is?”
Ruso eyed the mounted figure being escorted by four legionary cavalrymen past the shrine to the god whose name he never had gotten around to finding out. “I believe so,” he said, noting the handsome face, the square jaw, and the broad shoulders that recalled the Second Spear. “She’s very like her father, isn’t she?”
90
Ruso entered the bathhouse alone. At the sight of him, Claudius Innocens stood up so fast that he almost knocked over his table and smashed his bottles of potions on the hall floor. “Doctor, sir!” he exclaimed, hastily steadying the table and shifting a couple of pots to the back of the display before rearranging the strands of his hair across his bald patch. “What a pleasure to see you again!”
“If only it were mutual,” said Ruso, observing that Innocens seemed greasier than ever. “What are you selling?”
The man’s smile was probably supposed to be encouraging. “Tonics for every condition, sir. All guaranteed recipes from the great healers and using only the purest ingredients. Special prices for you, sir, of course. What would you like to try?”
“Have you got any Doctor Ruso’s Special Love Potion?”
Innocens’s smile froze. His gaze dropped to the pots and bottles. “I’m not sure we’ve got anything like that, sir. But if you give me the recipe I’d be pleased to get it made up and we’ll come to an arrangement about the profits.”
Ruso reached for one of the pots Innocens had moved to the back. Clumsily chalked on the side was a phallus. “Is this it?”
“That’s, ah, that’s-”
Ruso turned the pot around to find his own name chalked on the opposite side.
“Somebody gave them to me, sir,” Innocens protested. “But they haven’t gone very well. I won’t be selling any more of them. Once I’ve got rid of these last few-”
“No more.”
“No more, sir. Of course.” Innocens picked up a similar pot, spat on it, and began to rub at the chalk inscription. “Perhaps a new name would be the thing.”
“If you must do it, at least pick the name of somebody long dead,” suggested Ruso. “Like you did with Scribonius.”
“Ah, yes, sir! Now that is a good seller. As used by centurions-I’ll be able to say, ‘As used by legionary doctors,’ as well now, sir, won’t I?”
“Not if you want to live,” said Ruso. “And that reminds me. You remember the slave girl you sold me?”
“The blond girl? You got a bargain there, sir. I hope you’re still happy with her?”
Ruso was not going to answer that. “There’s a native in town who used to think he owned her,” he said. “A very violent man from the north who got home one day and found out his wives had been persuaded to sell his favorite serving girl to a dodgy trader. That native’s probably talking to the governor’s men right now.”
Innocens’s eyes widened. “Really, sir?”
“Really,” said Ruso.
Innocens bent down past his belly and pulled out a wooden box full of straw from beneath the table. “As ever, sir,” he said, swiftly stacking his bottles in the straw, “it’s been a pleasure to do business with you.”
91
Ruso leaned out over the rough logs of the palisade. A last trace of morning mist still hung over the river. He could hear the faint clatter of hooves as a messenger cantered south across the bridge. To the east, a road patrol was riding out toward the hill country. He did not turn to look north. Tilla had made her choice.
He had arrived early at the house next to the brewery, only to find it locked and deserted. The brewery foreman had told him the women had gone away somewhere. Probably for a long time.
He had tried to tell himself that Tilla’s farewell message had been lost, but since the men here all knew him by now, that was unlikely. The truth was, she had not sent one. The last time they had spoken, she had pulled a knife on him.
Ruso surveyed the shabby little town that had sprung up to service the fort.
He’s claiming he did everything at the request of the army. He says Metellus asked him to help clear up undesirables.
Metellus would continue to deny all knowledge of Catavignus’s treachery to his own people, of course. Quite possibly Decianus, by taking the wider view, had managed to avoid knowing the details anyway. It was apparent from their conversation this morning that Decianus was only told what Metellus wanted him to hear.
“Ruso!” he had said, drawing him to one side after morning briefing. “Leaving us, I hear?”
“It’s been an interesting week, sir.”
“You weren’t much help in the end,” Decianus observed. “The governor never went near the infirmary. Metellus had to excuse your performance at the parade by telling him you were a mad medic called Thessalus who’d gotten loose by mistake. And then he tracked down the murder evidence by himself.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ruso, with what he hoped was the correct amount of enthusiasm, gratitude, and sincerity. Sometimes, it was just easier to say what people wanted to hear.
Getting rid of Felix, of course, had not been part of anybody’s wider view. Catavignus had just seized the opportunity to solve his own debt problems and get rid of an unsuitable suitor for his daughter. Implicating Rianorix had been a smart move, though. Rianorix was a known rebel sympathizer who had asked awkward questions about the loss of Tilla’s family. Once he had made a threat against a soldier he was definitely ripe for clearing up.
He supposed they would execute Catavignus. It was a messy solution to a messy problem. And an ironic one, because the man had been struggling to establish, in his own twisted way, a civilized town full of loyal Romans on the very edge of the barbarian world.
The proprietor of We Sell Everything was standing outside his shop with his arms folded. Behind him, a small figure was sweeping the step. The trouble was, prosperity here depended on the presence of the soldiers, and the presence of the soldiers depended on the whim of the emperor, and that was beyond mortal prediction. By the time Thessalus’s daughter had children of her own, this fort could be sunk back into the ground, the bathhouse in ruins, the houses rotted away, and sheep wandering over the great green swell of rampart on which he was now standing. Or, whoever was emperor could have decided to launch another building project like Deva: a grand reminder of Rome’s power set in stone. That had been Catavignus’s vision. It was a fine vision for a ruler with legions at his command, but played out on a smaller stage by a provincial brewer with a borrowed knife, it was simply-
Ruso’s deep musings skidded to a halt. He clattered down the steps, dodging past a surprised sentry who was halfway up, and sprinted toward the gates.
“Tilla!” he shouted, sliding on the gravel and barely bothering to return the salute of the gate guards who stepped aside to let him pass. “Tilla!”
She paused, using one knee to lift the big brass cooking pot around which her arms were encircled. She was back in her own clothes now: the old blue tunic, the shawl, and the battered boots.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye,” he said. “I didn’t know where to find you.”
“Aemilia will stay away until it is all over,” said Tilla, not needing to explain what she was referring to. “Rianorix is no friend of the Romans but he will make sure the brewery men do their work for her.”
He could not resist saying, “What does a basket maker know about brewing?”
“The men know what to do. And they know that if they fail, he has the power of the curse. Look what he made Catavignus do to Felix.”
“I suppose so,” he said, realizing sadly that he would never now have the time to argue her into a more
