Ruso and the River of Darkness

by R. S. Downie

  Ruso swallowed. ‘You still want me to carry on, sir?’

  The man frowned. ‘Am I not making myself plain? I’ve promised them an investigator. I don’t have anyone else to offer, so you’ll have to do. Consider yourself seconded to the council at Verulamium.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He was available, cheap – and expendable.

  ‘Ask some sensible questions and see if there’s any chance of getting their money back. It’s probably long gone, but while you’re there you can take a discreet look at this connection with the Iceni. I take it that, having worked alongside Metellus, you do know what “discreet” means?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ruso, his spirits sinking even further.

  ‘Last time there was trouble around here,’ continued the Procurator, ‘one of my esteemed predecessors got the blame for stirring up the Iceni with unreasonable tax demands.’

  So that was it. The man was trying to find out how hard he could push the natives if the money didn’t turn up.

  ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘all that business was sixty years ago. I doubt there’s anyone alive up there who remembers it.’

  Ruso wondered about the quality of the briefing the Procurator had received before taking up his post. Evidently nobody had suggested that he spend time listening to the locals. If he had, he would know that a lack of living witnesses made little difference to the Britons. If Camma’s people were anything like Tilla’s, the tale of How We Nearly Chased Off The Roman Oppressors would be lovingly polished, embellished and passed around the tribal hearths for many generations to come.

  ‘The natives have long memories, sir,’ he ventured. ‘But the Iceni woman who came here wasn’t hostile to Rome.’

  The Procurator grunted. ‘Hooking up with the local tax-collector could have given her access to a lot of information. I’m told the first one seemed friendly enough till some idiot upset her.’

  ‘Boudica?’

  The bushy eyebrows met again. ‘We don’t mention that name here, Ruso. And you’d be wise not to mention it in Verulamium, either.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Our people learned a lot of lessons after that little fracas,’ observed the Procurator. ‘It pays to keep the locals sweet. Give them money to put up a few grand buildings and let them run their own affairs. That way they do their falling out with one another, not with us.’

  Ruso reflected that the tribes down here must be very different to those in the North, with its dreary cycle of native raids and vicious crackdowns by the Army.

  ‘Honour the gods, obey the law and pay the Emperor,’ observed the Procurator. ‘The three secrets of success. Although since Hadrian generously made a bonfire of all the old unpaid tax bills, some of the tribes seem a little hazy over the last one. Any questions?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Good. Keep in touch, and watch your back. The Britons are a tricky bunch. Even the ones who speak Latin and know how to use a bath-house. You can never tell what they’re thinking.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Ruso, remembering last night’s chicken dinner. ‘I will.’

  25

  Firmus must have been waiting for Ruso to leave the Procurator’s office, because he appeared from somewhere and latched on to him as soon as he emerged. ‘So, what do we do now?’

  He seemed to have decided they were a team. Ruso said, ‘I’m going straight up to Verulamium to try and track down the money.’ And to find a way of keeping Tilla out of this business without mentioning Metellus. If there was even the slightest chance that she might be pregnant, he did not want to frighten her.

  Firmus was insisting on knowing what his uncle had said about the letter.

  Ruso said, ‘All it shows is that Asper was ill and confused.’

  ‘I don’t agree. With all respect to my uncle, of course. I think Asper was about to expose some sort of crook who had him murdered.’

  Ruso loyally defended the Procurator’s position, aware that he was talking too much and it must be obvious that he was lying. Aware, too, that he should never have allowed Firmus to get so deeply involved in this. The lad had been sent here by his mother to work in an office, not to chase thieves and murderers, and certainly not to get within the striking range of vipers like Metellus.

  Finally Firmus gave up. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘While I’m away, I’d be grateful if you’d forward any news that comes in to the office.’

  The aristocratic nose wrinkled. ‘That sounds boring.’

  ‘Most investigating is boring, sir,’ Ruso assured him, adding the ‘sir’ to try and re-establish the distance that he should have had the sense to keep between them all along. ‘It’s just collecting detailed information, and most of what you find out turns out to have nothing to do with what you want to know.’

  They were almost at the gatehouse now. Seeing them approach, Albanus raised one hand and hurried towards them, cramming his official writing-tablets into his satchel. ‘Sirs!’

  ‘I was just explaining to the Assistant Procurator that investigating isn’t as exciting as it sounds,’ said Ruso, noticing to his discomfort that Albanus’ eyes were bright and he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he was eager to say something. ‘For example, you’ve just spent the afternoon recording – how many sightings of the missing brother?’

  ‘Twenty-four, sir. Sir, I –’

  ‘Twenty-four. And how many of them are credible?’

  ‘Probably about three, sir. And even those contradict each other.’

  Ruso fixed him with what he hoped was a meaningful stare. ‘So would you say investigating was exciting, Albanus?’

  ‘It was a tedious afternoon, to be honest, sir.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ruso.

  ‘Until I found out what Room Twenty-Seven really means,’ continued Albanus, unable to resist beaming with pride as he destroyed all Ruso’s good work in a sentence.

  ‘Oh, well done!’ cried Firmus. ‘I knew you were wrong, Ruso!’

  At Albanus’ suggestion, they moved across to stand by the hitching-rail on one side of the courtyard. Horses might hear, but they would not talk.

  Apparently, as he sat listening to the various accounts of sightings of men with mangled ears, Albanus had watched the stream of people going in and out of the residence. Amongst them had been several couriers, most of whom delivered their items to the guardhouse at the gates to be distributed.

  ‘And that’s when I thought again about the letter, sir. And about the way my aunt’s letters got forwarded on to me after I left the Army, and that’s when it dawned on me. It doesn’t matter what you write on the outside. What matters is that the person who receives it knows what to do with it.’

  Albanus paused here, perhaps waiting for his listeners to catch up.

  ‘So where’s the real Room Twenty-Seven?’ demanded Firmus.

  ‘We saw it earlier,’ Albanus said. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is, when the men in the sorting room here get letters with addresses that don’t make sense, they put them all in the bottom right-hand pigeon-hole. And there they stay, until somebody comes to look for them.’

  So that was how Metellus did it. It was ridiculously simple.

  ‘Or until there’s a clear-out, whichever happens sooner.’

  ‘But that doesn’t prove that Room Twenty-Seven means anything,’ said Ruso, attempting to head them off. ‘It could just be a mistake by a dying man.’

  ‘It could, sir,’ agreed Albanus, ‘But the post-room clerk says somebody’s been writing to it every week. And the pigeon-hole hasn’t been cleared for a month, but there aren’t any Room Twenty-Seven letters in there.’

  ‘Somebody’s been collecting them!’ exclaimed Firmus. ‘Oh, well done, Albanus! So all we have to do now is keep a watch on the post room –’

  This was like trying to stop a runaway horse. ‘If the collector knows that Asper’s dead, he won’t come back for any more,’ said Ruso, hoping the youth would no
t stumble over someone seeking messages from other informers. Would Metellus use the same system for several people? He had no way of knowing, nor any way to contact him and warn him.

  Holy gods. He was starting to think in terms of warning Metellus now.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’m supposed to be finding the money, not tracking down missing correspondence.’

  ‘You are,’ agreed Firmus, ‘but I’m not. I’m supposed to be learning about administration.’ His smile was triumphant. ‘Administration includes post.’

  Ruso restrained an urge to grab the front of his tunic and shake some sense into him. He sent a disappointed Albanus back to the gate to see if there were any more sightings of men with only one and a half ears before continuing, ‘Listen to me, Firmus. This isn’t a game. We don’t know what Asper was caught up in, but it might well be the business that got him murdered. Whoever follows the trail is going to run into the same people, and you’re not …’ He hesitated.

  ‘I’m not what?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be involving yourself in this sort of thing.’

  ‘You were going to say, You’re not suitable because you can’t see past the tips of your fingers.’

  ‘That too,’ said Ruso, who wasn’t.

  Firmus drew himself up to his full height, which was at least half a head shorter than Ruso despite the fancy hairstyle. ‘I am the Assistant Procurator,’ he announced. ‘You have been given your orders. While you’re in Verulamium, I shall take whatever steps I consider to be necessary.’

  Ruso sighed. That was the trouble with the upper classes. They were very friendly until you tried to cross them. Then they pulled rank on you.

  This was going to be painful, but it was necessary. ‘Firmus,’ he said, ‘I have a job to do. If I think someone – anyone – is compromising my investigation, not to mention getting himself into danger, then I won’t hesitate to report him to the Procurator.’

  The short-sighted eyes narrowed, as if the youth were trying to assess whether he was joking.

  ‘I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me, but it’s got to stop. Straight away.’

  ‘But I thought …’ There was a tremor in the youth’s voice. ‘Ruso, I thought you were my friend.’

  Ruso felt his stomach clench, just as it used to in the early days when he was about to amputate a limb in the hope of saving the owner’s life. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, seeing hurt and bewilderment in the lad’s eyes. ‘I hope I’ve served you well. But we can’t ever be friends.’

  Firmus’ chin rose. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Thank you for reminding me. I am the Assistant Procurator of Britannia, and you are a man who chases criminals for money.’ He turned to peer around the courtyard, and then strode off in the direction of Pyramus, who was waving at him from a doorway.

  There was a bitter taste in Ruso’s mouth as he watched him go. No matter how often he told himself he had done that for the youth’s own good, he knew there would still be a whisper suggesting that he had done it to get himself out of trouble. And the whisper would have the smooth tones of Metellus.

  26

  ‘This is it,’ Camma said.

  Tilla stretched, stiff from the long journey, and shifted her balance on the seat as the carriage began to descend another slow incline. Nearer the town, the road was lined on both sides by graves and grand carved wooden memorials. It occurred to her that Asper would not be allowed such an honour even if Camma could afford it. In a town where she had no friends and a powerful enemy, she would be lucky if she were allowed a stick to mark his place. Tilla watched as she gathered up her shawl and the remains of the bread that neither of them had felt hungry enough to finish and wondered whether she had thought of that. If the people here really believed Asper had betrayed the town, his remains might not be welcome here at all.

  How did you honour a disgraced man? It was one of the many questions the Druids would have been able to answer, but Rome had seen to it that Druids were hard to find these days. Tilla was not sure she had ever met one. Nowadays ordinary people had to muddle along with only memory and tradition and guesswork, while the leaders of the tribes squabbled over whatever power the Governor was prepared to give them. With no one to settle the dispute over his wife, Caratius had been left to take his revenge. The whole thing had led to this dreadful mess – and it was not finished yet.

  There was a shout from the roadside. The carriage drew up beside the deep ditch and gatehouse that marked the edge of the town. Someone was asking the driver if he had seen a man called Bericus on the road. Camma whispered, ‘They have still not found him.’

  The driver denied all knowledge of the missing man, and the carriage jerked into motion again.

  Camma leaned forward to direct the driver. They passed a triangular temple precinct that smelled of incense and a grand inn that boasted glass windows and entered a busy street full of garish signs for snack bars and shops and lodging-houses – all, Tilla supposed, placed to tempt passing travellers. A couple of local men with chainmail over their scarlet tunics were lounging against a wall as if they had nothing better to do. Tilla peered into a bone-worker’s shop and was startled when the workman glanced up and winked at her. Farther along, a woman dressed in gold and green plaid shouted at a tethered donkey while one of her children howled and clutched at his foot.

  Tilla rejoiced in the unfussy hairstyles, the bright jewellery and, amongst the plain workaday browns, the bold stripes and cheerful colours that spoke of a people not afraid to enjoy themselves. After the pale and washed-out drapery that the Medicus’ people thought was tasteful, it was like a feast for the eyes. Yet oddly, instead of having ordinary round houses, this Southern tribe dressed in their no-nonsense tunics and trousers seemed to live like foreigners. Straight-sided buildings were crammed together in precise rows. Beyond them rose the dome of a bath house and the red roofs of a Forum and a Great Hall like the one they had left behind.

  She had not expected a tribal gathering-place to look like this. Londinium was a town of soldiers and merchants, created by Rome in its own image – but she had expected Verulamium to look more like home. How could you roast an ox over a good fire in the middle of all those buildings? Where could you all sit in a circle around the embers with the soft grass beneath you and your backs to the dark and children falling asleep in their mothers’ arms, listening to the stories of your people? The Catuvellauni had turned their meeting-place into something that was more welcoming to strangers from across the sea than to the people of their own island.

  Out in the street, progress slowed to a crawl and then stopped altogether. A man rapped on the back of the carriage and cried, ‘Looking for a bed, travellers?’ before glancing in at the shrouded body and hastily backing away. The driver reached into his bag for the remains of his lunch.

  Tilla stood up and peered past him. A string of pack-ponies had somehow spread themselves across the road and got tangled up with a flock of sheep. Passers-by were making futile grabs as woolly brown shapes leaped between shying ponies, parked vehicles and a man trying to deliver barrels. A terrier had decided to join in the fun and was rushing about snapping at the sheep, ignoring the whistles of its frantic owner. A couple of men in chainmail arrived and began to shout orders, but nobody seemed to be listening.

  By the time there was a clear route through the chaos, a manure cart had drawn up behind them. ‘Take the first on the left, up by the bakery,’ Camma called, grimacing at the stench.

  ‘I hope you ladies aren’t wanting to stop near the Forum.’

  ‘No, go on past, by the meat market.’

  They were moving again. Mumbling something that ended in ‘after a bloody market day’, the driver swung the vehicle round and urged the horses forward in the shadow of the Great Hall that made up one end of the Forum. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the road in such a way that there was barely room to fit another carriage in between. To Tilla’s disgust, the manure cart followed them. She lifted her ove
rtunic and inhaled through the fabric. It made no difference.

  Beyond the hall the driver called over his shoulder, ‘I’ll have to drop you ladies and move on.’

  ‘But we need help to unload!’ Tilla insisted, careful not to announce to the girl scuttling past with a basket of eggs and her nose pinched shut that they had brought a body with them. ‘My friend has just had a baby. She should not be lifting things.’

  Especially that sort of thing.

  Instructed by Camma, the carriage passed a meat market on the right and then drew up in the middle of the street outside a row of narrow timber-framed houses and workshops. The driver jumped down. ‘I can’t wait here, missus.’

  ‘You must help!’ insisted Tilla. ‘My husband paid you extra.’

  The driver’s eyes, red with the dust of travel, met her own. ‘They’ll have me for blocking the traffic.’

  ‘The housekeeper should be home from market,’ put in Camma, handing the box containing the sleeping baby out to the driver. He lifted it above the inquiring muzzle of a tethered mule and placed it in the doorway. ‘Grata will help us,’ she said, accepting the man’s offer of a hand as she climbed down from the carriage. ‘She will be waiting for us.’

  The complaints from the drivers jammed behind them fell silent as Julius Asper was unloaded on to the pavement. Even so, when their own man looked as though he might be stopping to help, there was a roar of ‘If you don’t get a move on, sunshine, we’ll bury you and all!’

  ‘Don’t stir yourself to help, will you?’ retorted the driver, jabbing his middle finger into the air just to make sure his point was clear.

  A voice from further back yelled, ‘She don’t need no help taking his weight, she’s been doing it for months!’

  Camma’s face was blank. With the shrouded body set down at the side of the street, the driver clambered back into his seat and urged the horses into a trot. The carriage jolted away down the street and the queue of traffic began to move at last.

  Camma turned to one of the house doors with her hand raised ready to knock and froze. ‘What’s this?’