Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

She put her arm around him. Everything about this child looked and felt as though it might snap at any moment. “Nobody is blaming you. Your father only got angry because everyone is worried about Branan.”

Finally Inam confessed. It had been a simple prank: The boys would crouch in the grass on either side of the road and wait until a rider or vehicle was approaching at speed. At the last minute they would rise up together, reaching out as if each was holding one end of an invisible rope blocking the carriageway. She could imagine the effect it would have on anyone about to rush past them. They were lucky no nervous guard had loosed a javelin at them.

“Branan was over there because he can run faster than me.”

If a victim was not amused, the prankster on the farm side would be able to flee into the shelter of the woods. Whoever was on army land would have to dodge his angry pursuers and get back across the road to safety.

“So you couldn’t hear what they were saying over there?”

The nod was more enthusiastic this time.

“But somebody told you Branan was going to see me?”

“He said, ‘I’ve got to go: Our Roman lady is looking for me.’ And I waited till it was getting dark and he didn’t come back and it was cold, so I went home.”

“Did he say he would come back?”

The boy thought about it for a moment. “He said, ‘See you later.’ ”

“Can you remember which way they went?”

Again the small hand rose and pointed. Tilla squinted into the low sun. The soldier had gone east in the direction of the little fort. “Did they run or walk?”

“Walk.”

“Do you think they were talking to each other?”

Another shrug.

“When they walked away,” she said, indicating a vertical space of about a foot with her hands, “was the soldier this much bigger than Branan?” She trebled the gap. “Or more like this much?”

Inam picked a height in between the two. The soldier was from the Twentieth; he was sure of that and she did not doubt him. It was the sort of thing local boys knew. They were seduced by the glamour of banners and weapons and shiny armor, no matter what their families said about the men who bore them. The soldier had worn armor over a red tunic and he had a helmet on. Yes, the lorica, the jointed plates of armor-not chain mail. No, he could remember no crests or decorations. No, the man’s legs were not especially fat or thin. He might have had a beard or he might not. Probably . . . not. But he might. Inam began to chew his lower lip. “I couldn’t see.”

Tilla waited while the carriage rumbled past them. The driver looked down at her and winked. She pretended not to notice, just as she had pretended not to see the flash of blue in the woods that was exactly the shade Inam’s mother was wearing. It seemed the women did not trust Conn as a protector. “We’ll go back to your house. Your mam will be waiting.”

The boy began to sniffle again. “Will you tell my da?”

“I shall tell him,” Tilla promised, “that you are a sensible boy and you have been very helpful.”

“Will you find Branan now?”

“I will do my best.”

Once Inam was safely home, she would go straight to the fort. It was possible that Conn had been fobbed off at the gates and that Branan had indeed been seized for spreading malicious rumors. Yet, why send only one man, and why trick the boys into thinking it was not an arrest? It was not the Legion’s way of doing things.

Something about it was very, very wrong.

“Ah!” exclaimed Ruso, pleased to see the familiar figure getting up from the stool by the pharmacist’s table. “It’s today you’re back.”

Nisus, a man who parted with words as if he were obliged to pay a fee for each one used, responded to this statement of the obvious with silence.

“How was leave?”

“Good, sir.”

“Sit down, man. I need a word with you.”

Nisus perched back on the stool with his body slightly turned toward his table, as if he were waiting for the conversation to end so he could get on with his work.

“Our clerk’s gone missing. I’m hoping you know where he is.”

“I see, sir.”

Remembering Nisus’s tendency to answer the question you asked rather than the question you meant, he said, “Any idea where he might have gone?”

“Far away, I hope, sir.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you could tell me . . .” Ruso paused, then rearranged the sentence. “Why is that, Nisus?”

“He talked too much.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you, ah . . . threaten him in any way?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ruso left it there for now. He needed to know about the supplies that Nisus had agreed to try and pick up while he was over in Coria.

“Did you get hyssop?”

Nisus pointed to the bowl he was weighing on the scale.

“And honey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rue?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fortunately, when not obliged to converse, Nisus was very good at his job. It was not surprising that he had been irritated by Candidus’s slapdash attitude and incessant chatter. Ruso said, “Figs?”

“Some, sir.”

“Enough?”

“No, sir.”

“We’ll have to wheedle a few out of somebody’s kitchen.”

Nisus assumed an expression like a wet winter afternoon. Ruso said hastily, “I’ll do it.” He had never thought of himself as a man with charm-that was Valens’s job-but even he could do better than that.

To his relief, the struggling conversation was put out of its misery by a barrage of noise from behind the office door. It sounded much as Ruso imagined a large bear might sound if it were trying unsuccessfully to dislodge something disgusting stuck in its throat. He peered around the door to see a huge soldier standing by Candidus’s rickety stool and trying not to knock over stacks of writing tablets and scrolls arranged in a semicircular wall around him as he coughed and waved one arm in an attempt at a salute.

When the man had finally regained control and snatched a drink from his waterskin, Ruso asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m your new clerk, sir. Gracilis.” The man looked Ruso in the eye as if daring him to laugh. Ruso remained solemn, largely because Gracilis had the sort of physique that would be useful for hiding behind in the event of an oncoming cavalry charge. If his parents had chosen to call him “Slender,” it was none of anybody else’s business. “Sorry I didn’t notice you before, Gracilis. Welcome. We’re not used to having anybody sitting there, as you’ve probably guessed.”

The reply of “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll sort all this out” was the sweetest sound Ruso had heard in a long time.

It was swiftly followed by another sound, one that made the muscles of his abdomen clench: the distant wail of a native horn summoning reinforcements. He had not heard it for a couple of relatively peaceful years, but it was a sound that no soldier who had served during the last rebellion would ever forget.

Tilla had insisted on going to the farm alone. He should have made her promise to take someone. Anyone. Better still, anyone and a large dog. Relations with the locals had gone seriously downhill, and now it sounded as though they were gathering to make trouble.

“Sir?”

He returned his attention to the clerk. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“Is there anything I shouldn’t touch, sir?”

“Very possibly,” Ruso told him, “but none of us would know. Just don’t go near anything that isn’t a document. How long have you had that cough?”

“Four weeks and two days, sir.”