Something had happened that might put her in danger. Something that Marcus, up to no good, had tried to warn him about. Where was she? Why had he not had the sense to grab the tattooed Briton by the throat and demand to know what the hell he was talking about?
Tilla was not missing.
Any minute now he would find her amongst the camp followers, curled up beside a fire and wanting to know why he was making such a fuss.
Tilla was missing.
She had found out that she was no longer the tribune’s hostage, realized her husband had failed to come for her, and taken herself off somewhere that the Britons knew about and he didn’t.
Tilla was missing.
Still clutching his case and the blanket he had brought thinking he was staying the night, he picked his way through the huddled confusion of vehicles and makeshift shelters and guard dogs and murmured conversations and crying babies and cooking smells that made up the civilian camp. None of the voices that responded to him in the darkness would admit to having seen her. The girl Corinna called out from somewhere to ask how her husband was. He reassured her as best he could, wishing he had better news.
Finally he resorted to shouting, “Tilla!” in the hope that she was hiding and might relent. The only reaction was a cacophony of barking and voices telling him to shut up: People were trying to sleep.
He glanced down the road to where the black shapes of roofs were silhouetted against the starlit sky. Had she taken a room somewhere? There was only one way to find out. Slowly, so as not to trip over tent pegs invisible in the dark, he began to make his way toward the buildings. That was when a movement caught his eye. A figure creeping along the grass verge, just this side of the ditch. Then another. And another. He ducked down, ready to raise the alarm. Then he saw the glint of metal from some idiot who thought he could skulk around unseen in shiny parade armor.
Suddenly, the blast of a trumpet set a dozen dogs all barking at once. The soldiers leapt up, looking like monsters in the starlight, and began a rhythmic, relentless crash of sword hilts on shields. Ruso could sense movement all around him as cries of fear and protest rose from the camp.
“This is an inspection!” roared a voice that had been educated in Rome. “Everyone stay where you are!”
It was the Praetorian officer he had met this morning, but … an inspection? Of a civilian camp in the middle of the night? What was the matter with him?
Children cried. Dogs barked. Adults muttered and cursed as they fumbled with covers and tent ties in the dark.
“The camp is surrounded! Nobody is to leave! Stand still outside your own shelter!”
Gods above, was he going to perform a roll call next? And why, having made his point, did he not stop that awful thumping beat?
“Keep those dogs under control!”
Somebody protested, “There are children here!” and several other voices rose in support.
“No one will be hurt!”
The beat was silenced at last. All around Ruso, whisperers were asking each other what was going on. One brave soul shouted, “What have we done, then?” and a bolder voice ventured, “Clear off back to Rome!”
“Silence!” roared the Praetorian. “Everyone onto the road in an orderly manner! My men will be performing a search. As soon as we have finished, you may return to your beds.”
Was that supposed to be reassuring?
Eventually everyone seemed to be moving toward the road, although in a manner that was far from orderly. Ruso went with them, hearing the sound of soldiers crashing about behind him. The search did not sound too orderly, either.
He joined the disgruntled and shivering collection of civilian travelers lined up for inspection by the flare of torches, and was taken by surprise when the officer ordered him to step forward. Surely the Praetorians had not arranged this search just for him?
No, they had not. When he responded truthfully to “Name?” the officer peered at him and said, “Ah. You again,” and looked down at his medical case. “Another memorial, is it?”
Before Ruso could reply, another voice called out his name.
“Sir?”
The torchlight picked out the gleam of Accius’s armor. This was turning into a very strange night.
Leading him away from the melee on the road, Accius said, “What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for my wife, sir. What’s going on?”
“Your wife is over in the empress’s dining room, upsetting people as usual.
Where’s your kit?”
“On a wagon, sir.”
Accius sighed, as if Ruso were being deliberately unhelpful. “Never mind. Arm yourself with something and get down to the camp. The British recruits have deserted.”
“What?”
“Centurion Dexter is also missing. I don’t care about the recruits, but if Dexter’s not already in a ditch with his throat cut, I intend to get him back.”
Chapter 75
Angry thin men were always more frightening than angry fat ones. This one hauled her out of the dining room with “The empress does not want to hear your nonsense about the Dumnonii woman!” and waited until they were out in the corridor to add, “And neither do I!”
“But Victor-”
“The deserter murdered his centurion, and he’ll be made an example of. If his family are foolish enough to follow him, the legate will decide what to do with them.”
There were no servants about as Prefect Clarus hustled her toward the stairs. She said, “Sir, I must speak with you!” but he was not listening. “I am on your side, my lord! You cannot trust the tribune!”
That stopped him.
“Sir, the tribune-”
He said, “Nonsense!” but instead of pulling her down the stairs, he seemed to change his mind and bundled her into the next room.
In the gloom she stumbled and fell out of his grasp, colliding with a bed and scrambling to her feet before he could pin her down there.
But he seemed to have no interest in the bed. Instead, he stood between her and the door and said, “If you lie to me, you will be punished.”
She moved closer to whisper, “You cannot trust the tribune, sir.” He had been to the baths: She could smell the oil. “He is making his own separate inquiries into the murder.”
She heard him draw in his breath. “You’re lying.”
“It is true.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “He is trying to prove the deserter did not kill his centurion. He is using my husband.” She moved away slightly, leaving one hand at his throat. “And I”-she pressed it against his skin-“am using his scalpel.”
She felt the blade rise and fall as Clarus swallowed. He had not seen her slip it out from under her skirts as she pretended to fall.
“You could shout for help,” she murmured. “But before anyone hears the words, your windpipe will be sliced in two and your blood will be spraying on the walls. I am the wife of a surgeon, and I know how these things are done.”
“You said you were on my side!” His voice was hoarse, and he sounded aggrieved.
“I lied.”
“I am a guest here! It is inhospitable to lie to me!”
“I lied about that too.” She was not going to waste time arguing. “The men seen with Geminus just before he
