Apparently the watch captain had already growled that at them. “They don’t want to go the camp, sir. They want to come in here.”
Fabius’s head slumped into his hands. “Let them in. Just the two of them. Make sure you search them properly. And fetch Daminius. All this is giving me a headache.”
“It is giving everyone a headache, sir,” Tilla told him. “The only cure is to find the boy safe and well. Until then, my people cannot trust yours. Any man in the Legion could be the kidnapper.”
To Ruso’s relief, she decided to stop there and let Fabius mull over her demands. Outside, the shouting resolved itself into a chant.
Fabius’s irritable “What’s keeping them?” was answered when Senecio and Conn entered very slowly, the older man walking with a stick and leaning on his son’s arm.
Afterward Ruso always remembered the start of that meeting with shame. It was not the way father and son looked like cornered animals, caught between defiance and desperation. It was not the way Fabius turned to Tilla and demanded, “What is he saying?” after Senecio had abandoned his principles and asked in thickly accented but clear Latin, “Where is my son?” It was not Fabius’s insistence on pointing out that he personally had no idea where Senecio’s son was—something that left Conn observing aloud in British, “We are wasting our time with this one.” What left him angry and embarrassed was that the only seat in the room was occupied by a Roman centurion while an obviously lame old man who had suffered a terrible loss was left to stand under escort as if he were about to attack his hosts with his bony fists.
Ruso ordered one of the guards to go and fetch a seat and some water for the visitors. Fabius glared at him. Ruso pretended not to notice.
The old man’s eyes met his own. “My sons are my life,” he whispered.
From outside the gates—at least, he hoped it was outside—Ruso could hear the continued chanting of angry locals.
“Those are our neighbors out there,” Conn said. He pointed in turn to Ruso, Fabius, and the guards. “If you sons of whores will not give my brother back, our people will come in and find him.”
“We’re as keen to find him as you are,” Ruso told him, glancing at the guards, who looked as though they would like to take Conn outside and explain a few things to him.
“I doubt this. You sent one of my brothers to the next world. Now you have the other one.”
Tilla leaned close to Conn, lifted the straggly hair with one finger, and whispered fiercely in his ear. Ruso thought he caught the British words for insult and trying to help.
Conn scowled at her but reserved his contempt for the Romans. “We are not fools. We know how you can tell who my brother is. We know it must be one of the men from in here.”
Fabius was still determined to argue. “Your brother’s name has been associated with a malicious rumor.”
“Yes. You spread a lie about him, then you take him away. Where is he?”
“Are you denying that he claimed to witness an illegal burial?”
Conn hesitated, perhaps making sure he had unraveled the Latin correctly before deciding how to answer. He said, “My father’s people know nothing of this. We do not speak of a burial to anyone.”
Fabius sat forward. “Then who did?”
Someone knocked on the door as Conn demanded, “Why do you ask me? Look to your own men. Give us Branan back.”
The chair and Daminius had arrived at the same time. Instead of sitting, Senecio clung on to Conn’s arm and hissed in British, “That is one of them!”
“Are you sure?”
“I know it!”
While Fabius began to explain the situation to Daminius, Conn was whispering urgently to Tilla. Nobody was bothering with the old man. Ruso stepped forward and urged him into the chair before he fell. Senecio clutched his arm, still very agitated, and insisted in British, “He is one of them! He came to the farm!”
“Silence!” ordered Fabius. He sounded more petulant than authoritative. He turned to his deputy. “Optio?”
“I’ll have the men account for their movements yesterday, sir,” Daminius promised. “And we’ll have all the buildings and the quarry searched.”
“Wait!” Tilla cried. “Not yet!”
Ruso frowned. This was going too far. He reached for her arm. “A word in private, wife,” he urged, excusing them both and propelling her toward the door. Out in the entrance hall he whispered, “You can try telling Fabius what to do when nobody else is listening, but you can’t order his optio about in front of everyone. Daminius is a sensible man and he’s trying to help. What’s all the fuss about?”