Caveat Emptor (18 page)

36

T
HEY RODE OUT
beneath the arch of the south gate, Ruso automatically returning the gatekeeper’s salute as they passed. It was a scene that, captured in a painting, would have said all the right things about the benevolent rule of Rome. The procurator’s man on a gleaming bay gelding, accompanied by his smart native escort, all riding out of town on a spring evening to enjoy dinner with an influential Briton in his country house.

The painter could not have depicted the thud of Ruso’s heart as they left the safety of the town and headed out past the cemetery that would soon hold the remains of the murdered Julius Asper.
Dias had been in Londinium all along.
No picture could have captured the turmoil in his mind as he eyed the lithe form on the horse beside him and tried to recall the shape he had grabbed in Valens’s hallway. Was that a bruise just visible under the scarlet sleeve? Had that hood been hiding not a mangled ear but a flamboyant hairstyle shot through with red threads?

Dias was about the right height and build. There was no evidence now of any back problem that might prevent him from climbing in through the kitchen window. Either he had met a good doctor, or he had made one of the miraculous recoveries that disaffected soldiers sometimes enjoyed after medical discharge.

If Dias had been secretly working for the magistrate in Londinium it was not clear why he had bothered to take Gavo out drinking, but perhaps he was genuinely concerned to keep his protégé out of trouble. In any case, the youth’s presence might not have restricted him for long. Already flattered at being chosen for the Londinium trip, Gavo must have been thrilled to be offered a tour of the town in the company of his hero. He could have been too drunk to know when the evening ended or what either of them had been up to.

They were topping the gentle rise beyond the cemetery now. The spring sun was still above the trees but he was glad of his cloak: The sky was clear and it would be cold later. Apart from a donkey cart and a shawled woman hurrying along behind it, all of the traffic was heading the other way. Sensible travelers would be settled safely in town before nightfall. Ruso, on the other hand, was following the road out across open fields to visit a suspect who had a motive for murdering Julius Asper. He was in the company of an armed man he could no longer trust and a junior guard who, if the choice came, would follow his leader.

If I were you, I’d watch my back
. Publius had warned him. Tilla had warned him. He was an official employee and several people knew where he was going, but none of those things had saved Julius Asper.

He sneaked another glance at Dias, riding easily beside him. Now they were out on the open road, the man had added a long sword to his personal armory, dwarfing the wicked-looking knife he always wore on his belt. Why was the captain of the town guard bothering to perform a simple escort duty? He recalled the confused fight in Valens’s hallway, and the crater left in the plaster that might easily have been in his own head. If Dias realized he was under suspicion, then Ruso was in trouble. Besides, with Dias watching his every move, how the hell was he supposed to investigate anything? On the other hand, if he investigated nothing, that would look suspicious too.

He nudged the borrowed gelding over toward Dias’s mount. Above the gentle jingling of the fancy bridle trappings, he said, “I’m told Asper owed you money?”

“Not me. The lads. Wages for guard duty. I went to the house to find something to pay them with.”

“Any luck?”

“Didn’t have time. Some woman thought I was a burglar and went for me with a knife.”

Ruso could guess which woman that had been.

Dias carried on scanning the surrounding fields for the trouble that Ruso now suspected he was more likely to cause than to prevent. They were passing an overgrown track that led off to the left when he said, “That’s where the carriage was picked up. Stuck on a branch about twenty yards down.”

“Where does it lead?”

“A couple of farms. We asked around but nobody saw anything.”

Ruso walked his horse slowly forward between the lush grasses bowing in from either side. He stopped where the branch of an oak overhung the track. He could see no evidence of any attack that might have taken place here. The carriage could have been deliberately driven along the track to get it off the road—or the horses, with all night to wander about, could have meandered down here in search of a roadside snack.

Returning to the others he said, “While we’re out here, let’s see if we can see how Asper ended up on the river.”

Dias turned. The dark eyes seemed to be scrutinizing him, as if trying to assess how much he knew. Ruso forced himself to stay relaxed, knowing the horse might react to any tension, and Dias was not a fool.

Finally Dias said, “And what will that tell us, sir?”

Was there a whisper of insolence in the “sir”? Dias had had five years in the auxiliaries to practice being just the right side of insubordination. “Probably not a lot,” Ruso admitted. “But it’s your money, and you never know.”

Dias looked him up and down. “You haven’t got a bloody clue where the money is, have you?”

“Neither have you,” said Ruso, returning the candor, “or we wouldn’t be standing here.”

Dias’s face relaxed. “Move on!” he called over his shoulder to Gavo, the harness jingling louder as he urged his horse into a trot. “The investigator wants to look at the river.”

As the road approached the meandering river, it had been raised to cross flat watermeadows where the lowest patches were dotted with tufts of reed. Apart from the cover of the occasional willow tree, Ruso had to concede that it was a poor site for an ambush. The road was straight in both directions. The drivers of a couple of vehicles in the distance must have a clear and puzzling view of him and his escort, halting on each of the three bridges in turn. They could also be seen from the native farmsteads on the low hills around, most of which had been cleared of trees. There was a villa beyond a wood on one side of the road and, on the other, a grand stone memorial reminding travelers of some deceased landowner with plenty of money.

On the last bridge he stared into the dark water and watched long green fingers of weeds waving downstream. The river was no more revealing now than it had been when he had paused to inspect it on the way here. Still, on Asper’s last journey, it had been raining heavily. The traffic would have been lighter than usual and the visibility poor. If Asper had been attacked by men he recognized, they might have been able to get alongside before he realized he was in danger. There would have been no pursuit or ambush to alert his fellow travelers.

The water would have been higher with the rain too. High enough, perhaps, for a man to float downstream, abandoned for dead by assailants who needed to get away before someone else came along and saw what was happening. Farther along, Asper could have crawled out of the water. By morning he had gathered enough strength to frighten Lund’s children and steal his boat.

It was all speculation. The ambush-on-an-open-road theory was just about plausible, but none of it answered the question of what had happened to the missing brother.

The wooden bridge gave a dull boom as Dias’s horse stamped with impatience. Its rider said, “Tell you anything, sir?”

“Not really,” said Ruso, tossing a very small coin into the water for luck and hoping Christos, if he existed, was listening to Tilla’s prayers. “I think I’m ready for some dinner.”

They turned right off the main road soon after, Dias leading the way along a narrow unmade lane where grass sprouted between the wheel ruts. The gelding picked up its pace, recognizing the route. Ruso was aware of Gavo drawing up beside him, waving one hand to attract his attention and mouthing, “Sir?”

He slowed the horse, letting Dias draw away in front of them.

“Sir, I should never have said that about Dias. You won’t say anything to anybody, will you?”

“I’m sure he can explain,” said Ruso. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with him and sort it out.”

“But sir—”

“I won’t tell him who told me,” said Ruso. The youth evidently had no clue that he might be involved in covering up a murder. “With luck, he’ll never find out.”

The youth glanced at Dias, still a couple of horse lengths in front. He moved closer until his and Ruso’s knees brushed against each other and hissed, “Please, sir! It wasn’t anything bad. He just went to meet a woman.”

“I thought he spent the evening with you?”

Gavo shook his head. “In the end he had to, sir. Her husband was at home.”

“Ah,” said Ruso, who didn’t believe a word of it but could see why Gavo had been impressed.

“Please don’t tell anyone, sir. If his girl finds out, I’m dead.”

With that, Gavo drew back and left him to ride on alone. The gentle plod of hoofs on dried mud was accompanied by evening birdsong as they followed the track through fresh green woods that would have been an ideal ambush site but were implausibly far from the river.

After a couple of hundred paces the view opened to reveal the villa he had seen from the road: a two-story building with tiles on the roof, paint on the walls, and glass in several of the windows—which by British standards made it a high-class residence. Horses in the surrounding paddocks lifted their heads and trotted up to greet the new arrivals. A gray-headed figure that could only be Caratius appeared on the porch.

He had just raised one arm in greeting when there was a commotion behind them. The alarm calls of startled birds rose above the sound of someone crashing about and shouting. Ruso wheeled the horse around. Where Gavo should have been was an empty track. Dias, spear raised, yelled, “Keep back!” as he thundered past toward the woods. Over the hoofbeats, from somewhere deep in the trees, came a shrill and terrible scream.

It was all over by the time they got there. Gavo was standing triumphant, the tip of his spear pressed into the rough clothing of a prisoner who was lying facedown among the leaves.

“Got her, boss!” he announced proudly to Dias, and then to Ruso, “This woman was following us, sir.”

Ruso put both reins into one hand and swung down from the horse. As he knelt beside the prisoner, Dias approached and said something in British.

“Tell your man to stand easy, Dias,” said Ruso, relieved to see that the prisoner’s expression was one of indignation rather than pain. “There’s no danger.”

“She’s the associate of the Iceni woman,” said Dias.

“Yes,” said Ruso, sighing. “She’s also my wife. Would you mind letting her up, please?”

By the time Ruso emerged onto the track Caratius had arrived with a posse of excited farmworkers clutching pitchforks and horsewhips. His own escort was still wandering about the woods, trying to catch the horse that had fled from Gavo in all the excitement. Ruso jumped the gelding back over the ditch, then turned and leaned down to grab his wife’s hand as she leapt across onto the track with her skirts bunched up into the other fist.

The embarrassment of having to explain the arrival of an uninvited dinner guest who was still picking twigs out of her hair was something Ruso would later try very hard to forget. Caratius made an effort to be polite but the tone in which he said, “From the North, I see!” suggested that if Ruso was going to marry a Briton, he might have made a more civilized choice. Indeed, it probably looked as though Ruso had failed to mention her before because he was ashamed of her.

As Caratius showed them around the estate, Tilla seemed to be trying to make up for her bizarre behavior by being unusually sociable. She was busy complimenting their host on the mares and foals grazing in the paddocks when Ruso wandered a few paces farther along the track, which carried on past the house. He stopped. The river had not followed the course he had assumed. Instead it had swept round in a wide curve. Not only did it flow across Caratius’s land: down there in the shifting shadows of the willow trees he could make out some sort of planking and mooring posts.

It was difficult to concentrate on the tour of the stables. He barely noticed the tack room, hung with plenty of jingling decorations for Caratius’s slaves to polish. He had to force himself to pay attention to the conversation as they paused to watch a very small boy in man-sized boots hold the halter of a gray stallion while a man clamped its nearside hoof between his own thighs and circled it with a pair of long-handled pincers, clipping off a hard crescent of extra growth.

When Caratius finally left them in a hall that smelled of roasting beef and mold and went to warn the cook about the extra guest, he hissed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I am here to protect you.”

“I thought you couldn’t leave Camma on her own?”

“She is not on her own,” said Tilla, looking pleased with herself. “The housekeeper came to pay respects to her master. She said she will stay while I am out.”

“Well, don’t say anything careless. I think the guard captain was Valens’s burglar.”

“I told you,” she whispered, “you cannot trust these people.”

She lifted her hands to tuck a solitary primrose into her ruffled hair. She was still flushed after the chase through the woods. How did this woman always manage to be desirable at inconvenient moments?

“Turn round,” he ordered her as a slave approached clutching a towel. “Stand still. You’ve still got pieces of leaf stuck to your back.”

37

T
HE MEN HAD
gone into the dining room ahead of her. Tilla settled herself on the stool, leaned against the wall, and stretched out one leg so the slave could struggle with the knot in the damp leather lacing of her boot.

She had made a fool of herself, and the Medicus was embarrassed. Still, it was better to be a fool than a widow. Better to be embarrassed than to suffer some “accident” at the hands of the Catuvellauni. He would come to see that in a day or two. And at least she was getting dinner.

When the slave had finished drying her feet and taken her boots away to clean, she was ushered into a big room where instead of good beef there was all sorts of fiddly food set out in red bowls much like their own on a low table. Her husband and Caratius stopped talking and turned to look at her as if they had been discussing something important and secret. Perhaps Caratius had been trying to find out what the Medicus knew about the murder. Or perhaps he had been giving his own side of the marriage story that both he and Camma had been too embarrassed to tell in Londinium.

She sat in the wicker chair, relieved that this house did not have those terrible dining couches to go with the foreign food. She had never understood how people could eat lying down. It was against all common sense. A slave poured her watered wine, then offered her olives and oysters. She knew it was an odd combination. She might be a Northerner but she had traveled across the sea to places that most men like Caratius could only dream about. She supposed he was trying to impress.

Perhaps she had been worrying about nothing. Caratius did not know he was under suspicion. Besides, the man had spent money on the dinner. He would not do that if he were planning to attack his guest. He had just brought the Medicus out here to tell him what to think.

She glanced at her husband’s bowl. He had stayed with the oysters. She helped herself to a couple of olives. The taste reminded her of Gaul. Caratius was boasting about his wine specially imported “from a man I know in Aquitania” and how their grandfathers had been friends and how he was thinking of inviting him over here to help set up a vineyard. The Medicus very politely did not say that his own family had been making wine back in Gaul for years and that anyone—even a British woman who preferred a good beer—could tell that it was better than the rubbish the grandfather’s friend was sending over.

Caratius carried on gulping down oysters and ignoring her. He was too busy explaining why the Council would do well to listen to him in future and how the Medicus ought to go about his investigating. The Medicus was saying very little, perhaps waiting for Caratius to give something away by mistake.

Her hand slipped down to massage her bare toes. She could have outrun that big lad. She had been watching them for most of the journey. Neither of the so-called guards had paid any attention to a woman in a nondescript shawl hurrying along the road to get home before dark. None of them had noticed her slip into the woods. Even when she had startled a magpie and the big one had spun around and spotted her, she could have gotten away. She flexed her toes and rubbed away a sliver of grazed skin. If only she had noticed that tree root.

She shivered. The evening air drifting in through the window was chilly and Grata’s shawl was damp after its roll in the leaves. Outside, she could see the Medicus’s guards leading the stray horse up the track from the woods.

One of the slaves came in to light the lamps. Caratius stopped talking for long enough to grab another oyster and order the shutters closed. Before he could start again she said, “Have you told the investigator that you invited Julius Asper here to see you on the day he was killed?”

The point of Caratius’s spoon skidded off the edge of the oyster and narrowly missed stabbing his thumb. The Medicus glared at her. Later on, no doubt, he would tell her he had a plan and she had wrecked it. When really, he was trying to find a way to ask, and not doing very well at it.

Caratius put the oyster down. “I think you are mistaken.”

“I have been told,” she said, “that he was not going to Londinium at all. He had a message to come here and see you. I have spoken to the housekeeper who took it.”

“Here? No, no, no. I never wanted to go near the man. Absolutely not.”

He turned to the Medicus. “This is the sort of thing I was telling you about earlier. False rumors. Cursing in public places. Vindictive behavior. I wasn’t even at home that day.”

That, of course, meant nothing at all. He could still have sent the message and ordered the murder. She said, “Asper thought you wanted to talk about—” She stopped. Outside in the hall, an old woman was shouting in British for help.

As they all leapt to their feet, Caratius was saying, “Please don’t disturb yourselves!” and heading for the door. It burst open before he got there. A little woman with sparse white hair was shouting in a cracked voice, “They are here! Warriors in the woods!”

Caratius moved to put himself between her and his guests. He said in British, “It’s all right, mother.” He took hold of one thin arm and tried to steer her back out of the room. “They’re just guards from town rounding up a loose horse. They won’t hurt anybody. Mother, have you been hiding food again?”

“Let go of my bag!” Her hands were like claws, clutching a grimy sack to her chest. “I need my bag!”

The waft of roasting beef from the kitchen mingled with something more pungent.

“Just go to your room, mother. Nobody wants your bag. Where’s that dratted girl?”

The woman peered past him. “What are those people doing in my house? Are they the ones who took our silver?”

“They’re visiting, Mother. Guests come to share a meal. It’s nothing to worry about.”

A maid hurried in, flustered, and took the old woman by the arm. As she was led away she was still saying, “There are men in the woods!” and the maid was trying to reassure her.

Caratius turned to the Medicus. “I’m sorry. My mother is having a bad day.” He cleared his throat. “You may have understood her talking about stealing. Please don’t take offence. She’s not well.”

Tilla said, “Have you lost some silver?”

Caratius shook his head. “My mother remembers many things, but not in the right order. My grandfather’s stock of silver was lost sixty years ago. If it ever existed. I’m sorry you were disturbed.” He clapped his hands and a servant stepped out of the corner to stand at his shoulder. “We’ll have the beef.” He turned back to his guests. “Now, as I was saying …”

As he went back to talking about the Council, Tilla was distracted by a whispered conversation in the doorway behind her. The servant who was supposed to be fetching the beef hurried back into the room and murmured something into his master’s ear. Caratius hissed in British, “Can’t it wait?”

The servant did some more murmuring. Caratius’s body jolted as if someone had just shot an arrow into his back. He looked at the Medicus. Suddenly efficient, he said, “Investigator, you need to come with me.”

Before she could say anything, the Medicus gave her a look that said if she tried to follow, he would be very angry indeed. On the way out she heard Caratius giving someone orders to bring lanterns. She needed her shoes.

The hall was empty. Behind the farthest door she could hear the mother’s anxious voice and the maid still trying to calm her. The main door was open. Servants and farmworkers had clustered out in the yard. All had their backs to the house and were standing looking toward the darkening woods.

What had the servant done with her shoes?

As she entered the kitchen a tabby cat leapt off the table, onto the sill, and out the open window. The steaming joint of beef sat abandoned on the table in a pool of congealing grease. The platter held the small clean wipes of tongue marks.

She found the shoes set back from the fire. The damp leather was cold and clammy around her feet. She had just closed the window shutters to keep the cat out when Caratius’s mother wandered into the kitchen. The maid was close behind, looking almost as desperate as her charge. “Your little boy is a man now, mistress. He will make sure you are safe.”

“You’re lying to me!” insisted the mother. “Everybody lies to me. What have they done with my son? Where’s my bag? I saw the warriors!”

“Your bag is here, mistress. You have everything you need. Your son is safe. We’re all safe now. Come back and eat.”

“Where’s Father? Father is still down there. He thinks he can talk to them.”

The maid shot Tilla a look of despair across the gloom of the shuttered kitchen.

“Your Da is in the next world with mine, Mother,” Tilla assured her.

The woman backed away. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” Tilla told her. “Your Da and mine are in the next world talking about the breeding of horses and my brothers are arguing with them and my mother is asking why they always have to shout.”

“We don’t care about horses. Father is a silversmith. We live behind the workshop. Who are you?”

“She’s a friend, mistress,” said the maid.

“A friend?”

“Yes.”

The old woman’s grip was surprisingly strong. “Where are your children?”

Tilla said, “I have no children.”

The woman shook her head. “No, no. Always know where your children are. Always have a bag behind the door. See?”

She held out the bag. It did not smell good. “Bread and cheese, a blanket and a—a—”

“A comb,” prompted the maid.

Trying to coax her toward the door, Tilla said, “Very good.”

“Yes. Somebody will always take you in if you comb your hair and look respectable. Mother says so.”

As they passed, the maid murmured in Tilla’s ear, “I think it’s seeing those men set her off. She thinks she’s a child again. Her father was killed when the Iceni raided the town.”

“What’s that? What is she saying?”

There was nothing wrong with the old woman’s hearing. “We are all safe here, Mother,” Tilla assured her.

“That’s what they told us. The warriors will never come here. The army will stop them.”

“The army has stopped them.”

“Put your shawl over your nose when you run through the smoke. Hold Mother’s hand.” The bag fell to the floor as the thin hands went up over her face. “Don’t smell the man with his clothes on fire. Don’t hear them calling for help.”

“It is over now.”

“Can you hear the other mothers?” The vein tracks on her hands glistened with tears. “Listen! They are calling for my lost friends who went out to play.”

Tilla swallowed. She put an arm around the thin shoulders.

“Always keep a bag by the door,” whispered the old woman. “Always know where your children are.”

By the time Tilla and the maid had settled the mother with a large cup of strong beer (sometimes, according to the maid, it was the only way), it was dark. Tilla went out onto the porch. She could hear the voices of the men returning from the woods. There were three lanterns bobbing about by the track. A couple of them headed off toward the stables. The third came back toward the house. She unfastened the safety strap on her knife. In all the fuss with the mother, she had forgotten the Medicus altogether. Anything could have happened. “Who is there?”

“It’s all right, Tilla.”

She relaxed her grip on the knife. “What is happening?”

She could make him out now, on the left of a group of five or six men. Dias was one of the two supporting a stumbling Caratius. Caratius, unusually, seemed to be having trouble with his words. “I still can’t believe … To think that … Out there all this time … How terrible this must … I never thought anyone would stoop to this!”

The Medicus was talking to him in the way he spoke to his patients. “Don’t worry about it tonight,” he was saying. “Just go indoors, keep warm, and have a hot drink with some honey in it.”

“Whoever did this has no fear. No fear of gods or men. We are all in danger.”

As he came into the light, Tilla could see a leaf caught in the long gray hair and mud smeared across his face. All of the men seemed to have muck on their clothes and boots and there was a smell about them that she did not like. The Medicus followed them into the house. As he passed Tilla he murmured, “I’ll just get him settled, then we’re going straight back to town.”

“But what—?”

“While they were rounding up that horse in the woods,” he said, “they found the remains of the missing brother.”