Caveat Emptor (3 page)

5

L
ONDINIUM REMINDED
R
USO
of a child whose mother had dressed it in a huge tunic and announced, “You’ll grow into it.” Four years after his first visit, there was still no sign of the town expanding to fit the massively ambitious Forum. Its red roofs dominated the skyline on the far side of the marshy brook separating Valens’s end of town from the wharves and most of the official buildings.

Joining his own footsteps to the dull thunder of feet on the nearest bridge, he wondered how the hell he could walk away from the tax office without getting Valens into more trouble than he deserved.

He was distracted by snatches of conversation in a blur of languages: words of complaint in Greek, the first half of an old joke in Latin, and something Eastern. As he passed the gaudy bar where he had first discovered that the native brew really did taste as foul as it smelled, he overheard two trouser-wearing slaves arguing in an oddly strangled burble and realized with a shock that it was British. He had spent much of the voyage struggling to wrap his tongue around the complications of Tilla’s native speech, but Tilla was from the North. Now it seemed that if his efforts were to be of any use, he was going to have to perform some sort of mental swerve onto a new track.

He passed the timbered workshop of a cobbler who had once repaired his boots. He nodded to some native god at a street altar, resolving to give proper thanks for a safe voyage as soon as he had time. Moments later he was enjoying the simplicity of Latin as he explained himself to the guards at the grand gatehouse of the Official Residence.

It seemed that the governor had ordered improvements to be made to the Residence in his absence. Ruso followed the guard across the courtyard, through the hall of the main building, and out into what should have been a formal garden area where the great man and his guests could enjoy a grand view of the river. The view was intact but the garden had been converted into a temporary builders’ yard. Their progress was accompanied by the musical clink of stonemasons and the crunch and rattle of someone shoveling gravel. A cargo of roof tiles was being unloaded from a vessel moored against the governor’s private steps. A chain of slaves was passing them along and the last man was stacking them inside the clipped rectangle of a box hedge as if they were some kind of delicate plant.

The guard escorted him past the fish pool and around a pile of timber blocking one side of the walkway. Ruso ducked under a scaffolding pole to see a makeshift sign that read, “Procurator’s Assistant.” Beyond it, he was ushered into the dank chill of a room where the plaster was still drying out.

This wing of the complex might be imposing one day but at the moment nothing was quite finished, and that included the official behind the desk. Firmus was indeed frighteningly young. He had the smooth cheeks of a boy, the nose of a patrician, and the tan of someone who had not just spent a winter in the Northwest provinces. These were arrayed beneath what Ruso supposed was the next fashion in haircuts.

As he approached, a bent slave leaned forward to whisper something in one of the aristocratic ears.

“So you’re Ruso,” the youth began, squinting as he looked him up and down. “I’m told you’ve done some work for the governor’s security chief?”

“Just an isolated case, sir,” said Ruso, hoping Metellus was still safely up on the northern border and had not been seconded to the finance office.

“And you’ve also worked for the Twentieth Legion?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never met an investigator before,” the youth confessed. “At least, not as far as I know.” The squint reappeared. “You’re not what I expected.”

“I was with the Legion as a medical officer,” said Ruso, wondering what an investigator should look like.

“Ah,” said the youth, nodding slowly. “Very clever. Good cover.”

“I’m not a spy,” Ruso explained. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really—” He stopped.

“Not what?”

Ruso hesitated. Assuming she survived, Camma would be expecting him to look for her husband. Silently cursing Tilla’s eagerness to help and Valens’s ability to tell the wrong lies for all the right reasons, he said, “I’m not really here on business.”

Firmus’s eyebrows rose. “I hope you’re not suggesting you have something more important to do than to help the emperor’s personally appointed finance administrator?”

Ruso cleared his throat. “No, sir.”

“Excellent. So, where do you want to start?”

Ruso scratched one ear with his forefinger. “I’ve had a word with the Iceni woman already, sir. She says his brother’s gone missing as well.”

“There are two of them now? Why didn’t she say that before?”

“She may have been distracted, sir. Apparently the brother’s called Bericus. He only has half of one ear, so he should be easy enough to find.”

“I hope we aren’t running around chasing the fantasies of a madwoman.”

Ruso pondered this for a moment. Tilla had been convinced by the woman’s story, but they barely knew her. “We could send a messenger to Verulamium to check,” he said, “but we’ll lose the rest of the day waiting for an answer. Are we sure the money’s missing? What do your staff know about Asper?”

Evidently Firmus had not thought to ask.

“I’ll get a description out along the docks in case they try to leave the province.” It was a commonsense move that Firmus should have made straightaway, and even then it would probably have been too late.

The youth’s eyes widened. “You think they might be here?”

“If they’ve stolen a lot of money and one of them’s abandoned his wife, I’d imagine they’ve already left on the first ship they could find.”

“Ah.” Firmus pondered that for a moment. “If they have, we’d better keep it quiet until we check with the procurator. We don’t want a big fuss with the natives, especially when we’re leading up to the emperor’s visit.”

“Hadrian’s really coming at last?” asked Ruso. There had been unfulfilled rumors about an Imperial tour of Britain for years. “Do we know when?”

“When he decides,” said Firmus, who evidently did not know himself. “He’s on the way to Gaul now. We’ve already had orders to tighten up on government transport. I’m personally organizing a survey of milestones. Whenever it is, we intend to be ready. Now, do you have everything you need?”

“Almost,” said Ruso, wondering what else an investigator should ask for. “We just need to talk about payment.”

Firmus recoiled, as if payment were not a suitable subject to be discussed in a finance office. He left Ruso to listen to the sound of hammering while he went to consult someone else. Moments later he reappeared with a short balding clerk who lisped through the gap in his teeth, “We will arrange an official travel warrant, sir.”

“And the fee?”

“It’s not policy to offer fees in addition to salary, sir.” The
sir
was added in a tone of practiced insolence that suggested years in some division of military service involving neither danger nor discomfort. “You’ll have the honor of serving the procurator.”

“But I’m not on a salary,” Ruso pointed out. Another problem occurred to him. “I’ll need a translator if I’m going out into the countryside.”

Firmus glanced at the clerk. “You can ask the Council to give you somebody when you get there,” he said, seizing the wrong ground to fight over.

“The Iceni woman’s saying the Council can’t be trusted,” Ruso pointed out. “Their man could lie to me. I wouldn’t know.”

The youth gave him a look that said he was not sure whether he could trust Ruso, either. The clerk offered to send a message over to the fort. “They might be able to spare somebody, sir.”

“No need,” put in Ruso before they could lumber him with an unwanted helper. “I know someone who can do it.” Interpreting the local accent would not only get Tilla out of Valens’s house but—with luck—take her mind off babies and tableware.

The lisping clerk looked doubtful. “I hope his name’s on the official list, sir?”

“It’s unlikely.”

“But are you sure he’s a reliable man?”

“Speaks it like a native,” said Ruso, skirting the question. As for reliability—since Tilla viewed Southerners and Romans with equal mistrust, bias would not be a problem.

“It’s very unusual, sir,” murmured the clerk, managing to invest the word
unusual
with meanings that ranged from “extravagant” to “rash” via “setting a dangerous precedent.”

“If you can find somebody who’ll do this job cheaper,” said Ruso, “go ahead. You’d be saving treasury money.”

Firmus glanced at the clerk, who shook his head. “I’ve inquired about the investigator we usually use, sir. He’s not available.”

“Why not?”

“Knifed by a farmer who didn’t want to pay his corn tax, sir.”

Firmus wrinkled his patrician nose.

“But that was up North, sir,” the clerk assured Ruso. “The natives have more manners down here.”

Ruso, who had spent several years serving up North, hoped he was right.

“Well, we don’t have a choice,” said Firmus. He turned to the clerk. “Give him ten denarii. Ruso, after that you’ll have to send a note of your costs into the office and I’ll ask my—I’ll ask the procurator if they can be reimbursed.”

The clerk leaned closer and murmured, “You’ll want to set a maximum sum, sir. A limit beyond which further authorization—”

“Thirty denarii,” said Firmus, suddenly decisive.

“Are you quite sure, sir?”

“Yes.”

“It’s your decision, of course, sir—”

“Yes, it is.”

The clerk gave Ruso a hard stare before gliding out of the room.

Firmus’s chair scraped back across the concrete as he rose to ask the most intelligent question of the whole meeting. “Am I doing the right thing in hiring you, Ruso?”

“You’re doing
something
,” Ruso parried.

“But is it the right thing?”

“Nobody ever knows that until later,” said Ruso, warming to the youth. “If the first thing doesn’t work, you try something else. After that, it’s up to fate.”

He was glad none of his patients were listening.

6

T
HE BABY
’
S SQUASHED
features held an expression of puzzlement, as if he would work out what had just happened to him if he lay quietly and thought about it for long enough. Tilla lifted a loose strand of his mother’s hair—the same color as his own—from his face without waking her, and bent to kiss the top of his head. Then she tucked the bundle of soiled bedding and washcloths under one arm, picked up the basin of water, and nudged the door open with her foot.

Downstairs, she could hear muffled voices from Valens’s consulting rooms. Her husband’s was not among them. He had gone out to talk to a man in an office about hunting for the baby’s missing father.

Still faintly surprised every time she took a step and found that the floor was not rolling beneath her feet, she made her way to the back of the house. The slave boy rammed the dirty linen into the top of a bag that smelled as though someone should have taken it to the laundry days ago, and then flung the contents of the bowl out the back door into a display of last year’s dead plants.

On the way back upstairs, Tilla wondered again what had happened between Valens and Serena. This could not be a planned absence. A grand house like this, with consulting rooms and corridors and more beds than people, was impossible to manage without the staff to run the kitchen and trim the lamps and sweep the floors and beat the mats. Or to open the shutters and let some light into the upstairs rooms so that guests could see to unpack.

Camma was still asleep. The baby’s eyes were closed. Tilla watched to make sure he was breathing, then went back to her own room to fold the heap of clothes she had tipped onto the mattress in her hunt for something clean for the woman to wear. She crouched down and shoved the crate of crockery out of sight under the bed. With luck, they would soon have enough money for lodgings where there would be room to use it. She lifted a second box onto the mattress and unbuckled the strap.

Inside was a collection of swaddling bandages and little tunics and soft leather bootees. Cushioned in the middle of a small folded blanket was a pottery feeder with a baby-sized spout. All were items that her new sister-in-law in Gaul hoped never to need again. “They’re hardly worn,” she had said, insisting Tilla take the box as they were tying the last of the luggage onto the farm cart and countering her objections with, “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be needing them soon!”

The words had been spoken with the casual incomprehension of a woman who had five healthy children.

Her husband had also told her that a baby would happen before long, and that he was not worrying. For some reason this was supposed to reassure her. But she did worry, because even though he was a medicus, he did not know the whole of the story.

There were things that a man might think he should be told when a woman agreed to marry him. She had chosen not to mention several of them. But lately one had floated up from the depths of her past like a bloated and long-dead frog surfacing in a pond after the ice had melted. She fingered the sheepskin of a little boot and wondered if the gods were angry with her.

She had not lied to him. Not about that, anyway. She had tried to drop hints, but he had not understood. She was not sorry. Men were unreasonable about that sort of thing. Especially Roman men, who seemed to have one standard for women and another one for wives, as if wives were not women but were creatures that arrived wrapped and packaged straight from the heavens with no past—except perhaps being somebody else’s wife, which was respectable enough. Roman females were, it seemed, expected to spend their early years waiting to become wives. After that it was their duty to boss the servants about, make things out of wool, and produce lots of children. It was perhaps no wonder that they sometimes lost their tempers and flounced off, taking the servants with them.

She had spun yet another fleece and made a few braids on the journey—there was not much else for a passenger to do on board ship—but she had no servants to boss, and instead of children, she had produced only a monthly disappointment.

Across the sea in Gaul, she had tried the herbs and charms that worked for other women. She had prayed to Christos too. It had annoyed the Medicus, and perhaps it had annoyed Christos as well. All through the chill of winter, the medicines had failed and the prayers had been ignored—perhaps because she was neither sorry for her sins nor ready to forgive her enemies.

Now that she was back on her native island, things might be better. Even if her own goddess could not hear her down among the Southerners, there would be other gods that she could bargain with. Gods who were not interested in sins or forgiving people. Gods who would not care what you had done last time you were with child. Gods who would reward you for helping other women bring new life into the world, and would perhaps understand how hard it was for you to give their babies back to them.

The apprentices seemed happy to watch mother and baby for her while she went out. Valens had promised he would keep an eye on them. He had politely not mentioned that an hour ago she had told him to get those boys out of the room right now and clear off himself.

She stepped out into the cool air of a bright spring afternoon. The great cities of Gaul had smelled dusty and sweaty, but this place smelled of fish and woodsmoke, sewers and stale beer. She followed an old woman and a heavily laden donkey down the narrow street to where the breeze was chopping up the surface of the Tamesis into jewels.

The great river had sunk into the middle of his channel since this morning. Gulls were perched on the masts of ships that lay beside the wharf at odd angles, like stranded fish, waiting for the tide to lift them off the mud. Ahead of her, a slave was positioning a sign above a warehouse door. She dodged aside as his companion stepped back to see if it was level. A youth overtook her, trundling an empty handcart that bounced and boomed with every bump in the road. Over the din, a soldier and a dark-skinned man were arguing across a stack of barrels. Nobody paid her any attention. Nobody stared at her blond hair or commented on her clothes. She was home.

Just past the bridge, a woman was dozing beside a fish stall. Tilla watched as a chunk of bread slipped from her hand and fell to the ground. A couple of pigeons pattered toward it, but Tilla got there first. She shook the woman by the shoulder.

The woman jerked to attention and cried in Latin, “Fresh in this afternoon, lovely mackerel! Oysters from Camulodunum!”

Tilla pressed the bread into her hand and said in her own language, “You dropped it.”

The woman blew on the bread, examined it, and wiped at the dust with a grimy fist before trying again in British with a strong Southern accent. “Fresh mackerel for you, miss? Oysters? Eels?”

“No fish,” said Tilla. “I am a stranger here. I’m looking for three people. The first is a man of thirty-four named Julius Asper. Brown hair and a scar under one eye.”

The woman shook her head. “Never heard of him.” She had never seen Julius Bericus, either.

“Never mind. Can you tell me of a woman who helps other women?”

The fish seller looked her up and down. “Well, it’s not childbirth. Flux? Husband trouble? Abortion?”

When Tilla did not answer, she said, “Barren, is that it?”

“That is between me and the gods.”

“There’s a centurion’s widow beside the bathhouse,” suggested the woman, not sounding very confident. “That’s where the officers’ wives go. But I hear old Emer has powerful medicines.”

Tilla wondered briefly what her husband would make of her seeking old Emer’s opinion and decided it was another thing he need not know. “Where can I find this Emer?” she asked.