Terra Incognita

17

Ruso’s jaw had more or less stopped bleeding by the time he paused on the threshold of the bathhouse, eyeing the occupants of the main hall.

The grunts echoing around the walls came from a young man lifting weights in the middle of the floor, evidently keen to give his small audience every chance to admire his oiled biceps. The audience must have been a disappointment to him: It consisted of a couple of white-haired men hunched over a game of dice in the corner, a fat man ogling his young manicurist, and a lone attendant sweeping the floor.

The door swung back with unexpected ease. It hit the wall with a crash that reverberated around the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Ruso, then lost interest as he stepped into the less-than-appealing atmosphere of sweat and damp and overperfumed oils.

Forewarned by the pessimistic barber, he paid the attendant to guard his clothes and helped himself to a towel.

He gasped as he entered the hot room, instantly regretting the gasp as burning air scorched the back of his throat. The attendant’s assurance that it was “still good and hot in there” had been an understatement. Ruso clopped safely across the searing floor on wooden sandals and laid his towel out on a bench beneath a window before sitting down to face the alarming prospect of what he now saw, on perusing the address on the reverse, was a long letter from his stepmother.

The letter ran expensively over several thin leaves of wood bundled together. He frowned. He had never before received a letter from Arria, and this neat handwriting was certainly not her own. He cracked open the seal, unwound the cord, and began to read.

Dearest Gaius,

I send greetings and hope you are in good health. How I wish you were here with us, although we are glad that you can enjoy the green hills of Britannia, away from the cares of everyday life that burden us here. We always look forward to your letters, but it is hard to bear both the loss of your dear father and your absence. I am delighted to tell you that the shrine to Diana that your dear father commissioned and he and I designed together

(So that, thought Ruso, explained the catastrophic expense.) is now complete, and we have received many compliments on your father’s good taste and generosity. Since your father’s death your poor brother has been doing his best, but it is difficult for your sisters and I without anyone in authority here to care for us. I am sorry to say that although dear Publius left many investments, Lucius’s management of them is uncertain. The simplest pleasures are often unreasonably denied to us.

Since Arria’s idea of a simple pleasure was a new suite of baths or a summer dining extension, that was hardly surprising. And as Publius Petreius had died secretly bankrupt, Lucius’s denial of them was not at all unreasonable.

These small pleasures could of course in no way make up for the loss of a happy marriage such as Publius and I shared for a few all-too-brief years and that I know he also enjoyed in earlier times with your dear and respected mother.

What did Arria know about his mother? Nothing. Ruso gritted his teeth and read on, realizing that the steamy atmosphere was not good for the letter and hoping the ink would melt into an illegible blur before he reached the request for money that no doubt lurked near the end.

Your father understood the joys of a happy union-such as I trust you will yourself enjoy again one day soon, dearest Gaius-and I know he wished the same for all of his children. I am especially anxious for your beloved sisters. Although they are, as you know, both beautiful and charming, how will they find the right sort of husbands if no suitable dowry is offered? As I have explained to your brother, one has to sow in order to reap. This is something I felt that he, as a farmer, would understand, but it seems not. Of course there is no reason why he should listen to me, but I am sure that if you, dearest Gaius, as head of the family, were to explain it to him, he would immediately understand what is required. Naturally I have not yet mentioned this matter to your sisters, as I am hoping to avoid disappointing them. See, am signing this letter myself and send you the very kindest of greetings.

Your loving stepmother, Arria

Beneath the uneven signature, squeezed in tiny letters, was:

Lucius and Cassia baby boy very small

Ruso slapped the letter shut, dropped it on the floor, and eyed it with all the affection he would offer a large and poisonous spider. He and Lucius had always been careful to keep their correspondence discreet, with references to their dire financial state carefully coded. No matter how firmly a letter was sealed there was no way of making sure it would not “fall open” in transit and be read by someone who would pass the contents on to one of their many creditors. Now Arria had not only written a letter that suggested Lucius was mismanaging the family finances, but it seemed she had been into town and dictated it to a public scribe.

Maybe they had been wrong not to tell Arria the exact situation in which her husband had left the family coffers. Maybe they should have told her the truth and frightened her into silence with the warning that public bankruptcy would sweep away their home, their dignity, and possibly even their freedom.

He would have to write an urgent letter to Lucius congratulating him on the birth of a son and delegating the challenging task of getting their stepmother under control.

The rattle of the door latch warned him someone was about to come in. He picked up the letter, slid it under his thigh, and closed his eyes.

The clatter of sandals tracked the passage of a bather picking his way across the floor. To Ruso’s dismay the footsteps passed the empty seating and came closer. Moments later his bench rocked as a heavy body lowered itself down next to him. A long breath was followed by a familiar voice. “Ruso.”

“Postumus.” Ruso acknowledged him, not bothering to open his eyes. “I was going to come and find you later.”

“Flashy room with your floozy again tonight, I suppose?” inquired Postumus in a tone that suggested this would be deeply tedious.

“Sharing a store cupboard with a beer barrel.”

“Lucky you. I’m still sharing a tent with the bloody wildlife. And I hear you’re staying on to look after my carpenter. Tell me what you’ve done for him.”

“Amputation, I’m afraid. No choice.”

“What are his chances?”

“Mixed. He’s a strong man. Most people wouldn’t survive being run over by a wagonload of lead. We’ll be able to tell over the next few days.”

“I suppose I’ll have to get a message to his woman.”

“I’ve done that,” said Ruso. “I hear you’ve been talking to Tilla?”

“I asked her some questions.”

“I can still read them on her arm.”

“She needed some encouragement.”

“Next time Tilla needs some encouragement,” said Ruso. “Leave her to me.”

Postumus grunted. “Next time I need a doctor’s advice on security, I’ll let you know.”

Ruso opened his eyes. There was a pale form on the bench in the corner. The man, who must have entered without making a sound, nodded a greeting and closed his eyes as if he was not listening. It was a moment before Ruso realized it was Metellus the aide. He wondered how long he had been there.

Postumus glanced at the door before sliding closer to Ruso so that their shoulders stuck together in the heat.

“That wagon business,” he growled in what seemed to be the nearest he could manage to a whisper, “wasn’t an accident.”

Ruso looked at Metellus, conscious that the sound was echoing off the hard surfaces of the room and the aide was taking in every word.

“It’s all right,” said Postumus. “He knows. Some bastard had sawed halfway through the brake.”

“So the driver was right?”

“Hmph.” Postumus did not sound inclined to be charitable.

“Should’ve kept his eyes open. Sonny with the antlers had an accomplice. There was a lump of lead slingshot in one of the oxen. That would have got them trotting along all right. Then, once a heavy load got going down that hill, there was no way of stopping it.”

“The accomplice must have been hiding somewhere up on the bank,” mused Ruso. “And all our escorts…”

“Were busy chasing the Stag Man,” said Postumus, finishing the sentence for him. “Bloody cavalry. All of ’em want to be heroes. S’pose we’ll have to let the driver go, then.”

“So was Tilla’s evidence useful?”

Postumus sniffed. “My sources say she was hanging around the vehicles in the yard during the storm.”

“What are your sources?”

Postumus looked askance at him. “You’re not the only one who’s sick of sleeping in a tent. I sent a couple of lads up there to escort the wagon in and they seemed to think that meant they could stay the night.”

“Ah.”

“Now they wish they hadn’t. And they didn’t even guard the bloody wagon. Just stuck their heads out in the rain from time to time to make sure it wasn’t floating away.”

“Why didn’t they do something when they saw her?” demanded Ruso, wondering when Metellus was going to have the decency to either join the conversation or leave.

Postumus shrugged. “Said they were thinking about it when somebody came and took her away. They did a lot more thinking when I’d finished with them.”

“That was me,” said Ruso. “She went to look for your carpenter’s girlfriend and her baby. I followed her out into the yard.”

The centurion’s “Hm,” did not sound entirely convinced. “See anybody else out there?”

“I heard her calling out. But it was pitch dark and pelting with rain. I couldn’t see a thing.”

“What was she saying?”

“I don’t know. It was in British.”

“So who was she talking to?”

“She told me she was praying to her gods.”

Postumus snorted. “Bit unusual in the middle of a thunderstorm, isn’t it?”

“Not for Tilla.”

To Ruso’s relief, the centurion shifted his weight and their shoulders peeled apart. A long breath whistled out down the misshapen nose. “My lads tell me,” said Postumus, “that she could have unbolted the gate and let somebody in.”

“Your lads are trying to cover their own backs,” said Ruso. “Those gates weren’t impossibly high. Somebody could have climbed over them and not been noticed in the storm.”

“True,” agreed Postumus. “But all I know is, that wagon was all right yesterday. It’s parked in the yard at the inn all night, the only person seen near it is your woman, and today it flattened some of my best men.”

“Why would Tilla help someone interfere with a wagon?”

“She’s a native,” said Postumus, as if that explained everything.

“She’s my housekeeper.”

“So you think you can trust her?”

“Of course!” In the silence that followed Ruso wondered if he had said it a little too quickly. “She’s very loyal,” he insisted, uneasily recalling I am not a friend of the army.

“We hope so,” put in Metellus from the corner. “Because she’s told Postumus she was out there with the god Cernunnos.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Ruso’s exasperation was as much with Tilla as with her questioners. If she could not manage to control her imagination, why could she not at least learn to control her tongue? “She’s very religious,” he said. “Superstitious. You know what the natives are like. She heard the stories. She saw him outrun the cavalry this afternoon. She probably got confused with something she saw in the lightning.”

“You just said she was reliable,” pointed out Postumus.

“She is.”

“I heard she was caught stealing.”

“That was a misunderstanding. She was just trying to save me some money.”

“Save you money? A woman? That’s a first.”

“I told you she was unusual,” said Ruso.

“Our friend Metellus here,” said Postumus, “wants to get his hands on whoever this Cernunnos is and ask him a few questions. I want to get my hands on him and kill him. Trouble is, nobody’s got much to go on.”

“This is all very interesting, Ruso,” said Metellus. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention any of it earlier.”

“I didn’t know,” Ruso said, feeling sweat trickle down his spine and wishing he had at least said something about Tilla being local.

“She didn’t tell you she saw the antlered man in the yard? That’s interesting.”

“She told me she saw something,” said Ruso. “I didn’t take much notice, frankly.”

“We all know what the natives are like,” said Metellus. “But now if she’s telling the truth, we have a witness who’s seen this man-which undoubtedly he is-close up. So we’re rounding up a few suspects and we’ll get her to take a look at them in the morning.”

“I see,” said Ruso, making a mental note to urge Tilla to cooperate.

“I thought as her owner you ought to be kept informed. But you won’t mention it to her, of course.”

“Er-no.”

“We don’t want anyone having advance warning. If we can get ahold of him, the man in the yard should be able to tell us a lot of things we’d like to know. Who knows? Maybe your housekeeper will solve our problems at a stroke.”

Ruso said nothing, entranced by the prospect of Tilla solving problems rather than causing them. Then he retrieved Arria’s letter and got to his feet. He wanted to go and check on the carpenter.

“Off to investigate your latest body?” said Postumus.

“I was asked to do a postmortem,” Ruso assured him, marveling at the speed with which gossip could travel. “I’m not involved in the investigation.”

Postumus snorted. “That’s what you told everybody last time.”

Ruso’s glare was wasted, since the centurion had his eyes closed.

“Last time?” inquired Metellus, a little too casually.

“There was an unexplained death at Deva,” Ruso said. “There was a misunderstanding about the inquiries.”

“Like his housekeeper being a thief,” put in Postumus. “That was a misunderstanding too.” He leaned back against the painted wall. Instantly he jerked forward. “Hercules, that’s hot!”

“The Second Spear ran the investigation,” Ruso pointed out, retrieving his towel. “Not me. Now if you’ve finished, I’ve patients to see.”

“Hey!” said Postumus when Ruso was halfway out the door. “Where did you get that shave?”

Ruso jerked a thumb toward the exit. “Out there,” he said. “He’s very good. Tell him you’re in a hurry and you’ll be done in no time.”