Terra Incognita

91

Ruso leaned out over the rough logs of the palisade. A last trace of morning mist still hung over the river. He could hear the faint clatter of hooves as a messenger cantered south across the bridge. To the east, a road patrol was riding out toward the hill country. He did not turn to look north. Tilla had made her choice.

He had arrived early at the house next to the brewery, only to find it locked and deserted. The brewery foreman had told him the women had gone away somewhere. Probably for a long time.

He had tried to tell himself that Tilla’s farewell message had been lost, but since the men here all knew him by now, that was unlikely. The truth was, she had not sent one. The last time they had spoken, she had pulled a knife on him.

Ruso surveyed the shabby little town that had sprung up to service the fort.

He’s claiming he did everything at the request of the army. He says Metellus asked him to help clear up undesirables.

Metellus would continue to deny all knowledge of Catavignus’s treachery to his own people, of course. Quite possibly Decianus, by taking the wider view, had managed to avoid knowing the details anyway. It was apparent from their conversation this morning that Decianus was only told what Metellus wanted him to hear.

“Ruso!” he had said, drawing him to one side after morning briefing. “Leaving us, I hear?”

“It’s been an interesting week, sir.”

“You weren’t much help in the end,” Decianus observed. “The governor never went near the infirmary. Metellus had to excuse your performance at the parade by telling him you were a mad medic called Thessalus who’d gotten loose by mistake. And then he tracked down the murder evidence by himself.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ruso, with what he hoped was the correct amount of enthusiasm, gratitude, and sincerity. Sometimes, it was just easier to say what people wanted to hear.

Getting rid of Felix, of course, had not been part of anybody’s wider view. Catavignus had just seized the opportunity to solve his own debt problems and get rid of an unsuitable suitor for his daughter. Implicating Rianorix had been a smart move, though. Rianorix was a known rebel sympathizer who had asked awkward questions about the loss of Tilla’s family. Once he had made a threat against a soldier he was definitely ripe for clearing up.

He supposed they would execute Catavignus. It was a messy solution to a messy problem. And an ironic one, because the man had been struggling to establish, in his own twisted way, a civilized town full of loyal Romans on the very edge of the barbarian world.

The proprietor of We Sell Everything was standing outside his shop with his arms folded. Behind him, a small figure was sweeping the step. The trouble was, prosperity here depended on the presence of the soldiers, and the presence of the soldiers depended on the whim of the emperor, and that was beyond mortal prediction. By the time Thessalus’s daughter had children of her own, this fort could be sunk back into the ground, the bathhouse in ruins, the houses rotted away, and sheep wandering over the great green swell of rampart on which he was now standing. Or, whoever was emperor could have decided to launch another building project like Deva: a grand reminder of Rome’s power set in stone. That had been Catavignus’s vision. It was a fine vision for a ruler with legions at his command, but played out on a smaller stage by a provincial brewer with a borrowed knife, it was simply-

Ruso’s deep musings skidded to a halt. He clattered down the steps, dodging past a surprised sentry who was halfway up, and sprinted toward the gates.

“Tilla!” he shouted, sliding on the gravel and barely bothering to return the salute of the gate guards who stepped aside to let him pass. “Tilla!”

She paused, using one knee to lift the big brass cooking pot around which her arms were encircled. She was back in her own clothes now: the old blue tunic, the shawl, and the battered boots.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye,” he said. “I didn’t know where to find you.”

“Aemilia will stay away until it is all over,” said Tilla, not needing to explain what she was referring to. “Rianorix is no friend of the Romans but he will make sure the brewery men do their work for her.”

He could not resist saying, “What does a basket maker know about brewing?”

“The men know what to do. And they know that if they fail, he has the power of the curse. Look what he made Catavignus do to Felix.”

“I suppose so,” he said, realizing sadly that he would never now have the time to argue her into a more rational position.

She seemed not to know what to say either. “I have come into town to buy this,” she told him, lifting the pot. “Rianorix has nothing left, and we do not trust him to go shopping.”

“I see.” What was he supposed to say now? That he hoped they all cooked many fine meals in it and lived to a happy old age?

“Dari liked you so much she has run away to Ulucium to find herself a legionary,” said Tilla. “Lydia is working for Susanna now.”

“Ah,” said Ruso. “Good.” No doubt Lydia and her child would find a home here among the rest of the strays washed up on the shores of the empire.

Tilla was looking past him and down the street. “Is that-?”

He followed her gaze. “Yes,” he said, seeing Valens and his very new wife. “They spent most of the night trying to make the Second Spear a grandfather. I know because I was in the next bedroom.”

“She is allowed into the fort?”

“Valens seems to have weaseled his way into the governor’s favor,” explained Ruso. “Or perhaps the gate guards didn’t dare to argue with her.”

“Or perhaps because she is a Roman.”

Ruso shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Where will you go now?”

“I haven’t decided,” he said. Going west would reunite him with Postumus and the men from the Twentieth. Going south would take him back to Deva, where he could slot into the role Valens had vacated. He doubted the army would care which of them was at which post. He had a feeling that sooner or later they would all be going north anyway, unless Rome found a new and painless way of rooting out the Stag Man and any other similarly minded rabble-rousers from the relative safety of the tribes beyond the border.

“And I suppose,” he added casually, “since you’re inexplicably fond of him, you’ll marry Rianorix and have lots of blond babies.”

“Blond babies, yes. That would be nice.”

“Yes.” He scratched his jaw. “Good.” He was not going to beg. He had decided as he lay awake last night that the most dignified way to deal with the loss of Tilla was to pretend this had been his intention all along. As if he were releasing a pet creature back out into the wild before it became too dangerous to live with. “In that case,” he said, “I suppose I should thank you for, um… well. You know. Lots of things.”

She glanced down at her scarred right arm, curled around the cooking pot. “And I must thank you too. I will pray for you.”

He hesitated. “I do realize you meant well with the stolen money.”

“And you with the room at the inn.”

“Yes,” he said. “Tell me. Would you have used that knife on me?”

She paused. “I would have been sorry afterward.”

It was not the answer he had been hoping for.

She shifted her grip on the cooking pot again.

He said, “I expect you’ll want to be getting back.”

“I have to take this,” she said, glancing down into the pot.

“Yes,” he said. “Well, um-this is rather difficult, isn’t it?”

“I will make it easy for you,” she said, turning her back on him and walking away.