46
Officer Metellus was in a meeting and could not be disturbed, neither to be asked if a visiting medic could interfere further with his murder inquiry nor to listen to complaints about the way he frightened his witnesses.
Meanwhile, Ruso and Albanus were slumped in a back alcove of Susanna’s empty snack bar, separated by a table that held two large jugs and two cups. Ruso had offered to treat his clerk to a nonmilitary supper after evening ward rounds as compensation for his wasted morning hunting for Tilla.
Albanus clearly felt this was an important occasion. He had scrubbed most of the ink off his fingers and he smelled of hair oil. “Permission to ask a question, sir?”
“Albanus, this is supper. You’re allowed to make conversation.”
“Yes, sir. What I’d like to know is, now they’ve let the native go, who really did kill the trumpeter?”
Ruso scratched one ear. “I wish I knew.”
“Was it Doctor Thessalus?”
“I hope not.”
Albanus glanced around the empty bar. “Is it true it all started in here with an argument about cows, sir?”
“Ah,” said Ruso. “I do know the answer to that one.” He took a sip of wine before commencing. “Ever since she was a little girl, Tilla’s cousin Aemilia has wanted to marry an officer.”
Not surprisingly, Albanus looked bemused.
“Bear with me. This is one of those native stories that will end up as one of the interminable ancestor songs Tilla sings in the kitchen. Apparently her family friend Rianorix, who is a mere native basket maker, proposed to this Aemilia, and she turned him down. And-according to Tilla’s sources-to sweeten the refusal, she told him she would always look on him as a kind brother. And because-again, according to Tilla- he is a softhearted fool, he swore he would always protect her as if she were his own sister. Are you seeing the connection now?”
“But Felix wasn’t an officer, sir.”
“Very good, Albanus. Aemilia set her sights on Felix, who by all accounts was very attractive to women and gave her the impression he was getting promoted any day now.” Ruso paused, making sure he had the chain of events straight in his mind. “So, when Aemilia thought she was pregnant, she announced the joyful news to him, expecting him to push for his promotion and set the wedding date.”
“Oh dear.”
“Exactly. Felix disappeared like a rat down a sewer and Aemilia turned to her sworn brother to defend her honor.”
“What about her father?”
“He didn’t approve of Felix as a suitor. He’d forbidden her to go near him. Aemilia was frightened to admit she was pregnant.”
“So Rianorix went and found Felix and murdered him?”
“Ah,” said Ruso. “That’s where Tilla’s interpretation of events diverges from everyone else’s. According to Tilla, he went privately to see Felix and explained that ’round here, a chap has to either do the decent thing or hand over five cows in compensation. After a couple of weeks with no cows and no wedding plans, Rianorix got tired of asking nicely. He began to call on the native gods to avenge Aemilia’s disgrace. He came here to make a final appeal to Felix’s honor in front of all his friends-which is what a native would do, apparently-and got thrown out. And then the gods brought judgment on Felix.”
“Are you sure this Rianorix didn’t simply bump him off to get the girl?”
“I’m not sure of anything,” said Ruso. “Although as Tilla has pointed out, if he was going to do it, why would he have announced it first? And afterward, why did he wait around to be arrested?”
“He doesn’t sound awfully bright, sir. Maybe he thought he was like the Stag Man. Invincible.”
Ruso frowned. “The Stag Man isn’t invincible, Albanus. You’re starting to sound like Tilla. He’s just a clever man with a fast horse and a bit of dead animal tied to his head.”
“Yes, sir.” Albanus reached for his drink. “Do you mind if I speak freely, sir?”
“Go ahead,” said Ruso, wondering how many other men would ask permission before allowing wine to loosen their tongues.
“I don’t blame that Aemilia girl for wanting to better herself. This isn’t much of a place, is it?”
“I’ve been in worse,” said Ruso, feeling it was his duty to try and cheer up his clerk, who had only volunteered to come with him out of personal loyalty.
“Yes, sir.” Albanus picked up a crumb from the table and rolled it between finger and thumb before flicking it away.
“I can’t actually remember when,” confessed Ruso, reaching for his drink. “But you have to admit this is rather fine wine.”
“The wine’s all right,” conceded Albanus, “and the scenery’s quite pleasant. If you’re partial to the sight of greenery. And if you don’t know all the bushes could be hiding natives with grudges and antlers. But the town isn’t up to much, is it? Have you seen that shop that says it sells everything?”
“Next to the butcher’s.”
“Yes. Well, don’t build your hopes up.” Albanus sighed. “Frankly, sir, I wish I’d brought a few more books with me.”
“I can lend you some medical texts if you’re desperate,” said Ruso, wondering how desperate a man would have to be before he would read medical books to cheer himself up. Although he supposed some doctors’ diatribes on why all their rivals were incompetent nincompoops might be mildly entertaining.
“Never mind, sir. I’ve only got another eighteen years, six months, and two days to serve.”
“That must be very comforting,” said Ruso, who was on a short-term contract with the army and could extricate himself whenever he wanted with little difficulty.
“How long have you got left, sir?”
Ruso coughed. “I haven’t counted recently. Tell me something, Albanus. If you can translate Plato and read medical texts, what are you doing in the army anyway?”
“My father made me promise not to go into teaching, sir. He said the boys are badly behaved, the parents have no respect for you, and the pay isn’t very good.”
“So he suggested you sign up for twenty-five years in the legions?”
“Looking back, sir, I don’t think my father knew very much about the modern army. I think he got all his ideas out of poetry books.”
Ruso noted with surprise that he had nearly finished his wine. “Fathers don’t always make wise decisions,” he said.
“No, sir,” agreed Albanus.
“Mine certainly didn’t.”
There was a clatter of crockery from behind the counter. Albanus looked up, then lost interest when Susanna-who-serves-the-best-food-in-town emerged with a cloth and began to wipe the tables.
It occurred to Ruso that too long in the provinces could turn a man into the sort of bore who hung around in bars telling his life story to soldiers who were too junior to escape. Thank goodness he was here with a mission. Not an official mission, since he had yet to talk to Metellus, but one he should be getting on with nevertheless.
He waited until Susanna was attacking the table next to theirs, and explained to her that he was trying to help Doctor Thessalus and would she mind answering a few questions? But before that, would she mind bringing over more of that wine?
Albanus was busy diving for the satchel that he had brought with him lest the Batavian clerks should raid it in his absence and steal his best pens.
Susanna said, “Officer Metellus already wrote everything down, sir. And that was the last of the wine.”
Ruso gestured to Albanus to put the stylus away, and as he did so something occurred to him. “Can I see the amphora?”
“It’s empty, sir, I promise you.”
“I know. I’d just like to…” He tried to think of a suitable excuse. “I used to have a friend who exported it,” he said. “If it was his I’ll write and tell him where I drank it. He’ll like that.”
Susanna, fortunately, seemed to operate by the policy that the customer was always right no matter how
