Caveat Emptor (15 page)

29

T
HE BARTENDER WAS
right. According to the eager farmer who dragged the gate open and ushered Ruso into his yard, the river monster was at least eight feet tall and broad as a bull. It had snatched the family’s boat from its mooring and hurled it into the middle of the river before chasing the terrified children into the woods. To Ruso’s relief, the farmer was able to explain all this in reasonably fluent Latin.

His children, whose ages ranged between about four and ten, were neatly lined up beside him. Their skinny frames were clothed in tunics that were patched but clean and their hair was combed. The girl, who was the eldest, wore a chain of fresh daisies around her neck. All three nodded enthusiastically every time they heard, “Ain’t that right, kids?”

They escorted Ruso down a muddy track to where the monster’s footprints could be seen across the open grass leading up from the empty mooring post at the river. The prints were marked by wilting clumps of wild garlic, which had miraculously sprung up the day after the visitation.

“Remarkable,” said Ruso, noting a swathe of similar plants growing under the trees on the far side of the clearing.

Lund and his group of witnesses led him around a curve in the bank to a freshly hollowed tree stump where a pinch of incense could be burned to appease Ver, the life-giving river. There was no charge for this service as long as you brought your own incense: Ver did not approve of exploiting his followers. He did, however, look especially kindly on those who left gifts glistening in his gravelly shallows. If the officer cared to look closely, he could see the sorts of offerings left by earlier visitors. Did he see the way the sun caught that gold coin over on the left, behind the big red pebble? The man who left that coin went straight home and found news of a legacy waiting for him when he got there. “Ain’t that right, kids?”

It seemed several visitors had reason to thank the native god. Another donor had been promoted to centurion. A third had been healed of a broken arm.

“Remarkable,” repeated Ruso, shielding his eyes with one hand and peering into the water to admire the shiny trinkets scattered there, one or two of which were already showing spots of rust. Behind him the eldest child observed in British, “He don’t look very rich, Da.”

“Shut up and keep smiling,” replied the father in the same tongue. “You can never tell with these foreigners.”

Ruso, who had truthfully told the man that he had only been in the province a few days, suppressed a smile of his own and wondered how best to deal with this. There was no malice in the harmless nonsense about the river monster. Clearly the family was not wealthy, and if they managed to make a little money out of gullible travelers, it was probably no worse than the followers of—

He curtailed that thought, just in case Mithras was able to read men’s minds. He was conscious of the family watching as he delved into his purse and pulled out one of Valens’s silver denarii. It would be worth more than all the rubbish in the river put together. “Does the god answer questions?”

The children looked at their father, who hesitated. It seemed nobody had made this request before. “What sort of questions?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to a man who came from Verulamium,” Ruso explained. “He was badly injured and he ended up a long way down the river in a small flat-bottomed boat that seems to have been stolen. I’m wondering if the river god might have seen what happened to him.”

In the silence that followed, he was conscious of the gurgle of the water in the shallows and the distant cry of a drover on the North road.

“I don’t want to get anybody into trouble,” he said, flexing the base of his thumb so the coin on his palm lifted and tipped over. The sun glinted on the squat profile of Vespasian. “And I wouldn’t want to upset the monster. But perhaps one of you could have a word with the god and see if he could give me a few pointers.”

The father sent the younger children back to the house in the care of the oldest girl. When they had disappeared around the bend in the river, he said, “Please don’t be angry, sir. They are just kids. He frightened them.”

“And he grew into a monster?”

“Just a bit of fun. With the taxes and a sick wife and the price of seed corn, we need money.”

Ruso flipped the denarius over again, then held out his hand for the man to take it. “Tell me,” he said.

Soon afterward Ruso’s horse was picking its way back along the shady track toward the main road and its rider was deep in thought.

Very early on the morning after Asper had disappeared, Lund’s children had gone down to the river to fetch water. A terrifying figure with blood on his face and mud all over his clothes rose from the reeds farther along the riverbank and demanded to know where he was. The first Lund knew of it was when he heard them running toward the house screaming about a monster. By the time he reached the bank, the boat had been loosed from its mooring and was drifting out of sight around the bend in the river. He could not see if there was anyone in it.

He had accused the children of untying it and inventing the monster to avoid a beating, but they all told the same story and passed it on to the neighbors’ children. Within a couple of days the tale had grown and spread along the course of the river. It was some time before Lund heard about the disappearance of Julius Asper and began to wonder if the monster—who might originally have fit his description—had something to do with it.

“Are you sure there was just the one man? Could there have been somebody with him?”

“Just the one,” insisted the man. “We did him no harm, sir.”

“There were two men went missing.”

“If the brother was here, the dogs would find him,” said the man, grasping his meaning.

Ruso paused, distracted. “Is that your wife coughing?”

“The same all through the winter, sir.”

Most people suffered from coughs and chilblains through the damp British winter, but generally those who survived had recovered by now. “Has she seen a doctor?”

“They all try something different. Now she is thin as a stick and brings up blood.”

There was no point in offering a further prognosis. It would not be good. “Leek juice with frankincense might help a little,” he suggested, wishing he had brought his supplies with him. “And whatever they tell you, don’t let them bleed her more than once every three weeks.”

Before he left he remembered to tell the man where his boat was. It was not much consolation. Turning the horse’s head north, he rode past an elderly couple shuffling along carrying a basket full of cabbages and leeks between them. He wondered what sort of welcome Tilla had received in Verulamium. With luck he would sort out this Julius Asper business to Metellus’s satisfaction and her name would be erased from the list. If not, as soon as it was over he would suggest they pack up the red crockery and the baby clothes and take the next ship back to Gaul.

30

T
HESE DAYS
H
ADRIAN
’
S
reforming zeal had seen to it that all lodging houses for traveling officials were centrally administered. The majority of every mansio’s staff, however, were bound to be locals. Ruso suspected there would still be a wide variation, not only in style, but in the guests’ confidence that nobody might have spit in the soup. However, he was optimistic about Verulamium. It was a major town on one of the busiest routes in the province. The governor must travel this way regularly on his trips to the troubled North. If the natives here were the sort who wanted a theater, they would also want to impress with the size of their bathhouse, the jingle of coins at their market—and, hopefully, the welcome they afforded to the representatives of Rome.

Before he could sample that welcome, he found himself held up outside the town gates. Easing the sweating horse past a couple of vehicles whose drivers were obliged to wait in line, he saw that the delay was being caused by a couple of natives sporting military-style chain mail and red tunics. One of them was the strapping youth who had been escorting Caratius around Londinium. They were equipped with daggers and their spears looked like standard army issue, but in the place of swords they wore stout wooden clubs. He recalled his conversation with Metellus: presumably the routine wearing of swords would have indicated that the local guards had ideas above their station.

Today they were stopping everyone to ask in both British and heavily accented Latin whether anyone had seen a man named Bericus. They were looking very bored with the job until Ruso asked whether a carriage with two women, a baby, and a body had arrived from Londinium. The big one glanced across at the sound of his voice and announced, “It’s the investigator!”

His arrival seemed to straighten their shoulders and brighten their eyes. After confirming that his wife had arrived safely, Ruso followed the guard’s directions though a grid of busy streets and introduced himself to the bandy-legged overseer of the mansio stables. The man put down the bridle he was inspecting and shouted what sounded like “He’s here, lads!” in British before ordering one man to lead the horse away across the yard, a second to carry the investigator’s luggage around to reception—“Is that all you’ve got, sir?”—and a third to fetch a drink. “I’m Rogatus, sir,” he said, adding, “We’ve been expecting you,” as if Ruso might not have guessed. He glanced around, evidently looking for something. “Just you at the moment, is it, sir?”

“Just me.”

“I’ll take you across to your rooms right away. When your men arrive we’ll tell them—”

“There aren’t any men. It’s just me.”

“Ah! Well, not to worry. You’ll find everyone very willing to help. We’re all loyal to the emperor here.”

“Good,” said Ruso, wondering why it was necessary to say so.

“Always the first to send in our taxes, sir. Famous for it.”

Ruso refrained from pointing out that the town was known less for enthusiastic taxpaying than for being ravaged by people who wanted to pay no taxes at all. “Is everyone expecting me, or were you told in confidence?”

The man looked surprised, as if it had never struck him that an investigator might want to be discreet. “No, sir. The chief magistrates had a notice read out in the Forum this morning. You’ve been announced in both languages, just in case.”

Ruso suppressed a sigh and grasped the welcome cup of cool water. As he drank, the man stepped aside to deal with a question about a damaged axle before returning to say, “They said anyone with information was to come forward and tell you, sir.”

Clearly the Council had given up any idea of keeping the loss a secret. Now the whole town would be waiting to see what the procurator’s man would do about it. He had escaped from a small gang of willing helpers only to be confronted with a large one.

“You can be the first,” he said. “Tell me about Asper’s transport. Was it one of the public vehicles?”

“Asper had a warrant, sir. He made official journeys.”

Evidently they thought he was here to inspect the transport arrangements too. He handed his cup to the hovering servant and indicated that they could talk as they walked. “Did he always drive himself?”

“We didn’t have a man available, sir. It was pouring rain, and he was late starting out. His brother could drive.”

“So you did him a favor by letting him take a decent carriage.”

“The tax had to be delivered, sir.”

Asper had not given a reason for the late start, and Rogatus had not felt it was his place to ask.

They passed between gateposts where deep gouges at axle level bore witness to overoptimistic steering, and turned into the street. Rogatus explained that the carriage had been found the following morning, abandoned by the side of the road two or three miles out of town.

“Still with all the horses?”

“We were very lucky, sir.” Perhaps in case this sounded too cheerful, he added, “Not like that Julius Asper.”

Shooing a couple of children aside with a cry of “Make way for the procurator’s man!” he led Ruso toward a long low building. Its pristine white limewash gleamed, its glass windows glittered, and it seemed to occupy most of the rest of the block. Ruso’s hopes rose.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Asper was on a busy road: Do you think a carriage could be ambushed without anybody seeing it happen?”

Rogatus raised a grimy hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Hard to say, sir. It was a wet old afternoon. Nobody would be out if they could help it, and if they were, they’d be trying to keep under cover.”

Ruso paused at the foot of the low stone steps leading up to the reception doors of the mansio and tried not to be distracted by the smell of frying chicken. “If the horses were spooked, how far do you think they might bolt?”

This appeared to be some sort of insult. “We got our animals well trained here, sir.”

“I’m just wondering where the men and the carriage actually parted company.”

Rogatus, mollified, confirmed that it was “a heavy old vehicle” and was unlikely to have gone far without a driver.

Ruso said, “I’ll need to look at it.”

Rogatus looked at him as if he had just suggested interviewing the horses. “It’s out at the moment, sir. I’ll tell the boys you’ll be needing to see it.”

“I’ll need to talk to his, ah—where can I find a woman named Camma?”

The stable overseer’s face brightened. “She’s just turned up this afternoon, sir. I hear she’s back at Asper’s house with another young lady.” Ruso supposed the man was well placed to hear all the gossip of comings and goings. Reassured, he decided there was no need to rush across there.

“It’s a bad old business, sir.”

Ruso agreed. His foot was on the bottom step when he heard, “What do you think the procurator will do about it?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said. He had a feeling he was going to be repeating that many times over the next few days.

31

T
HE MANAGER OF
the mansio, a lean and gray-haired retired cavalry officer called Publius, was also expecting the investigator. In fact he brought his young wife out to greet him as well. The wife looked refreshingly bored at the prospect of meeting a tax man and disappeared as soon as the formalities were over. Ruso dismissed a vague feeling that he had seen her somewhere before and followed her husband through the reception area and out under a covered walkway that led around a series of rooms forming three sides of a formal garden.

“You’ll have to make the most of us as we are, I’m afraid, sir.” Ruso noted the encouraging smells and clattering sounds from the kitchens as Publius was waving his walking stick toward the garden wall and explaining about the improvements he had hoped to put in place in time for the emperor’s visit. “I can’t see them being agreed until the missing money turns up, sir.”

“I’ll do my best,” agreed Ruso, who had never been called “sir” by a cavalry officer before and decided he liked it.

“You’re in Suite Three, sir.” Publius paused under the walkway to unlock a door that led into a dim corridor. “That leads out to the alley by the stables,” he said, aiming the stick at the streaks of light that outlined an exit straight ahead. “The key’s on the hook, so you can come and go as you please.”

Ruso was less interested in the hefty iron key hung above the lintel than in seizing the chance to talk while there were no servants or wife around to overhear. “Tell me,” he said, “what do you make of the locals?”

“They’re a fine bunch of people, sir. Good to work with.”

Ruso sighed. “Not the official line, Publius. If I’m going to find this money, I need to know the truth. What do you make of the locals?”

The cavalryman paused, then said, “Ambitious. The emperor allows them to run their own Council and town guard. The town’s on a junction of two main roads, so there’s a lot of lucrative trade comes through here. They’re talking about building a theater.”

“Friendly?” prompted Ruso hopefully.

“When it suits them.”

Ruso suspected that if he asked too many difficult questions, it would not suit them for long. “Who would you trust?”

Publius cleared his throat. “I’m probably not the best person to ask, sir.”

“Because?”

“Because, sir, you work for the procurator’s office, and the procurator’s office is in charge of mansiones and transport, and if I tell you what really goes on, I’ll be getting myself and a lot of other people into trouble.”

“I’m not inspecting anything,” Ruso promised him. “Just hunting for the money.”

The stick clunked against the wall as Publius leaned back and folded his arms. “I’m appointed by Londinium,” he said, “but I’ve got to get along with the suppliers who are near enough to deliver. So I’m not going to tell you about the councillor who overcharges us for the horses he breeds, or how the stable overseer declares them unfit two years later even when they aren’t and sells them at a nice profit to himself. I’m certainly not going to tell you that the same overseer takes bribes to slip ordinary letters in with the official post, because doing that would be illegal.”

“Absolutely,” said Ruso, recognizing the descriptions of Caratius and Rogatus. “It’s best that I don’t know about any of that. Anything else you’re not going to mention?”

“There’s the other important councillor whose country estate supplies us with wildly overpriced meat for the kitchens and animal feed that we could get a lot cheaper twenty miles up the road. I won’t be telling you about him.”

“No, don’t.”

“Because if I do, then to be fair I’ll have to complain about the number of jumped-up officials who come through here demanding services they don’t have the warrants for and threatening to report me if they don’t get them. And then I’ll be in trouble with everybody for not clamping down on it, as if they think I’m some sort of miracle worker.”

“I can see that.”

“Frankly, sir, once you’ve been in this job awhile you stop trusting anyone. But from what I can gather, it’s no worse here than anywhere else.”

“What do you think’s gone on with Asper and the tax money?”

“I haven’t a clue, sir. But if I were you, I’d watch my back.” Publius reached for his stick. “Now that I haven’t told you anything, sir, if you’d like me to show you your rooms?”

Publius resumed his well-practiced introduction about keys and bathing and arrangements for dinner. “Your dining room and kitchen are through this door on your right, sir. Since you haven’t brought your staff, we’ll serve your meals from the main kitchen.”

His dining room?

Staff?

“I’m afraid at this hour we can’t really make changes to the menu—”

“As long as there’s plenty of it,” Ruso assured him.

“And this—” The man flung open a door on his left with a flourish. “This is the rest of Suite Three.”

Ruso had been surveying the rest of Suite Three for some time before he remembered to close his mouth.

While Publius was saying something about notifying reception of any guests, Ruso was gazing across the expanse of scrubbed floorboards to the open door beyond and wondering how many cavalrymen Publius would have billeted in a space that size in his former career. Even in the civilian world there would be room for a doctor, his wife, several putative children, and as much crockery as any respectable citizen could accumulate.

His reverie was interrupted by a question about his men.

“I’ve allocated a room just across the garden, sir, unless you’d like some bedding moved into here?”

“I haven’t brought any men,” he confessed. The surprise on Publius’s face recalled the disappointment of the stable overseer. “I prefer to work alone.”

“Well, you know best, sir. I’ll have some water brought over for washing. If there’s anything you want, you just have to ask.”

“Thank you. I’ll try not to demand any services I’m not entitled to.”

The cavalryman grinned. “Oh, demand away, sir. We’ve got orders to give you every assistance. The Council wants you kept sweet.”

Several minutes later, Publius’s confidence that Ruso knew best might have been dented by the sight of him throwing his traveling clothes into the corner, standing on tiptoe with his fingers stretched toward the plastered ceiling, and then giving a “Hah!” of delight as he flung his naked form across the bed.

The sheets smelled of lavender. The water in which the slave had just washed his feet smelled of roses, and he himself would cease to smell of horse just as soon as he had finished testing the bed, consuming the drinks and pastries thoughtfully laid out on the table in his reception room, putting on the clean tunic provided, and taking himself out through his own private exit to visit the public baths. He wasn’t even going to have to pay. The foot-washing slave had just trotted off to fetch a baths token.

He was deciding that there was, after all, something to be said for being the procurator’s man, when he heard the slave tapping on the reception room door.

“It’s open,” he called, not bothering to move. He heard the hinges of the outer door creak as he took another sniff of the sheets. A man could get used to this. “Just leave it on the table.”

There was no reply. Instead of retreating, whoever was out there was striding across the floorboards toward the bedroom.

If I were you, I’d watch my back.

What if it wasn’t the servant?

Someone lifted the latch.

Where the hell was his knife?

Ruso was off the bed, across the room, and flattened against the wall just as the door opened to hide him.

A broad-shouldered figure entered the room, looked around, then closed the door and said, “So it is you, Ruso.”

“Serena!” His hands clamped over his groin as his eyes met the piercing gaze of a woman, who, had she been male, would have been considered handsome. He swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

“My cousin thought she recognized you.” The thick brows met in puzzlement. “Why are you hiding behind the door?”

“I thought you were a slave,” he explained with a lack of clarity that he felt was excusable in a man who had just found himself naked in a bedroom with his best friend’s wife. “Then I thought you might not be. Uh—how are you?”

Serena looked him up and down and gave a sigh that suggested the weariness of a woman who was used to dealing with naughty boys. “Put some clothes on, Ruso.”

As he fumbled his way gratefully into the clean tunic, he heard, “I suppose he’s sent you to ask me to come home.” Before he could reply she said, “Well, don’t bother. I shan’t listen.”

Finally emerging into daylight, he said, “To be honest, I didn’t know you were here.”

She pondered that for a moment. “But he knew you were coming?”

“Valens?”

“Who else?”

Ruso, seeing where this was heading, tried, “Possibly.”

“Possibly,” she repeated, as if she was trying the word to see whether or not she liked it. “Well, did he, or didn’t he?”

Ruso straightened a crease across his shoulder. “Yes.”

“So,” concluded Serena, raising the eyebrows and arching her neck in a way that reminded him of an intelligent horse, “my husband knew you were coming here, and he knows I am here, but he didn’t even trouble himself to send a message.”

Ruso reached for his belt. “I wouldn’t say he didn’t trouble himself, exactly …”

“No,” said Serena, seizing the door handle. “I don’t suppose you would. But then, what do you know about it?”

Before he could answer, the door slammed shut. “Not a lot,” he confessed, gazing past the space where she had just been standing and wondering if that crack in the plaster had been there before.