have injured the attacker. Whether he was killed where he was found, or whether he was moved afterward. That sort of thing.”
“I see.”
A soft voice pointed out, “We already know what the weapon was, sir.”
The prefect glanced at the man beside him. “But the rest might be useful, don’t you think, Metellus?” He returned his attention to Ruso. “You can do all that?”
“Sometimes, sir,” said Ruso, realizing he had now advanced too far to retreat. “It depends on the circumstances.”
The man leaned across and whispered something in the prefect’s ear. Moments later Ruso found himself admiring the nymph from the shelter of the covered walkway while the prefect and the other man were arguing on the other side of the office door. He hoped the prefect would lose. He didn’t want to meet a dead trumpeter. He wanted to go and check on the amputee and then track down a good masseur followed by a hot meal. Preferably washed down with a glass of decent wine.
When he was summoned to return the prefect said, “You can examine the body and report your findings back to Metellus.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The circumstances are unusual,” said the prefect.
As Ruso wondered what the usual circumstances of murdered trumpeters might be, Decianus confirmed most of the gossip he had already picked up at the infirmary: that the body of a Batavian soldier had been found this morning about a hundred paces outside the fort, in an alleyway between a butcher’s shop and a general store. “At the moment,” continued Decianus, “relations with the natives are tense, and a rumor has gone around that this death was something to do with the rebel horseman I’m told you saw this afternoon. Metellus has investigated, and it turns out to be a simple brawl outside a bar. The culprit is a native who will be arrested very soon and tried by the governor when he arrives in four days’ time. In the meantime I don’t want my men unsettled. Any suggestions that the murder is something to do with the local gods are to be firmly denied.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Despite anything you may think you find during your examination.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So just to avoid any confusion, Metellus will help you with your report. Now, what I really wanted you for in connection with the murder is something else. Tell me what you know about treating madness.”
Ruso realized, too late, that he was scratching the back of his ear instead of replying. At length he said, “Not a great deal, sir. I’ve met some cases in the past. I can offer comfort, but I can’t promise a cure. Frankly, I think anyone who tells you they can is lying.”
“Hm.” Evidently this was not what the man was hoping to hear. “Your predecessor, Thessalus, is locked in his rooms convinced he’s the one who did the murder. Which he isn’t, but he does seem to know more than he should about the details. The natives are a bit overexcited at the moment with this Stag Man business, and if they find out we’re charging one of their people with murder when one of our officers has confessed, it won’t go down well. Metellus has questioned him but can’t get any sense out of him. So, we need to get him to withdraw his confession before anyone hears about it, and find out who told him how the victim was killed. See if you can settle him down, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Ruso, hoping his voice did not betray his lack of enthusiasm. He had arrived here with one patient and a few questions about visions of the gods. Now he had a sloppy health service to shape up, a politically sensitive postmortem to carry out, and a deranged colleague. The holiday was definitely over.
10
I carry out special duties for the prefect,” explained Metellus as Decianus’s guards stepped smartly aside to let them out of the official residence.
“Special duties?” inquired Ruso.
“Whatever he wants done.”
“I see,” said Ruso, admiring this splendidly evasive reply and failing to trace Metellus’s origins from his neutral accent, or to detect any sign of character or background in an even-featured, unmemorable appearance that was only marred by a few flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of an ordinary blue tunic.
Metellus led him away from the headquarters building. As they were passing a line of men waiting for rations outside the granaries he said, “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere, Ruso?”
“I doubt it.”
“Really? I’m sure the name…” the man shrugged. “No matter. Where are you from?”
“Gallia Narbonensis. You?”
“Rome,” said Metellus, with the casual air of a man who has no need to prove his superiority. “Appointed by the governor.”
“The new one?”
“No, Bradua. I’ve been here for four years now.”
Ruso wondered what the Batavians made of having a governor’s man foisted upon them. And how secure Metellus’s position now was, since the man who had appointed him was no longer in charge. No doubt he would be anxious to make the right impression when the new governor came to visit.
“Four years is a long time to spend this far from Rome,” observed Ruso.
“It’s not as remote as you think,” said Metellus. “Londinium keeps a close eye on what happens up here. And Hadrian’s known for taking an interest in the provinces. If a man does well here, it’s noticed.”
Presumably if he didn’t, that would be noticed too.
Just inside the west gate they turned and crunched along the gravel of the perimeter road, passing the din of a metal workshop and a yard where men were stripping down a heavy mechanical bolt launcher for repair. Behind it, a line of wooden spear shafts were propped against the wall, ready to have their iron heads attached.
They clattered up the steps to the top of the ramparts and Metellus said, “Take a good look.”
A faint waft of boiled cabbage drifted past as Ruso rested his elbows on the rough wood. Twenty feet below him, a couple of tethered horses were grazing pale spheres in the grass of the security zone. A line of carts was waiting to be allowed entry through the gates. Beyond them lay a jumble of civilian buildings leading down to the bridge. On the far side of the river, three vehicles were crawling along the thin streak of road that led along a valley dotted with grazing animals and the odd cone of native thatch.
It struck Ruso that the whole of Coria could have been picked up and set down within the stout walls of Deva’s legionary fortress and there would still be room to spare.
“This place is sometimes described as a brown oasis in a desert of green,” said Metellus. “A lot of the men from the forts up in the hills come down to enjoy their leave here. Coria is where the north and the east-west roads meet.”
Ruso wondered what sort of posting would lead a man to think of a road junction as an exciting holiday destination, and scanned the bridge for any sign of the Twentieth’s arrival. “So where’s the border?” he asked.
“Just turn a little to your right.”
Ruso frowned. All he could see was another road, with a dispatch rider just out of the west gates urging his horse into a canter.
“That’s more or less it,” said Metellus.
Looking from one side of the road to the other, Ruso failed to discern any difference. He felt a faint slump of disappointment. Was this what he had traveled all those miles to see? “Where are the barbarian hordes?”
“The tribes just across the border are officially friendly,” explained Metellus. “And just to make sure, we offer the usual incentives.”
“Which are?”
“We’re giving some of their sons a free education down in Londinium, and we send advisers to their meetings.”
“I see,” said Ruso, assuming that the sons were effectively hostages and “advisers” meant “spies.”
