Tabula Rasa(80)

Chapter 46

Ruso had not been greeted with such enthusiasm since the time he had performed a free clinic for any local who cared to drop in at the bathhouse over at Coria. Half a dozen people who could not find space on or around the table outside Ria’s bar were clustered about the entrance in no discernible order. As he tried to get inside, hands snatched at his tunic. Voices in Latin cried out, “Doctor!” and “Sir!” and in British, “Out of the way! Other people were here before you!”

Inside, all the seats were taken and Ria had been right: There was a distinct tang of sheep. There had to be at least twenty people in there. He was pleased to note that everyone seemed to have bought drinks. That should satisfy Ria’s demands for compensation. Virana, edging her way between two tables with a tray held above her head at a precarious angle, paused to beam at him. “We’ve never been so busy, master!”

“Any more thoughts about who was in the bar when Branan came?”

Her face fell. “I’m sorry, master. There was only me serving and I know there were some customers but I can’t remember who.”

He told her not to worry. He was fresh from an awkward encounter with Nisus, who had no way of proving that he had been fishing in Coria for the whole of his leave and plainly thought it was ridiculous to try.

He had a point. People might have noticed a hunched figure staring at the water, but it was the nature of fishermen not to want to be disturbed, and Nisus would never have sought anyone out for conversation. He had correctly answered Ruso’s trick question of “Did you stay at Susanna’s?” by pointing out that Susanna did not rent out rooms. He had stayed at the Phoenix. The name meant nothing to Ruso, who had not been to Coria for a while. New businesses had popped up like mushrooms all along the border. He made a mental note to think about contacting the owner, and moved on.

By contrast, everyone in Ria’s bar was eager to help.

“One at a time!” he called over the hubbub, placing himself in the only available space, which was behind the counter. Catching a glimpse of Ria loading pastries onto a platter in the back room, he asked Virana to bring him a spiced wine. “Now, who was first?”

It was exhausting and time-consuming no matter how quickly he tried to process each statement, and he had to cram his notes into smaller and smaller handwriting to fit in the available space on the tablet. Several of the informers could not understand why he was making notes at all, since they expected him to immediately summon troops and rush off to investigate their sightings. Unfortunately there were confident sightings of Branan at roughly the same time in five or six different places. “You may be right,” he explained to each one, “but I need to hear everyone.” The description of the soldier varied from the hopelessly vague to the startlingly implausible, in which the kidnapper was hiding his features behind a full-face cavalry parade helmet. He tried to push aside the suspicion that this was all part of a native plot to hide the truth.

One account of a boy walking east along the road at about the time Branan vanished sounded promising, but the observer, a thatcher, could not remember whether there was one soldier with him or two. It was supported by a woman who had recognized Branan hurrying along in the company of a single legionary. Since the boy seemed to be going quite willingly, she had assumed it was the Medicus and that “things had been patched up.” Closing her eyes, she added, “He might have had . . .” Ruso did not understand the word. Something to do with his legs. “Stocky,” translated someone who was listening from the next table in these less-than ideal conditions. “Muscular.” That might point to the thickset quarryman, whose name was Festus, but they had confirmed his alibi, and besides, after all the training runs, there were very few men in the Legion who did not have noticeably muscular legs. Ruso wrote it down, took her details, and said someone might be in touch.

“But I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t want you people coming round pestering. I haven’t got him, poor lad.”

“I know,” said Ruso. “Neither have we.”

The next report came from north of the wall and might be something, or it might be a man quarreling with his son. The boy had not been restrained in any way and had stayed to argue.

To the woman who complained that this was a waste of time if he wasn’t going to do anything about it, he explained again that search parties were already out there and every sighting would be followed up. Finally he confided that he was as frustrated as she was, and moments later heard her telling someone that the Roman was useless. He had no more idea of what to do than anybody else did.