needed to pretend that he didn’t know anything about it. He would probably have asked last night if dinner had not been interrupted.
The men on the benches remained silent, waiting to hear something new. “Some of you may have heard that Asper wrote a letter before he died.” He paused, fingering one ear. If he told them it had been stolen, it would make him—and by implication, the procurator—look careless. If he didn’t, they would want to see it. “We had it decoded,” he announced, “but it was no help at all.”
“What did it say?” Caratius again.
Did he already know? Perhaps he was pushing to find out how much had been deciphered before it was stolen. The last thing Ruso wanted at the moment was for anyone here to suspect that Asper had been in touch with the governor’s security service and tried to alert Metellus to some sort of crime.
Get out of town as fast as you can. He looked around at the expectant faces. Was the wellwisher among them?
Say something. “It was just a couple of unfinished lines,” he said, “scribbled when Asper was on the verge of death.”
“But what did it say?”
“Nothing of any use.”
He was stalling for time, and they all knew it.
“Tell us, man!” urged a voice.
Caratius said, “It might mean something to us, if not to you.” His acting, if that was what it was, was impressive.
Say something. Ruso cleared his throat. “It said,” he began, “Dearest girl. When your sweet lips meet my eager—”
There was a fresh shout of laughter. Caratius looked as though someone had just slapped him across the face.
Gallonius stepped up and stopped chuckling for long enough to call for order. When he could make himself heard, he thanked the absent procurator for his understanding, congratulated the investigator on his work so far, and urged everyone to cooperate as fully as possible in the hunt for the money. Then he called upon the clerk to remind them of the rest of the business for the meeting.
Ruso retreated to the sound of the clerk reciting, “The continuing problem of flooding behind the market halls. The behavior of unruly youths on market days. The appointment of ambassadors fit to represent this Council.”
“I object!” shouted Caratius, who had come back to life.
Stepping out into the fresh air of the Forum, Ruso decided that the leaders of the Catuvellauni might be accused of many things, but being dull was not one of them.
44
S HE HAD SWEPT the floors and filled the lamps with the last of the oil. Back in the kitchen, Tilla wrapped a cloth around one hand, steadying the steaming pot over the fire. Then she hooked a tangle of dripping cloths out of the first rinsing bucket with a stick and lowered it at arm’s length into the hot water. She could hear someone moving about and chased away a fleeting sense of dread. Camma’s behavior at the funeral had been caused by grief and shock. Time and kindness and the favor of the right gods would restore her.
Moments later she heard footsteps in the corridor. Camma was disheveled but bright eyed. She was clutching a wooden box with fancy metal hinges. It could have been a funeral cask for a newborn child.
She said, “I caused trouble for everyone this morning.”
“Yes.” Tilla was eyeing the box.
“I was wrong.”
“It is forgotten.” There was no sound from the baby in the front room. “What is that?”
“I think Andaste sent you to save me so that I can see Asper and Bericus avenged.”
“Sister, what do you have in that box?”
Camma placed it on the table and wiped dust off the lid with one hand before lifting it. “We have money.”
Relieved, Tilla gave the cloths a final poke with the stick and went to stand beside her. Inside, three small leather bags were resting on some sort of burned tile. Camma undid one of the drawstrings and tipped the bag over. Silver coins tumbled and rolled onto the table.
Tilla’s eyes widened. “This is the money all the trouble is about?”
“Oh, no!” Camma seemed shocked at the suggestion. “This is not stolen.”
Hoping she was right, Tilla ran one forefinger along the table, leaving a wake through the pile of coins. “This is a miracle!”
“No, it’s his savings. Hidden under the bedroom floor. This is what those thieves were looking for.”
The heaviest bag contained bronze and the third, the smallest of the three, a few more silver denarii.
When they had all been emptied, Tilla lifted out the fat tile. “And this?”
Camma frowned. “I don’t know.”
There was something odd about the feel of the underside. She turned it over. The surface was pocked with a series of holes arranged in rows. She ran her finger across, counting them. Six rows, seven holes in each. Each hole about big enough to hold the top joint of her little finger.
Camma said, “I have never seen that before.”
“It’s been burned,” said Tilla, turning it sideways and peering at the rounded edges to see if there was anything that looked like writing. The tile was clumsily made. “Why is it in the treasure box?”
Camma sat down and reached for one of the empty bags. “I don’t know.”
Watching her, Tilla felt a sense of relief. Money was a nuisance that her own people had not needed before the Romans came, and greed for it was a curse, but she had to admit that the discovery of Asper’s savings was useful. Not only that, but seeing Camma seated at the table calmly counting forty-seven silver coins back into a bag was a comfort. The frightening events of the funeral seemed a long way away, and perhaps best forgotten. She said, “I made porridge.”
“In the middle of the day?”
“That was before you told me there was plenty of money.”
A small wail from the front room announced that the baby would be joining them for lunch.
* * *
Tilla placed the bowl of porridge on the corner of the table so Camma could reach it without moving and glanced across at the baby with approval. “He is feeding well.”
Camma picked up the spoon without having to be persuaded. It was a good sign. She said, “What will happen to Caratius?”
Tilla reached for her own bowl and began to drizzle an uneven golden spiral of honey around the surface. She said, “Tell me about him.”
“He is the son of chiefs,” Camma said, “but he has no sons of his own. He is old and angry, and he is not interested in women.”
“Why did he marry?”
Camma shrugged. “I think because having friends among a neighboring tribe might give him a stronger voice here. But instead of living in the grand town he told my people about, I had to stay out in that house miles from anywhere with the servants and the horses and his terrible old mother.”
“His mother’s mind is going.”
“Some days she knew who I was. Other days I had to keep away from her because she was frightened of me.”
It could not have been easy to avoid her in that lonely house. In such a place, with such a husband, why would any wife have wanted to stay?
Camma said, “I tried to be friends, but it made her worse. Did she talk about the silver?”
“She thought we’d come to steal it.”
“She thinks that of everyone. She thinks her father’s savings were buried under the floor when his workshop burned down.” She pointed with her spoon toward the door. “It was just along the street, near where the market halls are now. From the way Caratius likes to stand and watch whenever the men dig up the drains, I think he half believes her himself.”
Tilla cut into the honey spira
l with the edge of her spoon. She shifted the spoon sideways to make a half-moon crater in the porridge and watched as the milk flowed in. As the morning wore on, she had grown increasingly uncomfortable about her speech at the cemetery. “Caratius was not how I expected,” she said.
Camma’s smile was bitter. “If he looked like the man he really is, I would never have married him. Now, I curse him!”
Tilla busied herself blowing ripples across the milk. “I hope you’re right, Sister.”
“You have doubts?”
“If he wanted revenge, it would have been easier to catch Asper alone in town.”
“Of course. But if his enemies could say Caratius had killed a tax man, they might throw him off the Council. So he sent a secret message and invited him to his death and everyone thought the brothers had run away.”
It was a good reply. “Somebody sent a message,” Tilla agreed. “Caratius says it wasn’t him.”
“Of course he does! He thought he was safe because nobody here would believe what I told them. He never thought I would dare go to the procurator.”
At that moment the outside door opened. A small figure stepped into the kitchen. “She said you wanted me back,” announced Grata, pointing an accusing finger at Tilla. Her bag landed on the table with a thud, making the treasure box and the porridge bowls bounce. Before anyone could speak she added, “I never liked working in that bakery anyway.”
Whatever she had thought of the bakery, returning to housekeeping seemed to give Grata no pleasure, either.
Silent and tight lipped, she threw a faded old tunic over her clothes. Then she crashed the kitchen stools up onto the table, grabbed the broom, and began to sweep the floor as if it had just insulted her.
Camma said, “I am sorry about Bericus.”
Tilla said, “And so am I.”
“You never met him,” snapped Grata.
Camma said, “You were not to know Caratius’s message was a trap.”
Grata carried on sweeping the floor as if she had not heard.
Camma and Tilla exchanged a glance over the legs of the upturned stools. Camma said, “I am feeling stronger now. There is money, and I would like to go out in the sunshine and buy food. Come with us, Grata.”
“She needs the right food to make her strong again,” put in Tilla, pleased to see Camma taking an interest in someone else’s troubles. “Eggs and lentils and honey and butter and bread. And pigs’ feet to thicken the milk, and while we are out I want to find a scribe to write a letter.”
Camma said, “Grata, I shall need your help to carry everything.”
“I’m busy.”
“The stalls will close soon. The floor will still be here when we get back.”
Grata flung the broom back into the corner with a cry of exasperation. It bounced off the wall and clattered down against the table. Camma retrieved it and put it away. “I did not know you were so fond of Asper and Bericus.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Come with us.”
“What for?”
“Because we need more vegetables and meat and cheese.”
Grata snorted. “Nobody will talk to us, you know.”
“Are you afraid of them?”
Grata straightened up. “A few gossiping women?” She wiped her hands on the old tunic. “No. There are far worse things to be afraid of, believe me.”
45
S AFELY OUTSIDE THE chaos of the Council chamber, Ruso turned to Dias. “I appreciate the personal escort,” he said, “but you must have more important things to do.”
If the guard captain suspected that Ruso was trying to get rid of him, he did not show it. Instead he appeared to be thinking about the idea. Finally he gestured toward one of the offices that opened onto the walkway around the Forum. “I could do with some time over at headquarters,” he said. “We caught a sheep stealer last night, so there’s a flogging to organize. We’ve only got twenty-nine lads and a couple of clerks on the books here, so I’d rather not waste men keeping him locked up till market day.”
It sounded like a speech designed to allay the fears of visiting officials. As a former soldier, Dias must be well aware that Rome kept an eye on native militias. Ruso said, “I’m sure you could have done without extra escort duties.”
“We’ve had two murders already, sir,” said Dias equably. “We don’t want anything happening to you.”
“Do you think it’s likely?”
“I’d say the closer you get to finding out who did it, the more danger you’ll be in.” When Ruso did not answer, he continued, “That note you found this morning. You seemed a bit shaken up.”
Unable to think of a plausible lie, Ruso said, “Someone wants me out of town.”
Dias frowned. “If you’ve been threatened, we need to know. Did you bring it with you?”
“I burned it,” said Ruso, knowing a sensible investigator would do no such thing, but if the writer really was a well wisher, the last thing he deserved was a visit from Dias.
“What did it say, exactly?”
“Get out of town,” said Ruso, getting into the stride of the lie.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” As if assessing anonymous warnings was all part of an investigator’s daily grind, he said, “With everything else going on, I forgot to mention it. The threat wasn’t very specific.” He promised to keep any further notes and Dias agreed to assign some new men to “keep an eye on him” for the next few hours.
It was an interesting choice of words.
“That little man who turned up at the funeral with Gallonius,” Ruso said. “The woman said he used to work with Asper?”
“Nico.” Dias gestured toward the Great Hall. “He’s got an office in there. Good luck.”
Ruso crossed the Forum toward the Great Hall followed by the rhythmic tramp of his new guards. Ahead, above the entrance, was a grand plaque honoring the long-dead emperor Titus Vespasian and some departed governor. As he drew closer he could make out a rough patch in the middle of the engraving. That must be the scar of Titus’s brother Domitian, officially obliterated from memory and now messing things up in death just as he had in life.
The locals had certainly made an effort to keep up. He wondered how many of them could read it. Sadly, since it seemed to have been put up at about the same time that Mount Vesuvius exploded and buried several complete towns much nearer to Rome, he doubted whether Titus had cared what the Britons were building on their remote little island.
Beneath the plaque was a pair of open doors conveniently designed for the entry of a man fifteen feet tall. Inside, the hall was high enough to humble the mere mortals clustered below. The clack of the guards’ studded boots on the concrete sounded like the cracking of whips as they led Ruso across to a range of side rooms stretching into the distance beyond a row of columns.
They passed the town money changer—another man Ruso intended to meet—and three doors farther down one of the guards pointed out Julius Asper’s office. This was firmly padlocked, although damage around the lock suggested someone had already broken in and resealed it. Ruso would need to look around in there later. For now, his target was the man named Nico.
Nico turned out to be not some humble clerk as he had supposed but the finance officer of Verulamium, with an office near the shrine over the underground strong room.
Nico did not seem to be happy in his work. Long after the door marked “Quaestor” in spindly red letters was closed, the little man was still scuttling about putting away documents and muttering to himself, occasionally glancing at the new problem that was standing before him in the shape of Ruso and repeating, “Yes, yes,” in answer to a question Ruso could only imagine. His voice was small, his movements quick and light, and his eyes seemed to be permanently on the lookout for predators.
Ruso helped himself to a folding stool. He sat very still, deciding it must be the recent strain of losing the money that had reduced the man to this state. It was hard to imagine what
kind of outfit would put a mouse in charge of large sums of cash.
Eventually Nico had cleared away everything except an abacus, which he set on the windowsill, retrieved, placed on the desk beside his inkstand, and then retrieved yet again. Finally he stood between window and desk clutching it and looking lost. Ruso reached across, took it from him, and put it back on the windowsill. Then he said as gently as he could, “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll see what I can do to help?”
After a final check around for danger, Nico settled behind his desk and began to nibble the top of his thumb. Ruso explained why he was here, not because he thought the man was listening but in the hope that it might calm him down. When he moved on to explain that he didn’t know how a quaestor’s office worked and he needed someone to explain it to him, Nico’s eyes brightened.
As Ruso had suspected, once the man started talking, there was no stopping him. This was largely because every statement of fact had to be followed by a partial retraction and several long qualifications to cover differing circumstances, a pause for consultation as Ruso was asked to confirm whether that was his interpretation of the law also, and then a conjunction consisting of either, “Oh dear, where was I?” or, “Now what else is there?” and occasionally an alarming, “But I’ll tell you about that later on. Don’t let me forget.” No wonder he had so much work to do here that he barely found the time to attend Council meetings.
It was a far cry from Firmus’s fantasy of an exciting investigation. Ruso wished he had brought Albanus, who might have understood some of this. Albanus took an arcane pleasure in the workings of officialdom. He made a genuine effort to listen but found his mind wandering off to the key question of whether or not Asper and Bericus had taken the money with them. Given the complexity of the system Nico was explaining, it was clear that the Council kept thorough records. That meant there was one thing about this business that could be easily proved or disproved. The tax money was either under guard in the strong room (he had listened that far) or it wasn’t. Once he had established that fact, he could tether his theories to it while he tried to untangle them.
