Caveat emptor

28

As the ostler had promised, the ginger mare was keen to go-but not necessarily forward. After winning the argument over which of them was steering, Ruso urged it out under the archway and onto the wide expanse of the North road. The rhythm of its gait changed instantly as a clear run stretched out ahead. He sat deep in the saddle, relishing the rush of speed. They pounded past a crawling train of supply wagons and he grinned at the envious glances as he overtook a column of legionaries slogging along at the military pace. At this rate he would be in Verulamium by late afternoon.

As he passed the first milestone, more native houses started to appear. It occurred to him that Londinium had been an easy place to be a foreigner: a place run by the army and full of veterans and merchants. Beyond the safety of its walls people like himself were vastly outnumbered by the Britons, and Tilla was right: Whatever his intentions, he was venturing out into the province in the role of a tax collector.

Still, in other ways it was a relief to be heading out of town. Valens seemed to be suffering from an uncharacteristic and worrying urge to be helpful. While Ruso had been in a hurry to leave, Valens had been flapping about asking whether he was sure he had everything he needed and insisting on lending him even more money than he asked for.

For someone who had known Valens as long as Ruso had, it was all deeply disturbing. Most disturbing of all was their parting conversation. It began, “If you should happen to run into Serena and the children…” and trailed off into, “no, it doesn’t matter.” Valens had slapped him on the shoulder with something of his old bravado. “She’s bound to be back before long. Have a good trip, old chap. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You’ve got far more important things to think about.”

Ruso squinted at the road ahead, where a rapidly expanding shape became an official dispatch rider. He had one hand raised in greeting before he remembered he was a civilian now. The rider flashed past without acknowledging him, hurrying south with whatever the governor had to say concealed in the leather pouch strapped to his side. Perhaps there were messages in there for Metellus.

One of the unsettling things about Metellus was that you never knew how far his influence extended. He seemed to have no idea why Asper had been killed, which suggested he had no other source of information in Verulamium. If that were true, Ruso could do whatever kept the Council and the procurator happy, and as long as he produced a plausible report at the end, Metellus would be none the wiser. On the other hand, Metellus could be lying. It would be just like him to have somebody watching the watcher. But if he still had another spy in Verulamium, why had he bothered to recruit Ruso? Did he have doubts about the loyalty of this hypothetical second man?

Ruso shook his head. Once you began to believe in hypothetical spies, you began to jump at the movement of your own shadow. You stopped trusting anybody. He glanced back over his shoulder, just to confirm that there was no hooded man behind him. The mare, sensitive to his movement, shifted sideways. He nudged her back onto the soft verge, barely conscious of the mule train he was overtaking as he wondered where a man who did not know whom to trust would turn for help if he had been attacked. Instead of doing the sensible thing and asking the nearest person to fetch a doctor, he might just flee to another town.

Asper’s assailant must have left him truly terrified. He had not even dared to seek help when he arrived in Londinium, probably miles away from the scene of the attack. Confused or frightened or both, he had been convinced that an urgent message to Metellus was his best hope.

Ruso put both reins in one hand and loosened his neckerchief to let in some air. Nine milestones gone: He must be almost halfway by now. The horse was tiring. He was in need of a break himself. He was starting to get confused. If Asper had needed help from Metellus, then the murderer was definitely not some random robber. Besides, if Camma was right, Asper had taken no cash with him and would not be worth robbing. On the other hand, the tax money was missing…

This whole business seemed to be as slippery as the burglar he had chased out of Valens’s entrance hall. He hoped it would make more sense when he got to Verulamium.

There was a cluster of buildings farther up the hill. As he drew closer a carriage pulled out from among them and began to head south. He shifted in the saddle, already beginning to relax muscles he had not realized were tense. This was what he was looking for: the official posting station.

He handed the ginger mare’s reins to a groom and ordered a fresh horse, then headed for the awning of a roadside snack bar. A few paces away, a large carriage with polished surfaces still visible through the dust had parked up on the scrubby gravel beside the road. Its cavalry escort seemed to have scattered in search of fodder and latrines, its driver was busy tending to the horses, and three faces were peering out the window. The woman was saying something to the children. Ruso caught the end of her sentence: something about, “No. It might be dirty.”

He commandeered a bar stool, refused the stew, and was wondering how rough the really cheap wine might be, if this was the medium, when the door of the carriage opened and a servant stepped down followed by the three he had seen just now. The small girl was shifting from foot to foot in a manner that betrayed their purpose. The bartender leaned out and pointed to the left. “Round the back behind the empties, missus.”

“Officer’s family?” Ruso speculated as they hurried away.

“Just in off the ship, I’ll bet,” observed the barman. “Too frightened to come out and eat with the barbarians.”

Having smelled the stew, Ruso did not blame them. As the bartender moved away to serve the family’s escort, he wondered how the woman would cope when she reached her destination. Probably she would dictate letters home with news of a terrifying journey and only leave the safety of her husband’s fort for escorted trips to visit other officers’ wives.

The voice of his own first wife echoed from the depths of his memory. You never take me anywhere nice, Gaius.

I’ve tried. You won’t go.

But how can I? The whole of Antioch is full of those dreadful people!

The barman returned, ostensibly to see if he had changed his mind about the stew. It seemed the cavalrymen were disinclined to gossip and the lone customer was a better bet. “You hear about that tax man being murdered?”

Ruso nodded.

“Used to stop here regular,” said the man. “Him and that brother they can’t find, and the guards.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Not what you’d call a big spender. Jug of wine, bread, and a bit of cheese. Always the same.” The man shook his head, as if the crime had deprived him not only of trade but of words. “Makes you think, don’t it? Him setting out thinking it was just a normal trip and he’d be home next morning.”

Ruso balanced the cup on the uneven planks that made up the bar and shrugged the stiffness out of his shoulders. “Do they know who did it?”

“Northerners,” said the bartender confidently, then, “Or it might be the Iceni, or some of their friends. But most likely Northerners. More and more of them hanging around these days.”

Ruso wondered if Tilla had stopped by for refreshment. “Do you get much trouble around here?”

“You don’t want to worry, boss. You got a fine day. Plenty of folk on the road. Just make sure you’re settled in somewhere before it gets dark.”

Ruso downed the rest of his drink and stood up. “I need to find a farmer called Lund.”

“Oh, everybody knows Lund.” The bartender chuckled. “Lives a couple of miles this side of Verulamium. Turn left at the split oak before the bridge and watch out for the monster. I hear it gets bigger every time he tells it.”