Ruso’s head was throbbing. He supposed he should be glad that they had left him the dignity of a loincloth, but the stone walls of the cell were cold and unyielding against his naked back, and the iron bands he had seen two days ago were now cutting into his own wrists. He could not even scratch at the crawling itches of the nettle stings because the chains were too short, clamped to the wall in such a way that it was impossible either to stand up properly or to lower his hands from shoulder height when he sat.
What a fool he had been. What a pompous ass.
Pera’s careful report about Tadius had been destroyed because he had blundered in, trying to help.
Hadrian’s annoyed expression as he had called “Your Majesty!” should have warned him to shut up, but instead he had plowed on.
He closed his eyes and pictured Tilla pulling clothes out of their luggage.
If only he could have that moment over again. He would say,
She had said,
Whatever the gods were up to, smiling was not a part of it.
He was drifting into a fitful sleep when a key rattled in the lock and the door crashed open.
“On your feet!” bawled a guard. “Septicius Clarus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, and Tribune Accius to see the prisoner!”
Ruso struggled to his feet and stood with his back straight and his knees bent. It was marginally more respectful than leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out, but much less comfortable.
Clarus stepped into the cell. When Accius joined him, there was barely room to shut the door. Ruso, forcibly shortened and with his thighs already aching from the effort of his unnatural posture, looked up at them and waited while Clarus angled a wax tablet to catch the light from the small, high window. Accius glowered at a space somewhere above Ruso’s head. Normally a disciplinary investigation would be conducted by a tribune, but there were all sorts of reasons why Accius was the wrong man to investigate this, and Ruso guessed he had been forbidden to speak.
“Gaius Petreius Ruso,” Clarus declared, looking up from his notes and addressing him as if he were making a speech in the Forum. “As you are known to the emperor, I will be making the inquiries relating to the accusation of murder that has been made against you.”
“I didn’t do it, sir.”
“I am instructed to inform you that if you confess, things will be easier for your wife.”
“I have no wife, sir. I’m divorced.”
Clarus looked down his nose at him for a moment, then continued. “Last night you were confined to quarters.”
“I was called to a medical emergency, sir.”
“Yes.” Clarus ran one finger over the notes until he reached the point he wanted. “And when the emergency was dealt with, you went out through the east gate disguised as one of my men.”
This was not going well.
“You were seen at the mansio asking for your wife.” Ruso swallowed.
“There was blood on your hands.”
“The blood was from a patient, sir.”
Clarus let that rest. “There are some doubts about the loyalty of your wife, are there not?”
“I have no doubts, sir.”
“You wouldn’t deny that you asked to see her?”
“I needed to inform her that our marriage was no longer legal, sir. Because I’d been demoted.”
“But you still think of her as your wife.”
The burning in Ruso’s thighs was becoming unbearable. “I didn’t kill Geminus, sir.”
“Several people have told me that you had a grudge against him.”
“Not him personally, sir. The things he did. He caused the deaths of three of his recruits and then made threats against me when I tried to look into it. I wasn’t the only person who-” He stopped just in time and finished with “who had trouble with him” instead of
“The tribune here was already dealing with the business of the recruits.”
“Yes, sir.” He could stand it no longer. He wriggled round until he could lean against the wall with his aching legs stretched out in front of him.
Accius burst out, “Stand up straight!”
Clarus shot him a warning glance while Ruso shuffled back to his original position. He turned to the prefect. “Sir, I’m not going to escape. Could I have the chains removed?”
“Other men, perhaps,” said the prefect. “A man with your history, no.”
“My history, sir?”
“Your record of violence against fellow officers.”
Ruso frowned. “What?”
Clarus sighed. “You see, Ruso, we know a great deal about you.”
Ruso closed his eyes, realizing at last what-or rather, who-was behind Clarus’s interest in him. “I once pushed Metellus into a river, sir. I did it because he deserved it.”
“And did Geminus deserve what you did to him too?”
“What happened to Centurion Geminus wasn’t justice, sir. And the person who did it is still free.” He took a chance. “I’ve worked as an investigator in the past, sir. I could help you track down the guilty men.”
Clarus snapped his writing tablet shut. “Do the honorable thing and confess, Ruso. You don’t want to meet the questioners, and we don’t want to have to use them on a man of your former standing. It’s undignified.” He turned and thumped the door with his fist. “Guards! We’ve finished with this man.”
Chapter 50
“Where are your toes?” asked Tilla. “Can you show me where your toes are?”
Lucios, seated on a rug on the mud floor, grasped the end of one chubby foot and looked up for approval.
“Oh, clever boy!”
It was hard to reconcile the grinning toddler with the red-faced, screaming creature she had seen thrashing about in his mother’s arms three days ago.
“Now where is your hair? Where’s Lucios’s hair? Shall I show you?”
The wispy blond hair was duly located and admired. “How about your ears? Oh, look! There they are! Two ears!”
Tilla hoped his mother would be back soon. The child was barely old enough for stories, she was running out of games and she would be glad to get away from this place. Corinna had clearly not been pleased to come down and find her still here this morning, and was even less pleased when Tilla explained that her husband had told her to wait here for a message. So Tilla had promised to find lodging elsewhere, and although they both knew that rooms were as rare as fish feathers in Eboracum at the moment, Corinna had thanked her and offered to pass on the message when it came. Meanwhile, perhaps Tilla would wait behind and watch Lucios while she went out to buy bread?
Tilla had duly noted that she was not to let the boy eat mud, or pull off his bandage, or go near the hearth or out of the gate (which was now barred) or up the ladder (a board was tied across the rungs to keep him off); and at the least sign of fidgeting or hiding in a corner, she was to insist that he sit on the pot.
Corinna had been gone a long time. There must be queues at the bakery, and no doubt much gossip to be exchanged after the rioting last night. Perhaps Corinna was glad of the break: Caring for a small child all day and night must be tedious. Was that how it would be if they ever had children of their own? And where would “home”
