Terra Incognita (12 page)

In front of the next shop, a crippled boy was flapping a branch over a carcass to keep the flies off it while an angular woman and a man in a blood-smeared leather apron were haggling in a Latin that was clearly the first language of neither.

It had just struck him that the narrow passageway between the two shops must be the scene of the murder, when a squad of soldiers appeared, marching a scruffy pair of civilians toward the fort. Butcher and customer glanced around briefly and then went back to haggling. One of the children shouted something and the others giggled. Evidently the sight of locals under arrest was nothing unusual. As soon as they had passed, Ruso followed his curiosity into the alley.

He had imagined the murder scene as a backstreet, but the gap between the buildings was only about three feet wide. A few weeds straggled down either side of a worn strip of mud, and the place was gloomy even in daylight. Why the victim would have chosen to walk down here late on a night when he had already been threatened with violence was a mystery.

Ruso sniffed. The usual alleyway stench of urine and dog droppings was blanketed by heavy layers of incense and rose oil. Evidently the priests had been around to purify the place. Even so, he suspected it would be a long time before many people ventured down this unlucky shortcut again.

About ten paces in, he paused. Behind him, a couple of small windows overlooked the passageway. Ahead, the sides of the buildings were blank. Another five or six paces and he guessed the freshly scrubbed walls and the battered state of the weeds at their feet were the only remaining indicators of the murder site. If there had been any evidence, either Audax or last night’s storm had done another fine job of destroying it. Ruso bent and picked up a broad flat stone about as big as his fist. If the cause of death really were head injuries, it was a plausible murder weapon, unhelpfully washed clean by the centurion or by the rain. The bang-on-the-head theory would, he supposed, explain why the victim had not been heard to shout for help. No doubt Tilla would say he had been struck dumb by a native god.

Ruso dropped the stone, lengthened his stride, and emerged into the street at the far end of the alley. He passed a crowded bar, ignored a brothel, nodded to a gaudy and surprisingly busy shrine honoring a god he didn’t recognize, and walked on in pursuit of a cheering aroma that told him someone was cooking sausages.

The bathhouse, a big building gleaming with fresh lime wash, was the most—in fact, the only—impressive structure outside the fort. At the back, it must have a pleasant view across the meadows towards the river. A barber’s shop was tucked into the frontage, and on the corner opposite was a snack shop. He had found the source of the cooking smell. He had also found something else.

Seated at one of the tables beneath a sagging canvas awning were two women. The one clutching a baby-shaped bundle was Tilla. The dark-skinned girl now scrambling to her feet was the carpenter’s girlfriend.

“Sir! Is there news?”

He nodded, approaching the table so they could not be overheard. “He’s as well as can be expected,” he said, and explained about the amputation. “The next few days will be dangerous. There are other injuries inside that we can’t see.”

“But he is alive!”

“I told you,” said Tilla, who had not bothered to stand, despite the presence of her master. “That one is a good medicus.”

“May I see him?”

“Tomorrow,” promised Ruso. “I’ll arrange a gate pass.”

“I will pray for him to Apollo.” The girl reached down and took the baby from Tilla’s arms. “Please tell him his daughter is well.”

The girl retreated indoors. When she had gone, Ruso found himself faced with an interesting social dilemma. He was standing. Tilla was still sitting at the table. If he sat down to eat next to her in public, it would be tantamount to declaring her his social equal. If he didn’t, he would look ridiculous: the master dancing attention on the slave. He considered asking her to stand, but there was a strong chance she would not cooperate, and being defied in public would be even more awkward. In the end he compromised by perching himself on the end of the rough table, and vowed to have words with her later. “I hear Postumus wanted to see you,” he said.

“That man is not as funny as his nose.”

“What did he want?”

Instead of replying, she pushed up her sleeve and revealed a heavy purple and red bruise.

Ruso ran a finger over the surface of the arm whose shattered lower bones he had pieced back together, and from which he had cut off the copper slave band. He frowned. “Postumus did this to you?”

“He thinks slaves tell more truth when you beat them.”

“I’ll talk to him. He was probably angry about the accident.”

“I did not make the accident, the gods did.”

“I’ll put some salve on that bruise later,” he promised, aware that it would be futile to argue about the gods. “What did he want to know?”

“He says somebody has seen me in the yard with the cart. He asks what I am doing. So I tell him about the god who appears when I pray, and he hits me for lying.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Ruso repeated, knowing an apology would be out of the question. “I came to tell you we’ll be here for a few days. I want to keep an eye on Lydia’s man, and while I’m here they’ve asked me to run the infirmary.”

Her expression brightened. “Because you are a good medicus.”

“Because the one they have is crazy,” he explained, “And his deputy is spectacularly idle.”

The woman approaching with the tray was plump, dark, and, judging by her cheerful expression, had forgiven her hairdresser for the very bad bleaching job that the shawl failed to hide.

“Wine,” he said. “Something decent if you have it. And what’s quick to eat?”

“Lamb pies, sir? Beef sausages? Raisin pastry? We have some very good stuffed hens’ eggs.”

He chose the eggs.

Instead of going to fetch them, the woman said to Tilla, “Did you ask him?”

Ruso hoped whatever ailment the woman was about to describe to him was not going to delay the eggs.

“My lord,” said Tilla, “I have said you will pay Susanna the money for Lydia’s rent.”

“Ah.” She did not want advice. She wanted cash.

“Her man cannot give anything,” continued Tilla. “She only has a room because I promised Susanna an officer from the legion would pay.”

Their eyes met. He knew she had not approved of the way he had spent her savings at the inn. They both knew how much was left. He reached for his purse. “Of course,” he said, as if she had offered him a choice.

When the woman had gone, he said, “So. You are back home.”

“Home is across the hill,” Tilla said, pointing north. “And I think much is changed.” It was a reminder, had he needed one, about the loss of her family.

“Do you still have friends here?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. I have an uncle and a cousin, if they are still alive.”

He said, “I am sorry about your family, Tilla.” The words seemed stiff and inadequate. He wanted to hold her hand, but they were in a public snack bar and the woman was arriving with the food. “You can stay with me in the infirmary,” he said. “It’s a bit of an odd arrangement, but nobody approves of me anyway, so I don’t suppose it’ll matter.” He took a sip of the wine, swilled it around his mouth, stared into the cup, lifted it again, and sniffed. In this remote valley, miles from civilization, he had just been served the best wine he had tasted since he left Gaul.

“This is Aminaean,” he said, impressed. “It’s very good for you. Just the thing for colds. I haven’t had this since . . .” he paused. Finally he said, “I can’t remember.” This was not true, but it was better than,
Since the night my wife threw a jug at my head and told me I was impossible to live with.

Tilla was chewing her lower lip. “Do you think my family will see me going into the soldiers’ fort?”

Ruso took another sip of the surprising wine and decided Tilla would not be interested in knowing that it was good for bowel trouble too. “I don’t know,” he said. “Why, do you think they wouldn’t approve?”

“My uncle has been inside the fort many times,” she said. “My uncle is a friend of the army.”

This was good news. He had wondered what Tilla’s remaining friends and family would make of their relationship. Evidently it was not going to be as awkward as he had feared.

“Your family ought to be pleased,” he said. “You’ll be safer in the fort.”

“I am safe here,” she assured him. “Trenus would not dare to come here.”

Ruso busied himself spooning filling out of the egg while he tried to remember who Trenus was. One of the many difficult things about women was that they tended to pick the most unsuitable times to tell you something they considered to be important, and then became irrationally upset when you failed to remember it. On the other hand, they sometimes dropped oblique hints about something they were eager to tell you, expecting you to show an interest. When you failed to take the hint, instead of simply saying what it was they wanted you to know, they were upset because you had not asked.

Consequently he was rather pleased with the ambiguity of “Tell me more about Trenus.”

“Trenus,” said Tilla, evidently glad to be asked, “is a man without honor. He has the body of a bear, the brain of a frog, and he makes love like a dying donkey with the hiccups.”

Ruso inhaled a lump of egg by mistake and began to cough.

Tilla placed the wine cup in his hand and carried on talking about Trenus while he gasped for air. He was not listening.

“It’s not that simple now, Tilla,” he said, recovering his composure and taking another drink of soothing wine. “You’ve become a friend of the army yourself. There are people who won’t like that.”

Tilla stood up. Those eyes looked into his own. “You are a good medicus,” she said, “And a good man. But you are mistaken about this. I am not a friend of the army. Now if you have no work for me, I am going to talk with Lydia.”

16

R
USO COMPLIMENTED THE
woman on the wine when he went to pay for his food. She shook her head sadly. “It’s the last we’ll get, sir. We lost our supplier today. A terrible, terrible thing.”

“Felix?” he guessed.

She nodded. “Did you know him?”

“Not really.”

“He’ll be missed,” she said. “Always a friendly face. Whatever they say about him, we never had any trouble with him. It’s a sad way to lose a young man, like that.”

“It is,” agreed Ruso, wondering how much information had escaped from the fort. “What did happen to him, exactly?”

The woman hesitated.

“I just don’t want to say the wrong thing to his friends,” he explained.

“He was hit over the head,” she said. “His centurion found him in an alleyway over by the fort first thing this morning.”

“So have they caught the man who did it?”

She looked at him oddly. “
I
don’t think so,” she said, and bent down to pick up something from behind the counter. Ruso took the hint.

Across the road, a middle-aged native with a cascade of iron gray hair was sitting outside the barber’s in the late afternoon sun, having his mustache trimmed by a barber’s slave. In the gloom of the shop behind him, a man and a woman were staring silently at the floor. The way their chairs were turned toward each other reminded Ruso of those awful social occasions—usually instigated by Claudia—where he and some stranger had run out of conversation but could not find an excuse to move apart.

As Ruso headed for the bathhouse doors, a voice called, “Good afternoon, sir!”

The man, more alert than he seemed, had sprung to his feet.

“How are you today?”

“Dirty,” said Ruso.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, sir!” The barber was beside him now, making ushering motions with his arms as if he were hoping to round Ruso up and pen him into the shop like a sheep for shearing. “What can we do to help? Haircut? Shave?”

Ruso rubbed his chin. What he felt beneath his fingers was no longer stubble. Unfortunately, from what he had seen of the chins of the Tenth Batavians this afternoon, Hadrian’s famous beard had so far failed to inspire any imitators here. Since he was now in charge of the infirmary until the new man turned up in four days’ time, he supposed he should make an effort to resemble the Batavians’ image of an officer.

“Take a seat, sir.” The barber had trotted ahead and was indicating a stool next to the native. “Guaranteed the best in town, or your money back!”

“Just a shave,” he said, subsiding onto the stool and adding, “Take it steady, will you?” lest this should be one of those enthusiastic razor-wielders who valued speed above accuracy.

“Don’t you worry, sir!” chirped the barber, draping a stained cloth across Ruso’s chest and pulling his own stool closer. “You just close your eyes, relax, and it’ll be over in no time.”

This sounded alarmingly like the sort of thing surgeons said to patients: not because there was nothing to worry about, but because worrying would make no difference.

Ruso checked that the letter Albanus had given him was still safely in his belt, and closed his eyes.

“So,” said the barber, slapping cold water onto the doomed beard, “have you come a long way, sir?”

“Deva,” said Ruso, making no effort to stimulate the conversation since in a moment he would only be able to answer in grunts.

“Deva! Well!”

Ruso heard the water bowl being put down.

“You’ll be with the Twentieth, then, sir?”

Presumably the razor had been picked up. Just to be on the safe side, Ruso’s reply was confined to, “Uh.”

A voice close to his left ear said, “Just keep still now, sir,” and he felt the scraping begin at the lower left-hand side of his jaw. “It’s an honor to shave an officer from the legions, sir. Especially the Twentieth. It’s a grand legion, the Twentieth, isn’t it?”

“Uh.”

“A lot of people will be very pleased to have you here, sir. What with all the bother we’ve been having lately.’

Ruso, unable to explain that most of his comrades were leaving in the morning, said, “Uh.”