Terra Incognita: A Novel of the Roman Empire (49 page)

“Rake it out?” The slave looked understandably appalled. “I’ve just got it ready to fire! The malt needs to be dried now or it’ll go over. The master’s very particular.”

“Please,” said Aemilia, taking Ruso by the arm. “Do as he says.”

“But miss, your father—”

“I’ll tell him it was my fault.”

“Have you noticed any odd smells in the burning lately?” inquired Ruso as the slave knelt by the hole and began to gather up the kindling.

“There’s always odd smells,” grunted the youth, reaching for the rake and crouching to insert it at an awkward angle. “If it burns, it goes in here.”

Ash began to pile up outside the mouth of the tunnel. The youth’s hands and arms and knees were smeared in soot. He had a black mustache where he had wiped his nose on his arm. “I can’t get any more out, sir. You’ll have to get a little kid to go right inside if you want it done properly.”

“We haven’t time,” said Ruso, imagining what a ghastly job it would be.

“I’ll just get something to put this ash in, miss.”

When he was gone Ruso took the rake and poked at the crumbling flakes of wood ash.

“Nothing,” said Aemilia.

He took a deep breath, got down on his knees, and reached an arm into the stinking black depths of the flue. He could feel the soft powder rising in the air, entering his nose and eyes and coating his skin. This, he realized with disgust, was where Catvignus had hidden the sack containing the head until he had decided to deposit it as evidence outside Rianorix’s house. He groped about in the grit of the ash that remained on the floor, ramming his shoulder farther in, praying for one of Tilla’s miracles. He realized he was no longer interested in proving anyone’s innocence or guilt. He was desperately hoping to prove—to himself, if nobody else—that he was not a total fool.

His fingers closed around brittle half-burned sticks. Scraps of broken pot. Then something thin and woven and pliable. He drew it out, blew off the dust, and lay it on top of the brushwood waiting to be burned. He and Aemilia stared at it.

It was a scorched fragment of old green rag.

Ruso swore.

Aemilia said, “That’s an old tunic Ness was using for cleaning.”

“I suppose Ness can testify to what she saw that night,” said Ruso, disappointed. “It’s not very conclusive, though.”

A nosebleed would surely make stains very different from those of an attack on another human being. The tunic would have been just the evidence he needed, but he was not going to find that evidence now. In the distance, a trumpet sounded. Ruso scrambled to his feet and looked over the wall of the yard and down toward the river. A carriage with a large escort was making its way across the bridge. A red-cloaked formation of Batavian cavalry, glittering and immaculate in the sun, was trotting down the road to welcome it.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, wiping the soot from his hands onto his tunic.

“What shall I do?”

“Talk to Ness. Find out exactly what she saw and tell her she must talk to officer Metellus.” It might make a difference, although Ruso suspected not. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Behind him, he heard the slave begin to restack the kindling in the stoke hole.

85

I
T WAS A
good morning for burglars. Inns were abandoned, houses deserted, the forge and the carpenter’s workshop fallen silent. Even the painted whores had emerged into daylight, jostling with shoppers and slaves and traders and veterans for a position by the side of the road. Small children wanting a better view were trying to clamber onto the backs of older brothers and sisters. A mother was urging a toddler to wave at the cavalry, perhaps in the hope of a surreptitious wink from beneath the brow of a polished helmet as its owner rode out to meet the man who was bringing the authority of the emperor.

It was a good time to be a burglar. It was also a good time to sidle up to a man and murmur over his shoulder that he might like to follow you to somewhere more private.

Trenus’s bodyguards closed around her immediately, but he motioned them to stand back. “What do you want?”

Tilla murmured, “Have you forgotten me so soon, my lord?”

He turned and looked her up and down, taking in the pinkened cheeks. The low neck of the blue tunic.

She forced herself to slide a hand around his thick waist. She hoped he would not notice that the borrowed sandals were too big.

“You ran off,” he said.

“You should ask your wives who took me,” she said. “And ask them what they did with the profit.”

His eyes narrowed. “My wives? What profit?”

Her hand slid lower. “I have missed you, my lord.”

A smile twitched beneath the mustache.

“Quick, while my uncle is not here.” She moved away from the crowd and stepped toward a gap between two houses.

Incredibly, he seemed about to follow. Then he seemed to regain some grip on common sense and glanced at the bodyguards. One pushed her aside and strode into the narrow alleyway. The other gestured to her to follow him.

The alley smelled of urine and the walls on either side were green with old dampness. She thought,
Only a fool would come down here in the
company of an enemy.

There were footsteps behind her. Trenus was following while the other bodyguard watched the entrance.

Moments later there was a cry ahead of, “Clear, boss!” and she emerged into the daylight to find the bodyguard leaning against the back wall of the house, gazing across an empty yard with his arms folded. Just as she remembered Trenus’s other men doing years before. As if what was about to happen to her was nothing to do with them.

She thought,
If I had a knife I might take him now.
But of course she had not been allowed a knife. Besides, back at the fort, thirty-three people, who should have known better but who did not deserve to die, were depending upon her.

So when Trenus emerged from the gap between the houses, she seized his hand, led him under the cover of an almost-empty wood store, and said crisply, “I have to speak with you, my lord.”

Her arm was rammed up behind her back. The smell of his breath made her want to vomit. “Let me go!”

“I didn’t come here to talk.”

“Let me go, or I will tell you nothing.”

He slackened his grip, frowning. “What can you tell me?”

“It is private,” she said. “Tell your man to stand farther away.”

He eyed her for a moment, then gave the order.

“Farther still,” she demanded. When the man was out of earshot she said, ‘I know you are helping us to get rid of the Romans. If my people knew that, they would feel as I do. But they might wonder why. They might think you were trying to get rid of the army so you can take what we have for yourself. They might ask whether you can be trusted.”

“That’s my business.”

“They will not follow a man who will not give his reasons.”

“And they’ve sent a girl to tell me that?”

“No. What I want to tell you is that the soldiers have the Stag Man’s horse keeper among the prisoners in the fort. Sooner or later someone will give him up. And the Romans will find a way to make him talk.”

There were cheers from the street. They must have caught sight of the governor. Trenus said, “Who told you?”

“I saw him. I was taken too. But the Romans trust me. I’m with an officer, and Catavignus is my uncle. They think I’m on their side. They don’t know that I remember the Stag Man and I remember him coming to your house to collect the horse. If that prisoner talks you are in danger.”

The noise from the street grew louder. The bodyguard was distracted, trying to peer down the alley.

“And you’re telling me this,” said Trenus, “because you like me?”

“I never liked you,” she said, pulling her arm free. “And I don’t like you now. If you touch me again I shall scream
rape.
” Nobody in the noisy crowd would hear, but she hoped he would not think of that. If only she had a knife. “When my uncle heats the mash, he leaves the windows open to clear the steam,” she said. “I was outside in the street. I heard you arguing with him. I know now why he thought I was dead. And I know that I owe you a debt.”

“Catavignus wanted us to finish the lot of you,” said Trenus. “In return for the livestock. But I thought that was a waste.”

“You showed me mercy,” she said, forcing herself not to be distracted by what she could see going on behind him. “This is why I am warning you now. Get out before the army arrests you.” She hesitated. “And think about giving my people reason to trust you.”

He grinned. “Tell your people the Votadini don’t like being told what to do by Rome any more than you do. When the time comes, we’ll be there.”

“Good.” Tilla smiled, and stepped back out of the way. “You have told me everything I wanted.”

Too late, he sensed movement behind him.

As the soldiers dragged Trenus and his hapless bodyguards off toward the fort, Metellus appeared. “Nicely done,” he said. “And I understood nearly every word without the interpreter. If anyone asks, we’ve just rescued you from an attempted rape.”

“Do not speak to me,” she said, rubbing the pink off her cheeks and kicking off the sandals she had borrowed from the maid of the prefect’s wife. “I owed him a debt, and I have paid it.”

“So I gather,” said Metellus. “You should be working for me. Have we really got the horse keeper?”

“No. And I would never work for you.”

“But you just have,” pointed out Metellus. He turned to a soldier who had appeared from the alley. “All going smoothly out there?”

“Fine, sir. All cheering like they mean it.”

“Excellent.” He seized Tilla by the wrist. “I don’t imagine you want to pay us another visit, so stay out of trouble.”

She lifted her chin. “The others should go free.”

“Of course. You have the prefect’s word. When we have time, we’ll let them all out.”

“You will not hurt them?”

Metellus frowned. “I don’t remember that being part of the agreement.”

86

T
HE PRISONERS WHO
had been cluttering the headquarters courtyard had been shifted somewhere out of the way, the waste buckets removed, and the gravel hastily raked into military lines. Ruso’s preparations had been less precise. They had consisted of rushing into the infirmary, ducking his head around Albanus’s door, and saying, “Glad to see you awake!” before wiping off the worst of the soot, flinging on his best tunic, seizing the sword he had failed to sharpen, diving into armor that looked remarkably clean considering he had forgotten to ask anyone to polish it, and strapping everything up on the run across to headquarters.

As he slipped onto the end of the row of officers beside Metellus, he realized the aide was also out of breath. Mercifully the governor was still taking his time. Staring straight ahead, Ruso murmured, “Catavignus came home late on the night of the murder in bloodstained clothing.”

“Not now, Ruso.”

“Where’s Tilla?”

“You stink of soot.”

Audax, stationed at the end of the row opposite, glared at them.

“The servant saw him,” Ruso insisted, struggling to talk without moving his lips. “His daughter heard him say he’d had a nosebleed.”

“I shall be glad when this is over,” muttered Metellus. “Even Gambax is trying to pretend he knows who did it now.”

Ruso risked a glance at him. “What’s he saying?”

“Who cares? If he knew, why didn’t he come forward when it happened? He’s trying to do a deal to save himself.”

Ruso was not able to argue, because at that moment the governor strode into the courtyard.

Everything that could gleam had been polished, including the top of his head. Everything that could jingle or glitter had been attached. Leaving his flunkies lined up by the entrance, the governor made his way around the silent and rigid rows of Batavians, with Decianus one pace behind, inspecting and commenting and pausing to chat with several of the men. Each side was clearly determined to impress the other, and Ruso curled his toes in frustration. He wanted to know what Metellus was going to do about Catavignus. He wanted to know what had happened to Tilla since she had been marched out of the prefect’s house. Instead, he was compelled to stand like a statue while the governor—admittedly the nearest thing to a god that was likely to visit Coria this summer—wandered about at his leisure.

The great man was progressing down Ruso’s row. He could hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. Somewhere ahead of him, a man tried to stifle a sneeze. There was movement in front of Ruso now. The footsteps paused. Ruso hoped the great man would not inhale too deeply and choke on the stink of soot.

“Has this officer come straight from duty?”

“From the infirmary, sir,” agreed Decianus.

The great man moved to stand directly in front of Ruso. “I take it things are busy at the infirmary?”

The required answer was,
Yes, sir
. The appropriate tone was one of enthusiasm, gratitude for being singled out, and a sincerity that would imply that Ruso’s scruffy turnout was the result of heroic and self-sacrificial devotion to the emperor’s service.
Yes, sir.