“In exchange, we ignore the odd cattle raid and their head men get invited to dinner when the governor comes to visit.”
“It’s not quite how I’d imagined it.”
“Oh, the hordes are out there, believe me,” said Metellus. “On both sides of the border. Sulking and skulking, most of them looking like perfectly innocent hill farmers. According to my informers, this Stag Man business has them all very excited. That’s why this murder has come at the worst possible time, and why the prefect’s being scrupulous about investigating it. We have to make it clear that the culprit’s getting a fair trial. We don’t want to give them an excuse to dig out the weapons they aren’t supposed to have and march on the nearest fort demanding justice for Our Poor Innocent Boy chained up by the Evil Romans.”
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t gotten involved in this.”
“Frankly, my view is that the fewer people involved the better,” agreed Metellus. “But a report from a medical officer won’t do any harm. We can be seen to be taking the inquiry seriously.”
Ruso watched the dispatch rider growing smaller in the distance. A road patrol was approaching in the opposite direction. As they passed, he saw arms raised in greeting. He wondered how many soldiers were holding the string of isolated forts and watchtowers that must lie out along that border road, compared to the number of sulkers and skulkers lurking in the surrounding hills-although why anyone should bother to fight over land that seemed to contain nothing but a few peasants and sheep was a mystery.
“I had imagined the border would be more…” he paused, searching for a word. “Watertight.”
“We don’t want it watertight,” said Metellus. “We want it porous. We want long strings of well-laden merchants traveling in and out of the province paying border taxes. We station men here to run the customs posts, the men spend their wages, and that gives the locals a chance to turn a profit. It all works very nicely as long as everybody behaves themselves.”
“I see,” said Ruso, wondering what the northerners could offer to sell or afford to buy. “So this business with travelers being ambushed-”
“It’s making things very difficult,” said Metellus. “There’s been an interesting change in language up here lately,” he said. “Travelers are no longer talking about arriving at their destination. They’re starting to call it getting through.”
“I’m told there are people who think the Stag Man is some sort of god,” said Ruso, not adding that his housekeeper was one of them.
“The locals are a superstitious bunch,” explained Metellus. “They think stags are messengers from another world. You don’t have to go back too many generations before you find human sacrifice and all manner of magic and mayhem in the name of religion. That’s another reason for keeping a watchful eye on their get-togethers.”
Ruso decided this was not the time to request a gate pass to allow Tilla in and out of the fort.
“Not everything you’ll hear about the Stag Man is true,” continued Metellus. “But as you’ll find when you’ve been up here awhile, what’s true is less important than what people believe.”
“Well, I believe I’ve got a body to examine.”
Metellus turned to head toward the steps, and waited for a man to lead a mule laden with firewood past before continuing, “So, we don’t want our men putting all that together with the murder and imagining there’s some sort of mad Druid revival going on right outside the gates.”
“Where their families live.”
“Exactly. It would cause unnecessary alarm.”
It would also cause a serious discipline problem. The fine balance of the border would be a distant memory, and so would Metellus’s hopes of making a good impression on the new governor.
As he followed him back toward the shambles that called itself a medical service, Ruso pondered the man from Rome. Average height, average weight, age somewhere between late twenties and midthirties. Being so unremarkable made him the sort of man who could notice things without himself being noticed. The sort of man who would have had written on his recruitment documents, “no distinguishing features.” An ideal man for special duties.
“The trouble with the Britons, Doctor,” Metellus continued as they approached the twin gods of the infirmary, “is that you can never quite rely on them. But fortunately for us, the tribes have a long tradition of falling out with each other. In addition to which, some of them don’t take much notice of their own leaders.” Metellus paused. “So the last thing we need is a troublemaker who’s going to unite them.”
11
Ruso had already guessed from the shape what he was going to find when he pulled the sheet back, but it was still a shock. He dragged the sheet down to the end of the table and folded it with unaccustomed neatness while he struggled to control the urge to walk out of the incense-filled mortuary and fill his lungs with fresh air. He had been a fool to open his mouth in the prefect’s office. He should never have got himself involved in something like this. He understood now what the prefect had meant about Metellus helping with his report. This was some sort of ritual killing, and he was being asked to help cover it up.
The wave of nausea passed. Regaining his composure, he turned to Metellus. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Security,” said Metellus. “You never know who’s listening.”
“So,” said Ruso, turning back toward the naked corpse which had been so thoroughly washed that any incidental evidence would be long gone, “Where is his head?”
“We’re hoping to find it when we get hold of the murderer,” said Metellus. “Just tell us what you can from what you have here.”
Ruso walked slowly around the table, examining what remained of the body from all angles, and glancing at the polished military belt and dagger that had been laid out beside him. “I’m not going to be able to do much with this,” he said. “Who cleaned him up?”
“Audax.”
Centurion Audax had gone to fetch the bowl of water and cloths Ruso had asked for, and which he now realized were superfluous.
Ruso flipped open a note tablet and reflected that it was just as well Albanus was still some miles back on the road with Postumus and the other men from the Twentieth. The clerk would be deeply offended to find Ruso writing his own notes.
“The victim’s name is Felix,” prompted Metellus, “And the cause of death is head injuries.”
Ruso glanced up. “Without a head to examine, that’s rather difficult to prove. For all we know he could have been poisoned. Died of natural causes. Choked on a radish. This could have been done afterward. How much blood was there?”
“The cause of death in the report needs to be consistent with the statements already made. With no mention of anything missing.”
“What’s true is less important than what people believe?”
“You were the one who asked to be involved.”
“If I put down the cause of death as head injuries,” pointed out Ruso, “And then the head turns up-”
“If it turns up, Doctor, particularly if it turns up in native hands, your professional reputation will be the least of our problems. Now if you have everything you need, I’ll leave you with Audax. As you’ll appreciate, I’m having a rather busy day.”
As Ruso was wondering whether he could possibly write a postmortem report that left out “cause of death” altogether, Centurion Audax entered, bringing the water and a welcome waft of slightly clearer air from the corridor.
“You’re another of these doctor fellers, then,” the centurion observed, eyeing Ruso as if he were some kind of interesting insect. “Not mad, are you?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Well, you won’t find anything wrong with me. Or my men.”
“Good,” said Ruso, placing the water on a side table.
The centurion lifted his chin slightly, narrowing his eyes as if he was not sure whether Ruso was being
