Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

“And if they don’t?”

“They’ve got children with them,” said Ruso, who was not going to encourage any hint of using force. “I doubt they’ll want to stay long.” He hoped he was right. It made sense to him that any self-respecting mother would want to get her children home for supper and bedtime. The trouble was, women-even self-respecting ones-did not always behave in the way one predicted. “Can you get Daminius’s search party assembled for questioning and make sure they don’t talk to anybody?”

“You seem to think I’m some sort of incompetent, Ruso.”

“Can you?”

“Of course.”

“Good. By then I’ll have spoken to the tribune and we’ll know what he wants us to do.”

With luck, it would be something useful.

Peering through the gap between the gates, Ruso could see a thin vertical slice of the crowd that had gathered outside. He caught a glimpse of a brightly dressed woman with a toddler and a baby in her arms, and a young man in a muddy farmworker’s tunic. The Britons had sat down on the stone surface of the causeway that carried the road across the ditch, perhaps more to keep their backsides dry than to block the access, since they must know they were obstructing only one of the routes into the fort. Shifting sideways to change his angle of vision-which was annoyingly narrow-he saw a small girl sitting cross-legged in front of a toothless creature with straggly white hair. He had to admit that Fabius had been right to ignore them.

He nodded to the guard to lift the bar. The chant disintegrated into yelling as one of the heavy gates swung partly open. A barrage of missiles splattered against it: rotten apples, cabbage stalks, clods of earth.

Senecio limped forward. As he stepped outside something flew past his ear. Behind him, one of the guards swore. Ruso turned to see the remains of an egg sliding down the shoulder plates of the man’s armor. The stench made him gasp. Tilla stepped away, holding her nose.

The barrage stopped. Senecio was leaning on his stick and holding up one hand for silence. Then he thanked them for coming. “It is a comfort to have good neighbors at a time like this.”

Someone shouted, “Where’s Branan?”

Senecio shook his head. “We do not know. The soldiers say they did not-”

His words were lost beneath the protest. He held up his hand again until the outcry of accusation and disbelief died down. “The soldiers will search their forts and land, and will ask questions of the-”

Ruso’s concentration stumbled over the unknown word that must mean suspects or culprits, and he lost the thread of what was being said. When he picked it up again Senecio was, as agreed, asking them to go to their homes. “I beg you to think,” he said. “Think where a thief might have hidden my son. Ask your neighbors if anyone has seen him. And search. Search your buildings, your fields, the woods and commons . . .” His voice faltered. He gulped a breath, steadied himself and continued. “Search the streams around your land. Ask everyone. Somebody . . . somebody must have seen Branan.”

Conn stepped forward and took his father’s arm. “My brother has been missing since late yesterday afternoon,” he said. “You know what he looks like. Nine years old, brown curly hair, front teeth that do not touch each other. He is wearing a green work tunic and brown trousers and boots.”

Another voice yelled, “Great Andraste, take revenge on the Romans!”

There were cries of agreement. Others chimed in with “String them all up!” and one with more imagination shouted, “Gut them and feed them to the dogs!”

Conn held up his hand. “That comes later. First, we find my brother.”

The crowd, given something to do, began to disperse just as Ruso had hoped. The old man leaned on his stick and surveyed them. “Many good people are searching for my boy,” he said. “It is a bitter thing to be too lame to join them.”

Ruso said, “Is there anything more we can do to help? Can we take you home?”

“We have our own cart,” Conn told him. “They wouldn’t let us bring it in.” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Perhaps there will be news at the house.”

Senecio gently lifted his son’s hand. “Go,” he said. “Enica is waiting at home. Tell her until he is found, my place is here.”

Ruso and Tilla exchanged a glance. “Grandfather,” she said, “the soldiers will do everything that can be done here. Conn is right: You should be at home.”

The old man lifted his head and looked at everyone standing around him. He said to Tilla, “Daughter of Lugh, see to it that nobody harms my wife.” Then he turned and limped back inside the fort. Mercifully Fabius had the sense not to object, and the guards, lacking any instructions, stood back to let him pass.

Conn watched him go for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode toward the waiting cart, where the nondescript woman from the farm stood holding the head of the mule. By the time he reached it, he was surrounded by supporters.

Ruso was suddenly aware of his wife standing beside him. She slipped her hand into his and whispered, “I have to go with them. Pray for us all.” Then she ran out after the cart.

When she reached it there was some sort of argument, with Conn seemingly trying to turn her away and Tilla insisting. Conn was no match for Tilla, and Ruso was not surprised when she finally clambered onto the cart to join them. He just hoped the rest of the locals would accept her. This could easily turn into the sort of situation where everyone had to be on one side or the other.

Meanwhile, he hoped that wherever Branan was the gods would look kindly upon him, and that Branan would sense the desperation of all the people who were trying to bring him safely home.

“You can’t leave him there, Ruso!”

“I didn’t put him there.” Ruso had been surprised at the agility with which the aging Senecio had lowered himself onto his blanket. He was now hunched opposite the entrance to the HQ building. It was impossible for anyone to enter or leave without being aware of the old man’s gaze upon them.

Fabius said, “He’s in the middle of the road.”

“Move him, then. I’ve got to find Accius and I’m late for clinic at the camp.”

“But what-”

Whatever complaint Fabius was about to make died in his throat. The gates had screeched open again and a group of riders was making its way in. At the head of them was the distinctively straight-backed and scowling Tribune Accius.

Ruso sighed. He must be almost an hour late by now. There would be a line of disconsolate patients grumbling about him over at the camp, and the staff would be wondering if they had been forgotten. He put down his medical case and saluted. As he did so, someone shouted a warning, and a mule cart changed course to avoid the old man sitting in the street.

The tribune glared at Ruso and Fabius over the ears of his horse and demanded to know what the hell was going on. “I was told you had a hundred natives hammering on the gates and chanting war songs.”

“We’ve managed to disperse them, sir,” said Fabius.

“But you did have?”

Ruso said, “About fifty, sir, including women and children.”

“Why in the name of Jupiter didn’t you send someone to get me out of my meeting?” He sounded disappointed, as if he had missed the excitement. The cavalrymen with him would be annoyed too. They would have been hoping to see some action.

Ruso said, “I was on my way across to tell you, sir.”

“Centurion, is that a native sitting in the middle of the via principalis ?”

Fabius confirmed that it was. “His son is missing, sir.”