Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

Albanus squared his shoulders. “Absolutely not, sir. I think one of us should stay here to look after the ladies.”

Ruso nodded. “Make sure everything’s properly locked up,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll be back, but if he is, don’t tackle him on your own. Shout ‘Fire’ and rouse the neighbors.”

“Fire, sir?”

“Yes. They may not get out of bed for anything else.”

The route Ruso chose toward the mansio took them past Nico’s lodgings. There were no lights visible. He stepped up to the entrance to check that it was secure. There was a thud and a rattle of ironwork. The dog that had hurled itself at the door began to bark.

As they fled down the street with the guards clattering along behind them, Tilla gasped, “Nobody in that house will thank you for making sure he is safe.”

Once his guards had checked the mansio rooms and declared them free of lurking assassins, Ruso dismissed them for the night. “You’ll be safe in here,” he said to Tilla, locking the outside door and picking up the lantern that had thoughtfully been left burning in the hallway. Once inside Suite Three, she stood in silence as he lit more lamps and the simple elegance of his accommodation sprang into view. “You have to admit,” he said, “we’ve come a long way since the damp rooms in Deva.”

“All this is for one man?”

In the confined space he was conscious again of the clear scent of the bluebells. “There’s a dining room and private kitchen as well,” he told her. “But I told them I hadn’t brought my cook.”

“I will go into your kitchen in the morning and start stuffing piglets.”

“Tomorrow,” murmured Ruso, sliding one arm around her waist and plucking the bluebells from her hair, “you can do whatever you like. Tonight, I want you here.”

The bathhouse was full of stuffed animals and slaves to digestion, and the masseur was tightening an iron band around Ruso’s forehead. He lifted one arm to push the man away, but the stone weighing down his stomach was too heavy. It hurt to move his head. He was too tired to complain.

Beside him, something stirred and muttered. A voice somewhere at the back of his mind said that this was not right. There was no masseur, just the aching head. This was not the bathhouse. He was lying in his bed at the mansio. He had eaten and drunk too much, too late at night, and the body beside him was his wife.

His skin prickled with sweat. The sheets were sticking to him. He was short of breath. He kicked off the covers, flinging them over onto Tilla, who hated to be woken by a cold draft. He lay on his back in the darkness with one arm and one leg trailing over the edge of the bed, trying to cool off.

There was no light around the shutters. It must still be the middle of the night. Wincing as the pain throbbed behind his temples, he rolled over to grope for the cup of water he had left beside the bed. As he drank he noticed a faint red glow in the corner. It must be the reflection of…

It couldn’t be. There were no reflections in the dark.

He rubbed his eyes and opened them again. The red glow was still there. He could pick out a black curve beneath it. The lip of the brazier. That was why he was so hot. He closed his eyes, wishing someone would come and move it. Or open the window.

He swung his feet down onto the floor and stumbled across to where the window should be, but he must be still dreaming. Instead of a window he found himself fighting with a tangle of blanket that seemed to have draped itself between him and the latch. Finally lifting it out of the way, he managed to unfasten the shutters. Cool air wafted across his face and down over his bare feet. He took a couple of deep breaths. He could see the shape of the flowerbeds and the outline of the roof opposite. There was a lantern burning over by the door to the reception area. He was not dreaming.

A brazier? In the bedroom?

“Tilla!” He ran to the bed, colliding with some piece of furniture and kicking it out of the way. “Wake up!” He flung back the covers and hauled her out of bed. His head was thumping. She was muttering in protest. Struggling. That was good. That was definitely good.

“Wake up,” he urged, dragging her across to the window.

She was mumbling something in British.

“Breathe,” he urged, holding her up to the fresh air. “Deep breaths.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Breathe.” He was shaking her now. “Breathe in!”

“I am breathing! Get off!”

He loosened his grip. “Did you order some heating?”

“What?”

“Stay by the window.” He filled his lungs with fresh air before searching for a taper, and again before leaving the window to light the lamp. When he had satisfied himself that they were alone in the rooms, he said, “Did you ask the staff to put coals in the brazier?”

She shuddered. “Someone has been in here while we were sleeping?”

Would fumes work faster in a smaller body? “Keep taking deep breaths.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her back toward the open window. “Do you feel sick?”

“A little. But I felt sick anyway after all that food.”

She was answering questions sensibly. That was good too.

He opened the doors wide, then wrapped his hands in the blanket and carried the brazier out to discharge its poison harmlessly into the night air.

Yellow light spilled onto the walkway from the reception door. The shape of the night porter appeared. “Everything all right, sir?”

“No,” said Ruso. “No, it’s not. Somebody’s just snuck in and tried to kill us.”

Summoned early, Dias arrived with six other guards just after dawn. By then a frantic Publius had already threatened the night staff with flogging, arranged to have the locks changed, settled Tilla in with his own family and four yawning slaves to watch over them, and apologized profusely while assuring Ruso that nothing like this had ever happened here before in the whole time he had been in charge. Ruso had to restrain him from sending for both chief magistrates and the doctor.

Dias did all the right things. He declared that no one was to leave. He searched the rooms. He announced that his men would be questioning everyone.

The night staff, still lined up in the chilly reception area, looked terrified.

“Everyone,” repeated Dias, looking at Publius, who said, “But my wife isn’t-”

“Everyone.”

Publius’s “Of course” sounded faintly strangled.

Dias commandeered one of the guest rooms for the interrogations. Publius’s request to listen in was denied. So was Ruso’s, and his, “I think this was done by somebody from outside,” was dismissed with, “We’ll see, sir.”

While Ruso had Dias’s attention, he murmured, “I hear you went to visit Grata last night.”

Dias looked him in the eye. “She’s upset,” he said. “That body was no sight for a woman.”

“It was her decision.”

“And this is mine,” said Dias. He turned to his men, giving orders for the staff to be taken into the questioning room one by one. When he saw that Ruso had not moved, he said, “I’ll assign you two good men, sir. You can get on with your inquiries, but don’t leave town. I’ll need to talk to you again.”

“You go, sir,” urged Publius, looking haggard. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

It was true. He left Publius to defend his staff as best he could, slipped across to make sure Tilla was still making a good recovery, then left.

The Albanus who lifted his head from the tax office desk at the sound of Ruso’s arrival was not looking his best. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was awry. He had not shaved and he had a red V shape across one cheek where it had been resting on the corner of a writing tablet.