Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

There was a roar of agreement. The Britons were cheering. He let out his breath. They seemed to think he had given them the cue for a joke.

Encouraged, he squared his shoulders and told himself that this was just like giving a report on a patient. He had to tell the truth while avoiding the parts the relatives didn’t need to know. “I’m sorry to have to confirm,” he said, “that your tax collector and his brother have both been killed. Asper was found dead in Londinium two days ago. Last night the body of his brother was-”

“We know all that!” called a voice from the back while someone else yelled, “And we know who did it!” and one or two shouted, “Where’s our money?”

“I haven’t found it yet,” said Ruso.

“Who’s going to pay if you don’t?” demanded a lone voice over shouts of “Ask Caratius!” At least one of the men now accusing Caratius had insisted to Ruso only yesterday that the money had been stolen by Asper.

His voice rose to penetrate the din. “The question of who’s going to pay is up to the procurator to answer, not me. I’ll be trying to trace the money-”

There was a shout of “So are we all!” and “Ask Caratius!” and one ominous “Ask your wife, man, she knows more than you do already!”

Gallonius roared something in British which sounded like, “Shut up and let the man speak! Do you want him thinking we’re barbarians?”

There followed more confusion during which everyone seemed to be telling everyone else to be quiet. Gallonius made another attempt to impose order and was shouted down. The clerk’s desperate blasts on the horn only added to the cacophony. Anyone listening outside would think a riot was in progress.

Ruso stood his ground, folding his arms and surveying the rabble with what he hoped was conspicuous impatience. If he could identify him, the man who had made that remark about Tilla would soon be one very sorry Briton.

Finally the din died away. He let the silence build for a moment before starting again, his voice deliberately quiet. “I’ve already spoken to Chief Magistrate Caratius,” he said, “and I’ve examined the bodies of Asper and Bericus. I advise you not to make any hasty judgments about what happened to your tax collector or where the money went.” That was as much defense as he was willing to offer Caratius, and neither the magistrate nor the rest of the Council looked satisfied with it. “I’ll be trying to trace the money from the moment it was last seen, so I’ll be asking plenty of questions. I need to talk to anybody who knows anything about the movements of Asper and his brother on that last day or who saw anything suspicious. If you can help, don’t leave the Forum today before you’ve spoken to me.”

He had reached the end without interruption. It had gone better than he had feared. He was about to thank them and step down when Caratius said, “What about Asper’s letter?”

“Asper’s letter,” repeated Ruso. “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” Damn. He should have expected this. Even if it was Caratius who had arranged for the Room Twenty-seven letter to be stolen, the man needed to pretend that he didn’t know anything about it. He would probably have asked last night if dinner had not been interrupted.

The men on the benches remained silent, waiting to hear something new. “Some of you may have heard that Asper wrote a letter before he died.” He paused, fingering one ear. If he told them it had been stolen, it would make him-and by implication, the procurator-look careless. If he didn’t, they would want to see it. “We had it decoded,” he announced, “but it was no help at all.”

“What did it say?” Caratius again.

Did he already know? Perhaps he was pushing to find out how much had been deciphered before it was stolen. The last thing Ruso wanted at the moment was for anyone here to suspect that Asper had been in touch with the governor’s security service and tried to alert Metellus to some sort of crime.

Get out of town as fast as you can. He looked around at the expectant faces. Was the wellwisher among them?

Say something. “It was just a couple of unfinished lines,” he said, “scribbled when Asper was on the verge of death.”

“But what did it say?”

“Nothing of any use.”

He was stalling for time, and they all knew it.

“Tell us, man!” urged a voice.

Caratius said, “It might mean something to us, if not to you.” His acting, if that was what it was, was impressive.

Say something. Ruso cleared his throat. “It said,” he began, “Dearest girl. When your sweet lips meet my eager-”

There was a fresh shout of laughter. Caratius looked as though someone had just slapped him across the face.

Gallonius stepped up and stopped chuckling for long enough to call for order. When he could make himself heard, he thanked the absent procurator for his understanding, congratulated the investigator on his work so far, and urged everyone to cooperate as fully as possible in the hunt for the money. Then he called upon the clerk to remind them of the rest of the business for the meeting.

Ruso retreated to the sound of the clerk reciting, “The continuing problem of flooding behind the market halls. The behavior of unruly youths on market days. The appointment of ambassadors fit to represent this Council.”

“I object!” shouted Caratius, who had come back to life.

Stepping out into the fresh air of the Forum, Ruso decided that the leaders of the Catuvellauni might be accused of many things, but being dull was not one of them.

She had swept the floors and filled the lamps with the last of the oil. Back in the kitchen, Tilla wrapped a cloth around one hand, steadying the steaming pot over the fire. Then she hooked a tangle of dripping cloths out of the first rinsing bucket with a stick and lowered it at arm’s length into the hot water. She could hear someone moving about and chased away a fleeting sense of dread. Camma’s behavior at the funeral had been caused by grief and shock. Time and kindness and the favor of the right gods would restore her.

Moments later she heard footsteps in the corridor. Camma was disheveled but bright eyed. She was clutching a wooden box with fancy metal hinges. It could have been a funeral cask for a newborn child.

She said, “I caused trouble for everyone this morning.”

“Yes.” Tilla was eyeing the box.

“I was wrong.”

“It is forgotten.” There was no sound from the baby in the front room. “What is that?”

“I think Andaste sent you to save me so that I can see Asper and Bericus avenged.”

“Sister, what do you have in that box?”

Camma placed it on the table and wiped dust off the lid with one hand before lifting it. “We have money.”

Relieved, Tilla gave the cloths a final poke with the stick and went to stand beside her. Inside, three small leather bags were resting on some sort of burned tile. Camma undid one of the drawstrings and tipped the bag over. Silver coins tumbled and rolled onto the table.

Tilla’s eyes widened. “This is the money all the trouble is about?”

“Oh, no!” Camma seemed shocked at the suggestion. “This is not stolen.”

Hoping she was right, Tilla ran one forefinger along the table, leaving a wake through the pile of coins. “This is a miracle!”

“No, it’s his savings. Hidden under the bedroom floor. This is what those thieves were looking for.”

The heaviest bag contained bronze and the third, the smallest of the three, a few more silver denarii.

When they had all been emptied, Tilla lifted out the fat tile. “And this?”

Camma frowned. “I don’t know.”

There was something odd about the feel of the underside. She turned it over. The surface was pocked with a series of holes arranged in rows. She ran her finger across, counting them. Six rows, seven holes in each. Each hole about big enough to hold the top joint of her little finger.