Terra Incognita: A Novel of the Roman Empire (42 page)
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Ruso smiled. “Enjoy your dinner, Trenus.”
B
ACK AT THE
house next to the brewery, Ruso informed Ness that as a legionary officer he was ordering her mistress to talk to him.
“My mistress is not in the army.”
“Tell her it’s about stolen jewelry and withholding evidence from a murder inquiry.”
Moments later, Aemilia appeared. She had taken out the curling rags. Her eyes were wide with alarm and fresh paint beneath the unnaturally springy hair. “I didn’t know it was stolen!” she began. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Can I come inside? You won’t want to discuss this on the doorstep.”
Aemilia glanced over her shoulder at Ness, and then stepped back to allow him in. Ness ushered them both into a small room painted dark red and crammed with furniture. Ruso sat on an overstuffed couch that had been polished into slipperiness, and Aemilia seated herself in a wicker chair on the far side of a flotilla of small tables. Ruso wondered whether Rianorix had woven that chair.
She said, “About yesterday. You called at a bad time. I was upset.”
He said, “I know. I’m not worried about who the ring belonged to, but I have to ask you some questions. It’s very important for Rianorix’s sake that we find out exactly what happened on the night Felix died. You saw Felix that night, didn’t you?”
Her fingers strayed toward her mouth. “Yes.”
“Did he come here, or did you meet somewhere else?”
Her voice was very small. “He came here.”
“Do you know if anyone else saw him? Anyone hanging around, or visiting the house? Gambax from the infirmary does business with your father, doesn’t he?”
“Not that night. There were no visitors.” She ran a hand through the artificial curls. A long pin dropped out and landed in her lap. She picked it up and twirled it between thumb and finger. “He said we would get married,” she said.
Ruso tried to think of something comforting to say. Instead all he could come up with was, “Who do you think killed him, Aemilia?”
There was an audible click as she bit through a fingernail. “I never meant all this to happen.”
“I don’t think Rianorix did either. He was only asking him for money.”
She frowned. “For money?”
“For five cows.”
“Then it was all lies,” she said flatly. “Everything he said was a lie.”
Ruso waited, not sure which of the men she was talking about.
“I have tried to tell myself Felix meant what he said,” she continued, “even though it was not his ring. But that is the honor price. He must have told Rianorix he would never marry me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ruso, ashamed of having upset the girl and still no further forward in the hunt for the murderer.
She said, “Rianorix was asking the proper compensation to the family for a broken promise of marriage.”
Ruso leaned back. The back of the couch creaked under his weight. He wondered if Felix had grasped the importance of what was being asked of him. “What if that compensation was refused?”
“I don’t know. My uncle used to say that in the old days the Druids brought justice. I suppose they would ask the man’s people to pay.” She looked at Ruso helplessly. “But the Druids are gone, and Felix’s tribe is across the sea. The army wouldn’t pay us, would they?”
“No.”
Her chin rose. “Then he got the punishment he deserved,” she said. “I must tell Rianorix I am sorry.”
“Who killed Felix, Aemilia?”
She picked up the hairpin and a comb. “The Stag Man,” she said. “Now, would you like to know where to find my cousin?”
T
ILLA KNEW NEITHER
of the muscular young men who blocked her path, but she recognized some of the faces of the people gathering around them. There was one of the women she had seen at the clinic. There was the husband, whose nose her brother had knocked to one side. Another was a neighbor from across the hill who had been one of the children piling onto the swing in the oak tree outside her house when the rope broke and they all fell in a heap in the mud. The others were strangers. Finally Rianorix, busy chaining up the barking dog, noticed the cluster of people around the gate and headed down to see what was going on.
“I am Darlughdacha,” she told them. “Come home to join the Gathering.”
“We know that,” said the man with the bent nose. “And we know you traveled here with the legionaries.”
“We all have to survive as best we can in these times.”
“We heard that you were living behind their walls down in Deva.”
“That is true.”
“So why are you here?”
Tilla looked him in the eye. “This is my uncle’s land,” she said. “And that paddock and the house beyond it are on the land that was farmed by my family. Why are
you
here?”
“You must have seen many things inside the fort,” said one of the strangers, tucking his thumbs in his belt. “You will know how the soldiers store and prepare their weapons. How they send messages and arrange their supplies. How they order their guards.”
“I was a housekeeper,” she said. “I can only tell you how they prepare their dinner.”
“You walked through the fort with your eyes shut?” demanded the man with the bent nose.
“I find it is the best way,” said Tilla. “Then I cannot identify people and get them into trouble. And if my brother were here he would knock you down again for insulting me.”
The woman said, “Let her stay and help me until the Messenger gets here. Then we can ask him.”
“She could be a spy,” pointed out her husband.
“What is the matter with you all?” demanded Rianorix. “We know her.”
“You could be a spy too,” grumbled the man. “Why was it they let you go, eh? Did you do a deal with them?”
“Of course he did not!” retorted Tilla. “Even the Romans understand that the gods made someone else execute that soldier after Rianorix fasted against him. First you insult me, then you insult a man whom the gods have favored. You should be more careful.”
The grumbler scowled. The wife offered Tilla a small shrug of apology. One by one, they stepped back out of her path.
Tilla entered the gate and followed the path toward the house that had been commandeered from her unsuspecting uncle and his servants. She had passed the servants on the road, hurrying into town. They had been given an urgent message summoning them to help with the guild of caterers dinner. She had not believed a word of it, but they had, and they would not be back until morning.
R
USO MUST HAVE
looked anxious because the owner of We Sell Everything called after him, “All right, sir?” as he sprinted past on his way back to the fort.
When he found her, he would tell her how he had tackled Trenus for her, while Rianorix had fled to save himself and left her behind. He would not mention that he had been there when Rianorix’s house was burned. If she did not know that, she would not ask what he had done to prevent it, and he would not have to admit that he had done nothing at all.
He was exchanging a hasty salute with the guards on the east gate when he heard a familiar and disrespectful yell of, “Hey, Doc!”
“There you go,” announced Audax, thrusting a full bottle of dark liquid into Ruso’s hand. “Got the last one. Some other bugger had his paws on it. But I told the trader it was for you. Worked like a charm. Must be nice to be in the legions. Straight to the front of the line every time.”
“Really?” said Ruso, who was wondering how easy it would be to commandeer a horse without an official order, especially since they would all be being washed and polished for the governor’s inspection in the morning.
“He says he knows you.”
“Really?” He would need something fast. He needed to catch up with her before she found Rianorix’s house destroyed and was either waylaid by Metellus’s lookout men or wandered off somewhere else.
“He says you did some business at Deva,” said Audax.
“Really?” He would tell the grooms he was on a mission from Metellus. It was almost true.
“Fat belly, Gallic accent, hair combed across the top of his head. Asked to be remembered to you. Name of—”
“I know what his name is,” said Ruso, finally paying attention and recalling a man he had hoped never to have the misfortune to meet again. He knew, now, who was selling Doctor Ruso’s Love Potion.
“He did open his eyes for a moment,” said Valens, leaning back in Ruso’s chair, which he had now moved into the isolation ward, and folding his arms. “Tried to say something, but I couldn’t catch it.”
Ruso slid his fingers under Albanus’s thin wrist and felt for a pulse. “Gambax hasn’t been in here, has he?”
“No, and if he had I’d have shooed him out like the madman you seem to think he is. Audax was in again just now, though. He’s decided we’re all incompetent and we can’t manage without him. He said he was bringing somebody else.”
Albanus’s breathing was shallow and his pulse disconcertingly weak.
“Who?”
“Another doctor, I think.”
“Not Scribonius?”
“He’s dead, Ruso.”
“I know,” said Ruso. “Years ago. But his reputation isn’t.” He held out the bottle of tonic. I had a quick taste. I think it’s just dates in hydromel with garlic.”
Valens pulled out the stopper and sniffed the liquid. “Smells disgusting. Are you thinking of inflicting it on Albanus?”
“Only if we run out of better ideas.”
“Fair enough.” Valens put the bottle on the table by the bed and stood up. “Since you’re back, I’ll nip off and hunt down some lunch.”
Ruso withdrew his hand from the pulse. “You carry on enjoying my chair. I’ll tell the cook to bring you something.”
Valens looked pained. “I’m not a
patient,
Ruso. I don’t want anything that’s good for me. I want something
nice.
Washed down with something drinkable.”
Ruso headed for the door. “I promise I’ll bring something back for you.”
“Back from where? You’re not going out again and leaving me here, are you?” Valens frowned. “Holy Hercules, I sound like somebody’s wife.”
“Where else are you going to go, anyway?” demanded Ruso. “Over to hang around at Susanna’s, or back to sit around the bathhouse and chat with Catavignus?”
Valens shuddered. “Not there. It’ll be bad enough at this dreadful dinner tonight. I swear the minute he met me, that man was sizing me up as a suitable prospect for his daughter. I’ve already been offered the taster’s tour of the brewery with the purpose-built malt house and had to listen to his eulogy to the kindness of the army plumbers who popped in his free extension pipe from the bathhouse. They do seem to be awfully fond of their beer around here. All of which makes the brewery a wondrous prospect for a business partnership, apparently.”
“You don’t know anything about business,” said Ruso, recalling that his own approach from Catavignus had included some tale about having invested in the plumbing himself. “And I’ve got to go out. I’ll see you later.”
“I don’t know anything about beer either,” agreed Valens. “But that doesn’t seem to worry him. I seem to be fated to be pursued by fathers.”
“Why don’t you tell him all about the Second Spear?” suggested Ruso. “That should put him off.”
Valens frowned. “I thought I might expect a little sympathy from my closest friend,” he complained. “A little brotherly understanding.
A little—”
“A little piece of advice,” said Ruso. “Stay away from women.” He glanced around the lime-washed walls of the isolation room. “You should be safe in here while I go and track down Tilla.”
R
USO URGED THE
horse on up the road they had taken on the day of the hunt, speeding past a cluster of native houses where a couple of men were stacking piles of wood in preparation for tonight. While he and Valens made polite conversation with Tilla’s family and the guild of caterers, the less civilized locals would be up here celebrating the arrival of summer in their traditional manner: gathering together to burn things.
Apart from the obvious disadvantage of having to mingle in the dark with people who might want to chop his head off, Ruso could not help feeling that if one were compelled to attend a social event, a bonfire— even one with British food and interminable British ancestor tales— would be a lot more fun than being trapped around a dining table with a bunch of foreign cooks and businessmen offering investment plans. One would hardly even need to dress up. The serious business of the native event, as Tilla had explained to him during a particularly boring stage of the journey north, was over very quickly. Something to do with purifying one’s cattle by driving them between two fires. Presumably there must be some arrangement for keeping celebrants and livestock separate. Or some ancient saying promising that He Who Sits in a Cow-pat Is Twice Blessed, or something.
