wax tablet with his right. Then he frowned at the figure and flicked the beads again but made no alterations to what he had just written. “I do have some questions, sir. Probably very foolish ones but I’m only a schoolteacher, I’m afraid. They seem to have an awful lot of different funds and it’s rather hard to tell what’s where, especially when they seem to keep moving money from one to another.”
Ruso squinted at the tablet. “I don’t know how you can work in this light. Have you found the orphans’ bread and education fund?”
“Oh, yes, sir. And the maintenance of streets fund and the extension to the mansio fund and the fund to pay the municipal slaves and the cost of keeping the guards going. I have to say I didn’t realize how complicated this would be.”
Ruso pointed to the largest figure. “What’s that one?”
Albanus peered at his list, referred to a second list, and said, “That’s the running total for the theater fund, sir, as of last January. I’m sorry I haven’t finished, but Dias came to call and there was a bit of a fuss over getting rid of him.”
Tilla said, “Dias? Here?”
Ruso frowned. “I should have known he wasn’t taking the evening off.”
“He wanted to talk to Grata, sir. She told me to tell him to go away.”
Tilla said, “I knew I should never have left them!”
Albanus visibly bristled. “I got rid of him, sir. The ladies were quite safe.”
Ruso said, “Well done,” just as Tilla said, “How did you do that?”
“Grata ran back into the kitchen, sir, and I stood in his path and told him that if he tried to come past I would be forced to use violence. And then he tried to insult me, and I told him I was a trained legionary acting under the orders of the procurator, and if he didn’t leave straightaway I would report him to you.”
“Excellent,” said Ruso, picturing the scene. “I knew I could rely on you.”
“I think it may have helped when Camma pulled the poker out of the fire and waved it at him,” admitted Albanus. He spread one arm to indicate the piles of documents on the table. “So I’m afraid with all that I haven’t got as far as I would have liked. I was wondering whether you’d mind if I stayed here to finish, sir? Grata’s kindly left me some blankets on the couch.”
Ruso recalled the splendor of Suite Three, where the sheets still retained a faint memory of lavender. “Well,” he said, “if you’re sure you don’t mind staying, Tilla can come back with me.”
Albanus squared his shoulders. “Absolutely not, sir. I think one of us should stay here to look after the ladies.”
Ruso nodded. “Make sure everything’s properly locked up,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll be back, but if he is, don’t tackle him on your own. Shout ‘Fire’ and rouse the neighbors.”
“Fire, sir?”
“Yes. They may not get out of bed for anything else.”
The route Ruso chose toward the mansio took them past Nico’s lodgings. There were no lights visible. He stepped up to the entrance to check that it was secure. There was a thud and a rattle of ironwork. The dog that had hurled itself at the door began to bark.
As they fled down the street with the guards clattering along behind them, Tilla gasped, “Nobody in that house will thank you for making sure he is safe.”
Once his guards had checked the mansio rooms and declared them free of lurking assassins, Ruso dismissed them for the night. “You’ll be safe in here,” he said to Tilla, locking the outside door and picking up the lantern that had thoughtfully been left burning in the hallway. Once inside Suite Three, she stood in silence as he lit more lamps and the simple elegance of his accommodation sprang into view. “You have to admit,” he said, “we’ve come a long way since the damp rooms in Deva.”
“All this is for one man?”
In the confined space he was conscious again of the clear scent of the bluebells. “There’s a dining room and private kitchen as well,” he told her. “But I told them I hadn’t brought my cook.”
“I will go into your kitchen in the morning and start stuffing piglets.”
“Tomorrow,” murmured Ruso, sliding one arm around her waist and plucking the bluebells from her hair, “you can do whatever you like. Tonight, I want you here.”
61
The bathhouse was full of stuffed animals and slaves to digestion, and the masseur was tightening an iron band around Ruso’s forehead. He lifted one arm to push the man away, but the stone weighing down his stomach was too heavy. It hurt to move his head. He was too tired to complain.
Beside him, something stirred and muttered. A voice somewhere at the back of his mind said that this was not right. There was no masseur, just the aching head. This was not the bathhouse. He was lying in his bed at the mansio. He had eaten and drunk too much, too late at night, and the body beside him was his wife.
His skin prickled with sweat. The sheets were sticking to him. He was short of breath. He kicked off the covers, flinging them over onto Tilla, who hated to be woken by a cold draft. He lay on his back in the darkness with one arm and one leg trailing over the edge of the bed, trying to cool off.
There was no light around the shutters. It must still be the middle of the night. Wincing as the pain throbbed behind his temples, he rolled over to grope for the cup of water he had left beside the bed. As he drank he noticed a faint red glow in the corner. It must be the reflection of…
It couldn’t be. There were no reflections in the dark.
He rubbed his eyes and opened them again. The red glow was still there. He could pick out a black curve beneath it. The lip of the brazier. That was why he was so hot. He closed his eyes, wishing someone would come and move it. Or open the window.
He swung his feet down onto the floor and stumbled across to where the window should be, but he must be still dreaming. Instead of a window he found himself fighting with a tangle of blanket that seemed to have draped itself between him and the latch. Finally lifting it out of the way, he managed to unfasten the shutters. Cool air wafted across his face and down over his bare feet. He took a couple of deep breaths. He could see the shape of the flowerbeds and the outline of the roof opposite. There was a lantern burning over by the door to the reception area. He was not dreaming.
A brazier? In the bedroom?
“Tilla!” He ran to the bed, colliding with some piece of furniture and kicking it out of the way. “Wake up!” He flung back the covers and hauled her out of bed. His head was thumping. She was muttering in protest. Struggling. That was good. That was definitely good.
“Wake up,” he urged, dragging her across to the window.
She was mumbling something in British.
“Breathe,” he urged, holding her up to the fresh air. “Deep breaths.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Breathe.” He was shaking her now. “Breathe in!”
“I am breathing! Get off!”
He loosened his grip. “Did you order some heating?”
“What?”
“Stay by the window.” He filled his lungs with fresh air before searching for a taper, and again before leaving the window to light the lamp. When he had satisfied himself that they were alone in the rooms, he said, “Did you ask the staff to put coals in the brazier?”
She shuddered. “Someone has been in here while we were sleeping?”
Would fumes work faster in a smaller body? “Keep taking deep breaths.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her back toward the open window. “Do you feel sick?”
“A little. But I felt sick anyway after all that food.”
She was answering questions sensibly. That was good too.
He opened the doors wide, then wrapped his hands in the blanket and carried the brazier out to discharge its
