Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

“In the meantime if you can find anyone who’s seen him-anyone at all-I want to talk to them.”

Ruso lashed Candidus’s possessions together, slung them over his shoulder, and squelched his way back toward the gates. Candidus’s new accommodation was a definite step down from the permanent quarters over at Magnis. Perhaps the tent-or its occupants-had frightened him off. He had not seemed the toughest of individuals, and Albanus had described him as not only sensitive but-and this was more believable-“rather easily led.” But where, in this land of wide rolling hills, wooded valleys, native huts, and building sites, could anyone have led him? And what if he had not been led but forced?

A stronger-than-usual smell of burning hung in the air as he made his way back to the comparative comfort of the fort. Glancing around, he saw thick columns of black smoke billowing up into the clouds on the western skyline. Even at this distance, he could make out glimmers of orange flame inside them. A cluster of four or five things that shouldn’t be burning were fiercely ablaze, and it was not difficult to guess what they were. The locals who had attacked the plumber would be long gone, but the stink of their homes going up in smoke would linger in the nostrils for days. It would be a lesson. Or another wrong to feel aggrieved about, depending on which side of the divide you were born. He could understand why Senecio, having lost one son and with another clearly spoiling for a fight, was doing his best to prevent any repeat of the vicious battles that had taken place around this border only a few seasons ago. It was a pity more of his countrymen did not feel the same way.

A squad of legionaries carrying shovels and picks were tramping past him. Their salutes were exemplary, but their gazes lingered a little too long. He glanced down at himself. Was there something unusual about him? Tunic caught up in his belt? Dirt on his nose? Something stuck in his hair? Then he realized. They were enjoying the sight of an officer carrying his own kit.

They would have been even more surprised if they had known it was somebody else’s.

Ruso was barely through the door of the hospital at Parva when he heard raised voices. He left the door open, dumped Candidus’s kit in front of Pandora’s cupboard, and followed the sound. A cluster of legionaries were blocking the far end of the corridor.

The cries of “No visitors!” from Gallus, Ruso’s baby-faced deputy, were barely audible above the various voices demanding to be let in on the grounds that they were his mates, he would want to see them, they would cheer him up, and yells of “You all right in there, old son?” and “Chin up, mate!”

The shape of the group shifted. They were trying to drag the protesting Gallus out of the way.

Doors opened. Several staff hurried down to join the fray, and a couple of patients stumbled out to see what the commotion was.

“Out!” ordered Ruso, pointing toward the exit. The noise of protest died down.

“But, sir-”

“You,” said Ruso, choosing one and looking him in the eye. The others fell silent. “Name?”

The man straightened. “Peregrinus, sir. Century of Fabius.”

“Why are you causing a commotion in my hospital?”

“Regulus is in there, sir. The natives have been at him and we want to make sure he’s all right.”

Gallus, breathing heavily, was still stationed between the outside world and the door latch. His whole face was now as pink as his cheeks. “It’s the kidnap victim, sir,” he explained. “The tribune says no visitors and no passing on information.”

An orderly approached to announce that Prefect Pertinax wanted to know what all the din was and when he was going to get some crutches.

“Tell him it’s under control,” said Ruso, ushering the reluctant gang of legionaries toward the street door with a promise to send on news when there was any.

Back in the corridor, inquisitive heads disappeared and doors closed.

“And the crutches, sir?”

“Absolutely not!” Seeing the expression on the orderly’s face, Ruso added, “Just be brave and tell him I said no. He can’t catch you. He’s only got one foot.”

Another figure still loitered in the doorway. Ruso recognized the once-blond soldier who had passed up the waterskin to the trapped Pertinax. The bandage on his wrist was even grimier than before. He was poking at the loose end with his forefinger, trying to tuck it back in.

“You’re not one of his friends too?”

“No, sir. Mallius.”

“From the quarry.”

“Yes, sir. I was wanting a word with your clerk.”

“Is it about a hen?”

It was. The deal had been struck the day before Candidus disappeared and the delivery had been made on time. The payment had not.

“He was definitely expecting it yesterday?”

“Yes, sir. He said it was his turn on cook duty and he wanted something tasty.”

It was not Ruso’s business to wonder how a quarryman might have obtained a hen. He paid up to get rid of him, then turned to Gallus. Did you say there’s a tribune here?” This morning the legate, this afternoon one of his tribunes. More important guests in one day than they usually welcomed in a month.

“Tribune Accius brought the patient in, sir. But he’s gone now.”

It was a pity. He might have gleaned some sense about the kidnap from Accius, with whom he had worked before. He dismissed the rest of the staff and said quietly to Gallus, “How is he?”

The medic scratched his head. “I’m not really sure, sir. But he’s well enough to tell you himself.”

Regulus the plumber, alone in Room IX, was a sorry sight. This was hardly surprising, since he had, by his own account, been jumped by a gang of natives the night before, stripped naked, bound, and then strung up on a branch by his feet and dangled head-first over a woodland stream. If the road patrol had not heard his faint cries for help this morning, he would be hanging there still.

“Starving and freezing, sir,” he added, scratching his ribs with one blotchy hand and reaching with the other for the cup on the table beside his bed. “And being eaten alive. Even in October. The whole bloody place was swarming with things that bite and sting. And that was before the rats.”

Ruso said, “You were bitten by rats?”

He shook his head. “I kept moving and shouting to frighten them off, sir.”

Given last night’s rain and nighttime temperatures on the border in October, the man was lucky to have survived.

“I wondered if they put him over the stream deliberately because of the insects, sir,” put in Gallus. “They smeared dog dung on his face and honey on his privates.”

The victim squirmed, either at the memory of the smell or the humiliation, while Ruso deliberately avoided catching his deputy’s eye. It would be interesting to see whether the official attempt to keep this story quiet had any effect. He said, “As far as you know, were you the only victim?”

“I was all alone, sir. Just me and all them barbarians jabbering away in their own language.” Regulus looked up. “They didn’t get somebody else, did they?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Ruso, hoping they had not, and catching a waft of wine that was presumably medicinal. “Finish your drink and let’s take a look at you.”

Beneath the linen sheet Regulus was indeed covered in red lumpy insect bites. He did not seem to have been beaten, but there were abrasions around his wrists and ankles. The ankles were slightly swollen and he winced when they were examined. He tried and failed to bend his ankles or wiggle his toes when instructed. Ruso pressed on the nail of each hairy big toe. The pink color returned immediately. “Stand up for me, will you?”