Chapter 76
A couple of fast-moving flares in the distance traced the progress of the search along tracks that the Britons might have taken. Meanwhile, the peace of the camp was a distant memory. A volley of shouts was followed by silence: Someone sensible had decreed that the searchers should allow themselves time to hear any replies to the cry of
As they approached he saw lights bobbing about above the ditch, picking out the shapes of soldiers hunting for a man who, not half an hour ago, had been sitting by a campfire, eating bacon.
Ruso felt sick.
He should have told Dexter that Marcus was wandering around where he shouldn’t be. Instead he had pointed out that the captain of the watch was slacking, mentioned vaguely that the recruits seemed restless, and then left the centurion to deal with forty-six armed and resentful men while he wandered off to look for his wife.
Someone arrived to tell Accius that several guards had been found dumped under a hedge.
Ruso felt his stomach shrivel.
“Dead?” demanded Accius, voicing his own fear.
“Just knocked about a bit, sir.”
Clinging to this small shred of comfort, Ruso followed the tribune to the hospital wagons and joined Pera and the orderlies in checking the injured men as best they could by the light of the one remaining lantern. To Ruso’s relief, none of the victims was seriously hurt, although there was an impressive amount of blood and all had nasty rope burns around their necks. It struck Ruso that their accounts of the attack were as graphic as any man might offer if he were trying to avoid being flogged for not paying proper attention on guard duty. They must have been negligent. How else could the deserters have managed to overpower, tie up, and gag all half a dozen of them without anyone noticing?
Accius’s eager questioning revealed nothing new. None of the guards knew anything about Dexter. He told them they would be dealt with in the morning, and left them to worry.
Ruso got up to leave with him. None of this was helping to find either Dexter or Tilla, and now he was afraid for both of them. What the hell had Marcus meant when he said she would come to no harm?
“Sir?” Ruso hurried to catch up with the tribune, who was doing a good job of striding purposefully about and looking as though he knew what to do next. Ruso felt almost sorry for him. “Sir, has anyone checked the inn?”
“They haven’t popped out to dinner, Ruso. Just thank the gods the empress is well away from all this.”
“Just a thought, sir.” He was going to have to explain. But not truthfully. Not now. Besides, he might be wrong. Marcus’s promise might not mean they were planning to enter the building Tilla was in. But if it didn’t mean that, what did it mean? Had they disappeared into the night and taken her with them?
Accius was still pointing out the stupidity of his first idea. “The empress has a guard, and I was there myself just a few minutes ago.”
“Sir, they could have taken Dexter as a hostage in the hope of doing a deal. And that’s where they think the officers are.”
“The place is packed with staff, man!”
Ruso did not want to have to say it, but it was true. “Most of the staff will be natives, sir.”
Chapter 77
It was scant satisfaction to be proved right. The native recruits were not only in the inn: They had taken control of it. Outside, at a safe distance from anything that might be thrown from the roof, the centurion of the Praetorians was briefing his junior officers. In the absence of his commander he seemed to have taken it upon himself to do whatever was necessary. What he deemed necessary was a diversion, so that a small party of his best men could climb over the stable walls and open up from the inside. Accius’s few remaining men from the Twentieth could provide one of the diversions by storming the front steps. Clearly the Praetorians were excited at the prospect of some real action.
In response to Accius’s question he retorted that, yes, he had tried negotiation already. The only response had been a hail of insults and roof tiles. “How many of your barbarians are in there?”
“I’ll talk to them. They’re my men.”
“They’ve got my prefect. And the empress. It’s too late for talking.”
Nobody seemed to notice when Ruso faded back into the darkness, leaving his tribune to a dispute that might be about saving lives, or about not being told what to do by a mere centurion, or about the Twentieth drawing all the fire so the Praetorians could perform the rescue. Whoever won the argument, it would do no good. He was not sure the recruits would believe anything Accius told them.
They might not believe anything he said himself, but it was worth a try.
The feeble lamps still burned on either side of the front doors, an odd reminder of normal business. As he approached he could hear some sort of native chanting going on inside. The sound brought back memories he would rather not think about.
There was movement up on the roof, a hollow scraping sound, and then a crack, as if someone was shifting and then breaking up a heavy clay tile. He stopped and called out in British, “This is Ruso, the healer. Let me talk to Marcus.”
Behind him he could hear the Praetorian centurion demanding to know who that idiot was, and Accius ordering him to come back as if he were a disobedient dog. With luck, the men on the roof would hear them too.
“I’m coming forward!” he called, then ducked and made a quick sidestep.
In answer, something flew over his head and thudded into the gravel. Broken roof tile was not the easiest of missiles to aim, and they would be throwing toward the sound of his voice in the dark, but Geminus had trained his men well. With no armor or helmet, he was a soft target for anything with sharp edges.
“Marcus will talk to me!” he shouted, dodging again and wishing he had had the sense to borrow a shield. “Go and ask him!”
There seemed to be more movement up there, but no reply came. Perhaps Marcus was not in charge after all. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps Tilla …
He could not think about Tilla. He needed to concentrate.
More movement, and a voice shouting in Latin this time. “Bring the tribune. Just you two and nobody else. No weapons. We are watching.”
To Accius’s credit, his footsteps were crunching forward over the gravel even before Ruso could turn and ask him. They walked forward slowly, far enough apart to make two small targets instead of one large one. The chanting grew louder. Ruso was conscious of being watched from behind and from above. This was very different from the last time he had seen a recruit up on a roof.
He murmured, “The Praetorians aren’t going to try storming the place as we go in, are they, sir?”
“Not unless they want to kill us,” observed Accius.
They passed between the lamps. Ahead of them, one of the double doors swung back. Ruso led the way forward. The chant was pulsating through the darkness. It was like walking under an amphitheater with the crowd above roaring for blood. The heavy door slammed shut behind them. He heard the bar scrape across into the socket. Someone called, “Put down your weapons.”
Ruso lowered his knife to the floor. He was aware of Accius bending down beside him. Hands moved over his body, checking for concealed blades. Then the voice that had spoken before said, “Welcome to Sports Night.”
