Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

Ruso, wishing she would go back to wherever she had come from, carried on talking to the man. “We realize this puts your master in an awkward position, but if he’s willing to testify, we’re prepared to accept that he didn’t know he was receiving stolen goods.”

“The master doesn’t receive stolen goods!” exclaimed the woman. “Who’s been telling you that? This is an honest business.”

“We know,” said Ruso. “But anyone can be deceived. So the sooner he brings the boy back, the better.”

The woman said, “What boy?” at exactly the same moment as the man said, “I’ll tell the master when he comes home, sir.”

“Will that be today?”

“Probably not, sir.”

“When?”

“We don’t know,” said the woman.

“What do you do if anyone arrives to conduct business?”

“This great oaf takes messages,” the woman said, prodding the man in the ribs.

“Tell me how to find your master,” he said, “and I’ll go and sort things out with him before he gets into worse trouble.”

The man looked at the woman, who said, “We don’t know where he is.”

Ruso was losing patience. “Then how do you get messages to him?”

“He’ll send someone,” said the woman primly. “When he’s ready.”

Ruso wondered if it would be possible to get the official questioner back from wherever he had gone. This dancing around the truth was a waste of time. The gods alone knew where Branan would end up unless they got hold of him fast. Recalling the name mentioned by the brothel keeper, Ruso asked, “Has he gone to Coria to see Lupus?”

Again the man looked at the woman, and that told Ruso what he needed to know. He put one hand on the latch. “Tell him he needs to hand the boy in at the nearest army base straightaway and have them send a message back to the fort at Parva. The longer the boy is away, the worse it gets for your master.”

He stopped himself just in time from saying, Everyone will be looking out for the boy, so he can’t be sold. If that were the case, their master might think his safest course was to do away with Branan, deny all knowledge of everything, and blame his slave for talking nonsense. Instead Ruso thanked them for their help and stressed the urgency of the message.

He was at the end of the street, searching his purse for small coins for small boys, when he heard the man’s voice behind him requesting, “A quick word, sir.”

His spirits rose as the slave looked round to make sure the woman had not followed him. They sank again when he heard, “I wanted to ask about joining the Legion, sir.”

Ruso looked at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Only free citizens can enroll.”

“I’m hoping to be freed shortly,” the man explained. “Freedmen can join now.”

“Are you sure?” Ruso had heard this somewhere before. It seemed to be a common misconception.

“Your man who sold the boy. He’s a freedman. I recognized him.”

Ruso was about to respond when he heard the woman shout, “What are you doing out there?”

“You must be mistaken,” Ruso told him, willing the woman to go away. “What did you think his name was?”

The slave shook his head. “I’m no good with names, sir. And it was some years back, but I remember that face. We were sold by the same dealer. I think he went to a family down south.”

The woman was hurrying toward them. “What are you telling him?” she called. “You keep your mouth shut!”

“Describe the man you remember,” Ruso urged.

The slave looked nonplussed. “But you’ve got him locked up. You said.”

“I’m just trying to compare . . .” But Ruso was floundering, and the slave knew it. Ruso backed toward the horse and freed the reins.

“Where’s he going?” demanded the woman. “What have you said to him, you great lump?”

Ruso grabbed the saddle and vaulted up, but the slave had seized the horse by the bridle. He was saying, “Sir, my master-agh! Get off!”

Smacked on the nose, the horse unclamped its teeth from the man’s arm and danced sideways. Ruso kicked it into motion, not caring which way it went as long as it was out of there. By the time he managed to catch hold of the reins and regain some sort of control, he was careering up Vindolanda’s main street and terrified pedestrians were darting for cover. Glancing back, he saw people running after him. The slave was clutching the bitten arm, but whatever he was yelling was lost beneath the clatter of hooves on stone.

“Good horse!” Ruso told it as it swerved to avoid a pack mule and an old man with a sack over one shoulder. When he reached the road he turned east, speeding toward Coria.

He tried to hail a couple of official dispatch riders on the way to Coria, but both deliberately rode straight toward him, so he had to dodge as they thundered past in a blur of flying manes and hooves. He should have paused to ask Accius for a permit, although how they would see him waving it at that speed, he did not know. Instead he pulled in down by the river at Cilurnum to give the horse a brief rest and send identical messages to Accius and Tilla:

O n the way to question slave trader in Coria. Hopeful.

Coria was a busy little town on a crossroads, and like Vindolanda, it had grown up under emperors who did not dream of Great Walls. Its lush meadows and broad river valley made it a favorite leave destination, but by the time Ruso reached it he was too weary to appreciate it. Even the horse was too tired to bite anyone as it was led into the stables at the fort. There were dark patches of sweat on its coat and its mouth was flecked with foam. Ruso’s suspicion that he did not look a great deal better was confirmed when the groom directed him to the bathhouse without being asked. Instead, he left a message for the commanding officer and then hurried through the streets to the Phoenix Inn.

Nisus had stayed there for the whole of his leave, as Ruso had expected. The owner knew of the slave trader called Lupus, who was often in town, but did not know where he might be found at the moment. Since it was close, he tried the mansio next. The manager seemed to think his arrival was some kind of test and assured him that an establishment funded by taxpayers did not accommodate that sort of person. Ruso was willing to bet that it would accommodate almost any sort of person if there were no official visitors in residence and the guest was willing to pay, but he did not bother to argue. He and Tilla had spent some time in Coria a few years ago, and he knew someone who would be far more helpful in the hunt for the slave trader.

“Doctor!” cried Susanna. Her tone of surprise caused several of her customers to look up from their food. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m trying to find someone.”

She looked perplexed for a moment, then held out both arms, offering a public embrace he wasn’t expecting. “It is good to see you! How long has it been?”

“Too long,” he said, glancing around the brightly decorated snack shop and comparing it favorably with Ria’s. He could not imagine Ria hugging anyone. Or paying anyone to paint scenery on the walls.

Susanna’s necklace sparkled and her hair was more subtly colored than before. He said, “You look well.”

“Hard work and the goodness of God, Doctor. Sit down. You look worn-out. What can I get you?”

He had intended to rush, but she was right: He was tired, and he needed to eat. He sat, leaning back against a wall on which peacocks and doves strutted in a rather blotchy garden. Before he could order anything, Susanna had joined him and dispatched one of her girls-not one he remembered-to bring them both drinks and him a bowl of pancakes with honey. “You’ll like them,” she promised. “Now, let’s see, what’s happened to everybody since you were here? I hear you and Tilla are married and having a blessing!”