Chapter 74
Warned by Valens that nobody had been allowed in to clean the prisoner up, Ruso arrived at the gatehouse with his medical case and a jug of water. Mallius looked as though someone had picked him up by his chains and swung him round and round the cubicle, crashing him into the stone walls as he spun. Ruso’s own bruising and stitching and black eye-which he could now open, thank the gods-felt trivial in comparison. At least the first half hour of his visit was spent washing and examining and applying salve and bandaging, and in between, Mallius wept and groaned and insisted that he had nothing to do with anything, nobody believed him, the boy was lying, they were going to kill him for thinking he’d seen a ghost, and was there anything the doctor could do to convince them?
“Perhaps,” mused Ruso, wiping salve off his fingers and dropping the cloth back into his case, “it would help if we send for your family.”
Mallius’s eyes widened. “No! They mustn’t know, sir. They would be heartbroken. It would kill my mother.”
“We should contact them before the trial, though,” Ruso insisted. “You should have someone there.”
“Please don’t, sir. Please.”
Ruso sighed and shut the case. “Let’s save them the trouble, then. They won’t recognize you anyway, will they?”
“Sir?”
Mallius’s apparent innocence was impressive. But then, he’d had plenty of practice. “What’s your real name?”
“Real name, sir?”
“It definitely isn’t Mallius. His family wouldn’t have known you even before you were beaten up, would they?”
The red-rimmed eyes stared into his own for a moment. Then the man slumped back against the wall, all sign of weeping suddenly gone. “I never thought it would do any harm.”
Ruso waited.
“It was the slave at the dealer’s, right?”
“He recognized you,” Ruso told him. “You should never have stopped bleaching your hair.”
“I thought he did.” He sighed. “I never wanted to hurt anybody. Seven years of no bother, then just when I stop looking over my shoulder, two people turn up out of the past.”
“The Legion wasn’t the best choice you could have made.”
“I was hoping to get a transfer overseas, sir.”
“You couldn’t join in the first place,” Ruso pointed out. “You were a slave. Were you ever freed?”
“I wasn’t far off,” said the man who was not Mallius. “I had plenty saved up to make a good start in business. And then the new wife came.”
The story came out slowly and in a confusing order, but what Ruso managed to piece together was that Mallius had been a trusted slave in a wealthy household until the owner remarried. The new wife took a fancy to him, which left him in the extremely awkward position of having to disobey either master or mistress. He turned the woman down, and she accused him of rape. The new husband, still dazzled by love, believed her. Mallius-whose real name was Agelastus-fled. By some kindness of the gods he happened to be passing a bar when the young man really called Mallius was killed in a knife fight.
“You just happened to be passing?”
“It was a miracle, sir.”
Agelastus helped the anxious and illiterate bar owner by writing to the family, explaining that young Mallius had died of a fever and been cremated far from home. In exchange, he was allowed to keep the recruitment letter that was in Mallius’s pack. So Agelastus the runaway slave did his best to turn blond to match the description on the recruitment records and became Mallius of the Twentieth Legion.
“And then?”
“It was all fine until Candidus turned up, sir. He remembered seeing me at my master’s house. I tried to explain to him why he had to shut up but he thought it was funny.”
“Funny?”
“That I’d got away with it for so long.” Mallius’s hand trembled as he reached for the cup of water Ruso had brought him. “I could just see him telling all his cronies over a game of dice. It was all right for him, but I’d have been executed. All because of an idle little blabbermouth who thought he was clever.”
Ruso took a breath. “Is he in the wall?”
Mallius tried to straighten his shoulders. “There is no body in the wall, sir. The legate says so.”
“Don’t play games with me.”
The man slumped again. “I didn’t know the kid was watching. When I found out, I had to do something. But I didn’t hurt him, sir. I sold him to somebody who promised he would feed him.”
“Branan didn’t see you hide the body,” Ruso told him. “Somebody else did.”
Mallius let out a long breath.
“He must have told you that he didn’t see anything. Why didn’t you just make up some excuse and release him?”
“He was acting scared, sir. He was acting like he was lying.”
“He thought he was in trouble for playing a prank on the road,” Ruso told him. “What did you do to him?”
The man who was not Mallius was talking to his chained hands now and mumbling. It seemed that even he could feel shame. “I didn’t hurt him, sir, I swear. I just told him his house would be burned like that other one if he didn’t do what he was told.” He looked up. “I was going to let the family know where he was as soon as we were on the way back to Deva. He would have been found.”
“He was found,” Ruso told him. “No thanks to you.”
Mallius sighed and closed his eyes. “Then the trader’s slave remembered seeing me before. It was like the revenge of the gods. They give and then they take away again, sir.”
Ruso hoped Mallius’s philosophy would comfort him where he was going, because if the army did not behead him, then he could well be sold for the entertainment of the crowds at the amphitheater. He might not die straightaway. He might languish in captivity for as long as a year, all the time building up pictures in his mind of how his death would be delivered.
“I never hurt him, sir. I wouldn’t do that.”
It sounded oddly plaintive, as if the man had committed some act of special kindness. Perhaps, in his own mind, he had. The story of the false rape accusation was plausible. On the other hand, it sounded suspiciously like an old Jewish tale Ruso had once heard, and it was just the sort of story a slave would invent to justify running away. The convenient death of the real Mallius was either a very lucky coincidence or the cover story for another murder.
Whatever the truth of this man’s tale, it was going to end only one way.
“Sir, can I have something to ease the pain?”
Ruso considered this for a moment.
“I know I don’t deserve it, sir.”
Ruso opened his case and brought out the poppy, suspecting he was doing this largely because the effects of his own dose this morning had not yet worn off. “That’s for getting the water up to Pertinax,” he said, using the rounded end of a bronze probe to measure a drop into the cup. A second drop trembled at the base of the probe and he stirred it in. “And this is for not hurting Branan.”
By the time Ruso got back to Ria’s, he was exhausted and the aches had returned to gnaw at his bones. Tilla was not there. Virana looked up from serving a jug of wine to Albanus, and Daminius said she had gone out, which he could have deduced for himself. He blinked at Daminius and said, “Shouldn’t you be on duty?”
“I just dropped by to thank you, sir. It was very good of you.”
“Ah,” said Ruso, guessing that sooner or later he would remember what Daminius was grateful for. “It was nothing.”
“It’s not nothing to us, sir.”
Ruso, none the wiser, said, “Good. I’m pleased.”
“I promise I’ll repay you as soon as we get to Deva, sir. I’ve got enough in my savings.”
“Good,” said Ruso again, with less confidence. The broad smile of approval from Virana did nothing to restore it.
He promised to join Albanus for lunch just as soon as he had had a nap, but lunch was long gone by the time he woke up again, and it was halfway through the afternoon. Tilla arrived carrying a bowl of warm water and a towel and announced that everything was ready. She told him that all he had to do was wash, get dressed, and turn up. By way of encouragement, she whipped off all the bedclothes and began rummaging about in a trunk for clean clothes.