Caveat Emptor Page 11

  “All this is possible.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “But Julius Asper will still be dead.”

  The carriage rolled on northward, carrying home the dead father and the live son.

  Suddenly Camma said, “There is one good thing about being in Verulamium.”

  “Yes?”

  “Every time he sees me, Caratius will be reminded of my curse. Even with his fine clothes and his horses and his proud speeches, that man will be afraid!”

  They were words of courage. Glad to see Camma so animated, Tilla reached for her hand. “I will curse him as well, sister!” Too late, she remembered that back in Gaul she had promised Christos to give up that sort of thing. “And then I will pray for him to repent,” she added.

  “We will both make him repent!” agreed Camma, grasping Tilla’s hand in both of hers. “We will seek justice from the gods, and together we will make him sorry he is alive!”

  For the first time since they had met, she smiled. Even with the purple shadows beneath her eyes, it was easy to see why two men had fought over this woman.

  Tilla did not want to stomp on this brief spark of happiness by telling Camma she had not meant that sort of repentance. As the carriage pulled in at the halfway stop, it occurred to her that she had just managed to disobey both Christos and the Medicus at the same time.

  21

  B Y THE TIME Ruso entered the Forum it was approaching midday, but the sky was dark and the air cool. The buildings that surrounded the vast rectangle of open ground on three sides provided little shelter, and a fresh breeze was flapping the covers of a handful of market stalls huddled in a corner by the Great Hall. Ruso had barely begun the search for Albanus’s School for Young Gentlemen when he felt a cold splash of rain. Within seconds stallholders and shoppers were rushing to take cover.

  Ruso heard the shrill chant of childish voices above the drumming of raindrops on roof tiles. He could not make out the words, but from somewhere among the ragged assortment of sounds rose the indomitable rhythms of poetry.

  He found a dozen or so small boys seated cross-legged beneath a colonnade that, in another time and another place, would be there to protect them from the sun. They were facing an expanse of lime-washed board on which Albanus had painted the lines they were supposed to be reciting. Fluency and volume reached a crescendo as Hercules grabbed a half-human monster so tightly that its eyeballs fell out. Once the violence was over, the class lost interest. There was a scuffle at the back.

  “Stop!” cried Albanus.

  The chant faltered into confusion.

  Through the downpour Ruso could make out Hadrian’s statue high on its plinth, holding out one dripping hand as if he were commanding the rain to cease. He was having no more effect than Albanus.

  “I said, stop!” Albanus stabbed a finger at the board. “Start again from here. Vattus, if you pull his hair again I shall make everyone stay behind while I beat you.”

  By the time the class was dismissed, the shower had passed. Albanus looked startled as Ruso emerged from behind a pillar. “I’m afraid I haven’t found your missing men, sir.”

  “Never mind,” said Ruso. “I can see you’ve been busy. And one of them’s turned up dead, anyway.”

  Albanus dipped a brush into a bucket of water and began to scrub Virgil and lime wash off the boards. “Frankly, sir, I don’t seem to be having much success with anything. My father hardly ever had to resort to beating. He just gave his pupils The Look and they did what he told them.”

  “The Look?”

  “I don’t seem to have inherited it, sir.” Albanus emptied the bucket into the nearest drain and tossed the brush back inside.

  “Never mind,” said Ruso. “Recommend a good bar and I’ll buy you a drink. I want to show you something.”

  Albanus, who had downed his wine with remarkable speed, put his wooden cup back on the stained counter of Neptune’s Retreat and perused the new copy of the letter with “To Room XXVII” clearly legible at the top. The apprentice had carefully transcribed it onto a fresh tablet: one that bore no references to kissing. “It’s a bit messy,” he observed.

  “The man was on his deathbed when he wrote it,” explained Ruso. “And this is a second-generation copy. So if it doesn’t make any sense, don’t worry. But do you think it’s a language, or just gibberish?”

  Albanus looked up. “Well, yes, sir. It’s certainly a language. It’s Latin.”

  “Latin?” Ruso was incredulous. He had seen some terrible writing in his time, much of it produced by his own hand, but never anything this bad. “Can you make any sense of it?”

  Albanus squinted at the wax and held it at the right angle for the light to fall across the surface. “Urgent help needed. Inn of the–” He hesitated. “Something to do with the moon?”

  “Blue Moon. How the hell can you read that?”

  “Inn of the Blue Moon. I have now seized conclusive and incriminating proof … oh dear. That’s frustrating, isn’t it, sir? That’s where it ends. We don’t know what he had proof of.”

  Ruso snatched back the tablet and peered at the lettering. “I still can’t see it.”

  “No, sir. You wouldn’t. It’s shorthand.”

  “Shorthand?” repeated Ruso, incredulous. In response to Albanus’s warning glance, he turned and realized a couple of sailors farther along the bar had paused to listen. “Why,” he continued, lowering his voice, “would anyone send a message begging for urgent help in shorthand?”

  Albanus looked confused. “I’ve no idea, sir. And where’s Room Twenty-seven, and what did he have proof of?”

  “It’s not as useful as I’d hoped,” admitted Ruso.

  “Perhaps if your second man turns up, he’ll be able to help us,” suggested Albanus. “I did some thinking last night, and while the children were copying their lesson this morning I sent a message around to all the city gates and I’ve had a notice posted over at the fort.”

  Ruso swallowed.

  “I hope that’s all right, sir? It didn’t cost much.”

  “Absolutely,” said Ruso, who had forgotten how thorough his former clerk could be when given an order. “Well done. If anybody’s seen him, we’ll find out.”

  And even if they had not, the procurator’s office would shortly be besieged by members of the local garrison reporting sightings in the hope of extra pay. He needed to get back and warn young Firmus before he had a clerical mutiny on his hands. He downed the rest of his drink and clapped the cup back on the counter. “You’ve been a great help, Albanus.”

  The clerk’s pinched face creased into a smile. “It’s good to be working with you again, sir. If there’s anything else I can do …”

  Ruso said, “You don’t happen to know how to sweet-talk the clerks over at the procurator’s office, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Never mind. I was just hoping you might know one or two of them.”

  “I do know them, sir,” said Albanus. “I’ve just threatened to beat one of their sons.”

  22

  I T SEEMED ALBANUS had never learned the first lesson of military life and was continuing to volunteer for things. When Ruso explained the problem, he happily offered to stand at the gate of the Residence and spend the afternoon noting down the details of everyone who claimed to have seen a dark-haired man with part of one ear missing and recording any possible sightings of Julius Asper before yesterday.

  Indoors, the tomblike chill of Firmus’s room seemed less noticeable this afternoon. Evidently the plaster was drying out. The welcome was warm too. Firmus invited Ruso to sit and offered him an olive from the bowl on the desk.

  The reason for his relaxed demeanor became clear when the youth said, “That awful magistrate has pushed off, and my unc— sorry, the procurator, says I was right to hire you. He wants to talk to you straightaway. He did want me to check one thing first, though. You aren’t working for Metellus now, are you?”

  “Absolutely not, sir,” Ru
so assured him. “That was just an isolated case.” He might have added that the less he had to do with the governor’s security man, the happier he would be.

  “Good. So have you found the missing brother?”

  “Not yet,” said Ruso, “but there are other developments. There’s a complication with the woman. That’s why I need to talk to Caratius.”

  Complications with women were evidently of little interest to Firmus. “Any luck with the letter?”

  Hoping the procurator did not know he was chatting to the assistant instead of obeying the order to report in straightaway, Ruso told him.

  Firmus’s attempt to conceal his disappointment was not entirely successful. “What does he mean, incriminating evidence? And what’s the point of writing in shorthand if any clerk can read it?”

  “We don’t know. But my man’s had a few thoughts about the destination.”

  Ruso repeated what Albanus had just explained to him on the way over: that the only buildings in town big enough to have twenty-seven rooms were the fort, the Forum, the amphitheater, and possibly the Official Residence. Between them they had eliminated the first three before arriving here, so the only remaining possibility was—

  Firmus was out from behind his desk before Ruso had finished the sentence. “The guard room will know where it is.”

  “I’m supposed to be reporting to—”

  “Oh, uncle has plenty of other things to do. And this way you’ll be able to tell him the whole story.” Ruso hoped Firmus was right. At least locating Room Twenty-seven would not involve another visit to the procurator’s clerks.

  Firmus was almost in the corridor when the elderly slave who had been hovering beside him managed to catch up and whisper something in his ear. “I know he does,” replied the youth, irritated. “Ruso will go and see him as soon as we’ve finished.” He rebuffed the slave’s attempt to follow him with, “It’s all right, Pyramus—Ruso can tell me everything.”

  The slave did not look impressed. On the way through to the gatehouse, Firmus said, “Sorry about that. I’m sure Mother made Pyramus promise to write home and tell her everything I get up to.”

  “Ah,” said Ruso, wondering what Firmus’s mother imagined she could do about it.

  Over at the gatehouse they found five men queuing up to speak to Albanus. He had scrounged a stool from somewhere and was listening to a long diatribe from a man whose hair could only have been squashed into that shape by an army helmet. The man was complaining about a native who had sold him a dud hunting dog in a bar. Albanus stopped writing when the man admitted that he had not noticed anything about the native’s ears, but he was definitely a villain.

  “We’ll be in touch if we catch him,” Albanus promised, ever polite.

  “How do I know you won’t just catch him and not tell me?”

  “This is an inquiry on behalf of the procurator’s office,” put in Ruso. “Are you suggesting the procurator wouldn’t honor his promises?”

  The man was not. At least, not while anyone official was listening. Ruso put a hand on the clerk’s shoulder. “Albanus, I need a word.”

  Albanus got to his feet and announced, “Back in a moment,” to the line, clearly relishing his newfound authority.

  Firmus reappeared. The legionary following behind him had a bunch of heavy keys dangling from one hand.

  Firmus announced, “It’s in the west wing of the courtyard, on the ground floor,” then lowered his voice to add, “There’s something funny going on. The watch captain had another man asking about it this morning. He said his name was Ruso, and he told them he had authority from me.”

  This was a new development. “Did they let him in?”

  Firmus shook his head. “When they said they had to check with me, he ran off. Apparently he was a medium-sized man in his twenties, but they didn’t get much of a look at him because he was wearing a hood.”

  Ruso said, “That’s interesting.”

  “Not really,” said Firmus. “It was raining.”

  As they crossed the courtyard, Ruso dismissed the idea that this mysterious impostor might be the missing Bericus. An honest man would not be sneaking about. A thief would be on the run. It could not be Caratius, who was too old, nor his guard, who was too big. So who else might be calling himself “Ruso”?

  Firmus was enjoying himself. “I must say,” he said, “this procurating business is much more fun than I thought. Secret messages and stolen money and mystery men and murders. It must be even better being an investigator.”

  “It’s very dangerous, sir,” put in Albanus, speaking from experience.

  “And there’s a lot of tedious routine,” added Ruso, aware that he should have insisted on reporting to the procurator as ordered, instead of feeding young Firmus’s craving for excitement.

  “I’d be hopeless at it, of course,” Firmus confessed. “I’d never see anything unless it were right under my nose. I mean, look at that.” He paused, gesturing toward the slab of paving beneath his expensive sandals. “I can see there’s something down there, but I can’t tell you if it’s a coin or a cockroach.”

  Ruso glanced down at the lump of charcoal that somebody had dropped on the way to a brazier. It gave a satisfying crunch as he stomped on it.

  “I was right!” exclaimed Firmus, clearly delighted at the possibility that he was not as shortsighted as he feared. They paused outside a rough wooden door under the west portico. “Is this it? Open up!”

  The guard jiggled the iron key in the lock, trying to coax the prongs up into the holes of the mechanism. “Needs greasing,” he muttered, in a tone that suggested somebody else should have seen to it.

  Albanus’s cheeks were pink. It could not have escaped him that this was the chance for a harassed schoolmaster to impress the procurator’s office. Ruso wondered if he had noticed the delicate mesh of cobweb joining the edges of the door to the frame.

  Finally winning the battle with the lock, the guard was obliged to shoulder the door open. As it gave way he dipped his head, hastily brushing something out of his hair. Stepping inside, Ruso glimpsed a couple of earwigs squirming on the threshold.

  Room Twenty-seven smelled musty. Ruso’s eyes began to adjust to the gloom. Those vertical shapes were the legs of one table stacked upside down on top of another. A couple of old doors were propped lengthways against the wall. A half-bald broom lay along the top of them. He stepped over a bucket that appeared to be lined with concrete, and maneuvered an arm in between the table legs to release the catch on the window. As the hinge on the nearest shutter squealed in complaint, the movement ripped open a beautifully constructed white tunnel in the corner of the frame. A large spider emerged, scuttled back and forth along the sill in panic, then ran down the wall and vanished somewhere into the gloom.

  The new light revealed a worm-eaten wheel with several spokes missing and a two-foot-high statue of Diana with one arm lying at her feet. Farther back was an old window frame complete with glass. Rusty nails were sticking out of the wood. A length of bent lead pipe snaked out from behind it. Everything in here was waiting for the day when it would be needed again.

  Ruso pulled the old doors away from the wall to check but found only a mummified mouse. There was nothing else in the room.

  Albanus looked like a boy who had just found out he had been up half the night doing the wrong homework. It was plain from Firmus’s expression that even he could see they had reached a dead end.

  For reasons he did not understand, Ruso felt it was his job to soften the blow. As if there were some point in asking, he tried, “Who’s in charge of this room?”

  Predictably, the guard did not know. He suggested another name, but Ruso knew it was hopeless. The next man would be unlikely to know either. Room Twenty-seven had obviously lain undisturbed for years while the workmen who had stored their junk in here had moved on and forgotten all about it.

  Asper’s unknown correspondent remained as elusive as ever.

  23

  B Y
THE TIME Ruso, Firmus, and Albanus returned from their unsuccessful visit to Room Twenty-seven, the procurator had gone into another meeting and would not be free for at least half an hour. Albanus settled down outside the gates to deal with more sightings of missing men. Firmus was accosted by a waiting Pyramus with messages about wheat tallies and milestone surveys, and by a clerk bearing a pile of ingot ledgers for checking.

  Ruso, seeing Firmus about to turn Pyramus and the ledgers away, declared that he needed some time to think, and he was going to take a lone stroll along the wharf. Firmus looked disappointed. Ruso decided not to tell him it was for his own good.

  Unable to serve as an army officer like most young men of his class, Firmus would have to work his way up through the less glamorous back door of the tax office. He would need to make a good impression. Good impressions were made by obeying orders, not by hanging around with investigators. Especially investigators whose every discovery seemed to leave them more baffled than before.

  Ruso emerged onto the wharf and turned left, passing a glassblower’s workshop and the secure warehouses that were another part of the procurator’s jurisdiction. If he was going to meet one of the most powerful men in the province, he needed a plan of action. It might be the wrong plan, but Ruso suspected that this was one of those rare occasions when a subordinate was expected to come up with ideas of his own.

  Perhaps it was the business of the hooded man that was making him more cautious than usual, but as he was mulling over how Caratius could be connected with the mystery of Room Twenty-seven and the man who had stolen his name, Ruso realized he was being followed along the wharf.

  From a distance the suspect seemed an ordinary-looking man. Medium height. Nondescript hair. Sheep brown tunic. Even features that broke into a smile just as Ruso recognized him and realized it was too late to get away.