Terra Incognita

by Ruth Downie

  “The young man looked into the woman’s eyes and he knew that by her side, he would never be afraid. He said, ‘I will.’ ”

  The storyteller suddenly bent and glared at a young child in the audience. “Son of Brigantia, will you save your people?”

  The child said something.

  “Louder,” urged the storyteller.

  “Yes!” came the reply.

  The storyteller turned to the child’s companion. “Will you?”

  “Yes!”

  There was a cheer.

  The storyteller rose to his full height. “Sons and daughters of Brigantia, will you save your people?”

  The crowd cheered louder, shouting, “Yes!” and “We will!” From somewhere a chant began to spread, “Death to the Wolf! Death to the Wolf! Death to the Wolf!” until Tilla felt herself swaying in time to the words and the air around them was alive with the roar, “Death to the Wolf! Death to the Wolf!”

  Suddenly the chant died away as if the storyteller had given a signal. A lone voice cried, “Death to—” and faded amid the derision of his companions.

  “Children of Brigantia!” The storyteller’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It is no easy thing to kill a wolf. For a wolf is cunning.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “And a wolf is strong.”

  More murmurs of agreement.

  “And a wolf is brave.”

  “But we’re braver!” shouted a voice from the back. There were yells of support.

  “Yes.” For the first time that evening, the storyteller smiled. “So it was with the young man. Once he had turned to the wise old woman, he found the courage of his ancestors, and he rode down to the river and fought with the strength of fifty men. The people who were held captive rose up with him and there was a terrible battle. The Wolf, seeing what was happening, disguised himself as a dog and fled. At last every one of the Wolf’s followers lay on the ground with his head hacked from his body. Then the young man and the people marched back over the river carrying the gold of the sun and the silver of the moon, and the crops grew again and the birds sang and the people prospered in the land. But remember this, my children . . .”

  The storyteller paused, surveyed his audience, and continued softly, “The Wolf is still out there, waiting. Waiting with his soft words and fine promises.” He paused again, then raised his voice. “Would you be deceived by a wolf?”

  “No!” was the unanimous shout.

  “Would you bargain with a wolf?”

  “No!”

  “What would you do with a wolf?”

  “Take his head!” roared a voice from the back of the crowd.

  “Take his head!” yelled the crowd, stamping and clapping and swaying in time to the words. “Take his head! Take his head!”

  As the chant rose to a crescendo, Tilla gasped. Figures were leaping out from between the fires. Wild, naked men with painted bodies and spiked hair pranced in front of the crowd, brandishing shields and flaming torches. A man on horseback was moving among them: the storyteller, now with antlers sprouting from his head. Then another figure emerged into the light. Not dancing. Stumbling. Dragged forward, his hands roped together, his face pale and wide-eyed with terror.

  “Take his head, take his head!”

  It was the medicus.

  “No!” shrieked Tilla, springing to her feet and scrambling toward the fires, tripping over legs and cloaks and children. “No, he is a good man!”

  Behind her she could hear Rianorix shouting, “Leave him alone!”

  “Take his head!” howled the crowd.

  As she reached the front, she was seized and dragged aside. As soon as she hit the ground, a body landed on top of her. She struggled to get up, but her captor was sitting on her, crushing her so she could hardly breathe. She tried to kick at him, but he seemed not to notice. Seconds later someone else landed beside her. Over the chant she was conscious of a flurry of grunts and punches and gasps, and then beyond all of them a new rhythm. A harsh, relentless rapping of swords on shields. Getting closer. The chant of death giving way to shouts of “Soldiers!” and suddenly she could breathe again.

  All around her was running and confusion, feet trampling over her, the blare of army trumpets, screaming as people fell into the fires, and the roar as the soldiers charged into the stampeding crowd.

  77

  IT’S ALL RIGHT, Ruso! It’s me.”

  The words finally penetrated the terror. Ruso stopped struggling and lay still while Postumus ripped off the gag. He spat the vile taste out of his mouth and forced himself not to tremble while the centurion’s knife tackled the ropes around his swollen wrists. He shook his hands free and placed a clumsy fist on Postumus’s arm, muttering, “Thank you!” as he struggled to his feet. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.” He tried an experimental step and found to his relief that he was still able to walk. “They were going to tear me apart.”

  “I told you I wanted to get my hands on that bastard,” said Postumus.

  “Did we get him?”

  “Dunno.”

  A familiar figure emerged from the shadows and stood with his back to the fires, surveying the chaos.

  “What’s Metellus doing here?”

  “It’s his operation,” said Postumus, sheathing his knife. “I just brought a few of our lads over as backup. And you should be bloody glad I did, because if we hadn’t gone in just now he would’ve left you there for the chop while his men crawled about getting into position.”

  Ruso looked up from massaging his wrists. “You overruled Metellus?” “Let’s just say I must have misunderstood his signal in the dark.”

  Later, his painful joints shifting with the motion of the borrowed horse that was carrying him back toward the town, Ruso was joined by a second rider. The man’s face was shadowed by the rim of his helmet, but the words, “What the hell were you doing out here on your own?” identified Metellus.

  “Looking for Tilla,” said Ruso, glad to have a chance to explain. “Have you seen her?”

  Metellus jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “With the other prisoners.”

  “I was trying to help her. I thought I’d be safe.”

  “You should know by now. You can’t trust them.”

  “I know,” said Ruso, glancing at the ghostly shapes of the moonlit cavalry escort ahead and checking that the soldiers and shuffling prisoners were too far back to overhear. “Listen. I’ve had some more thoughts about Felix.”

  “Don’t start that again, Ruso. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night. If we hadn’t had to charge in and rescue you before we were ready, we’d have caught the whole lot of them. Including the Stag Man.”

  “We didn’t get him?” Ruso was incredulous.

  “We saved you instead.”

  “Oh. That was very decent of you.”

  “Doing so was quite frankly neither the easy thing nor the right thing.”

  “No,” Ruso agreed, wanting to add, Which is why you didn’t give the order to do it, you lying bastard. Instead he said, “I understand there was some confusion about the orders.”

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘You should have left me and captured the Stag Man,’ ” said Metellus.

  Ruso wondered whether anyone would stop him if he leaned across and grabbed Metellus by the throat.

  “There’s been a development,” said Metellus. “Your clerk has woken up and told us the last thing he can remember is taking a shortcut through an alley with Gambax.”

  “I knew it!” Poor Albanus, the victim of an attack that might have been avoided if only his officer had not asked for his help in snaring a man who had been stealing from the infirmary. “So, I was right after all.”

  “Apparently you were,” agreed Metellus, and yawned.

  Ruso yawned too, and glanced at the sky. There was no sign of dawn yet. Tonight, he would not notice the inadequacies of the bed, nor the presence of the barrel. Tonight, that little storeroom would be Ne
ro’s golden palace.

  “You’ll be happy to know,” said Metellus, “that Gambax will be tried for the attempted murder of the clerk as soon as the governor can fit it into his schedule.”

  Ruso forced himself to sit up straight, ignore his aching muscles and aching head, and concentrate. “I wanted to talk to you about Gambax. I’ve changed my mind. He wouldn’t have killed Felix over a squabble about where they were selling the wine.”

  “So you accept it was the native?”

  “Not the native that you mean. It was Catavignus.”

  For a moment all he heard was the steady plod of hooves and boots and the sobbing of a child in the crowd behind them. Then a deep sigh came from Metellus’s direction. It was followed by, “How hard did they hit you on the head, Ruso?”

  “It all fits.”

  “That’s what you said about Gambax.”

  “Listen,” urged Ruso. “I’ve spent the evening lying on the floor in a stinking hut thinking about this, because it was the only way to take my mind off wondering what the natives were going to do to me. Catavignus fell out with Felix about a business deal, and he didn’t want him to marry his daughter. He owed Felix money, probably to do with this house he’s supposed to be building. He overheard the argument in the bar while he was delivering the beer, which he did in person because he’s got designs on Susanna—”

  “And you can prove this, can you?”

  “We’ll need to check that part with Susanna,” said Ruso. “Felix went to visit Aemilia and give her a ring to shut her up, and Catavignus followed him from the house. They probably walked down the alley together, because Felix wouldn’t have realized—”

  “I’m sorry, Ruso. I don’t have time for this. Catavignus is our strongest local supporter and our main beer supplier. You’re the man who’s just ruined a major security sweep and you work with a bunch of madmen, layabouts, and runaways. In addition to which . . .” Metellus steered his mount closer until Ruso felt the soft warmth of the horse’s flank pressed against his knee, “How did the head get to where we found it? Our friendly local brewer would have to have been wandering around the countryside in the middle of the night carrying a severed head in a sack.”

  “Why not?” said Ruso. “He used to live up here. He’d know the way in the dark. He’d know how to get to that house without your guards seeing him. You can’t prosecute Rianorix while there’s a chance it could be him.”

  “We can prosecute whomever we want,” said Metellus as they turned the horses left and up onto the main road. “And even if we didn’t, we could always execute Rianorix for his part in tonight’s escapade.”

  “He tried to save me tonight!” insisted Ruso, “He and Tilla were—”

  “Did he? I saw him jump up out of the crowd and follow her. I’d say he was trying to stop her from intervening.”

  “But—”

  “You were confused, Ruso. It was night. Your life was under threat. There was a crowd baying for your blood. You don’t know what you saw.”

  Ruso rubbed the back of his aching head. “What will happen to the prisoners?”

  “They’ll all be questioned. Somebody must know where we can find the Stag Man. Then it’ll be up to the governor. I expect he’ll execute one in ten, or something. Nothing too drastic. After all, they didn’t actually kill you.”

  “Tilla and Rianorix tried to help me tonight,” insisted Ruso. “The man you want is Catavignus. You can’t trust him. He’s obsessed with furthering his business. He did a deal with Trenus to fix that cattle raid, and now he’s killed one of your men. If you don’t prosecute him now you’ll regret it later.”

  “I’ll regret it immediately if I accuse him with nothing to back it up.”

  “There must be evidence,” insisted Ruso. “It’s just a case of taking the trouble to find it.”

  “You seem very confident.”

  “I am,” said Ruso, wishing he were telling the truth.

  “Hurry up and find it by morning, then,” replied Metellus. “But you’d better come up with something better than coincidence and supposition. Because if you upset our tame local without good cause just as the governor arrives, you’ll be wishing I’d left you with the natives.”

  78

  GODS ABOVE, RUSO, look at you! Where have you been?”

  Ruso surveyed the lamplit wreckage of spills and leftovers that was all that remained of the guild of caterers’ dinner. A lank-haired woman in a dingy tunic bent down, peered at the floor, and retrieved a lone shoe from under a table. She turned it over, looked around for something to do with it, then placed it in the middle of the table and carried on piling dirty crockery onto her tray. “I went to look for Tilla,” said Ruso. “I got delayed.”

  “Well, you might have sent a message!” Valens lowered his voice. “I’ve had a very difficult evening on my own.”

  “So have I.”

  “And you didn’t even send Tilla.”

  “I know,” said Ruso, who had last seen her being marched toward the fort with the other prisoners.

  “My host offered me vast quantities of drink, far too much food, and a chance to form an alliance with the brewing trade. I was hoping for an emergency call, but everyone back at the infirmary is disappointingly healthy. Even Albanus let me down.”

  “Sounds better than the evening my hosts offered me,” said Ruso. “I’d better go and apologize to Catavignus for not turning up.”

  Valens wrinkled his nose. “Not looking like that, I wouldn’t. Where have you been, a farmyard? There’s mud on your clothes, straw in your— is that blood?”

  “Probably.”

  “And you smell of cows.”

  “I’ll tell him I fell off my horse. Back me up, will you?”

  Valens shrugged. “Why not? I can’t think how else you’d end up like that.”

  Catavignus was splayed across a chair in the far corner of Susanna’s kitchen. He seemed unaware of Ruso’s arrival. “And another thing!” he announced, flinging one arm wide to illustrate the vastness of the additional thing he was about to reveal.

  Susanna, clearing a space on the table for more dirty crockery, greeted Ruso and Valens with obvious relief.

  “I have never, ever looked at another woman since I saw . . .” Catavignus’s expression slowly rearranged itself into one of surprise. “Doctor! The food’s all gone. We’ll find you a drink.” Raising one finger to indicate a pause, he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look well.”

  Catavignus was effusive in his sympathy when he heard about the fictitious riding accident. Ruso doubted he would remember it—or very much else—in the morning. Finally Ruso suggested that the two medics would walk Catavignus back to his house.

  “I’m very busy,” said Catavignus, indicating the kitchen with another expansive sweep of the arm. “Lots to be done. Clearing up.”

  “Oh, clearing up is for women and servants,” said Ruso. “Come on, we’ll walk back with you. You can show us around the brewery.”

  Catavignus nodded. “Good idea,” he said. “Very good—oops. Can’t get up. Very low chair.”

  As Ruso and Valens took an arm each and hauled him up and out of the kitchen, Susanna gave them the sort of smile Catavignus was probably hoping for and was never going to get.

  Ruso had no particular plan when he extricated Catavignus from Susanna’s kitchen and waved aside the servants who had offered to help. He merely hoped that, since the man was probably guilty and definitely drunk, some sort of admission might slip out. Had he been less tired himself, and in less of a state of nerves after his ordeal with the natives, he might have been able to devise an ingenious sequence of questions that would lead to a confession. As it was, he could only interrupt Catavignus’s sentimental ramblings with a heavy-handed, “Just as well there’s three of us. You know what happened to Felix.”

  “Felix!” exclaimed Catavignus, tripping over an invisible obstacle and sending the three of them lurching sideways into the empty street
. “Dead.”

  “What exactly was it the natives did to him?” demanded Valens, steering back in the right direction and oblivious to Ruso glaring at him across the back of Catavignus’s neck. “Nobody seems to know.”

  “Nobody knows,” said Catavignus, shaking his head. “Nobody knows about Felix. Terrible.”

  “What do you think happened to him?” asked Ruso.

  “From what I hear,” chipped in Valens before the suspect had time to answer, “It was quite unpleasant—steady now. Right turn. Nearly there. Shall I knock?’

  “When was the last time you saw him?” asked Ruso.

  “Can’t see anybody now,” said Catavignus. “Very tired. Always tired after the guild of caterers’ parties. It’s all the organizing, you know.”

  The servant was unbolting the door. Running out of time, Ruso tried one last desperate move. “Catavignus,” he said, twisting to look into the man’s face and enunciating his words very clearly, “Did you kill Felix?”

  Catavignus looked past him and smiled. “Aemilia!” he exclaimed. “Ut vales, filia mea?”

  “Of course she heard, you idiot!” hissed Valens, pulling up the blankets over the now snoring Catavignus. “Why do you think she rushed off to her room? What on earth got into you to say something like that?”

  “Because it’s true,” muttered Ruso miserably. It seemed a poor justification. Aemilia had already endured the loss of both her lover and her dignity. Now he had given her fresh cause for grief.

  “Perhaps,” suggested Valens softly, “you might do me the honor of joining me in our host’s reception room to consume some of his wine and explain what on earth is going on.”

  “I’ll tell you on the way back,” said Ruso.

  “Back to where?”

  “The infirmary. They’ll need some help treating the injured.”

  79

  THERE WERE THIRTY-FOUR of them. Tilla knew that because she had heard the guards counting them as they were herded into the corner of the big courtyard where she had seen the men lined up to be identified.