“I am Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae among the Brigantes,” she told him. “Sometimes called Tilla. I have come from Londinium to help.”
He eyed her for a moment, then began to retreat toward the front of the house. “Holy Sucellus, this place stinks.”
“Julius Asper was robbed and murdered when he was carrying the money from your town,” said Tilla, following him. “Why was nobody there to guard him?”
“We weren’t asked,” said Dias, leaning on the splintered front doorpost. “We only work for him when we’re asked. He went with his brother. My lads rode out to help the minute we knew he was missing.”
“Bericus is still not found,” said Tilla.
“Maybe he did it,” suggested Dias. The dark eyes looked into her own. “Maybe he’s the one you want to be calling a thief, not me.”
“If he is alive,” said Tilla, “I will. Now, are you going to help?”
When Asper had been laid out on the pinkish gray floor of the smart front room, Dias nodded to the household shrine in the corner and said, “I’ll let the cemetery slaves know. First thing tomorrow morning, all right, ladies?”
Tilla glanced over at Camma, who did not look as though she understood the question. “First thing tomorrow morning,” she agreed. The sooner it was over, the better. “Thank you.”
Safely inside with the cupboard rammed against the broken street door to keep it closed, Camma slumped against the wall. “He was not attacked for money.” She sighed. “He did not take any money. There is nobody left who will listen to me.”
“I believe you,” said Tilla. She bent down to straighten the rush mat that had been kicked aside as they carried the body in. “But you and I cannot prove anything else yet, and we need that man to help with the burial.”
“But-”
“It is always good to speak the truth, sister,” said Tilla, wishing she had left the mat hiding the pair of man- sized house shoes that she had just revealed, “but sometimes it is wiser to say what is useful.”
28
As the ostler had promised, the ginger mare was keen to go-but not necessarily forward. After winning the argument over which of them was steering, Ruso urged it out under the archway and onto the wide expanse of the North road. The rhythm of its gait changed instantly as a clear run stretched out ahead. He sat deep in the saddle, relishing the rush of speed. They pounded past a crawling train of supply wagons and he grinned at the envious glances as he overtook a column of legionaries slogging along at the military pace. At this rate he would be in Verulamium by late afternoon.
As he passed the first milestone, more native houses started to appear. It occurred to him that Londinium had been an easy place to be a foreigner: a place run by the army and full of veterans and merchants. Beyond the safety of its walls people like himself were vastly outnumbered by the Britons, and Tilla was right: Whatever his intentions, he was venturing out into the province in the role of a tax collector.
Still, in other ways it was a relief to be heading out of town. Valens seemed to be suffering from an uncharacteristic and worrying urge to be helpful. While Ruso had been in a hurry to leave, Valens had been flapping about asking whether he was sure he had everything he needed and insisting on lending him even more money than he asked for.
For someone who had known Valens as long as Ruso had, it was all deeply disturbing. Most disturbing of all was their parting conversation. It began, “If you should happen to run into Serena and the children…” and trailed off into, “no, it doesn’t matter.” Valens had slapped him on the shoulder with something of his old bravado. “She’s bound to be back before long. Have a good trip, old chap. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You’ve got far more important things to think about.”
Ruso squinted at the road ahead, where a rapidly expanding shape became an official dispatch rider. He had one hand raised in greeting before he remembered he was a civilian now. The rider flashed past without acknowledging him, hurrying south with whatever the governor had to say concealed in the leather pouch strapped to his side. Perhaps there were messages in there for Metellus.
One of the unsettling things about Metellus was that you never knew how far his influence extended. He seemed to have no idea why Asper had been killed, which suggested he had no other source of information in Verulamium. If that were true, Ruso could do whatever kept the Council and the procurator happy, and as long as he produced a plausible report at the end, Metellus would be none the wiser. On the other hand, Metellus could be lying. It would be just like him to have somebody watching the watcher. But if he still had another spy in Verulamium, why had he bothered to recruit Ruso? Did he have doubts about the loyalty of this hypothetical second man?
Ruso shook his head. Once you began to believe in hypothetical spies, you began to jump at the movement of your own shadow. You stopped trusting anybody. He glanced back over his shoulder, just to confirm that there was no hooded man behind him. The mare, sensitive to his movement, shifted sideways. He nudged her back onto the soft verge, barely conscious of the mule train he was overtaking as he wondered where a man who did not know whom to trust would turn for help if he had been attacked. Instead of doing the sensible thing and asking the nearest person to fetch a doctor, he might just flee to another town.
Asper’s assailant must have left him truly terrified. He had not even dared to seek help when he arrived in Londinium, probably miles away from the scene of the attack. Confused or frightened or both, he had been convinced that an urgent message to Metellus was his best hope.
Ruso put both reins in one hand and loosened his neckerchief to let in some air. Nine milestones gone: He must be almost halfway by now. The horse was tiring. He was in need of a break himself. He was starting to get confused. If Asper had needed help from Metellus, then the murderer was definitely not some random robber. Besides, if Camma was right, Asper had taken no cash with him and would not be worth robbing. On the other hand, the tax money was missing…
This whole business seemed to be as slippery as the burglar he had chased out of Valens’s entrance hall. He hoped it would make more sense when he got to Verulamium.
There was a cluster of buildings farther up the hill. As he drew closer a carriage pulled out from among them and began to head south. He shifted in the saddle, already beginning to relax muscles he had not realized were tense. This was what he was looking for: the official posting station.
He handed the ginger mare’s reins to a groom and ordered a fresh horse, then headed for the awning of a roadside snack bar. A few paces away, a large carriage with polished surfaces still visible through the dust had parked up on the scrubby gravel beside the road. Its cavalry escort seemed to have scattered in search of fodder and latrines, its driver was busy tending to the horses, and three faces were peering out the window. The woman was saying something to the children. Ruso caught the end of her sentence: something about, “No. It might be dirty.”
He commandeered a bar stool, refused the stew, and was wondering how rough the really cheap wine might be, if this was the medium, when the door of the carriage opened and a servant stepped down followed by the three he had seen just now. The small girl was shifting from foot to foot in a manner that betrayed their purpose. The bartender leaned out and pointed to the left. “Round the back behind the empties, missus.”
“Officer’s family?” Ruso speculated as they hurried away.
“Just in off the ship, I’ll bet,” observed the barman. “Too frightened to come out and eat with the barbarians.”
Having smelled the stew, Ruso did not blame them. As the bartender moved away to serve the family’s escort, he wondered how the woman would cope when she reached her destination. Probably she would dictate letters home with news of a terrifying journey and only leave the safety of her husband’s fort for escorted trips to visit other officers’ wives.
The voice of his own first wife echoed from the depths of his memory. You never take me anywhere nice, Gaius.
