Tabula Rasa

Chapter 40

Ruso would have offered to escort Tilla back from the farm to her lodgings, but his duty lay with the tribune. He was not worried: Most of the trip was on the main road, and his wife was used to fending for herself. So both he and she were surprised when Accius announced that she should walk back with them.

Moments later Accius was calling out, “Not in between the guards! Walk on one side. You’re being escorted, not arrested!”

Ruso stifled a smile. As he suspected, the offer was less for his wife’s protection than for the goodwill Accius might accrue by being seen to protect a native in public. Accius was no fool. He had not served in Britannia during the rebellion but he must know as well as Pertinax that this business of the kidnapped boy could very easily slip out of control. Especially since their inquiries into yesterday’s whereabouts of each member of the search team had gotten them nowhere: Everyone except the supposedly trustworthy optio had a firm alibi. He must also be aware that when news of any trouble was reported back in Rome, the unlucky name that would be associated with it was not that of the legate but of the man whom the legate had assigned to deal with it: Publius Valerius Accius. No wonder he had called Ruso in to help. Accius could do little about what they would say in Rome, but at least he could try to ensure that the name everyone in the Legion here would associate with failure would be somebody else’s.

When they turned onto the main road, the stone walls of the fort and the thatched jumble of civilian buildings they could see beyond it were vanishing into the gloom of an early-autumn evening. A few lamps began to glimmer behind the translucent luxury of windows. A native cantered past on a shaggy pony, yelled, “Where’s the boy, you thieving bastards?” and did not wait for an answer. They were overtaken by a couple of mule carts whose drivers were hurrying to get in before the gates closed. Just a few moments away from the home of a family paralyzed with fear, others were coming to the end of an ordinary day and looking forward to supper.

Accius insisted on escorting Tilla to the entrance of the snack bar. As she stumbled through the gap left by the one shutter that remained open, Ruso promised to join her later.

The men turned and made their way back toward the fort. Now that Tilla was gone, Ruso could ask the question that had been troubling him for a while. “Sir, is there still any chance it might be an official arrest? Some undercover security unit that nobody knows about?” He hoped that nobody knows sounded better than you aren’t important enough to be told about.

“The legate’s looking into that,” Accius confirmed, implying that there might be units of which even the legate knew nothing, although Ruso found it hard to imagine why they would arrest a nine-year-old. “What I’m still wondering is whether the Britons have done it themselves.”

This was even more provocative from a senior officer than it had been from Fabius. “Sir, the family are genuinely-”

“I didn’t say the family are in on it. It would only take two or three mischief-makers to set it up and then sit back and watch the fun.”

“But why-”

“They don’t like the wall?” Accius suggested. “They don’t like the old man? They like causing trouble? I don’t know. We don’t need to know why, we just need to put a stop to it.”

It was becoming apparent to Ruso that if they could not put a stop to it and Branan was not rescued, then whatever the truth, the story would be put out that he had been kidnapped by his own people and the Army were the innocent victims of slander. He could imagine only too well the outrage that would cause among the locals.

“Sir?” It was one of the guards. “Sir, I think I hear something.”

Accius raised a hand and the group drew the horses to a halt. There was indeed some sort of disturbance going on. Abandoning the gate in front of them, they turned left, then right, skirting around the corner of the fort between the outer ditch and the wall. There was a confusion of people and vehicles gathered around the south gate. Accius said, “Your Britons are back.”

“Not as many this time,” said Ruso.

There were eight or ten of them: both men and women as far as he could make out, clustered around the second of the two drivers who were still waiting to take their vehicles in. This time there was no chanting. Instead some sort of argument was going on in British. Accius shook his head. “I can’t follow it.”

Ruso listened for a moment.

“I think the locals are trying to persuade the driver not to deliver,” he said. “They want him to join them instead.” He paused. “ ‘You are bringing food to the soldiers,’ ” he translated, glad Tilla was safely behind the shutters of the snack bar. “He’s saying he has hungry children to feed. They’re calling him a traitor.”

Suddenly the Britons noticed Accius and his men, and the complaints switched to Latin.

“Give us Regulus!”

“We want the child stealer!”

The yells coalesced into a chant of “Regulus! Regulus! Regulus!”

Accius rode forward a few paces and listened for a while as if he were accepting a hymn of praise. Then he raised one hand to call for silence, and to Ruso’s surprise it worked.

“Regulus has been transferred elsewhere for punishment,” Accius announced. “He could not have taken the boy.”

As he spoke, the cart jerked into motion, the driver perhaps hoping to take advantage of the distraction. One of the protesters shouted and they all abandoned Accius and rushed toward it.

There was a brief scuffle around the head of the mule, with the driver lashing at his fellow Britons with his whip and yelling at them to let go. The cart lurched as the mule tried to back away.

Behind him, Ruso heard the bark of an order and a swish of blades against leather as Accius’s men drew their swords. Half a dozen gate guards stepped out, shields up and spears raised. Caught between the two, the Britons abandoned the cart and scattered, yelling “Traitor!” and “Friend of the child snatchers!”

Accius ordered his men not to give chase. Under the protection of the guards, they put away their swords and followed the cart under the archway. Once they were inside, the guards lowered their spears and put their shoulders to the gates. The sound of British jeering was overwhelmed by the screech of hinges.

“Marvelous,” observed Ruso, temporarily forgetting that he was in the presence of a senior officer. “Now we’re protecting a wife beater.”

“Yes,” said Accius. “But unfortunately he’s our wife beater.” He swung down from his horse. “If this goes on, we’ll have to clamp down on movement and gatherings and cancel market day.”

Ruso handed the bay’s reins to the waiting groom. “It’s the Samain festival tomorrow, sir.”

“Then they’d better start behaving themselves,” said Accius, just as a trumpet blast announced the curfew, “or they’ll find that canceled too.” He pulled off his helmet and tucked it under one arm. “Right. I hope my cook’s made it down here with my dinner. Go and get something to eat and then come over to HQ. We’ll work out where we are and decide on our next move.” He peered ahead to where a lone legionary stood in the street over what looked like a pile of rags. “What’s that noise?”

They stopped to listen. Weaving its way through the usual clump of boots and shouts of orders, the distant clatter of spoons in mess tins and a sudden burst of laughter, came a thin, reedy voice that rose and fell in what Ruso recognized as one of Tilla’s tunes. Senecio was singing.

“Doctor,” ordered Accius, “get that old fool under cover before he freezes to death.”