Tabula Rasa (40 page)

The gate creaked open an inch, then another inch, and then far enough for him to get his boot in the gap. The slave stammered in rough but comprehensible Latin that Sir could come in, but he would have to share a bed, and there was no food except what was being roasted.

“Better than being on the road,” said Ruso as the gate was slammed shut behind him and the bar scraped into place.

He surrendered his sword and led the limping mare across the cobbles. The ostler did not look pleased to see him: Ruso seemed to have interrupted the after-dark guided tour of the stables that he was giving to a very giggly girl.

He was too late for the baths, which was just as well, as he had no intention of wasting time in them—although what he was going to do instead, he did not know. Glancing across to confirm that the men in animal skins were still lounging against the wall, he went to join the crowd.

The fur traders were still keeping to themselves on the edge of the celebrations, clutching drinks and watching the dancers. He could not see a boy with them. His gaze followed the track of one small figure after another, but he recognized no one.

There was no reason for the men to suspect he was pursuing them, so he had no hesitation in working his way around the edge of the dance to stand nearby. It was not difficult: nobody here seemed keen to stand next to a soldier, especially one who had been on the road without bathing for as long as Ruso had. Finally he was no more than five paces away.

There were half a dozen of them: big men with shaggy hair and thick animal pelts around their necks that made their shoulders look even bigger. But it was the shape he now saw on the ground at their feet that caught his attention. The light from the fire came and went but finally he made out the figure of a boy, curled up asleep like a puppy. Ruso took a sharp breath.

He had found Branan.

He could not remember any other evening taking so long to pass. Alone in the dark amongst a strange tribe, his previous confidence that everyone was united against a child snatcher had waned. He was hungry, exhausted, and sore from riding, and not sure he could trust his own judgment. There seemed to be no other Roman guests, and no obvious surveillance, either. Did that mean that these people could be trusted, or that the local commander did not want to pick a fight? This was not a
mansio
, a safe haven for traveling Romans. If he told the staff who that slave boy was, would they back him up? Or would they bundle him aside, not wanting trouble with their customers? If he got it wrong, and Branan was lost tonight, he could be lost forever.

While Ruso argued with himself, the fur traders’ capacity for drink seemed to be enormous and they clearly had no intention of going to sleep until it was filled. A couple of them went forward to join the dance, but the one with the boy at his feet stayed propped against the wall, talking to his companions, sometimes cupping one hand around his mouth to shout over the pipes and the chanting.

After the dancing the storytellers got to work while everyone else sat around the fire and ate. Ruso crouched down and accepted a share of the roast meat. These days he could understand much of what was being said, which made the storytelling marginally less tedious than it had been in the past, but tonight he was not interested in the tangled and strangely inconclusive affairs of the British dead. Just a few paces away, Branan still seemed to be asleep. He hoped they had not drugged him. The gods alone knew what had happened to the boy over the last three days, and his trials were not over yet. Even if Ruso managed to creep up and rescue him while the men were asleep—so far he had no better plan—they would have to escape on foot.

He was pinching himself to stay awake when something scratchy and malodorous pushed up against his neck from behind. He shifted away but someone seized his arm and a gruff voice spoke in his ear. It took him a moment to disentangle the accent. “You speak our tongue, Roman?”

“Some.”

“My brother wants to know if you like small boys.” The man’s other hand pointed directly at Branan.

Ruso swallowed. “I might be interested.”

“We know. You keep looking at him. How much will you offer?”

He could hardly believe his luck. “Let me have a look at him first.”

The blow knocked him sideways. It was a moment before he could lift himself above the fuzziness and work out that the shrieking and slapping were coming from a woman in whose lap he had landed. Apologizing, he got up and staggered, stumbling over several more people and rubbing his ear. All the fur traders were gathered together now, shouting at him and pointing. He remembered what he had heard just before the blow. “Child snatcher! Leave his son alone!”

Others voices had taken up the cry: “Child-snatcher!”

“Get him!”

“Trying to steal that man’s son!”

“It’s the child snatcher!”

Somewhere a voice was shouting for calm but hands were pulling at him, hauling at his armor and his tunic and grabbing his hair. Someone punched him in the head and he stumbled, lunging for something to grab onto to keep his balance. If he went down now he would not get up.

“Branan!” he yelled. “Branan, wake up, it’s the Medicus!”

“Ask him what he did with the boy!” shouted someone.

“There he is!” he yelled, wrenching an arm loose and struggling to climb over his tormentors. “That boy is stolen! Branan, wake up! It’s the Medicus, come to take you home!”

“Child snatcher!”

“Liar!”

Then it was all fists and boots and elbows and yelling and pain, the stink of sweat and the tang of blood in his mouth. When he fell, he was still shouting Branan’s name, and he barely saw the flash of firelight on the blade.

Chapter 66

Tilla lengthened her stride to stay between the two soldiers, who were keeping up a smart military pace along the moonlit road. The breeze snatched at her clothes and sent cold fingers down her neck. There must be Samain bonfires all around, but they were hidden on the left by the whispering black woods, and on the right by the rise of the land and the half-built wall that ran in silhouette along its crest.

She had guessed well: She had been able to persuade a bitter Daminius to help her, and to her relief he still had enough influence to bring Mallius with him, which was the whole point of asking. So here she was, a healer with two legionaries kindly guarding her as she answered a nighttime call to a patient who did not exist. At the time it had seemed like a clever plan. But now wandering spirits sighed in the trees with every gust of wind. All of Albanus’s objections made sense, and she wished she was back by the fire at Ria’s.

Seeing her glance at the woods, Daminius said, “All right, miss?”

“I thought I heard something.”

“A fox or a badger, miss,” he said, loud enough for Mallius to hear. He chuckled. “Or one of your ghosts.”

“You should not show disrespect. You do not know who is listening.”

“Sorry, miss.”

She was slightly breathless with the effort of keeping up, but her escort did not offer to slow the pace. She guessed they too would be glad when this was over. “We should be safe,” she said. “I made an offering before I came out.”

“We’ll look after you, miss,” Mallius assured her, adjusting his grip on his shield. She frowned. She did not want this man to think about helping her. She wanted him to be more nervous than she was herself, otherwise this trip would be a waste of time.

Where was Albanus? Scanning ahead, she said, “My husband says I am foolish to be afraid of the man in the wall.”

“Don’t you worry, miss,” Daminius told her. “All the officers say it’s nonsense.”

There he was! Albanus. Crossing the road about fifty paces in front of them. He was wearing Candidus’s helmet, just as they had agreed. The big rectangular shield covered most of his body. That and the dark cloak he had borrowed hid the absence of armor, a sword, and a proper military belt. “Your patient is a lucky woman, miss,” Daminius continued, pretending he had seen nothing. “A lot of healers wouldn’t go out tonight.”

Daminius was a good actor. She had guessed that he would be: How else had he managed to deceive his centurion about the kitchen maid?

The figure of Albanus dipped as it stepped down to cross the ditch. By the time they were level with it, it was walking away from them over the grass.

“What do you think, Mallius?” Tilla asked, forcing herself not to watch as Albanus approached the woods. “Is there a man in the wall?”

No reply.

“Answer the lady, soldier!” ordered Daminius. “Well? Is there a dead man inside the wall?”

Mallius, who had turned to stare at the departing Albanus, returned his gaze to the front and mumbled that he didn’t know.

“Of course you know!” snapped Daminius. “There’s nothing up there. It’s official. The lady’s husband is quite right.”

Mallius said, “Yes, sir,” and glanced behind him again.

“People are still saying things,” Tilla observed as the road climbed the slope. “Only today I spoke to someone who swears he saw the body being hidden. He even says he saw who did it.”

“He’s lying,” Daminius said.

“Perhaps,” said Tilla. “But I think in the morning I will take this person to the tribune. Then they can go and open the wall in the place he shows them, and everybody will see if there is anything there.”

“I’d pay to join that work party,” said Daminius.

“It will be good to know the truth,” Tilla continued. “People are afraid. They are saying the man’s spirit walks at night, searching for someone to give him the proper burial rites.”

She risked a glance and caught Mallius staring at her. She hoped she had not said too much. It had been a long day, and she was not at her best. “Anyway,” she said briskly, “it is good news about the boy. My husband will bring him back safe tomorrow and we will find out who stole him. Then perhaps this curfew will be—”

She stopped. They all saw it at the same time: something moving on the road far ahead. The sound of hoofbeats came toward them on the wind. For once Tilla was relieved to catch the glint of moonlight on armor. Moments later they were surrounded by four riders on stamping horses, and Daminius was explaining who his small party were and what they were doing out here. She dared not look to see where Albanus was, but she saw that Mallius was glancing round as if he were wondering the same thing. That was good.

Satisfied, the cavalry patrol cantered off into the night. Mallius propped his spear against his shield and loosened his chinstrap with one finger, gazing after the riders as if wishing he could join them.

Fifty paces farther on he glanced back again. Tilla turned. The sight of the soldier striding along behind them made her jump even though she was half expecting it. Albanus was too far away for his features to be visible in the poor light, but close enough for his slight frame to recall that of his nephew.

Mallius said, “We’re being followed.”

They stopped. Gazing at Albanus, who now stood like a statue in the road, Daminius said, “Where?”

“Did you see someone?” asked Tilla. She watched Mallius narrow his eyes to squint at Albanus in the stark pallor of the moon.

“Description?” Daminius prompted.

“I thought . . . one of our men.”

“Moonlight,” said Daminius, as if that explained everything. “But I wouldn’t put it past the natives to creep around in the dark. Keep your eyes open.”

Mallius hissed, “Look again, sir.” He had his spear raised now. Tilla hoped he was not going to fling it to see if the ghost was solid.

Daminius turned to Tilla. “Can you see anything, miss?”

“I see the road,” she said. “And the trees, and the moon.”

Mallius looked from one to other of them, then back at the statuelike figure on the road. His voice had an oddly strangled quality, as if all the muscles in his throat had tightened up. “There’s nothing there, is there?”

“I can see there’s nothing there,” Daminius retorted. “You’re worse than a bloody native. Sorry, miss. No offense. How far now?”

“The next turn on the left.” Tilla tried to signal
Go away
behind her back. The ghost had done his job. She wanted to get back to the warmth and safety of Ria’s.

“Isn’t this where the missing boy lives?” Now Daminius was sounding nervous too.

“We are going to their neighbors,” said Tilla. Branan’s household was the last one she would want to disturb tonight. “It is about a hundred paces,” she said, taking the left fork onto the track and stepping into an empty blackness where the overhanging trees blocked out the moonlight and it was impossible to see their footing. She remembered to add, for the sake of the pretense, “I thought they would send someone to meet us at the corner.”

“Should have brought a torch and a flint,” Daminius muttered. “I’ll go in front. Miss, you walk behind me. Watch the rear, mate. Don’t talk to any ghosts.”

The trees bent and shuffled above them. Tilla stumbled forward, keen not to lose touch with her escort in the dark. She had chosen somewhere she would be recognized: They were on the way to the house of Inam, the boy who had last seen Branan, but she had never been down this track at night. She flinched as something snatched at her skirts and was glad to feel the scrape of a bramble as she brushed it away. “I am glad I have you with me,” she said truthfully.