Terra Incognita: A Novel of the Roman Empire

by Ruth Downie

  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.

  The army did not seem impressed with their prisoners. They had captured mostly old people and mothers with young children: the ones who had not been able to run fast enough. The storyteller and the naked warriors had vanished into the night.

  When the soldiers charged, Rianorix had grabbed her and tried to shield her. By the time they scrambled to their feet they found two Batavians with drawn swords standing guard over them. The soldiers had laughed—not kindly—when they recognized Rianorix.

  She lifted her head. The moon was being assisted by smoky torches, and all around her the yellow light flickered over shapes huddled on the cold gravel, sharing whatever cloaks and blankets they had managed to keep hold of in an effort to keep warm.

  The old man next to her heaved and coughed, the jerking of his head made visible in the darkness by the white stripe of bandage. When the doctors had been allowed in to treat the injured, she had feigned a sprained wrist, but the medicus was not there and Valens only had a chance to murmur, “Are you all right?” before assigning her to a bandager and turning his attention to the next person in the line.

  She had wanted to talk to the medicus. To explain to him that these people did not deserve to be punished. They were ordinary families: farmers and weavers and carpenters gathered for a traditional celebration spiced with the excitement of secrecy—and, yes, with the camaraderie that came from sharing their complaints about the Romans. But the celebration had become something she could not have foreseen. Under the leadership of the Stag Man, or the Messenger, or whatever he called himself, these ordinary folk had taken the medicus prisoner, worked themselves up into a frenzy, and threatened to murder him. As the big soldier she remembered from the clinic looped a bandage around her thumb and back around her wrist, she tried to think what she could say in her people’s defense. There was not a lot.

  Within what seemed minutes of arriving, the medical staff had been ordered to leave. “We just want them alive enough to talk,” one of the officers had explained to Valens.

  “You know who they will want us to talk about,” she whispered to Rianorix.

  “They won’t find out anything,” Rianorix assured her. “Nobody knows where he comes from. He’s very careful.”

  “But they all suffer for him.”

  “If we want freedom, sister, some of us will have to be prepared to suffer.”

  It sounded like a speech he had heard at a meeting. “But not him,” said Tilla. “He is very careful.”

  They paused as a guard walked past. When he had gone Rianorix hissed, “He is our best hope. What is the matter with you?”

  “There is nothing the matter with me!” she retorted in his ear, frustrated at the constrictions placed on the argument by the need not to be overheard. “You are the one who needs to open your eyes. I can see that he is bringing nothing but trouble.”

  “And what do your friends the Romans bring?”

  She grabbed his wrist. “The Romans are not my—”

  “No talking!” called out one of the guards. As one of the people translated the order for the benefit of those without Latin, he yelled again, “I said, no talking!”

  Over in the corner, a baby began to cry. A small voice wailed, “I’m cold!”

  There were several hisses of, “Sh!”

  The old man began to cough again.

  Thirty-four people. Children and mothers and grandparents.

  He is our best hope.

  Thirty-four people.

  We just want them alive enough to talk.

  “The Romans are not my friends,” she breathed. “But I am not fool enough to follow everyone who opposes them.”

  “You are much changed, daughter of Lugh.”

  “And you are just as stupid as ever,” she retorted.

  “You there! Stand up!”

  Tilla put a hand on Rianorix’s shoulder to urge him to stay down. She gathered up her skirt and got to her feet.

  “Come over here!”

  She was aware of heads lifting, frightened eyes following her, bodies shuffling to let her pass as she picked her way across to where the guard stood. Before she was near enough to be hit, she stopped. “I would like to see the commanding officer,” she announced in Latin, her voice clear in the silent courtyard. “I have some information to offer him.”

  80

  IT WAS STILL dark when Ruso realized that he was awake. This realization was followed by the niggling sensation that there were things he did not want to think about. But no matter how much he tried not to disturb them, the worries had woken with him and were already yawning, stretching, and preparing to accompany him for the rest of the day.

  Tilla: his girl, who had run away to Rianorix when she was in trouble and was now held prisoner with other natives over at headquarters. The girl to whom he had rashly offered marriage and who hadn’t even noticed.

  Thessalus: incurably sick and begging him to save the man who was stealing Tilla away from him.

  Aemilia: betrayed by her lover and now, if he succeeded today, about to learn that she had been betrayed by her father as well.

  Albanus: the clerk who was lying in bed with a fractured skull because of the inquiries he had made at Ruso’s request.

  Catavignus: the murderer against whom there was no evidence.

  Metellus: the schemer whose carefully planned security raid he had ruined.

  Then there was the carpenter he had failed to save. Even when Ruso had been minding his own business, he hadn’t succeeded in doing anything useful.

  He curled down under the covers and put his hands over his ears, but the whisper accusing him of being a bungling fool still filled his head. He came up for air, turned over, and sighed. He opened his eyes and stared at the looming shape of the barrel, just visible in the gray that was creeping around the edges of the shutters. He could only have been in bed an hour or two at the most, having been delayed at the infirmary dealing with injuries that were more the result of men charging around by moonlight with drawn weapons than of any resistance from the fleeing natives.

  How could anyone feel this tired and yet not sleep?

  He rolled onto his back and tried to breathe slowly and deeply.

  Did you kill Felix?

  Of course she heard, you idiot.

  He sat up, punched his pillow until it was fat and soft, then threw himself back down on it and tried to convince himself that things were not so bad. He must pull himself together. Make the effort to find something to look forward to.

  Batavian hospital porridge for breakfast was not much of a reason for rejoicing. It is officially summer was no better. You are getting out of this place soon was no consolation when he added, probably without Tilla. The dearth of any other reasons for cheer left him feeling more depressed than ever.

  He had no idea how much time had passed when he heard movement in the next room. It seemed that Valens, who had spent what was left of the night on a mattress shifted into the treatment room, was no longer sleeping. Ruso glanced at the barrel. He could make out the iron hoop around the base now. He pushed back the covers.

  It was dawn, Valens was already awake, and anyway, this was important.

  Valens wandered back from the latrine and grunted when he saw Ruso. “Do they need both of us?”

  “It’s not a call,” explained Ruso, sitting on the end of Valens’s mattress and wrapping his own blanket around his shoulders. It might be summer, but it was not warm.

  “Good,” replied Valens, climbing back under the covers and hauling ineffectively at the other end of the blanket Ruso was sitting on. “Uh, gedoff.”

  “It’s morning.”

  “Go away.”

  “You’re awake.”

  “No’m not.”

  “I need to talk to you.”


  “Me?”

  “I know,” said Ruso. “But there isn’t anybody else.”

  “It is all a bit of a mess,” agreed Valens. “You will keep getting involved in things, Ruso. Anybody’d think you didn’t have enough to do.”

  “I was asked to take this on,” pointed out Ruso. “Well, some of it, anyway.”

  “Still, look on the bright side. There’s a nine in ten chance that Tilla won’t be executed. Catavignus will probably forget what you said—”

  “Aemilia won’t.”

  “Well, if it’s true, she’d have to find out sometime, wouldn’t she? Best of all, the governor’ll be here today with the new man to run the infirmary, so you can clear off and leave it all behind.”

  “But it’s not sorted out.”

  “Never mind. You’ve done your best.”

  “What am I going to say to Thessalus when he finds out they’re going to execute his brother-in-law?”

  “You’ll think of something.” Valens yawned.

  “Let’s go over it step by step.”

  “Let’s go to sleep.”

  “There’ll be time for sleeping later. Listen. I’m not meant to tell anybody this, but I suppose it won’t matter. Since you aren’t really anybody anyway.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Officially, I mean. Officially you’re not here. So listen. When Audax found Felix’s body, somebody had cut his head off with his own knife.”

  “Oh dear. That’s messy.”

  “Exactly. He was probably dead already by then, but even so, it would have been pretty messy. Rianorix could have just run off in the dark and gone home to clean himself up. But Catavignus—”

  “Would have to change his clothes before going home in case he was seen,” said Valens. “Obviously. Are you telling me you haven’t thought of that before?”

  “I only found out last night what a nasty piece of work he really is,” pointed out Ruso. “And the next minute somebody threw a sack over my head and tied me up.”

  “I suppose that did make it difficult to get to dinner.”

  “So, what happened to Catavignus’s bloodstained clothes?”

  “Perhaps they went to the laundry.”

  “There’s no laundry here.”

  “Really? What do they do, then?”

  “I don’t know. I just leave everything outside the door and it comes back clean a couple of days later.”

  Valens sighed. “No laundry, no forum, no amphitheater, no decent shops . . . you know, I’m beginning to think women have a point.”

  There was a clatter from the kitchen, followed by the screech of yesterday’s ashes being raked off the hearth. Ruso tried not to remember the comfort that morning sound had once given him. He said, “Tilla would say ask the staff. I need to find a way of questioning Catavignus’s housekeeper.”

  “Only if you think any of this is actually worth the bother,” said Valens.

  “How else can I prove that he’s guilty?”

  “Never mind that. For some bizarre reason, you want to prove Catavignus guilty to save Rianorix. Yes?”

  “I want to prove him guilty because he did it. But yes, there are reasons why Rianorix has to be helped off the hook.”

  “But you already know they’re planning to nail Rianorix up on another charge. Really, Ruso. You might have bothered to think all this through before you woke me up.”

  “I think we should both be trying to save a decent colleague from the disgrace of a false murder confession,” pointed out Ruso. “And for whatever reason, Rianorix was trying to help me last night. Metellus can say what he likes. There were plenty of other witnesses.” He got to his feet. “The trouble is, he’s the one they’ll believe. I need to talk to the prefect before Metellus gets to him.”

  “Not at this hour.”

  “He’ll be awake,” insisted Ruso. “He’s having a visit from the governor today.”

  81

  NO ONE IN her family who had any honor had ever been inside the fort, and yet here she was again, this time standing in front of the desk of the commanding officer. She lifted her chin. She was not going to look submissive. Or nervous.

  “I will tell you what I know,” she announced, “if you promise to let the prisoners go.”

  The man reclined in his chair, looking faintly amused. “And what is it you know?”

  “Not until you swear to let them go.”

  He said, “I will decide what your information is worth when I hear it.”

  She looked into the deepset blue eyes. This was a man whose people had been crushed by Rome and who now oppressed others on the emperor’s behalf. How could he be trusted? On the other hand, what choice did she have? She said, “You must give me your word as the emperor’s servant that if what I say is good, my people will go home.”

  “You have my word,” he agreed, as if he still had some honor to lose.

  “My name is Darlughdacha,” she said. “Three winters past, in the time of year when the wheat was beginning to ripen, my home was raided by thieves under the command of Trenus of the Votadini. My family was killed, and I was taken as a slave. All our animals are stolen. One of the animals is a good bay mare, five winters old, dark all over with a few white hairs above the nearside front hoof.”

  She was interrupted by a quiet voice from behind. “Can I have a word, sir?”

  She turned to see the snaky one standing behind the door. The prefect beckoned him forward. The snaky one hissed in his ear for a moment. The prefect nodded. The snaky one slithered back to his place.

  “It seems you are better at recognizing horses than people,” said the prefect. “I hear you failed to help us identify the man who caused the wagon accident. I also hear that your father and brothers were known troublemakers.”

  “Is that why you do not give justice when Trenus raids our land, burns our house, murders my family?”

  “That took place under my predecessor,” explained the prefect smoothly. “I’m sure he would have dealt appropriately with any complaint. Now, what is it you would like to tell us?”

  Tilla clenched her fists. She must stay calm. She was here to save the living as well as avenge the dead. “I have seen that horse again last night,” she said. “And then when I see the younger storyteller—the second one—I remember where I have seen him before too. Three times now. Once in the yard at the Golden Fleece inn. And once riding along the hillside when the accident happens. And before that at Trenus’s house where he comes to share supper and accept the gift of the bay mare stolen from my family.”

  The prefect’s eyes flicked across to the other man. “Metellus?”

  “She’s got a motive for discrediting Trenus, sir. And last time she was questioned she said nothing about seeing this man before.”

  “I do not lie,” insisted Tilla, concentrating her gaze on the prefect and wishing the snaky one would stop interfering. “If you trust Trenus, you will be a very sorry officer. He is pretending to be your friend while he is supporting this man who stirs up my people against you.”

  Again the two men looked at each other.

  “Do you know where we can find this storyteller with the horse?”

  “No, sir. He is very careful. But Trenus must know someone who can tell you.”

  The prefect beckoned the snaky one to him again. There was another whispered conversation.

  When they had finished she said, “Now can the people go?”

  The snaky one stepped aside. The prefect sat looking at her, tapping a thumb on the edge of his desk. “Rome has no quarrel with the Votadini,” he said. “Why would Trenus want to cause trouble here?”

  “I only tell you what I know, my lord. I do not know what is in his mind.”

  The thumb tapped the desk again. Finally he said, “You were a slave to him for how long?”

  “Two years, my lord.”

  “You know his people.”

  “Some of them.”

  “You could be very useful to us.”


  “But my lord—”

  “Give us something definite on Trenus’s connection with the Stag Man and we’ll release your people. You have my word.”

  82

  RUSO AND THE nymph were watching the rising sun gilding the top tiles of the prefect’s roof when two people emerged from his office.

  “Tilla!”

  She turned to look at Ruso as the guard hustled her along under the portico.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Eyes front!” snapped the guard, giving her a shove that made her stumble, and they were gone.

  Moments later another familiar figure emerged. Metellus strode past the nymph and accosted him. “Your girlfriend,” he said, “is nothing but trouble.”

  “What’s she done now?”

  “Amazing how taking hostages jogs their memories, isn’t it? She’s suddenly remembered where she saw Stag Man before.”

  “She’s what? Let me talk to her!”

  Metellus snorted. “If I were you, I’d stay well away. You don’t want to be dragged down with her. Try thinking with your head for a change, Ruso.”

  Before Ruso’s head could come up with a reply, the house steward approached.

  “Prefect Decianus will see you now, sir,” said the steward, his tone suggesting that if it were up to him, he would have told Ruso to come back sometime next year.

  In the light of what Metellus had just said, Ruso wished he had.

  “You were supposed to report back in time for Metellus to organize a prosecution case,” said Decianus, lifting his arms while a crouching slave adjusted the folds of his tunic, “Instead of gallivanting over the hills getting yourself taken prisoner by barbarians.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  “I hear your deputy’s been arrested for trying to murder your clerk. You haven’t exactly restored order in the infirmary, have you?”

  “The clerk was investigating a fraud in the infirmary accounts, sir.”