Ruth Downie - Tabula Rasa

“Oh, you know!” Virana insisted. “The one who used to make his hair lighter. The one who hurt his wrist. He likes wine and not beer.”

None of those things was a reason for the tribune to take an interest in him.

“You must have seen him,” Virana continued. “He was one of the ones who went to search the farm and they upset everybody looking for Candidus, and then people thought one of them might have stolen Branan and then they didn’t.”

The youth had gone to see to the horse, Virana was in the kitchen fetching his food, and Tilla was alone with Albanus in the bar. He looked as downcast as she felt. She tried to think of something hopeful to say but could not. Finally he said, “Your husband is a good man.”

“I know,” she said, ashamed of wishing that sometimes he would be a little less good and a little more safe. She had no idea how she would sleep tonight after hearing Susanna’s message. She must try to think about something else. “We should look at this Mallius ourselves,” she said. “He might know what happened to Candidus.”

Albanus interlaced his fingers around his wine cup. “It is kind of you to suggest it, but is he not safely inside a barracks somewhere?”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “Before the tribune gets the message in the morning and has a chance to cover anything up.”

Albanus stared into the dregs of his wine. “Even if we are able to speak with him, we have no power to investigate, and he has no incentive to tell us anything.”

It was true. Whoever had caused Candidus’s disappearance must have lied repeatedly since then: Why would he stop now? They did not even know what they were accusing him of. They could hardly stand in front of the man like angry parents, demanding, “Is there something you would like to tell us?”

They could not speak to him at all if he was on one side of a military wall tonight and they were on the other. “We have Candidus’s kit,” she said, thinking aloud. “Are you about the same size?”

Albanus shook his head. “Much of what is here used to be mine,” he admitted, “but I’m afraid nobody is likely to mistake me for a legionary with no armor or belt or weapons. And there is the matter of the password.”

The ladder creaked as Tilla got to her feet. “I am going outside to make an offering to the goddess,” she told him. “Perhaps she will help.”

She bought three perfect white eggs from Ria, who was busy making sure all the slops were cleared out of the kitchen and the hearth fire was raked. Even in town it was wise to follow the Samain customs.

The yard was almost dark but she felt oddly safe kneeling under the apple tree, hearing the horse shifting about in the stable and surrounded by the high fence with the gate barred against thieves. The gods were listening tonight, she was sure of it. They had already answered one prayer, even if it was not in the way that she had wanted. She had asked to see her family; she had been shown Aemilia.

Scraping a little hole between the roots of the tree, she said the new prayer and then poured out the contents of the eggs one by one. As the glistening liquid sank away into the earth, the idea came to her.

Back in the privacy of the storeroom, with the youth gulping down a late supper in the bar, Albanus was not impressed with what he heard. It was not, he felt, an approach that her husband would recommend.

“Perhaps not,” Tilla agreed. “But my husband is not here. Do you want the man who killed Candidus to be punished or not?”

Albanus shifted his position on the lid of the barrel. “That apparently simple question is rather difficult to answer,” he said. “You see, those are not valid alternatives.” He raised and lowered his hands in parallel, as if he were shaping the argument he was about to present to her. “The premise behind your question is that my misgivings about your plan indicate an unwillingness to pursue the disappearance of my nephew. Whereas what I am questioning is-”

“If you have a better plan, I will be glad to hear it.”

The hands dropped. “No.”

“So,” she continued, wondering if Albanus’s nitpicking was one of the reasons Grata had called off their betrothal, “we know that we cannot make this man confess anything. We know we may never find out the truth. But if this works and he is guilty, the memory of tonight will haunt his waking fears and punish him in his nightmares. If he is innocent, we will all go home to bed and it will be just another strange story of Samain.”

Albanus, as she expected, raised objections, but he could come up with nothing better.

“So,” she said, “will you help me or not?”

Getting past the curfew was simple enough: All Tilla had to do was to wait until the patrol had passed the bar and count very slowly to twenty. The soldiers were not her main concern tonight. She pulled the hood forward to hide her hair and slunk down the deserted street in the moonlight, clutching her bag against her chest and with her fist closed around the little pouch of snakeskin she had hung around her neck for protection. She did not want to be noticed, and thus have to risk replying to a greeting. This was not, as far as she knew, one of the places where those who had left this world could pass back into it. But everyone knew about the dead pretending to befriend the living, and few of the stories ended well. That was why, when she offered up her regular Samain prayer for a sight of her family, she had always added, “And let us know each other.” Then tonight the goddess had shown her Aemilia, which was not what she had wanted at all.

She tried to tread lightly, but as she passed the gloom of a doorway a burst of ferocious barking spurred her to run, hugging the bag tighter to stop the bottles clinking.

It was a relief to reach the solid gates of the fort. The gods were kind: One of the guards from earlier was still on duty and it was surprisingly easy to get in, even at this hour and without the password. With the bag of medicines, nobody questioned her story that she had been asked to visit a patient.

She understood why when she finally found herself in the comfortable warmth of Fabius’s kitchen. She did not need her carefully prepared excuse for a private word with the kitchen maid: Even in the dim lamplight she took one look and simply told the cook she needed to inspect the girl’s injuries. When she saw the bruises hidden beneath the drab tunic, she wanted to get hold of Fabius’s vine stick and beat him with it until he looked even worse than his victim. Instead all she could do was offer salve and sympathy as the girl gave a broken account of what had happened. Now she understood why Daminius had hinted that he would be leaving.

“Where can I find him tonight?”

The girl blinked at her through eyes swollen with crying. “I am not allowed to go near him. I should not speak or even think of him.”

“Just tell me where he might be,” said Tilla. “I think he can help me find out who stole the boy.”

“But he knows nothing! Why does nobody believe him? He was with me!”

Tilla put her hand over the girl’s. “I believe you both,” she said, “but I need to talk to him. Someone has come who will help us, and if this works, it could make things better for him.”

And if it didn’t, he would be in worse trouble. All of which made her feel doubly anxious as she strode down the paved street in the moonlight, carrying her bag at her side and following the girl’s directions to the black hulk of the barrack block. The last door on the left. Do not look nervous. Act as if knocking on the doors of soldiers’ quarters at night is a perfectly respectable thing for a married woman to do. If it goes wrong, you can always scream.