“Who cares? If he knew, why didn’t he come forward when it happened? He’s trying to do a deal to save himself.”
Ruso was not able to argue, because at that moment the governor strode into the courtyard.
Everything that could gleam had been polished, including the top of his head. Everything that could jingle or glitter had been attached. Leaving his flunkies lined up by the entrance, the governor made his way around the silent and rigid rows of Batavians, with Decianus one pace behind, inspecting and commenting and pausing to chat with several of the men. Each side was clearly determined to impress the other, and Ruso curled his toes in frustration. He wanted to know what Metellus was going to do about Catavignus. He wanted to know what had happened to Tilla since she had been marched out of the prefect’s house. Instead, he was compelled to stand like a statue while the governor-admittedly the nearest thing to a god that was likely to visit Coria this summer-wandered about at his leisure.
The great man was progressing down Ruso’s row. He could hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. Somewhere ahead of him, a man tried to stifle a sneeze. There was movement in front of Ruso now. The footsteps paused. Ruso hoped the great man would not inhale too deeply and choke on the stink of soot.
“Has this officer come straight from duty?”
“From the infirmary, sir,” agreed Decianus.
The great man moved to stand directly in front of Ruso. “I take it things are busy at the infirmary?”
The required answer was, Yes, sir. The appropriate tone was one of enthusiasm, gratitude for being singled out, and a sincerity that would imply that Ruso’s scruffy turnout was the result of heroic and self-sacrificial devotion to the emperor’s service. Yes, sir.
“No, sir,” said Ruso. “I’ve been trying to catch a murderer so that you don’t end up condemning an innocent man to death later today.”
There was a brief and terrible silence, during which the whole courtyard seemed to hold its breath. “Very good,” said the governor benignly, and moved on down the row, leaving Ruso wondering if he had heard anything at all.
87
When he woke up cold and dripping with three angry women standing over his bed, Catavignus must have thought his hangover had turned into a nightmare.
Aemilia put down her empty bucket. Tilla nodded at Veldicca, who lifted the second bucket and poured the stream directly onto his nose so the others had to dodge back to avoid the splashing. He tried to reach out to defend himself. From her hiding place in the corner, Ness laughed, because she was the one who had tied his hands together. He opened his mouth to protest, and Tilla rammed in the dirty sock. Only when he tried to sit up did she put the kitchen knife to his throat and say, “You said the Romans would bring us peace and justice, uncle. We have come to help them. Get out of bed.”
He blinked the water out of his eyes and looked around at them. She wondered if he knew why they were there. No matter. All being well, there would be plenty of time to explain.
Catavignus, of course, had a great deal to say for himself, but since she had tied the sock in place with his belt and Ness had pulled a sack down over his shoulders, all that came out as they prodded and dragged him across to the malt house was an agitated moaning noise. After much stumbling-helpfully corrected by Ness jabbing him in the ribs with the other kitchen knife-they lined him up in front of the open door of the malt house, gave him a good shove, and enjoyed the sight of him falling face-first into the warm grain. Tilla slammed the door before he could get to his feet.
“And do not expect the men to come!” shouted Aemilia as she slid the lock across. “I have given them the day off!”
There was no response from inside the malt house.
“Perhaps we have killed him,” suggested Veldicca, tucking the key inside her breastband.
“We will think of that later,” said Tilla, slipping the knife into her belt and glancing around at her coconspirators. Ness, grimfaced as usual, seemed to be waiting for orders. Aemilia was wild haired and as flushed as if she had just come from the steam room. Veldicca leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “What now?”
Tilla, suddenly aware that she had not given a great deal of thought to what would happen next, pushed the hair out of her eyes. “He has a right to know why he is a prisoner,” she said. “We will all tell him our grievances. Who’s first?”
“Me!” insisted Aemilia, pushing her way past Ness to sit on the stone step and bang on the door with her fist. “I know what you did, Daddy. Do you hear me? You tried to turn Felix against me, and then you followed him and killed him! You have ruined my life and I hate you!”
There was a series of grunts and moans from behind the door, then a hefty thump from inside that made the lock rattle.
“Lean against it,” ordered Tilla, wishing they had tied him up more thoroughly. He was a big man. The door was thick, designed to hold the heat in, but the lock was only there to keep out the curious and it did not look strong. If he shoulder charged it, they could be in trouble. “Veldicca and Ness, fetch something to wedge the door.” She leaned closer to Aemilia. “I’ll hold the door. Go and stoke the fire.”
“Me?”
“Of course you! As hot as you can. I don’t know how long we can keep him in there. It won’t kill him, but it will give him a good fright.” She braced herself against the door and shouted, “Better sound the alarm, uncle! You are being attacked!”
There was more moaning and grunting from within, but no further attempt to break out.
“Surely your family will come to help?” she cried. “But no, perhaps they will not! Perhaps they are the ones who arranged it! Perhaps they want you out of the way so they can get on with making lots of money from the army!”
She moved aside as Ness and Veldicca maneuvered a heavy table out of the back entrance of the brewery and rammed it against the door.
Aemilia ordered Ness to bring more wood. The servant eyed her as if wondering whether to argue, then limped toward the neat stack of split logs under the eaves of the brewery.
“How’s the malt doing in there, uncle?” called Tilla, glancing up at the smoke that had made its way under the floor and was billowing from the top vent of the flue.
“Sh!” Veldicca had her finger on her lips. “Shout at him quietly, daughter of Lugh. They will hear us in the street.”
She was right. They had got rid of the brewery staff, but if they were overheard, then some passerby might be misguided enough to fetch help.
Veldicca reached over the table and rapped on the door with a stick. “You had my brother falsely arrested and tortured, Catavignus!”
Ness took the stick from her. Tilla put a hand on her arm. “You do not have to do this,” she assured her. “There may be trouble afterward.” They both knew that a slave who attacked a master would be shown no mercy.
Ness pushed her aside. “I have waited a long time for this,” she said, and rapped the stick against the heavy wood. “Is the malt drying well, master?” she called. “Is there anything else I can get you? You are lucky to have me, you know. I could have been killed along with my old master and mistress.”
A muffled bellow of “Get me out! You’re all mad!” came from behind the door.
“Oh, good!” announced Tilla, secretly worried that his voice would carry into the street. They had no way of quieting him now: He had probably wrenched his hands free and the doorway was too narrow for more than one person at a time to tackle him. “You can talk to us! Perhaps you can tell us why we should not set light to the thatch and leave you to burn like you left my family!”
