Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

Holy gods. He was starting to think in terms of warning Metellus now.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m supposed to be finding the money, not tracking down missing correspondence.”

“You are,” agreed Firmus, “but I’m not. I’m supposed to be learning about administration.” His smile was triumphant. “Administration includes post.”

Ruso restrained an urge to grab the front of his tunic and shake some sense into him. He sent a disappointed Albanus back to the gate to see if there were any more sightings of men with only one and a half ears before continuing, “Listen to me, Firmus. This isn’t a game. I don’t know what Asper was caught up in, but it might well be the business that got him murdered. Whoever follows the trail is going to run into the same people, and you’re not…” He hesitated.

“I’m not what?”

“You’re not supposed to be involving yourself in this sort of thing.”

“You were going to say, You’re not suitable because you can’t see past the tips of your fingers.”

“That too,” said Ruso, who wasn’t.

Firmus drew himself up to his full height, which was at least half a head shorter than Ruso despite the fancy hairstyle. “I am the assistant procurator,” he announced. “You have been given your orders. While you’re in Verulamium, I shall take whatever steps I consider to be necessary.”

Ruso sighed. That was the trouble with the upper classes. They were very friendly until you tried to cross them. Then they pulled rank on you.

This was going to be painful, but it was necessary. “Firmus,” he said, “I have a job to do. If I think someone-anyone-is compromising my investigation, not to mention getting himself into danger, then I won’t hesitate to report him to the procurator.”

The shortsighted eyes narrowed, as if the youth were trying to assess whether he was joking.

“I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me, but it’s got to stop. Straightaway.”

“But I thought…” There was a tremor in the youth’s voice. “Ruso, I thought you were my friend.”

Ruso felt his stomach clench, just as it used to in the early days when he was about to amputate a limb in the hope of saving the owner’s life. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, seeing hurt and bewilderment in the lad’s eyes. “I hope I’ve served you well. But we can’t ever be friends.”

Firmus’s chin rose. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you for reminding me. I am the assistant procurator of Britannia and you are a man who chases criminals for money.” He turned to peer around the courtyard and then strode off in the direction of Pyramus, who was waving at him from a doorway.

There was a bitter taste in Ruso’s mouth as he watched him go. No matter how often he told himself he had done that for the youth’s own good, he knew there would still be a whisper suggesting that he had done it to get himself out of trouble. And the whisper would have the smooth tones of Metellus.

This is it,” Camma said.

Tilla stretched, stiff from the long journey, and shifted her balance on the seat as the carriage began to descend another slow incline. Nearer the town, the road was lined on both sides by graves and grand carved wooden memorials. It occurred to her that Asper would not be allowed such an honor even if Camma could afford it. In a town where she had no friends and a powerful enemy, she would be lucky if she were allowed a stick to mark his place. Tilla watched as she gathered up her shawl and the remains of the bread that neither of them had felt hungry enough to finish, and wondered whether she had thought of that. If the people here really believed Asper had betrayed the town, his remains might not be welcome here at all.

How did you honor a disgraced man? It was one of the many questions the Druids would have been able to answer, but Rome had seen to it that Druids were hard to find these days. Tilla was not sure she had ever met one. Nowadays ordinary people had to muddle along with only memory and tradition and guesswork, while the leaders of the tribes squabbled over whatever power the governor was prepared to give them. With no one to settle the dispute over his wife, Caratius had been left to take his revenge. The whole thing had led to this dreadful mess-and it was not finished yet.

There was a shout from the roadside. The carriage drew up beside the deep ditch and gatehouse that marked the edge of the town. Someone was asking the driver if he had seen a man called Bericus on the road. Camma whispered, “They have still not found him.”

The driver denied all knowledge of the missing man and the carriage jerked into motion again.

Camma leaned forward to direct the driver. They passed a triangular temple precinct that smelled of incense and a grand inn that boasted glass windows and entered a busy street full of bars and shops and lodging houses-all, Tilla supposed, placed to tempt the travelers passing through. A couple of local men with chain mail over their scarlet tunics were lounging against a wall as if they had nothing better to do. Tilla peered into a bone worker’s shop and was startled when the workman glanced up and winked at her. Farther along, a woman dressed in gold and green plaid shouted at a tethered donkey while one of her children howled and clutched at his foot.

Tilla rejoiced in the unfussy hairstyles, the bright jewelry, and, among the plain workaday browns, the bold stripes and cheerful colors that spoke of a people not afraid to enjoy themselves. After the pale and washed-out drapery that the Medicus’s people thought was tasteful, it was like a feast for the eyes. Yet oddly, instead of having ordinary round houses, this southern tribe dressed in their no-nonsense tunics and trousers seemed to live like foreigners. Straight-sided buildings were crammed in precise rows. Beyond them rose the dome of a bathhouse and the red roofs of a Forum and a Great Hall like the one they had left behind.

She had not expected a tribal gathering place to look like this. Londinium was a town of soldiers and merchants, created by Rome in its own image-but she had expected Verulamium to look more like home. How could you roast an ox over a good fire in the middle of all those buildings? Where could you all sit in a circle around the embers with the soft grass beneath you and your backs to the dark and children falling asleep in their mothers’ arms, listening to the stories of your people? The Catuvellauni had turned their meeting place into something that was more welcoming to strangers from across the sea than to the people of their own island.

Out in the street, progress slowed to a crawl and then stopped altogether. A man rapped on the back of the carriage and cried, “Looking for a bed, travelers?” before glancing in at the shrouded body and hastily backing away. The driver reached into his bag for the remains of his lunch.

Tilla stood up and peered past him. A string of pack ponies had somehow spread themselves across the road and got tangled up with a flock of sheep. Passersby were making futile grabs as woolly brown shapes leapt between shying ponies, parked vehicles, and a man trying to deliver barrels. A terrier had decided to join in the fun and was rushing about snapping at the sheep, ignoring the whistles of its frantic owner. A couple of men in chain mail arrived and began to shout orders, but nobody seemed to be listening.

By the time there was a clear route through the chaos, a manure cart had drawn up behind them. “Take the first on the left, up by the bakery,” Camma called, grimacing at the stench.

“I hope you ladies aren’t wanting to stop near the Forum.”

“No, go on past, by the meat market.”

They were moving again. Mumbling something that ended in, “after a bloody market day,” the driver swung the vehicle around and urged the horses forward in the shadow of the Great Hall that made up one end of the Forum. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the road in such a way that there was barely room to fit another carriage in between. To Tilla’s disgust, the manure cart followed them. She lifted her overtunic and inhaled through the fabric. It made no difference.