10
The guardians of the sunken chamber of Mithras did not seem to think the god would be overeager to help a man who had never bothered with him during all his years in the army. In truth, the officers’ favorite god would not have been Ruso’s first choice, but he did not have time to hunt around for another deity this morning. Finally the guardians sized him up and agreed that an unblemished lamb would be a sufficient offering to make should the great one grant him a son, although unless Ruso were to go through the proper initiations, divine assistance was unlikely. Ruso duly descended into the gloom and made his promise to the god. Stepping over a wide puddle outside the exit, he crushed the unholy thought that the guardians might be partial to roast lamb. He had more important things to think about.
He could not understand why Camma was convinced the Council was behind her husband’s disappearance, nor why they in turn seemed to suspect him and his brother of running off with the money. Tax collection was a form of licensed theft anyway. It was hard to see what Asper might gain by becoming a real criminal when he could sit comfortably where he was, charging over the odds and growing legally rich on a fat percentage of the receipts. It was the only reason for anyone to take on such an unpopular role in the first place. If the red-haired Iceni wife had been the problem, he could have divorced her. It was surely far more likely that the men had been attacked by robbers on the road.
He would find out the real story when he got to Verulamium. In the meantime, he needed to collect the warrants and get across to the stables before other travelers booked all the vehicles.
Over at the Residence, the builders were tying another layer onto the scaffold. Behind a stack of poles he found the office of the underclerk whose job it was to issue warrants for the use of official transport. No, the warrants were not ready. Yes, the request had been sent across yesterday. But no permits could be issued to a new user before he turned up in person. Procedures had been tightened up. The emperor had given orders to crack down on abuse. Not that the clerk was suggesting in any way, of course… but since the other traveler appeared to be a native woman…
“She’s my translator,” explained Ruso. “I’ll vouch for her.” He would also pay the fee of a sestertius that might, like the new rules, be official. On the other hand, it might be the clerk’s drinking money. He did not have time to argue. He would put the money on his list of expenses for Firmus, along with the name of the man who had demanded it.
As he handed over the cash the man said, “Oh, and there’s a message for you from the assistant procurator, sir. He needs to see you urgently.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that straightaway?”
“You said you wanted your permits immediately, sir.”
Crushing the warrants in his fist, Ruso strode across the courtyard. With luck, Firmus was about to tell him that the missing men had turned up, the cash had been delivered, and he could get on with finding somebody who wanted to hire a surgeon.
In fact, what Firmus wanted to tell him was that someone had just reported the discovery of a body that fitted the description of Julius Asper. “He tried to claim some sort of reward, but the staff sent him packing.”
“Ah,” said Ruso, wishing he had remembered to warn Firmus about the reward.
“But even if the body is one of our men, it seems he didn’t have the money with him.”
“I see,” said Ruso, wondering whether Firmus had really imagined that the finder might hand over the cash.
“Let’s hope the other one turns up soon,” said Firmus cheerfully. “Verulamium will have to talk to the procurator about the money, but at least our problem will be solved.”
“That depends on how he died,” said Ruso, hoping it was not Asper at all. No matter what Tilla said, the wife clearly did not think she would be better off without him.
“Does it matter how he died?”
“I’ll let you know,” promised Ruso.
The body was in a narrow and vile-smelling alleyway that ran up from the docks between the yard of the Blue Moon-the inn he had seen from the ship yesterday-and the back wall of a stable block. It was indeed that of a tallish, thirtyish, brown-haired man who was graying at the temples and had a crescent-shaped scar under his right eye. Apart from a flushed complexion and the awkward angle of his head, he looked as though he had chosen this soft patch of mud at the foot of a damp wall to settle down, close his eyes, and worry about his problems. After shooing off a gaggle of curious children, Ruso crouched beside him and slid two fingers behind the jaw in what he knew would be a futile hunt for a pulse. The chill of the clammy skin and the stiffness of the corpse suggested the man had been dead for hours. Despite that, neither his cloak nor his sturdy new boots had been stolen.
“Is that him, then, boss?” The innkeeper who had reported the find was one of the people Ruso had approached during yesterday’s search: a round-shouldered optimist who seemed to think that combing the remains of his hair forward would hide its retreat underneath.
Ruso pulled the thin blanket up again so that only the head was showing. He beckoned to one of the procurator’s income clerks, who was standing in the sunshine at the foot of the alley with a couple of porters. The man picked his way through the mud with obvious reluctance, gave a quick look, and confirmed that this was the man who had delivered taxes from Verulamium. Moments later Ruso watched him hurry away with orders to tell Firmus that Asper had been found, and that a full report would arrive later. He would give the wife the bad news himself. Then he would have to resume the hunt for Bericus.
“Glad to be of service, sir,” said the innkeeper. “I thought he was a drunk to start off with, but he looks too good, don’t he?”
Good was a relative term. “It was you who found him?”
“First thing this morning, when I come out to empty the slops.”
No wonder the alley smelled so bad.
“We sent a message straight off, in case it was your man.”
Instead of replying, Ruso bent to examine the pattern of nails in the victim’s boots. Then he checked to remind himself what his own footprints looked like and surveyed the mud of the alleyway. “Show me your shoes.”
“Very clever, sir,” observed the innkeeper. “I can tell you’re an investigator. Looking for footprints, eh?”
Ruso walked the short distance to the top of the alley, looked both ways along the street, and strolled back again.
“Any luck, sir?”
“Can’t say,” lied Ruso. Any footprints that might have led to a villain had been obscured, either by himself, the procurator’s man, the curious children, or the innkeeper. The innkeeper seemed to have circled the body several times to view it from different angles and run up and down the alleyway, perhaps in search of help.
“Can you get him moved, sir? I got work to do and the wife don’t like cooking with a body around the back.”
Ruso got to his feet and beckoned to the slaves he had borrowed from the procurator’s office. They were carrying one of the builder’s ladders, pressed into service as a stretcher. “You found him first thing this morning? So he’d been out here all night?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Did you hear anything out here after dark?”
“Not a thing, sir. Well, no more than usual. Usually something or other sets the dog going, but they clear off once he starts.”
“And you’ve never seen him before?”
“Never, boss. I’d have told you yesterday.”
“I see,” said Ruso, reaching up to trail one finger along the soft moss growing on the high wall of the inn yard. As he did so, a furious deep-throated barking erupted. He withdrew the hand as something began to scrabble at the wall from the other side.
“It’s all right, Cerberus!” shouted the innkeeper. “Settle down!”
The din subsided and Ruso turned to help his stretcher bearers. “Doctor Valens’s house,” he ordered them. “Go straight to the surgery entrance, not the main door. Tell whoever answers that it’s from Ruso and not to say a
