Caveat emptor

22

It seemed Albanus had never learned the first lesson of military life and was continuing to volunteer for things. When Ruso explained the problem, he happily offered to stand at the gate of the Residence and spend the afternoon noting down the details of everyone who claimed to have seen a dark-haired man with part of one ear missing and recording any possible sightings of Julius Asper before yesterday.

Indoors, the tomblike chill of Firmus’s room seemed less noticeable this afternoon. Evidently the plaster was drying out. The welcome was warm too. Firmus invited Ruso to sit and offered him an olive from the bowl on the desk.

The reason for his relaxed demeanor became clear when the youth said, “That awful magistrate has pushed off, and my unc- sorry, the procurator, says I was right to hire you. He wants to talk to you straightaway. He did want me to check one thing first, though. You aren’t working for Metellus now, are you?”

“Absolutely not, sir,” Ruso assured him. “That was just an isolated case.” He might have added that the less he had to do with the governor’s security man, the happier he would be.

“Good. So have you found the missing brother?”

“Not yet,” said Ruso, “but there are other developments. There’s a complication with the woman. That’s why I need to talk to Caratius.”

Complications with women were evidently of little interest to Firmus. “Any luck with the letter?”

Hoping the procurator did not know he was chatting to the assistant instead of obeying the order to report in straightaway, Ruso told him.

Firmus’s attempt to conceal his disappointment was not entirely successful. “What does he mean, incriminating evidence? And what’s the point of writing in shorthand if any clerk can read it?”

“We don’t know. But my man’s had a few thoughts about the destination.”

Ruso repeated what Albanus had just explained to him on the way over: that the only buildings in town big enough to have twenty-seven rooms were the fort, the Forum, the amphitheater, and possibly the Official Residence. Between them they had eliminated the first three before arriving here, so the only remaining possibility was-

Firmus was out from behind his desk before Ruso had finished the sentence. “The guard room will know where it is.”

“I’m supposed to be reporting to-”

“Oh, uncle has plenty of other things to do. And this way you’ll be able to tell him the whole story.” Ruso hoped Firmus was right. At least locating Room Twenty-seven would not involve another visit to the procurator’s clerks.

Firmus was almost in the corridor when the elderly slave who had been hovering beside him managed to catch up and whisper something in his ear. “I know he does,” replied the youth, irritated. “Ruso will go and see him as soon as we’ve finished.” He rebuffed the slave’s attempt to follow him with, “It’s all right, Pyramus-Ruso can tell me everything.”

The slave did not look impressed. On the way through to the gatehouse, Firmus said, “Sorry about that. I’m sure Mother made Pyramus promise to write home and tell her everything I get up to.”

“Ah,” said Ruso, wondering what Firmus’s mother imagined she could do about it.

Over at the gatehouse they found five men queuing up to speak to Albanus. He had scrounged a stool from somewhere and was listening to a long diatribe from a man whose hair could only have been squashed into that shape by an army helmet. The man was complaining about a native who had sold him a dud hunting dog in a bar. Albanus stopped writing when the man admitted that he had not noticed anything about the native’s ears, but he was definitely a villain.

“We’ll be in touch if we catch him,” Albanus promised, ever polite.

“How do I know you won’t just catch him and not tell me?”

“This is an inquiry on behalf of the procurator’s office,” put in Ruso. “Are you suggesting the procurator wouldn’t honor his promises?”

The man was not. At least, not while anyone official was listening. Ruso put a hand on the clerk’s shoulder. “Albanus, I need a word.”

Albanus got to his feet and announced, “Back in a moment,” to the line, clearly relishing his newfound authority.

Firmus reappeared. The legionary following behind him had a bunch of heavy keys dangling from one hand.

Firmus announced, “It’s in the west wing of the courtyard, on the ground floor,” then lowered his voice to add, “There’s something funny going on. The watch captain had another man asking about it this morning. He said his name was Ruso, and he told them he had authority from me.”

This was a new development. “Did they let him in?”

Firmus shook his head. “When they said they had to check with me, he ran off. Apparently he was a medium-sized man in his twenties, but they didn’t get much of a look at him because he was wearing a hood.”

Ruso said, “That’s interesting.”

“Not really,” said Firmus. “It was raining.”

As they crossed the courtyard, Ruso dismissed the idea that this mysterious impostor might be the missing Bericus. An honest man would not be sneaking about. A thief would be on the run. It could not be Caratius, who was too old, nor his guard, who was too big. So who else might be calling himself “Ruso”?

Firmus was enjoying himself. “I must say,” he said, “this procurating business is much more fun than I thought. Secret messages and stolen money and mystery men and murders. It must be even better being an investigator.”

“It’s very dangerous, sir,” put in Albanus, speaking from experience.

“And there’s a lot of tedious routine,” added Ruso, aware that he should have insisted on reporting to the procurator as ordered, instead of feeding young Firmus’s craving for excitement.

“I’d be hopeless at it, of course,” Firmus confessed. “I’d never see anything unless it were right under my nose. I mean, look at that.” He paused, gesturing toward the slab of paving beneath his expensive sandals. “I can see there’s something down there, but I can’t tell you if it’s a coin or a cockroach.”

Ruso glanced down at the lump of charcoal that somebody had dropped on the way to a brazier. It gave a satisfying crunch as he stomped on it.

“I was right!” exclaimed Firmus, clearly delighted at the possibility that he was not as shortsighted as he feared. They paused outside a rough wooden door under the west portico. “Is this it? Open up!”

The guard jiggled the iron key in the lock, trying to coax the prongs up into the holes of the mechanism. “Needs greasing,” he muttered, in a tone that suggested somebody else should have seen to it.

Albanus’s cheeks were pink. It could not have escaped him that this was the chance for a harassed schoolmaster to impress the procurator’s office. Ruso wondered if he had noticed the delicate mesh of cobweb joining the edges of the door to the frame.

Finally winning the battle with the lock, the guard was obliged to shoulder the door open. As it gave way he dipped his head, hastily brushing something out of his hair. Stepping inside, Ruso glimpsed a couple of earwigs squirming on the threshold.

Room Twenty-seven smelled musty. Ruso’s eyes began to adjust to the gloom. Those vertical shapes were the legs of one table stacked upside down on top of another. A couple of old doors were propped lengthways against the wall. A half-bald broom lay along the top of them. He stepped over a bucket that appeared to be lined with concrete, and maneuvered an arm in between the table legs to release the catch on the window. As the hinge on the nearest shutter squealed in complaint, the movement ripped open a beautifully constructed white tunnel in the corner of the frame. A large spider emerged, scuttled back and forth along the sill in panic, then ran down the wall and vanished somewhere into the gloom.

The new light revealed a worm-eaten wheel with several spokes missing and a two-foot-high statue of Diana with one arm lying at her feet. Farther back was an old window frame complete with glass. Rusty nails were sticking out of the wood. A length of bent lead pipe snaked out from behind it. Everything in here was waiting for the day when it would be needed again.

Ruso pulled the old doors away from the wall to check but found only a mummified mouse. There was nothing else in the room.

Albanus looked like a boy who had just found out he had been up half the night doing the wrong homework. It was plain from Firmus’s expression that even he could see they had reached a dead end.

For reasons he did not understand, Ruso felt it was his job to soften the blow. As if there were some point in asking, he tried, “Who’s in charge of this room?”

Predictably, the guard did not know. He suggested another name, but Ruso knew it was hopeless. The next man would be unlikely to know either. Room Twenty-seven had obviously lain undisturbed for years while the workmen who had stored their junk in here had moved on and forgotten all about it.

Asper’s unknown correspondent remained as elusive as ever.