Caveat emptor

53

By the time Ruso had finished searching Asper’s office, the guards who had been waiting outside for him were looking exceedingly bored. The Forum was empty. The working day’s clamor had fallen silent. There was hardly any traffic: Vehicles had been unhitched and drawn into secure yards for the night. The guards escorted him to the mansio and did not look sorry when he dismissed them.

Publius greeted him at reception with the news that Tilla had left some time ago, and he was sorry but there was still no news of who might have delivered an unsigned note yesterday. Ruso made a quick tour of the building, annoying any staff he could catch by asking them the same questions Publius had obviously asked already. Finally convinced that nothing more could be done to trace the well-wisher tonight, he locked the door behind him, shut out the world, and stepped into the tasteful privacy of Suite Three. A couple of blank writing tablets had been thoughtfully provided on the side table and someone had filled the brazier with hot coals, anticipating a chilly night.

Further in, he realized that the cloak he had flung over the end of the bed had disappeared. He found it hanging behind the door. The cupboard where he had unloaded his few belongings had surely not been that well arranged last time he looked.

It was like having an invisible wife.

He pushed open the shutters and surveyed the garden. A slave hurried past the window clutching a tray and he heard a burst of male laughter from other guests somewhere farther along the walkway. He swung the shutters almost closed again. His wife had spurned his invitation, preferring to spend the night with a couple of women and a squalling baby. He did not want a jovial bachelor evening with a bunch of traveling officials.

As he bent to unlace his boots, the bag of Asper’s savings slung around his neck swung forward, reminding him that he should have returned it tonight. He wondered about walking across to Camma’s house, but there was nowhere to spend it at this hour. The women could wait until morning.

Someone was knocking at the door of the reception room. He braced himself for another encounter with Serena, but it was only a slave come to ask whether he wished dinner to be served in his dining room or in here. Being offered the choice was such a luxury that he was reluctant to surrender it straightaway. Instead he asked what was on tonight’s menu.

The slave took an ominously deep breath. It seemed tonight’s meal started with Finest Gaulish Honeyed Wine and ended with some sort of cakes in Smoothest Syrup of Baetican Grape Must. In between came Numidian-style Chicken, Parthian-style Lamb, and oysters with piquant relish from Baiae. The origins of “Tenderest leaves of winter vegetables” were not stated. Presumably that was local cabbage. He pretended to ponder this for a moment, imagining how ludicrous and lonely he would feel tackling all these complicated courses in the tiled expanse of the dining room across the corridor and then declared his preference for staying where he was. The slave bowed and left, his face impassive.

Ruso lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He would much rather be in a simple lodging room with his medical books and something from the local snack bar. This wretched business grew more complicated by the minute, and now he was supposed to be leaving in the morning with more questions raised than answered.

When the ceiling proved no inspiration at all, he tried closing his eyes. The facts writhed around in his brain like a nest of snakes. Finally he got up and opened one of the writing tablets. He was supposed to be keeping the procurator informed, but they had not arranged a code. Perhaps it was just as well. If the forgers had suspected that Asper was onto them, the fact that he was sending mysterious coded letters to Londinium might have been his death sentence. Accordingly, Ruso scrawled the bland, “Further information discovered, Council feel they can investigate from here. Back shortly.” He contemplated sending a note saying “Bastard! You might have warned me!” to Valens, but decided the satisfaction was not worth the money.

He was sealing the first tablet when two slaves arrived bearing trays. They proceeded to unload far too much food for one person onto the tables by the brazier. As more and more dishes were placed in front of him, Ruso wondered if he had misunderstood the arrangements. Perhaps he had been supposed to select some dishes from the list and refuse others. Were they cursing him over in the kitchen? Complaining about the waste of taxpayers’ money? Or were they laughing at his naivete? Perhaps this was how officials on tour normally ate. He thought of Tilla and the women over in the house with the mended door. He should have invited all of them. Perhaps he could save them some of this.

To his alarm there were more footsteps in the corridor. Another slave backed in through the doorway. He was only mildly relieved when the tray turned out to hold several jugs of drink. Once these were in place, two of the men disappeared, but not before assuring him that they had no idea who might have put an unsigned note under his door and that the manager had asked them the same question. The third stayed to pour his wine. Ruso tried a jovial, “Is this all for me?”

The slave offered a polite smile and said, “Enjoy your dinner, sir!” before retreating to stand in the corner.

Ruso considered asking him if he was hungry, then decided he would be insulted. He took a deep breath and reached for a spoon. Holding it in midair, he turned to the slave. “You don’t have to stand there,” he said. “Don’t you have something more important to do?”

“No, sir.”

“Then go and do something unimportant, will you? I really can’t eat with you watching me.”

“If you’re sure you don’t need any help, sir.”

“It’s just eating,” Ruso told him. “I’ll manage.”

“I’ll be just outside, sir.”

He supposed that would have to do. Alone at last, he was just reaching for the honeyed wine when there was a tap on the door and the slave reappeared clutching a thin sliver of wood tied with twine.

“Yes?”

“This has arrived for you, sir. It was in the corridor, slipped under your street door.”

Ruso took the tablet and read “To the Procurator’s Man” as the slave glided out of the room again. Slicing the twine with his knife, he flipped the note open and took a gulp of wine before he read, Get away now. They will do to you what they did to Asper and Bericus. From your well-wisher.

The wine went the wrong way. Coughing and struggling not to inhale, he flailed at the air with the letter as he tried to cough up the liquid blocking his windpipe. When he regained his composure the slave was back in the room.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“Fine!” he gasped. The one word brought on another fit of coughing.

The slave was crouched in front of him, holding out a cup of water. He sipped gratefully, feeling it run cool and soothing down his throat. “Went down the wrong way,” he explained, pointing at the jug. The note was open facedown on the floor. He retrieved it, just in case the man could read, and hurried out past him.

The only thing moving in the alley was a cat slinking away along the foot of the stable wall. From somewhere nearby he could hear the evening warble of a blackbird. Whoever had delivered that letter was long gone.

Get away now. Tonight? He could hardly go to the stables and demand horses at this hour. By the time he and Tilla were halfway to Londinium it would be dark.

Ruso hung the key back on the hook and returned to try and settle in front of his dinner.

They will do to you what they did to Asper and Bericus.

There was no mention of Tilla, thank the gods. That might mean something. It might not. He didn’t know. Dealing with this business was like punching fog.

The slave said, “Is there something wrong, sir?”

“You didn’t see who delivered that note?”

“No, sir.” The man hesitated by the door. “Would you like me to stay, sir?”

“Perhaps you’d better.” Ruso took a spoonful of cabbage and paused with it halfway to his mouth.

… They will do to you…

He lifted the spoon and held the contents up toward the lamp. It looked like normal cabbage. He licked the spoon. It tasted like normal cabbage. Besides, Asper and Bericus had been bludgeoned, not poisoned.

Still… He glanced up at the slave, who was doubtless wondering whether this oddly behaved guest was about to complain.

“Is there anything I can to do help, sir?”

Get away now…

Ruso eyed the challenge contained in the dishes laid out around him, and considered asking the slave to taste them all first. The best that could happen was that the man would tell the kitchen staff and everyone would be insulted. The worst was that he would drop dead. That would be very bad for both of them. Although worse for the slave, obviously.

If only the well-wisher had been bold enough to put his name to the note. Ruso put down the spoon and held the tablet up so the slave could see the writing on the outside. “Do you have any idea at all who this might have come from? Someone who might want to help me?”

The man looked nonplussed. “No, sir.”

Ruso reread the message. His instinctive reaction had been alarm. Now he must think logically. If the unknown correspondent had intended to poison his dinner, he would not have bothered writing to him first.

He swallowed the cabbage, tried a spoonful of the sauce around the chicken, and savored it before glancing up at the slave. “This is very good,” he said. And then, because he did not want to be alone after all, “Want some?”

Later, after the staff had cleared away the dishes and removed the brazier, he checked the locks on the doors and shutters twice, then rammed a chair under each door latch. He reread the note, trying and failing to pick up some hint of who might be warning him and what that person might know that he didn’t. Then he snuffed out all but one of the lamps and settled down to an uneasy sleep.