Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

His reverie was interrupted by a question about his men.

“I’ve allocated a room just across the garden, sir, unless you’d like some bedding moved into here?”

“I haven’t brought any men,” he confessed. The surprise on Publius’s face recalled the disappointment of the stable overseer. “I prefer to work alone.”

“Well, you know best, sir. I’ll have some water brought over for washing. If there’s anything you want, you just have to ask.”

“Thank you. I’ll try not to demand any services I’m not entitled to.”

The cavalryman grinned. “Oh, demand away, sir. We’ve got orders to give you every assistance. The Council wants you kept sweet.”

Several minutes later, Publius’s confidence that Ruso knew best might have been dented by the sight of him throwing his traveling clothes into the corner, standing on tiptoe with his fingers stretched toward the plastered ceiling, and then giving a “Hah!” of delight as he flung his naked form across the bed.

The sheets smelled of lavender. The water in which the slave had just washed his feet smelled of roses, and he himself would cease to smell of horse just as soon as he had finished testing the bed, consuming the drinks and pastries thoughtfully laid out on the table in his reception room, putting on the clean tunic provided, and taking himself out through his own private exit to visit the public baths. He wasn’t even going to have to pay. The foot-washing slave had just trotted off to fetch a baths token.

He was deciding that there was, after all, something to be said for being the procurator’s man, when he heard the slave tapping on the reception room door.

“It’s open,” he called, not bothering to move. He heard the hinges of the outer door creak as he took another sniff of the sheets. A man could get used to this. “Just leave it on the table.”

There was no reply. Instead of retreating, whoever was out there was striding across the floorboards toward the bedroom.

If I were you, I’d watch my back.

What if it wasn’t the servant?

Someone lifted the latch.

Where the hell was his knife?

Ruso was off the bed, across the room, and flattened against the wall just as the door opened to hide him.

A broad-shouldered figure entered the room, looked around, then closed the door and said, “So it is you, Ruso.”

“Serena!” His hands clamped over his groin as his eyes met the piercing gaze of a woman, who, had she been male, would have been considered handsome. He swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

“My cousin thought she recognized you.” The thick brows met in puzzlement. “Why are you hiding behind the door?”

“I thought you were a slave,” he explained with a lack of clarity that he felt was excusable in a man who had just found himself naked in a bedroom with his best friend’s wife. “Then I thought you might not be. Uh-how are you?”

Serena looked him up and down and gave a sigh that suggested the weariness of a woman who was used to dealing with naughty boys. “Put some clothes on, Ruso.”

As he fumbled his way gratefully into the clean tunic, he heard, “I suppose he’s sent you to ask me to come home.” Before he could reply she said, “Well, don’t bother. I shan’t listen.”

Finally emerging into daylight, he said, “To be honest, I didn’t know you were here.”

She pondered that for a moment. “But he knew you were coming?”

“Valens?”

“Who else?”

Ruso, seeing where this was heading, tried, “Possibly.”

“Possibly,” she repeated, as if she was trying the word to see whether or not she liked it. “Well, did he, or didn’t he?”

Ruso straightened a crease across his shoulder. “Yes.”

“So,” concluded Serena, raising the eyebrows and arching her neck in a way that reminded him of an intelligent horse, “my husband knew you were coming here, and he knows I am here, but he didn’t even trouble himself to send a message.”

Ruso reached for his belt. “I wouldn’t say he didn’t trouble himself, exactly…”

“No,” said Serena, seizing the door handle. “I don’t suppose you would. But then, what do you know about it?”

Before he could answer, the door slammed shut. “Not a lot,” he confessed, gazing past the space where she had just been standing and wondering if that crack in the plaster had been there before.

Clutching his bath token, Ruso stepped out of his private exit and into the alley that separated the mansio’s accommodation from its transport yard. The smell of hot metal and horse dung grew stronger, and the clang of hammer on iron signaled that even this late in the day, the stable workshops had a repair job under way. He locked the door behind him, dropped the key into his purse, and turned left. He must set aside for the moment the awkward and embarrassing coincidence of Serena’s cousin being married to the mansio manager. He must restrain the urge to scrawl a rude note to Valens, who should have warned him. He must get himself cleaned up, make an attempt to report to the Council-with luck it would be too late today-and then find Tilla.

He was approaching the doors of a bathhouse that would not have disgraced a small town at home when he heard a pair of studded boots striding up behind him. A voice said, “Investigator?”

It was another of the local guards. This one not only had the red tunic, the chain mail, and a silver-buckled belt, but also flamboyant scarlet braids woven through dark hair that hung below his shoulders. No attempt to emulate Rome here, then.

“Dias.” The man, slightly out of breath, was holding out a hand. “Captain of the town guard. We’ve been looking into the theft of the tax money. When do you want me to brief you?”

Ruso need not have worried about translation. The locals’ grasp of Latin was as impressive as their eagerness to cooperate. “I was going across to the baths,” he explained, “but if there’s somewhere we can talk…”

Dias assured him that the baths would be fine. Ruso handed his token to the attendant on the door and entered the echoing din of the entrance hall. The guard captain sauntered past with a nod. Moments later Ruso was seated beneath the high window of a private and overscented warm room. The other occupants had grabbed their towels and clattered out in their wooden bath shoes as soon as they saw Dias enter. Ruso felt his skin begin to prickle with sweat. Since the native was sitting upright on the bench opposite without so much as loosening his belt, it did not seem appropriate to undress.

Dias turned out to be the exact opposite of Caratius. His hairstyle might be unmilitary but his summary was professional and concise, and it confirmed what the magistrate and the stable overseer had already told him. Asper had collected the tax money from the town strong room without requesting a guard, and set off in the rain. He and his brother had last been seen driving out through the gates on the Londinium road. Next morning, the carriage had been found abandoned just off the main road between the second and third milestones. “I’m told Asper got to Londinium by boat,” he said. “My men searched the area where the carriage was found and we had a look downriver, but we still can’t find Bericus.”

“No, I haven’t traced him, either.” Ruso unpeeled his tunic from his back. “Asper was already alone when he took the boat, though, so they must have parted near here.” The dark eyes widened as Ruso explained about his inquiries into the river monster a couple of miles away.

Ruso hoped he had not just wrecked Lund’s moneymaking activities. “Your men don’t need to bother with the farmer,” he said. “He’s told everything he knows and he’s harmless.” He wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead before venturing into more difficult territory. “I gather one of your magistrates had a personal grudge against Asper?”