Tabula Rasa

Chapter 63

A native youth with wild hair and bleary eyes stumbled over the threshold and looked at the three women. “Which one of you is the Medicus’s wife?”

Tilla stepped forward. “Is the boy found?”

The lad sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Message from Susanna. She says to tell you the boy’s been taken north by some fur traders. The Medicus has gone after him, and he wants you to tell the tribune to look again at Mallius.”

“North?” Tilla put a hand to her mouth. She remembered being taken away by strangers from another tribe. The thought of something like that happening to a child made her shudder. “Who went with the Medicus?”

The youth shrugged. “That’s all I know. I came as fast as I could. Thought I’d never get here. There’s patrols out.”

“You are very brave, coming all that way,” Virana told him. “Especially tonight.”

“And now you’ll be wanting a drink and some supper,” put in Ria, as if he had arrived specially to inconvenience her.

The youth grinned. “Thanks, missus. And the horse too.”

Virana pointed out that he would need a bed for the night as well, but the youth said he would be happy to sleep in the stable. Ria told Virana to bring food and went to rouse her husband to deal with the horse. When she was gone, Virana said, “Are you all right, mistress? You look very tired.”

“You should rest,” Albanus agreed. “There is nothing we can do tonight.”

Tilla stared at them both. “Rest?” she demanded. “My husband will be murdered by foreigners, and Branan will be taken up into the mountains and never seen again! How can I rest?”

Albanus gulped. “Are you quite sure?”

She subsided onto a bench. “No. Of course not. I am sorry.” She pressed her eyelids with her fingertips to relieve the tiredness.

“Why has the tribune got to look at Mallius?” asked Virana.

“I don’t know.” Tilla opened her eyes and blinked the dryness away. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Has he done something bad?”

“I am not even sure who he is,” she admitted.

“Oh, you know!” Virana insisted. “The one who used to make his hair lighter. The one who hurt his wrist. He likes wine and not beer.”

None of those things was a reason for the tribune to take an interest in him.

“You must have seen him,” Virana continued. “He was one of the ones who went to search the farm and they upset everybody looking for Candidus, and then people thought one of them might have stolen Branan and then they didn’t.”

The youth had gone to see to the horse, Virana was in the kitchen fetching his food, and Tilla was alone with Albanus in the bar. He looked as downcast as she felt. She tried to think of something hopeful to say but could not. Finally he said, “Your husband is a good man.”

“I know,” she said, ashamed of wishing that sometimes he would be a little less good and a little more safe. She had no idea how she would sleep tonight after hearing Susanna’s message. She must try to think about something else. “We should look at this Mallius ourselves,” she said. “He might know what happened to Candidus.”

Albanus interlaced his fingers around his wine cup. “It is kind of you to suggest it, but is he not safely inside a barracks somewhere?”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “Before the tribune gets the message in the morning and has a chance to cover anything up.”

Albanus stared into the dregs of his wine. “Even if we are able to speak with him, we have no power to investigate, and he has no incentive to tell us anything.”

It was true. Whoever had caused Candidus’s disappearance must have lied repeatedly since then: Why would he stop now? They did not even know what they were accusing him of. They could hardly stand in front of the man like angry parents, demanding, “Is there something you would like to tell us?”

They could not speak to him at all if he was on one side of a military wall tonight and they were on the other. “We have Candidus’s kit,” she said, thinking aloud. “Are you about the same size?”

Albanus shook his head. “Much of what is here used to be mine,” he admitted, “but I’m afraid nobody is likely to mistake me for a legionary with no armor or belt or weapons. And there is the matter of the password.”

The ladder creaked as Tilla got to her feet. “I am going outside to make an offering to the goddess,” she told him. “Perhaps she will help.”

She bought three perfect white eggs from Ria, who was busy making sure all the slops were cleared out of the kitchen and the hearth fire was raked. Even in town it was wise to follow the Samain customs.

The yard was almost dark but she felt oddly safe kneeling under the apple tree, hearing the horse shifting about in the stable and surrounded by the high fence with the gate barred against thieves. The gods were listening tonight, she was sure of it. They had already answered one prayer, even if it was not in the way that she had wanted. She had asked to see her family; she had been shown Aemilia.

Scraping a little hole between the roots of the tree, she said the new prayer and then poured out the contents of the eggs one by one. As the glistening liquid sank away into the earth, the idea came to her.

Back in the privacy of the storeroom, with the youth gulping down a late supper in the bar, Albanus was not impressed with what he heard. It was not, he felt, an approach that her husband would recommend.

“Perhaps not,” Tilla agreed. “But my husband is not here. Do you want the man who killed Candidus to be punished or not?”

Albanus shifted his position on the lid of the barrel. “That apparently simple question is rather difficult to answer,” he said. “You see, those are not valid alternatives.” He raised and lowered his hands in parallel, as if he were shaping the argument he was about to present to her. “The premise behind your question is that my misgivings about your plan indicate an unwillingness to pursue the disappearance of my nephew. Whereas what I am questioning is-”

“If you have a better plan, I will be glad to hear it.”

The hands dropped. “No.”

“So,” she continued, wondering if Albanus’s nitpicking was one of the reasons Grata had called off their betrothal, “we know that we cannot make this man confess anything. We know we may never find out the truth. But if this works and he is guilty, the memory of tonight will haunt his waking fears and punish him in his nightmares. If he is innocent, we will all go home to bed and it will be just another strange story of Samain.”

Albanus, as she expected, raised objections, but he could come up with nothing better.

“So,” she said, “will you help me or not?”