by Ruth Downie
The beans were hot and filling and surprisingly tasty. By the time he had finished a second helping, the evening star had appeared and the fires were points of glimmering light with shadowy figures moving around them. Ruso collected his case and the few possessions he had on the wagon before telling Pera an edited version of the truth that made it look as though he were abandoning his duties for a night with a beautiful blonde. The instruction not to tell anyone where he had gone only made it worse. “But if there’s a problem with Austalis, send someone across. The code word is snake tattoo.”
“Snake tattoo, sir?” Pera sounded doubtful.
“Yes,” said Ruso, hoping he would have the chance to explain. Otherwise he would drift into the future as an anecdote. Poor old Ruso. Began to think everyone was out to get him. Used to hide behind his wife and make you say the password before you could speak to him.
He was almost at the entrance to the campground when, instead of the expected challenge from the guard, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round, grabbing at his knife.
“It’s Marcus, sir!” hissed a figure whose face was invisible beneath a hood.
“Marcus? What are you doing wandering about?”
“Visiting Austalis, sir.”
The coat was hardly necessary on such a fine night, and nor was this circuitous route. Ruso guessed that Marcus was trying to avoid being caught by Dexter. Still, that was not his problem. He had more important things to do.
“He’s still doing well, but don’t tire him,” he said. “Just a quick visit. And if he’s asleep, don’t wake him.”
Instead of replying in Latin, Marcus spoke in his native tongue. “Don’t worry about your wife.”
Ruso frowned, thinking he had misunderstood. “Sorry, Marcus. My British is not as good as I thought.”
“Your wife. She will not be harmed.”
“But-”
“We are not as foolish as they think.”
“Marcus?”
But Marcus was gone into the night, and any sound his footsteps might have made in the grass was covered by a shout of laughter from a distant campfire.
Ruso strode out through the entranceway and turned left toward the faint glimmers of light that marked the buildings. As he did so, it occurred to him that not only had he not been challenged on leaving, but there seemed to be no guards covering the gateway at all. Dexter’s men were slipping. And the Britons were up to something.
He turned and walked back into the camp, still unchallenged. He would go and find Tilla in a minute, then come straight back. Meanwhile, Dexter needed to be told.
Chapter 73
Sabina tried a mouthful of the soup, confirmed that it tasted exactly how it looked, and pushed it away. Still, what could you expect from a place that thought it was acceptable for guests to dine upstairs in a room overlooking the stables?
If only she had insisted on keeping the head cook.
If only she had been traveling in a roadworthy carriage.
If only Julia had not been so inconsiderate as to fall pregnant. At least they could have assured each other that one day they would look back on this and laugh.
Separating from the emperor’s party had been a mistake. This was only their second night on the road and, breakdowns aside, it was already clear that her companions had more important things on their minds than entertaining a lone empress. There was plenty of wine, and the innkeeper had found a couple of moderately attractive girls to tootle on flutes, but the scowlingly handsome young tribune of the Twentieth Legion still reclined so stiffly on his faded couch that he might have been lowered in through the ceiling. Meanwhile, Clarus glanced up every time someone entered as if he was hoping to be called away at any moment. Even the wild, murderous doctor (not present, of course) proved to be less wild and murderous than she had hoped: Apparently he had been released and a native arrested in his place.
“So you were both wrong?”
“There will be a trial at Deva, madam,” explained the tribune.
“And was he right about the evil-minded centurion?”
The two men exchanged a glance. Clarus said, “We will see at Deva, madam.”
Both men returned stoically to the soup and offered no further information. The flutes trilled on in the corner.
The door opened. A slave placed an item of no obvious origin in front of them and proceeded to cut it into slices that steamed gently in the light of the lamps. Having established that it was a pig’s stomach, stuffed and roasted in bran, they ate it in silence.
Sabina sighed. The emperor never had this problem at dinner. No one would dare to look tired or distracted in his presence, and besides, since he had an informed opinion upon everything, the room was never short of conversation.
There were two more courses to get through before she could spend the rest of the evening composing another bland letter to Julia (she was sure someone read them before despatch) and beating her staff at board games. She considered pleading a headache, but to leave in the middle of a dinner could look like an insult. Clarus would understand, but it was never a good idea to insult the son of a potentially useful politician … although, since the emperor vastly outranked them, it was possible the other two were equally worried about insulting her. Meanwhile someone had to tell those annoying flute players to stop blowing and go away. And then someone was going to have to make conversation.
“Perhaps,” she said to the tribune, aware that she should have asked this before, “you could tell us what we are to expect in Deva. Apart from my cousin Paulina and a murder trial.”
At least that got him talking. His tactical briefing on the fortress at Deva lasted through most of the fish course. Had she been planning to lay siege to it, the construction techniques currently being used for the stone curtain wall would have been of enormous interest. Unfortunately she was not, and there was still an egg and milk sponge to get through.
This was desperate. Either she would be forced to plead a headache, or …
“That Briton,” she said. “The one who lent us her smelly cart. Married to the wild doctor. She was rather quaint. I think we should invite her in to keep us entertained.”
The tribune was too busy wiping the wine he had just spilled down his chin to reply.
Sabina smiled. “Did her medicine work, Accius?”
“I needed no medicine, madam.” He snatched a towel from the hand of a hovering slave. “The woman wanted an excuse to appeal for the release of her husband.”
Clarus said, “She does not know her place.”
“She’ll be busy serving her husband’s dinner,” put in Accius, who evidently thought she did.
One of his staff raised a hand. Accius snapped, “What?”
The woman whispered in his ear. The tribune’s scowl deepened to the point where he was no longer handsome. “I told him to take her back hours ago! What’s she doing in the stables?”
Sabina smiled. This would serve them both right for being such poor company. “Let’s ask her, shall we?”
They were still waiting for the egg and milk sponge when the Briton arrived. If she was pleased to be rescued from a stable yard in the middle of nowhere, she did not show it. She had not even bothered to comb the hay out of her hair, but at least this time she did not stare in that insolent fashion. Sabina said, “I am pleased to hear that your husband’s difficulty is resolved.”
“I thank you, madam. But the man they now have in chains is not guilty, either.”
“I see you are as refreshingly forthright as before.”
The young woman looked up. “I said some wrong things before. I did not mean offense.”
“Not at all. You were most entertaining. And are you still finding useful things to do?”
Accius burst in: “Madam, this woman should not be in the mansio!” Sabina said, “The tribune thinks you should be busy serving your husband’s dinner.”
The Briton looked confused, as if this were some sort of trick.
“Bu
t before that, perhaps you could tell us about all the things we have to look forward to in Deva.”
“Deva?”
“You have been there?”
“I live there.” The woman thought for a moment and then said, “The cheese is salty, but very good.”
Sabina nodded to Clarus. “We must try the cheese. Which reminds me …” She beckoned the serving staff with one finger. When nobody approached, she turned to see two of the mansio slaves staring vacantly across the room. She sighed. She should have insisted on bringing more staff too.
“You there. Have they forgotten us down in the kitchens? Go and see where the next course is.” To the Briton she said, “Go on.”
“The best bakery is the one opposite Merula’s bar, and the baths are open to women in the morning.” She paused again, then added, “But I think the legate has his own baths.”
“I do hope so.”
Clarus was poking at an olive with his knife as if he were trying to goad it into life. Accius was having his wine refilled. The woman seemed to have run out of things to say about Deva.
“There must be something else.”
The woman met her gaze. “Madam, I go to market and talk to my friends and deliver babies and keep house for my husband and try not to anger the gods. I do not know what would interest a lady like you in Deva. You must ask the legate’s wife.”
“You were more helpful in answering my questions last time we met.”
“You asked better questions.”
Sabina chuckled. At last! This was more like it. “So, what else should we travelers know about the Britons? Is it true you that you believe chickens are gods and nobody should eat them?”
“A chicken is a not a god, madam. It is a bird that lays eggs.”
“And your warriors-” Sabina stopped. “What is that?”
Everyone looked up as it came again: an irregular cracking and scraping somewhere above them, almost as if someone were walking about on the tiles.
The woman said, “Perhaps there are rats in the loft, madam.”
Sabina shuddered, imagining the size of a British rat. She would have to make sure every hole was stuffed with rags tonight, and one of the girls would have to lie across the gap under the door. The others could take turns to keep watch. “Is it true,” she said, making an effort to regain her composure, “that your warriors fight naked and live in bogs?”
“I cannot speak of warriors, madam. The tribune has ordered me to speak only of matters concerning civilians and women.”
Sabina exchanged a glance with Accius. “That is very good advice,” she said, wondering exactly what had gone on between them. “I believe I told you something similar.”
“But I can tell you about a woman and child from the Dumnonii people who are traveling with your escort, who will soon be left widowed and fatherless because-”
“The empress does not want to hear idle gossip!” Accius interrupted.
“But you are the one who ordered her not to speak of anything else,” Sabina pointed out.
Now the scowl was positively sulky.
She turned to the Briton. “Why will this woman be left widowed?”
The Briton lifted her chin. “I cannot tell you, madam.” She pointed to the other two dinner guests. “But your friends can.”
There was no shortage of conversation now. The awkwardness was forgotten, as were the rats. Clarus and Accius both hastened to explain that the Dumnonii woman’s husband was a murderer, that this Briton did not know what she was talking about, that a full investigation had taken place, and that Britons always made trouble. Meanwhile, the source of all the upset was glancing from one to the other of them with a small smile of triumph on her face. Nobody seemed to have noticed the legionary standing in the doorway.
“Stop!” Sabina cried. “Both of you!” She nodded toward the legionary.
“Speak.”
“Message for the tribune, mistress.”
Whatever the message was, it sobered Accius immediately. He excused himself and left in the man’s company.
Sabina addressed the Briton. “You and your husband seem to enjoy stirring up trouble.”
The woman bowed her head. “I am sorry to have disturbed your dinner, madam.”
“On the contrary, you have helped to pass the time in a most entertaining manner-which is just as well, since it seems the wretched staff have forgotten us entirely.” She frowned at the one remaining inn slave. “Go and fetch your master, girl. This is ridiculous!” To Tilla she said, “Unfortunately, I am not in a position to do anything about your friend from the-who are they?”
“The Dumnonii.”
“The Dumnonii. I can do nothing about anything, because I live perpetually surrounded by spies.” She gestured toward her own slaves, lined up against the wall. Nobody flinched. They were used to it. “Rest assured that one of them will be reporting this evening’s conversation. For all I know, all of them will. So I never interfere in military or political matters. I leave all that to the emperor’s men. Clarus, I’m sure you can deal with whatever it is?”
Clarus stood and began to make his way-none too hastily-around the outside of the couches. “With your permission, madam, I will hear what this young woman has to say.”
“Please do.”
He seized the Briton by the arm and led her out of the dining room.
Sabina, alone with her staff, held out her glass for more respectably watered wine. “The emperor’s health,” she said wearily, raising her glass. As she did so, she glanced at the badly painted ceiling and wondered if even Julia would have found it possible to laugh about rats.
Chapter 74
Marcus’s words might have been intended to reassure, but they had the opposite effect. As he strode toward the lanterns that marked a feeble welcome to the inn, Ruso asked himself what the recruit might know about Tilla. Why would she not be harmed? Why might any harm have come to her in the first place? Why might harm come to anyone?
He should have stayed in the camp. He had done his duty: Dexter had leapt to his feet and said he would check on the absent guards straightaway, but the more he thought about Marcus’s words, the more uneasy he felt. He would just make sure Tilla was safe, then go back to the men.
Finding Tilla was not as easy as he had thought. The innkeeper denied all knowledge of her, and refused to summon the tribune’s housekeeper so she could be asked.
“But she must be here. She’s traveling with the tribune’s party. Blond, in her twenties, probably with a local girl with-” He extended his arms, fingers splayed, in an exaggeration of the girl’s assets.
“I’d have noticed, sir.”
“Let me in and I’ll find them myself.”
But the innkeeper was not inclined to let him in, and the doorkeeper was very inclined to throw him out, so he made a tactical retreat with “When you find her, say her husband’s looking for her.”
With the brisk stride of a man caught between anxiety and irritation, he headed down the road to where the civilians had set up a makeshift campsite.
Tilla had gone missing.
Something had happened that might put her in danger. Something that Marcus, up to no good, had tried to warn him about. Where was she? Why had he not had the sense to grab the tattooed Briton by the throat and demand to know what the hell he was talking about?
Tilla was not missing.
Any minute now he would find her amongst the camp followers, curled up beside a fire and wanting to know why he was making such a fuss.
Tilla was missing.
She had found out that she was no longer the tribune’s hostage, realized her husband had failed to come for her, and taken herself off somewhere that the Britons knew about and he didn’t.
Tilla was missing.
Still clutching his case and the blanket he had brought thinking he was staying the night, he picked his way through the huddled confusion of vehicles and makeshift shelters and guard dogs and murmured conversations and crying b
abies and cooking smells that made up the civilian camp. None of the voices that responded to him in the darkness would admit to having seen her. The girl Corinna called out from somewhere to ask how her husband was. He reassured her as best he could, wishing he had better news.
Finally he resorted to shouting, “Tilla!” in the hope that she was hiding and might relent. The only reaction was a cacophony of barking and voices telling him to shut up: People were trying to sleep.
He glanced down the road to where the black shapes of roofs were silhouetted against the starlit sky. Had she taken a room somewhere? There was only one way to find out. Slowly, so as not to trip over tent pegs invisible in the dark, he began to make his way toward the buildings. That was when a movement caught his eye. A figure creeping along the grass verge, just this side of the ditch. Then another. And another. He ducked down, ready to raise the alarm. Then he saw the glint of metal from some idiot who thought he could skulk around unseen in shiny parade armor.
Suddenly, the blast of a trumpet set a dozen dogs all barking at once. The soldiers leapt up, looking like monsters in the starlight, and began a rhythmic, relentless crash of sword hilts on shields. Ruso could sense movement all around him as cries of fear and protest rose from the camp.
“This is an inspection!” roared a voice that had been educated in Rome. “Everyone stay where you are!”
It was the Praetorian officer he had met this morning, but … an inspection? Of a civilian camp in the middle of the night? What was the matter with him?
Children cried. Dogs barked. Adults muttered and cursed as they fumbled with covers and tent ties in the dark.
“The camp is surrounded! Nobody is to leave! Stand still outside your own shelter!”
Gods above, was he going to perform a roll call next? And why, having made his point, did he not stop that awful thumping beat?
“Keep those dogs under control!”
Somebody protested, “There are children here!” and several other voices rose in support.
“No one will be hurt!”
The beat was silenced at last. All around Ruso, whisperers were asking each other what was going on. One brave soul shouted, “What have we done, then?” and a bolder voice ventured, “Clear off back to Rome!”
