Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

Everyone knew what those barbarians would get up to if they had the chance. Whatever had been done to him was so gruesome that it was being kept secret. The men Ruso had seen were going out to deal with the culprits.

“Do we know who it is?” Ruso asked, hoping it wasn’t Candidus.

The queue consulted itself for a few minutes before agreeing that no name had been mentioned, although, come to think of it, wasn’t there a clerk who had gone missing? Nobody could remember what he was called, but several were certain he was the victim. “They could have had him for days, then,” observed one glum soul.

“Poor sod.”

“Don’t bear thinking about.” There was a general grunt of agreement, and then silence while the queue thought about it anyway.

“We’ll find out more before long,” Ruso told them. “Until then, forget it. This sort of attack is designed to rattle us. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

There was a dutiful chorus of “Yes, sir.”

For the next hour Ruso forced himself to follow his own advice and concentrate on minor injuries and ailments. The victim had been rescued. The hospital staff would send word from the fort if he was needed.

As soon as he had prescribed the last stomach pill and lanced an abscess for an ungrateful carpenter, he hurried across to the gates in search of the watch captain.

“It’s not your missing clerk, sir. I have it from a reliable source that he’s a plumber.” Perhaps sensing his anxiety, the man added, “I can show you where your man’s supposed to be, if you like.”

Together they picked their way down between the rows, past a sign that read, NO FIRES IN TENTS, because apparently a man intelligent enough to read might still be cold enough to suffocate himself or burn his tent down. In places the duckboards were only marginally less slippery than the mud beneath them. Someone unacquainted with the British climate had thought it would be a good idea to site a camp across the line of a stream, and despite Pertinax’s past efforts to see that the trackways were kept clear and the latrines under control, large areas that had started out as a gently sloping field in the spring had been reduced to stinking quagmire. In other circumstances Ruso would have complained about the effect of the conditions on the men’s health, but there was no point: Any other rain-sodden field would be almost as bad in a few days, and they were going home soon.

The shadowy interior of Tent V, Row VII contained a lone human form under a blanket: head at one end, feet-one sporting a fat linen bandage-poking out from the other. Beside him, bedding was stacked on top of a large wooden box that was in turn resting on two logs above the damp. A couple of shields in leather cases were propped against the upright at the far end. A limp and mildewed straw sun hat dangled from the ridgepole.

“Shift yourself, sunshine,” said the watch captain, applying a boot to the sleeper. “Got an officer here looking for a man called Candidus.”

The sleeper blinked, then scrambled hastily out of bed and attempted a salute. “I’m recuperating, sir,” he explained. “Doctor’s orders. Burned foot.” There was a moment of mutual recognition. “You remember me, sir. I trod in a bucket of lime.”

“I do,” agreed Ruso, remembering the sufferer’s foot better than his face. “How is it?”

“Not too bad, sir, thanks. I can manage on crutches. Or I could, if it wasn’t for-” He gestured toward the treacherous pathway outside the tent.

“Candidus,” the watch captain repeated. “Where is he?”

“Haven’t seen him, sir.”

“Not ever,” suggested the watch captain, “or just not lately?”

The man scratched his head, as if this were too subtle a question for one who had only just woken up.

“He arrived several days ago,” Ruso prompted. “He was assigned to this tent.”

“Ah,” said the man, apparently enlightened. “Him.” He pointed toward a leather bag resting on a shield by the goatskin wall that separated indoors from outdoors. On top of the bag sat a helmet speckled with rust. Next to it, shoved halfway out under the flap and onto the grass, lay an untidy roll of bedding. “That’s his kit, sir.”

Ruso leaned across and lifted the equipment out to where he could examine it. “Did you see him arrive?”

The man was looking apprehensive. “I’ve never seen him, sir. He turned up while I was in the sick bay.”

Ruso understood the soldier’s nervousness when he examined the contents of the bag: some musty undergarments, a crumpled tunic, three odd socks with holes in them, and a pen with a broken nib. He turned it upside down over the empty bed and shook it. Two dice tumbled out. He rolled them around on his palm for a moment, then threw everything back in.

An empty waterskin was tied to the strap on the shield cover. The shield itself turned out to have CANDCSILXXVV painted in uneven white letters at the base, covering the name of a previous owner. Candidus in the century of Silvanus, Twentieth Legion Valeria Victrix . He definitely had the right man. Or rather, he didn’t have him, and he had no idea who did.

Eyeing the meager collection of possessions, he said, “Where’s the rest?”

The man opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Food pan, cup, spoon?” Ruso prompted. “Weapons, armor?” Without the owner, he had no way of knowing what else was missing.

The man swallowed. Petty theft caused such disruption amongst men who had to live closely together that punishments ranged from flogging to dismissal. Small wonder, then, that he looked relieved when Ruso said, “If somebody else is looking after them for him, tell us now. I don’t want to waste time searching the tent.”

A scrabble in the box and the unraveling of bedrolls produced a bronze cooking pan with a folding handle, another pen in better condition, and a pottery inkwell. As Ruso expected, cand had been scraped or burned into each item by a soldier who was keen to guard against this very eventuality. These were followed by two tunics, two pairs of socks, and a neckerchief, none of which were labeled but would have been easily identified by their owner.

The man seemed confident that no spoon or eating implements of any kind had been removed for alleged safekeeping, nor had any weapons or armor. Since Candidus had taken the precaution of marking everything else, Ruso assumed he was telling the truth and that none had been found when the tentmates raided the absent newcomer’s belongings.

“Money?” he suggested, without much hope.

“No, sir,” said the man, knowing as well as he did that any coins that had vanished into someone else’s purse would be safely anonymous.

Ruso gathered up what he had managed to salvage of Candidus’s possessions. “If he turns up, tell him his kit is up at the fort hospital. Meanwhile I need to talk to anyone who might have seen him.”

When Ruso confirmed that he had no more questions, the watch captain eyed the invalid. “Aren’t you on cooking duty?”

“I was just about to start, sir.”

Outside, the watch captain shook his head. “Looks like your man’s deserted, sir.”

“In his armor?”

“You’d be surprised, sir. He’d look less suspicious that way. And he could always sell it later.”

Ruso sighed. “I promised his uncle I’d keep an eye on him.”

“I wouldn’t worry, sir,” the watch captain assured him cheerily. “A lot of the lone wanderers come back. It’s no fun out there on your own with the natives, as our plumber’s just found out.”

“What happens to the ones who don’t come back?”

The watch captain had no more idea than anyone else. “I’ll let you know straightaway when he turns up, sir.”