Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

“We married in Gaul,” he told her. Her face fell when he explained who he was looking for. “We heard. That poor family. Such a terrible thing, and in daylight too! They’re lucky they have you there to help.”

It was not a popular view, but he enjoyed hearing it anyway. Conscious of the couple on the next table now straining to catch every word, he leaned closer to ask a delicate question.

“Lupus?” Susanna considered her answer for a moment. Then she said, “Yes. Yes, I’d say he might. It’s a pity you weren’t here yesterday. He was sitting at that table over there.”

He blinked. Surely it couldn’t be that easy?

It wasn’t. “But he was leaving town today.”

“I need to know whether he sold the boy on while he was here,” he said. “If he didn’t, I need to find him.”

A soft hand closed over his. “You leave the locals to me, Doctor. If that little boy’s here, I’ll find out.”

After a faintly embarrassing pause while she gazed deep into his eyes, Susanna let go. “Aemilia will be sorry to have missed you,” she said. “They’re out of town.”

“That’s a shame,” he said, relieved. Tilla’s cousin Aemilia meant well, but today he did not have time to listen to her.

“In fact, I thought . . .” She stopped. “Well, I must have misunderstood.” She patted him on the hand. “You enjoy your meal while I just pop out and ask where Lupus went. I’ll get the girls to pack you up some food to take with you.”

Ruso allowed himself to relax back against the doves and peacocks. Finally, somebody was pleased to see him. Better still, she seemed to know what to do.

The pancakes arrived, generously dolloped with honey, and as he sliced each golden surface and rolled it onto his spoon, he began to word his next message to Tilla. He would tell Accius as well, of course, but he wanted to imagine Tilla crouching beside the old man and saying, “Good news! Your boy is on the way home!” He could imagine the welcome as he rode back to the farm with the boy seated-no, two on a horse would never work over that distance. He would get a pony assigned to the boy. Or maybe they would arrive in style, in an official vehicle supplied by the local commandant. The news would have run ahead of them. Neighbors, weary with searching but elated, would be lining the road, cheering and waving. Locals and foreigners together, differences forgotten in the joy of knowing that a missing child was safe and well. Ruso would sit back in the carriage and smile the satisfied smile of a man whose efforts had been justly rewarded, and modestly tell everyone that Fortune had been kind to him and that he was glad to have been able to help.

The elation did not last.

Ruso had arrived at the wrong time of day for a man who wanted a fresh horse. Everything was either out or worn out. Finally he was granted the reserve mount: a mare with a peculiarly uncomfortable gait and reins repaired with twine.

Luckily, Lupus’s cartload of caged stock trundled along no faster than the couple of dozen slaves chained behind it could walk. Three men with clubs were assigned to encourage them, but even so, the assembly was only a couple of miles out of town and heading east when Ruso found it. That was when his vision of triumph began to fade.

He surveyed the lines of chained slaves as he passed, but there was no sign of Branan. The cage held only a nursing mother and a couple of small children. There were two men at the front of the vehicle: one who was driving the mules and another whose skinny neck poking out from a mound of furs reminded Ruso of an ostrich. “Lupus?”

It was, but Lupus did not recall any native boy sold to his agent in Vindolanda.

“We know he bought him,” insisted Ruso, struck by a sudden fear that the agent might have got rid of the boy privately rather than deliver him to Lupus. “There are witnesses.”

The neck sank into the furs as if fearing attack.

“If we don’t find him, the family can still prosecute your agent for receiving stolen goods.” It ought to be true, although he had no idea whether it was.

The neck twisted round. “Piso!”

Lupus signaled Ruso away with one skinny arm while a bald-headed man with muscular shoulders and a club in one hand strode forward to speak to him. So this was the man Ruso had failed to find in Vindolanda. He guessed the big slave who had said too much would be meeting the blunt end of that club when his master got home.

After a moment’s consultation the bald man retreated and Ruso was summoned back.

“My man in Vindolanda bought the boy in good faith. The seller said the family had handed him over to pay off a debt.”

“Did he ask the boy if that was true?”

“The families don’t usually tell them. Otherwise they run away before we collect.”

“Where is he now?”

The vehicle jolted in and out of a large pothole, which gave Lupus’s “I don’t know” a kind of hiccup in the middle.

Ruso held the mare back until Lupus drew level with him again. “What happened to the boy?”

Lupus poked his index finger into his mouth and retrieved something from between his teeth. He looked at it, wiped it off on the furs, and said, “The boy escaped before they got to Coria.”

“That’s a twenty-mile trip. Where exactly did they lose him?”

“I’m very annoyed about it. Piso should have had more sense.”

Ruso said, “If any harm has come to that boy, the family will hold you responsible.”

“But the family handed him over. The loss is mine.”

“No they didn’t,” said Ruso, eyeing the scrawny neck and wondering whether he could lean across and wring it. “Haven’t you heard there’s a child been stolen?”

Lupus sighed. “Every time someone goes missing, traders like me are the first to get the blame. But the moment they want staff, it’s a different story.”

Ruso reined in the mare and let the cart go on ahead. Eventually the chained slaves were shuffling past. Ruso caught Piso’s eye and said, “Where did you lose the boy?”

Piso frowned. “The old crow’s blaming me, is he?”

“We can talk about blame later. Where’s the boy?”

“How should I know?” He stepped closer. “When we found out half the army was looking for him, I wanted to hand him in. It was the boss’s idea to let him go.”

So Branan had not run away at all. “When was that?”

“Last night. Back in Coria.”

“You turned a child loose on his own in a town miles from home? At night?”

The man shrugged. “He’ll be all right. He’s a local.”

Ruso leaned sideways and grabbed Piso’s club with one hand and the back of his tunic with the other, pulling it up so the front rose tight under his chin. The mare, taken by surprise, sidestepped away from the disturbance and Ruso would have been unseated but for one thigh hooked under the horn of the saddle. “He’s nine years old!” Ruso hissed, aware of the other guards coming back to intervene. Trying to lever himself back up without letting go, he said, “Do you know how much trouble you’re in? The Legate of the Twentieth has ordered this search. The governor himself has asked to be kept informed.”

“It wasn’t my idea to let him go!”

“You bought him. You knew who he was and you didn’t bring him back. You’d better help us find him. And catch the seller. If you’re lucky, the governor just might not throw you to the Britons.”

With that, Ruso dropped the club and pushed himself back up into the middle of the saddle. It was hard to make a credible threat if you fell off your horse while doing it.

Several natives who had paused to watch returned to clearing the roadside ditch when he glared at them. Piso retrieved his club and straightened his tunic before saying that he had no idea where Branan had gone last night. Yes, it was after dark. Down by the bridge. No, he had not been given any supplies or warm clothing. The boss had said the natives would take him in.