by Ruth Downie
Only when he had finished mangling Ruso’s evidence did Satto say, “You should know that if Rome doesn’t send enough small change, a man who makes bronze coins is helping the soldiers spend their wages and his neighbors buy their bread.”
“Does that happen?”
“Not these days. And I’m talking about bronze, not silver. All I’m saying is, good men have made coins as well as bad.”
Ruso got to his feet. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Satto handed him half of one of the ruined coins. “Two more things you should know, investigator. The first is that apart from the one Asper showed me, I’ve never seen denarii like these before in Verulamium.”
“And the other?”
“If a forger is caught, he has nothing to lose.”
51
T HE SOOTY-FINGERED BOY who was mixing ink at the table in the Council clerk’s office had a lopsided mustache smeared beneath his nostrils. Ruso saw it just after the lad looked up in alarm and before the chain-mailed bulk of the guards came between them. Moments later the clerk was fiddling with the lock on Asper’s office door and muttering that this was all quite irregular: He had been told the investigation was over and he really needed permission from the quaestor.
He need not have worried. The cramped space contained nothing but furniture and disappointment. There was no money stashed away anywhere. No discernable notes about evidence or investigations. No lumps of iron with hammer scars on one end and the emperor’s profile engraved in reverse on the other.
Ruso put the last records box back on the shelf. Then he leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and stared around the room. If only he had Albanus here. Even if there were secrets hidden among the lists of names and figures in the records, the only thing Ruso could deduce from them was that neither Asper nor his brother was an overly tidy man.
The desk where Asper must have sat was the larger of the two. Carved legs, polished sheen on the surface, set squarely in the middle of the room facing the door. Designed to impress. The one that must have belonged to Bericus was crammed into the corner and had a chunk of wood wedged under one leg to level it up. Asper had a brass inkstand, Bericus a simple pot. He imagined the brothers had argued over more than Camma.
If only the man had spoken to her about his suspicions. If only he had left some hint of where he had found that coin mold. No one was going to admit to owning it, even if he could track down every metalworker in town to ask, and that would take hours. Camma’s neighborhood seemed to be full of them. The elderly bronzesmiths next door, the silversmiths farther down the street … then there were the repair shops and the wagon works at the stables, not to mention any number of forges scattered across the local farmsteads where smiths would call for trade or where laborers with some rudimentary skill might bash out repairs to damaged tools. It would be impossible to search them all and even if he did, what were the chances of him finding what the owners would be careful to hide?
Ruso leaned back in the chair and scowled at the door handle. It was possible that he was wasting his time. He was not even sure that the forgery business had anything to do with the murders. Caratius was as likely to be guilty as not. One thing of which he was certain, though, was that if he was going to find out anything else, he needed to do it quickly. He had fulfilled the procurator’s orders to look helpful. He should be on the way back to Londinium with a reassuring report about the links with Iceni. Tilla would be packing her bag in the morning and the Britons, to whom he had been seconded, were expecting him to leave.
One of them was desperate for him to leave.
For your own safety, get out of town.
If only he could track down the person who sent that message, he might find out what was really going on here. Whatever it was, he was convinced that Dias was involved in it.
52
T HERE WAS STILL plenty of daylight, but the bustle of the day was over. Workshops had fallen silent, children had been called indoors, and there was hardly anyone about as Tilla hurried across the Forum on the way back to Camma’s house. She had hoped the scribe’s office might still be open, but the shutters were already in place. There was no reason to linger. Ahead, she noticed one of Dias’s men staring at her from the doorway of the rooms the guards used as their headquarters. How long had he been watching her?
She quickened her pace, telling herself he was probably just an ill-mannered man who was bored. Even though Dias could not be trusted, that did not mean all the other guards were corrupt too. She passed him and walked out under the arch to the street without glancing back.
Back at the house, Grata would be preparing the evening meal. Tilla had turned down the Medicus’s invitation to dine with him in his grand suite of rooms tonight, preferring one last evening with Camma and the lovely baby. Ruso had accompanied her across to the mansio and then left her to talk to Serena while he rushed off somewhere like a dog on a fresh scent. She had no idea where he was going, nor what time he would be back.
In the morning she would go with Camma to bury the ashes, and then talk to her about a name for the baby. Perhaps a name would mark a new start. After that she would go and visit the scribe again, and then she would be ready to leave for Londinium whenever her husband had finished his investigations.
Just now she had tried to persuade Serena to come back to Londinium with them, but Serena had refused to budge. It was obvious the girl was lonely: Her husband and friends were twenty miles away and her cousin was too busy to spend much time with her. Perhaps that was why she was unusually friendly. As a rule, even though nothing was ever said, she was sure Serena still saw her as the housekeeper.
Today, however, she had seemed delighted to welcome Tilla into the mansio garden, where a maid was supervising the twins at play, and congratulated her on her marriage. “I suppose you’re pregnant,” she said. “It’s very decent of Ruso to marry you.”
Tilla said, “It is very decent of me to marry him too.”
Serena looked taken aback, then the broad face broke into a handsome grin. “Perhaps all men are a trial when you have to live with them,” she said. “I’ve done my best, but Valens just makes no effort. I’ve told him what he needs to do to shape up. He agrees with everything I say and then carries on the same as before.” She paused. “He might listen to Ruso. I don’t suppose you could get him to—”
“No. But I think Valens is hoping you will be back soon.”
“Hah!” Serena had managed to look both outraged and smug at the same time. “He thinks I don’t know what he got up to after I left. One of Pa’s old friends from the garrison went over when they had a burglary. He said people heard women in there in the middle of the night!”
Tilla paused. “A burglary?”
“It’s all right. They didn’t steal anything.”
“That was me,” said Tilla. “The woman in the night. We were staying there.”
“You?”
“And my patient, and her baby. Your father’s friend should find out the truth before he gossips.”
For once, Serena was silent.
Tilla said, “Valens asked me to talk to you. I said no. He must talk to you himself.”
Serena paused to watch one of her sons trying to throw a ball at the other. It looked more like war than sport. “But he hasn’t,” she said.
“Not yet,” agreed Tilla. “I can take a message if you like.”
“It’s not my fault!”
Tilla sighed, gathered up her skirts, and got to her feet. “Many things happen that are not our fault,” she said. “At least, that is what we tell ourselves. But if you will not talk to each other, how can anyone help you?”
“What am I supposed to have done wrong?”
“I do not know,” said Tilla, fighting an urge to tell this pampered girl how lucky she was to have a husband and two healthy children, “But my mother used to say that if you cannot bang your head through the wall, you will have to turn to the left or right.”
&nb
sp; Serena pondered that for a moment. “Maybe that sounds better in British.”
“No,” Tilla conceded. “It sounds annoying in British too.”
In the end she had left with a message for Valens that his wife was not missing him one little bit. It had not been a successful meeting.
A ginger cat stopped lapping at the puddle under the water trough as she approached. Out of habit, she paused before crossing the road, but there was no traffic. There was only the fleeing cat and an old woman limping away in the distance. She glanced behind her and was surprised to see the guard she had noticed earlier. He dropped hastily into a crouch and began to fiddle with his bootlace, but she had already recognized him. He must have followed her all the way from the Forum.
Tilla told herself to be sensible. She was in a public street and there was still plenty of light. The man might just happen to live in the same area as Camma, but the business with the bootlace was very suspicious. Still, if he were going to accost her he must have had plenty of chances to do it before now. She paused to scoop up a handful of cool water from the trough. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, dried her hand on her tunic, and waited. The guard looked up and stopped pretending to tie the lace.
As he approached she folded her arms and stood defiantly, at the same time mentally pacing out the distance behind her to Camma’s door and wondering whether she could outrun him.
She said in British, “Are you following me?”
The guard’s grin faltered when she did not return it. He said, “Cheer up a bit, love. You won’t get much business with a face like that.”
“I am not looking for business!” Was he lying, or had he made an honest mistake? “I am a respectable married lady on the way home!”
He backed away, both hands held up in surrender. “Sorry, missus. No offense. I saw you in the Forum on your own, and at this hour—”
“Can a woman not walk across the Forum without being ogled?”
The grin returned. “Fair enough. I’ll see you safe home if you like.”
“No! Go away.”
To her relief, he did not argue. She watched him head off down a side street before turning back toward the protection of Camma’s house. Were it not for her friend, she would be glad to get out of this place.
She glanced back along the street before crossing the next junction by the silent meat market. To her relief there was no sign of the guard.
She wondered why the Medicus had rushed off and whether he was back at the mansio yet. He had looked disappointed when she refused to join him, but this evening she wanted to say good-bye to Camma and the baby.
She must be strong. There would be other babies. Perhaps—
She did not see the stranger until his arm was around her throat.
She managed a stifled scream as he dragged her backward into the alleyway. She was off balance, gasping for air, struggling to pull his arm away, and trying get back onto her feet as something jabbed into her back and a voice growled in British, “Shut up, keep still, and you won’t get hurt.”
Her heart was thudding. Her body was desperate for air. She could not think. He was saying something. She heard only, “Got that?”
She shook her head, unable to speak. What a fool she was. If only she had not been so rude to that harmless guard …
The grip around her neck tightened. “I said, this is a message for your man. Tell him to clear off and keep his nose out of other people’s business. And you, keep your mouth shut from now on. If you don’t, me and my mates will get ahold of one of your friends and show you what happens to blabbermouths.”
The release was so sudden, and the shove in the back so forceful, that by the time she had picked herself up, he had gone. She stumbled back toward the empty street, filthy and trembling and short of breath. Pain radiated from her elbow and her knees where she had fallen in the mud. She could still feel the roughness of his arm around her bruised throat.
This is a message for your man. And you, keep your mouth shut.
53
B Y THE TIME Ruso had finished searching Asper’s office, the guards who had been waiting outside for him were looking exceedingly bored. The Forum was empty. The working day’s clamor had fallen silent. There was hardly any traffic: Vehicles had been unhitched and drawn into secure yards for the night. The guards escorted him to the mansio and did not look sorry when he dismissed them.
Publius greeted him at reception with the news that Tilla had left some time ago, and he was sorry but there was still no news of who might have delivered an unsigned note yesterday. Ruso made a quick tour of the building, annoying any staff he could catch by asking them the same questions Publius had obviously asked already. Finally convinced that nothing more could be done to trace the well-wisher tonight, he locked the door behind him, shut out the world, and stepped into the tasteful privacy of Suite Three. A couple of blank writing tablets had been thoughtfully provided on the side table and someone had filled the brazier with hot coals, anticipating a chilly night.
Further in, he realized that the cloak he had flung over the end of the bed had disappeared. He found it hanging behind the door. The cupboard where he had unloaded his few belongings had surely not been that well arranged last time he looked.
It was like having an invisible wife.
He pushed open the shutters and surveyed the garden. A slave hurried past the window clutching a tray and he heard a burst of male laughter from other guests somewhere farther along the walkway. He swung the shutters almost closed again. His wife had spurned his invitation, preferring to spend the night with a couple of women and a squalling baby. He did not want a jovial bachelor evening with a bunch of traveling officials.
As he bent to unlace his boots, the bag of Asper’s savings slung around his neck swung forward, reminding him that he should have returned it tonight. He wondered about walking across to Camma’s house, but there was nowhere to spend it at this hour. The women could wait until morning.
Someone was knocking at the door of the reception room. He braced himself for another encounter with Serena, but it was only a slave come to ask whether he wished dinner to be served in his dining room or in here. Being offered the choice was such a luxury that he was reluctant to surrender it straightaway. Instead he asked what was on tonight’s menu.
The slave took an ominously deep breath. It seemed tonight’s meal started with Finest Gaulish Honeyed Wine and ended with some sort of cakes in Smoothest Syrup of Baetican Grape Must. In between came Numidian-style Chicken, Parthian-style Lamb, and oysters with piquant relish from Baiae. The origins of “Tenderest leaves of winter vegetables” were not stated. Presumably that was local cabbage. He pretended to ponder this for a moment, imagining how ludicrous and lonely he would feel tackling all these complicated courses in the tiled expanse of the dining room across the corridor and then declared his preference for staying where he was. The slave bowed and left, his face impassive.
Ruso lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He would much rather be in a simple lodging room with his medical books and something from the local snack bar. This wretched business grew more complicated by the minute, and now he was supposed to be leaving in the morning with more questions raised than answered.
When the ceiling proved no inspiration at all, he tried closing his eyes. The facts writhed around in his brain like a nest of snakes. Finally he got up and opened one of the writing tablets. He was supposed to be keeping the procurator informed, but they had not arranged a code. Perhaps it was just as well. If the forgers had suspected that Asper was onto them, the fact that he was sending mysterious coded letters to Londinium might have been his death sentence. Accordingly, Ruso scrawled the bland, “Further information discovered, Council feel they can investigate from here. Back shortly.” He contemplated sending a note saying “Bastard! You might have warned me!” to Valens, but decided the satisfaction was not worth the money.
He was sealing the first tablet when two slaves arrived bearing
trays. They proceeded to unload far too much food for one person onto the tables by the brazier. As more and more dishes were placed in front of him, Ruso wondered if he had misunderstood the arrangements. Perhaps he had been supposed to select some dishes from the list and refuse others. Were they cursing him over in the kitchen? Complaining about the waste of taxpayers’ money? Or were they laughing at his naïveté? Perhaps this was how officials on tour normally ate. He thought of Tilla and the women over in the house with the mended door. He should have invited all of them. Perhaps he could save them some of this.
To his alarm there were more footsteps in the corridor. Another slave backed in through the doorway. He was only mildly relieved when the tray turned out to hold several jugs of drink. Once these were in place, two of the men disappeared, but not before assuring him that they had no idea who might have put an unsigned note under his door and that the manager had asked them the same question. The third stayed to pour his wine. Ruso tried a jovial, “Is this all for me?”
The slave offered a polite smile and said, “Enjoy your dinner, sir!” before retreating to stand in the corner.
Ruso considered asking him if he was hungry, then decided he would be insulted. He took a deep breath and reached for a spoon. Holding it in midair, he turned to the slave. “You don’t have to stand there,” he said. “Don’t you have something more important to do?”
“No, sir.”
“Then go and do something unimportant, will you? I really can’t eat with you watching me.”
“If you’re sure you don’t need any help, sir.”
“It’s just eating,” Ruso told him. “I’ll manage.”
“I’ll be just outside, sir.”
He supposed that would have to do. Alone at last, he was just reaching for the honeyed wine when there was a tap on the door and the slave reappeared clutching a thin sliver of wood tied with twine.
