Terra Incognita: A Novel of the Roman Empire Read online

  The medicus had delivered her to the same quietly spoken officer who had arrested Rianorix last night. At first she had not recognized him. The hair that had glinted blond in the torchlight was dull brown by day. As soon as she realized who it was she had wanted to beg the medicus to stay with her, but she was afraid the quiet one would tell him where he had found her last night. The medicus, who liked to think he was a reasonable man, would not be reasonable about that. So she had said nothing when he repeated, “Just do your best,” and abandoned her.

  The quiet one had led her into the courtyard and told her to say which of these men she had seen in the yard at the inn.

  “I saw a god,” she said. “These are men. I do not know any of them.”

  “Look again.”

  She looked again, noting a bent nose that was nothing to do with the army: It had been broken years ago in a fight with her oldest brother.

  The men were staring straight ahead, showing no sign of remembering her although several must have been surprised to see her there. She said truthfully, “None of them was in the yard.”

  “Take a good look.”

  “I have taken a good look,” she said, loud enough for them to hear. “I do not know them. You have arrested the wrong men and hurt them for no reason.”

  Instead of being angry, the officer smiled. “Come with me,” he said.

  She followed him out of the courtyard, past the guards, and straight down a wide paved street. Before they reached the gatehouse the officer turned off to the right and led her to what looked like some sort of deserted workshop or storehouse. The windows were secured with bars against thieves. He unlocked the main door and led her into a small room. The sole item of furniture was a solid wooden chair bracketed to the center of the floor. On the wall beside her hung four sets of chains, a knotted rope, and a long-handled iron tool that reminded her of blacksmith’s pliers. Already she wanted to scream.

  “Now then,” he said pleasantly, closing the heavy door behind her and locking it. “You’ve put on your little show for your friends. They can’t hear you in here. So tell me which one it is.”

  “I am already tell you,” insisted Tilla, aware that she was losing her grip on Latin and angry with herself for betraying her fear, “I do not know those men!”

  The officer shook his head sadly. “I do wish I could believe you, Tilla. I really do.”

  “I cannot tell what I do not know. Let me talk to the medicus. He will tell you.”

  “Oh, dear. I do so hate to get cross with attractive young ladies.”

  “I do not know those men. Please. Let me—”

  “Not one of them? You’ve never seen any of them before in your life?”

  Outside she could hear men shouting orders. The sharp screech of boot studs swiveling on paving stones. Someone laughing. She forced herself not to look at the dark stains on the floor around the chair. Rianorix had spent the night in this room. She had seen what this man had done to him. “I have seen some of them before,” she whispered. “They live near here. None of them is the man in the yard.”

  The officer’s smile looked almost relieved. “Thank you, Tilla,” he said.

  “Or shall I call you Darlughdacha? That wasn’t so very difficult, was it? Now tell me about your friend Rianorix.”

  40

  I WAS JUST coming to look for you,’ Ruso said. ‘Where have you been?”

  Tilla was frighteningly pale.

  “Are you all right?”

  She did not answer.

  Metellus smiled as he stood aside to let her enter the infirmary and assured Ruso that she had been very helpful. “Property returned in good condition as promised, doctor. I’ve told the watch captain you’ll be escorting her out later.”

  He beckoned Ruso outside and murmured, “Any sign of Thessalus withdrawing his confession?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I told the girl I’d give you a few moments alone together. I’d be interested to know what she says to you. Just watch what you tell her. I know she’s very lovely, but she is a native.”

  “I’m not a fool, Metellus.”

  The aide smiled again. “I do hope not.”

  One of the orderlies was rattling a broom around the corners of the treatment room. Ruso took Tilla by the hand and led her into his temporary quarters. When she was clear of the door, he squeezed in himself and sat beside her on the narrow bed, observing, “You’re pale.”

  No reply.

  Perhaps she needed to be distracted. He tried, “I expect it’s a lot more comfortable than this at your uncle’s.”

  She said, “Yes,” but hardly bothered to look around.

  He put an arm around her shoulders. She gasped with pain.

  “Sorry,” he said, retracting the arm. “I forgot. Tell me what happened with Metellus.”

  “I would rather have the ugly centurion with his stick than that one,” she said. “That one has things in his room that I do not want to think about.”

  “He promised me he wouldn’t hurt you!”

  “I am not hurt.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing. I am all right.”

  “It is not nothing,” he insisted. “And you are not all right.” He got to his feet and turned around in the small space between the bed and the door. “I should never have left you alone with him. Tell me what happened and I’ll go and see him right now.”

  “He did not touch me.”

  “He frightened you.”

  She bowed her head. He saw the dark splashes of the tears in her lap. If Metellus had been within reach at the moment, Ruso would have punched his even features out of alignment.

  More tears. He could not send her back to her uncle in this state. “I’ll go and see him. I won’t leave you alone with him again.”

  She gave a loud sniff, and whispered, “I am no good.”

  “They’re desperate to catch the man you saw in the yard,” he explained. “Lydia’s man isn’t the first one he’s killed. But if you can’t help, it isn’t your fault.”

  She rubbed her fists into her eyes. “Last night a rude man will not let me in here. Now you take me in to look at some men of my people, and the officer with the smile of a snake wants me to get them into trouble.”

  “You can only do your best, Tilla. There’s nothing to worry about. The accident wasn’t your fault.”

  She slapped her hands down on her knees in exasperation. “Is not me I am worrying about! Is Rianorix!”

  “Rianorix? The man at the clinic? He’s not seriously hurt, you know.”

  “They are still asking questions about him,” she said.

  “Well, just tell them what you know.”

  “I know he does not kill that man. But they do not want to say the gods did it because that will show our gods are more powerful than theirs. And they will not blame the doctor because he is a Roman.”

  Ruso sighed. This was exactly the native reaction that Decianus had anticipated.

  “The doctor has a lot of problems,” he explained, “but really I don’t think killing Felix is one of them.”

  “Well, it is not Rianorix. You must tell the officer he is wrong.”

  “Tilla, when your gods do things, do they send people to act for them?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “It is likely,” she said. “A stag is a messenger.”

  “So the stag would give someone a message from the gods to do something?”

  She nodded. “We must find out who the gods send to kill Felix. You must talk to the men who are with him in the bar. Perhaps it is them. Perhaps it is somebody who wants to kill Felix and blame Rian for it. Perhaps it is anybody. I will talk to Susanna at the bar and we must find Dari and ask if she knows where he goes afterward.”

  “Dari?” Dari the arm-wrestling waitress? “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “Susanna says she is the last person talking to Felix before he goes. We must find out. Like you find out what happened to the
girls in Deva.”

  “I can’t just go trampling all over Metellus’s investigation, Tilla.”

  “Why not? He is wrong.”

  “You’re absolutely convinced Rianorix is innocent?”

  “I know.”

  For a moment Ruso wondered if he should ask her what a native warrior would do with an enemy head. Where would he hide it? Who would he show it to? Tilla, whose kitchen duties were often accompanied by interminable songs about her ancestors, must know the stories. She could save the army hours of fruitless hunting and possibly a great deal of trouble with their own men. The killer’s trophy, the head of a Batavian soldier, might even now be at the center of some ghastly magic ritual that Rome had failed to stamp out with the extermination of the Druids. According to Albanus, which force had led Rome’s final assault on the Druid stronghold?

  The Batavians.

  Ruso did not know what Batavians believed about death but he was certain that none of them would believe Felix was resting peacefully while his head was still in the hands of the enemy. Worse, it would no doubt reappear in a show carefully orchestrated to cause the maximum alarm among the Roman forces. One question to Tilla might save them from all of that.

  On the other hand, Metellus could have asked her that himself, and it seemed he had not. Maybe his investigation did need a little trampling upon.

  “I’ll talk to Metellus,” he promised, reaching forward to slip a finger under a curl that was touching the corner of her eye.

  “You must tell him Rian is innocent.”

  “Yes. Now, since we’ve got a few minutes’ privacy . . .”

  She grabbed his hand. “Not now. They will make me go before long and I have to explain to you why Rian is angry with this Felix.”

  He stretched out along the bed and drew her toward him. “Tell me lying down.”

  “You will not listen.”

  “I promise.”

  She rolled over to lie on top of him with her elbows dug into his ribs.

  “Even when we are small,” she said, “my cousin Aemilia wants to marry an officer.”

  Ruso closed his eyes and slid his hands down to cup the curve of her bottom. He had a feeling this was going to be a long story.

  41

  YOU’RE SURE YOU haven’t let him out of your sight?”

  The orderly hesitated. “I just went next door to use the pot, sir. But I was only gone a moment.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “About an hour ago, sir.”

  Ruso shook Thessalus again. He lifted one eyelid with his thumb, but in the poor light it was difficult to make out where the black of the pupil ended and the deep brown of the iris began. Standing over his patient, he watched the rise and fall of the blanket with each labored breath.

  “Did he leave the room?”

  “He sat reading after lunch, sir. Didn’t hardly move off the couch.”

  So wherever it was, it must have been within easy reach.

  Searching the room would be difficult, not only because it was cluttered and badly lit but because what he was looking for was small and probably as dark as the eyes of the man it had temporarily doped.

  “Did you bring anything extra in here with you?” he demanded, ripping the cloth down from the window and letting in such light as the thick and dirty glass could offer.

  “No, sir.”

  Ruso shook the scrolls over the lunch tray he had inspected himself and crouched to run his fingers over the underside of the chair. “Did anybody deliver anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Keep trying to wake him.” Ruso bent to peer under the couch. He needed to confirm that Thessalus had taken poppy tears before beginning the messy business of forcing down whichever of the antidotes came first to hand: wine, olive oil . . .

  The medicine must have got in here somehow. And if there were any left, it would still be in here.

  Vinegar, mustard . . . (mustard?! Was that right?) rose oil . . . Would Gambax have rose oil somewhere? Olive oil would do. There must be plenty of olive oil in the kitchen. Then induce vomiting.

  He examined the tray. He tasted the water again. It was still water. “Thessalus, wake up!”

  The wine had been drunk, but the gritty dregs were no more bitter than when he had tasted it earlier. Army-issue wine might not have inspired his patient, but it would not have prostrated him either.

  He eyed the body on the couch. It had the definite appearance of being drugged, and its hands and feet were cold.

  He turned to the orderly, who was chewing his lower lip. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I thought he’d gone to sleep, sir,” protested the man. “I thought a doze would do him good.”

  “He’s certainly gone to sleep,” agreed Ruso. “We’d better hope he wakes up again.” He scowled at Thessalus. All that talking, and they were no further forward. It was as if the man wanted to destroy himself.

  He crouched, put his lips close to the pale ear, and said loudly, “Thessalus?”

  No response.

  “Thessalus, someone needs the doctor!”

  The muscles around the man’s eyes twitched.

  “Wake up. We need a doctor!”

  Thessalus muttered something and tried to turn over, then halted halfway and winced. “Whaa?”

  “Wake up!” called Ruso.

  “Uh,” said Thessalus, raising a hand to rub his eyes. “Am I asleep?”

  Relieved, Ruso helped him to a sitting position. “Drink of water?”

  Thessalus blinked and nodded.

  Ruso had the cup in one hand and was about to fill it from the jug when he paused. He carried it across to the window, upended it, and peered into the hollow of the base. There, stuck into the recess, was a little wad of brown resin. Dried poppy tears.

  42

  IT WASN’T ME, sir. Absolutely not.”

  Ruso relaxed into his chair and reflected that this was the first time he had ever seen Gambax standing at attention. The man looked uncomfortable, as if he were not used to it.

  “I was ordered not to give him anything, sir, and I didn’t,” continued Gambax.

  When Ruso said nothing he added, “It was an order, sir. I never do anything I’m ordered not to do.”

  “Hm,” said Ruso, suspecting that unless he were ordered to do it Gambax rarely did anything useful at all.

  “I can show you where I wrote it down, sir,” added Gambax.

  Ruso noted with some satisfaction that he was now beginning to sound genuinely worried. “You’re writing all my orders down?”

  “Just the ones that contradict Doctor Thessalus’s orders, sir. So I can remember who said what when. In case there’s any query about it when he’s recovered.” Gambax risked a glance at him. “You said you wanted better record keeping.”

  “So,” said Ruso, making a mental note to find more useful work for Gambax to do, “if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  Gambax swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You haven’t by any chance decided to obey my order yourself while passing Doctor Thessalus’s order on to somebody else?”

  The surprise in Gambax’s “No, sir” suggested that had he thought of that first, he might have tried it.

  “Well, here’s my next order,” said Ruso. “Don’t stop to write it down, just do it. I want you to find every man who was on duty just before lunch and send them all in here one by one until I tell you to stop.”

  The first candidate was Albanus, who denied all knowledge of tampering with Doctor Thessalus’s lunch. “I know,” explained Ruso, “but I have to treat everyone the same.”

  Albanus did, however, have other information. First, Doctor Thessalus had not returned to the fort until just before dawn on the morning after the murder, and second, the gate guards had just taken a message from a man who had not left his name but who wished to speak with Doctor Ruso. He would be waiting at the bathhou
se to meet him as soon as Ruso was free.

  “Then he’ll have a long wait,” observed Ruso.

  Next in was the cook, who denied interfering with Doctor Thessalus’s meals and demanded to know why whoever was complaining didn’t have the nerve to come and say it to his face.

  “Nobody’s complaining,” explained Ruso.

  “Well, they hadn’t better. I can only work with what I’m given, can’t I?”

  “I’m sure everyone appreciates that. I haven’t heard any complaints about the food.” Although he had heard several personal remarks about the competence and parentage of the cook, who was now looking as though he was not sure whether to believe him.

  Moments later he heard the cook summoning the next man into the room with the words, “Your turn. Waste of time. If that stew’s stuck on the bottom, it’s not my fault.”

  The next man to waste his own time and Ruso’s was the orderly who had now removed the straw from his hair. He was less irascible than the cook but equally clueless. In the brief interval that followed, Ruso wondered whether he should have lined them all up first and made a speech designed to inspire terror and confession. But despite having spent years watching centurions in action, he was not sure that he knew either how to inspire or how to terrorize. He would just end up looking ridiculous.

  A rap on the door interrupted his musings. Ingenuus bent under the door frame, closed the door behind him as instructed, and responded to, “Good morning, Ingenuus. Stand easy,” with, “It was me, sir.”

  Ruso blinked. “What was you?”

  “Put the poppy tears under Doctor Thessalus’s cup, sir.”

  “I see. Did you know I had issued an order that he wasn’t to be given any?”

  “You didn’t order me not to, sir, you ordered Gambax. And Doctor Thessalus asked me to do it when I went to collect his breakfast tray.”

  Ruso rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, lowered his forehead into the palm of his hand, and closed his eyes. When he opened them the bandager was still standing there, supposedly at ease, but looking distinctly apprehensive.