Tabula Rasa

Chapter 65

The moon had turned the world into silver with inky shadows. Ruso could make out the road stretching ahead, but the only things he could confidently identify in front of him were the pale peaks of the mare’s ears. On either side, beyond the skeletons of trees, orange pinpoints of Samain bonfires appeared and vanished again as he passed the hills.

With luck, the fur traders would have stopped for the night. He would still be gaining on them even though he needed to let his tired mount slow to a walk for a while. He peered at the verges, searching for the next milestone and hoping he had not missed it. In this light it might be hard to tell the Three Oaks from any other building.

A couple of hundred paces farther on, he urged the mare back into a trot, but only for a few strides. He knew what to expect from this horse now, and this wasn’t it. He tried again. The mare responded, but the regular lurch was still there, and he saw her head dip each time the offside front leg went forward.

Ruso swore under his breath.

He was in the dark, miles from anywhere, on a lone hunt for men who killed for a living, and now he had a lame horse.

There was nothing for it but to get down and walk. Catching himself thinking that at least it wasn’t raining-gods above, he was starting to think like a Briton-he loosened the girth and ran one hand down the mare’s nearside leg, but he could neither see in the dark nor feel through the muck of the road. He wiped his fingers in the mare’s mane and began to lead her up the road.

He need not have worried about seeing the Three Oaks: If he had not spotted the sparks rising into the sky from the bonfire, he would have heard the wailing pipes and the shouts of people cheering on the dancers. Of course. They would be celebrating Samain here too, rejoicing in being alive as they frightened each other with stories about the dead walking.

The Three Oaks was set well back from the road. Its land was surrounded by a ditch, with a bank of earth on the far side and a fence on top. The gates were shut and nobody seemed to be about, so he scrambled across the ditch. Through a gap in the fence, he could see a crowd circling the flames more or less in time to the music, yelling one of those British chants that he never associated with anything good. Beyond the fire, leaning against the side of the building, was a knot of men with dark shapes over their shoulders that could be animal skins.

The racket the dog made at his arrival must have been heard, but it was a while before anyone made a response. He had to bang on the gate three times before a voice cried out in British, wanting to know who was there.

“I am a stranger in need of water and rest!” he replied in the same tongue, hoping his grasp of the traditional request for hospitality might earn him some native respect. “My horse went lame.”

In response he heard only the chanting and the music. Then it struck him that he had chosen the worst possible way to approach a lone gate slave on the one night of the year when the Britons’ heads were full of tales about dangerous strangers prowling around after dark. It was just as well he had not announced that he was looking for a boy. Switching to Latin, he shouted, “Medical Officer Gaius Petreius Ruso, Twentieth Valeria Victrix! Open up!”

The gate creaked open an inch, then another inch, and then far enough for him to get his boot in the gap. The slave stammered in rough but comprehensible Latin that Sir could come in, but he would have to share a bed, and there was no food except what was being roasted.

“Better than being on the road,” said Ruso as the gate was slammed shut behind him and the bar scraped into place.

He surrendered his sword and led the limping mare across the cobbles. The ostler did not look pleased to see him: Ruso seemed to have interrupted the after-dark guided tour of the stables that he was giving to a very giggly girl.

He was too late for the baths, which was just as well, as he had no intention of wasting time in them-although what he was going to do instead, he did not know. Glancing across to confirm that the men in animal skins were still lounging against the wall, he went to join the crowd.

The fur traders were still keeping to themselves on the edge of the celebrations, clutching drinks and watching the dancers. He could not see a boy with them. His gaze followed the track of one small figure after another, but he recognized no one.

There was no reason for the men to suspect he was pursuing them, so he had no hesitation in working his way around the edge of the dance to stand nearby. It was not difficult: nobody here seemed keen to stand next to a soldier, especially one who had been on the road without bathing for as long as Ruso had. Finally he was no more than five paces away.

There were half a dozen of them: big men with shaggy hair and thick animal pelts around their necks that made their shoulders look even bigger. But it was the shape he now saw on the ground at their feet that caught his attention. The light from the fire came and went but finally he made out the figure of a boy, curled up asleep like a puppy. Ruso took a sharp breath.

He had found Branan.

He could not remember any other evening taking so long to pass. Alone in the dark amongst a strange tribe, his previous confidence that everyone was united against a child snatcher had waned. He was hungry, exhausted, and sore from riding, and not sure he could trust his own judgment. There seemed to be no other Roman guests, and no obvious surveillance, either. Did that mean that these people could be trusted, or that the local commander did not want to pick a fight? This was not a mansio, a safe haven for traveling Romans. If he told the staff who that slave boy was, would they back him up? Or would they bundle him aside, not wanting trouble with their customers? If he got it wrong, and Branan was lost tonight, he could be lost forever.

While Ruso argued with himself, the fur traders’ capacity for drink seemed to be enormous and they clearly had no intention of going to sleep until it was filled. A couple of them went forward to join the dance, but the one with the boy at his feet stayed propped against the wall, talking to his companions, sometimes cupping one hand around his mouth to shout over the pipes and the chanting.

After the dancing the storytellers got to work while everyone else sat around the fire and ate. Ruso crouched down and accepted a share of the roast meat. These days he could understand much of what was being said, which made the storytelling marginally less tedious than it had been in the past, but tonight he was not interested in the tangled and strangely inconclusive affairs of the British dead. Just a few paces away, Branan still seemed to be asleep. He hoped they had not drugged him. The gods alone knew what had happened to the boy over the last three days, and his trials were not over yet. Even if Ruso managed to creep up and rescue him while the men were asleep-so far he had no better plan-they would have to escape on foot.

He was pinching himself to stay awake when something scratchy and malodorous pushed up against his neck from behind. He shifted away but someone seized his arm and a gruff voice spoke in his ear. It took him a moment to disentangle the accent. “You speak our tongue, Roman?”

“Some.”

“My brother wants to know if you like small boys.” The man’s other hand pointed directly at Branan.

Ruso swallowed. “I might be interested.”

“We know. You keep looking at him. How much will you offer?”

He could hardly believe his luck. “Let me have a look at him first.”

The blow knocked him sideways. It was a moment before he could lift himself above the fuzziness and work out that the shrieking and slapping were coming from a woman in whose lap he had landed. Apologizing, he got up and staggered, stumbling over several more people and rubbing his ear. All the fur traders were gathered together now, shouting at him and pointing. He remembered what he had heard just before the blow. “Child snatcher! Leave his son alone!”

Others voices had taken up the cry: “Child-snatcher!”

“Get him!”

“Trying to steal that man’s son!”

“It’s the child snatcher!”

Somewhere a voice was shouting for calm but hands were pulling at him, hauling at his armor and his tunic and grabbing his hair. Someone punched him in the head and he stumbled, lunging for something to grab onto to keep his balance. If he went down now he would not get up.

“Branan!” he yelled. “Branan, wake up, it’s the Medicus!”

“Ask him what he did with the boy!” shouted someone.

“There he is!” he yelled, wrenching an arm loose and struggling to climb over his tormentors. “That boy is stolen! Branan, wake up! It’s the Medicus, come to take you home!”

“Child snatcher!”

“Liar!”

Then it was all fists and boots and elbows and yelling and pain, the stink of sweat and the tang of blood in his mouth. When he fell, he was still shouting Branan’s name, and he barely saw the flash of firelight on the blade.