Tabula Rasa(89)

Inside the HQ, Accius was gathering up his cloak. With him was a man whom Ruso had seen before but never spoken to. He had a thick neck and cropped iron-gray hair. There was something vaguely bovine about his slow, deliberate movements and the way he breathed heavily through his nose. He looked like a man not easily distracted from his task. With a neck like that, he was probably also a man who snored, although Ruso never knew how men like that managed to sleep at all. Were their dreams haunted by the screams of their victims?

Accius caught sight of him. “Any news, Doctor?”

“No, sir.”

“Go and find out how the natives are getting on. Come and find me in a couple of hours and we’ll see where we’ve got to.” Accius turned to the questioner. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lead the way, then.” The tribune’s expression was set in a manner that suggested he was about to face an unpleasant task.

Ruso asked, “Is Optio Daminius in the clear now, sir?”

Accius looked him in the eye. “No. Thanks to you, we now know the optio is lying about where he went that afternoon. Go away, Ruso.”



They made an odd couple as they turned immediately right outside the HQ building: the heavy questioner and the upright aristocrat who might one day be a highly respectable senator charged with approving legislation. Ruso, watching from beneath the covered walkway of the barrack block, knew he should stay out of this. He should let whatever was going to happen happen. He had no authority to question it, and besides, Accius had probably wrestled with his own conscience anyway—not about the pain, but about the illegality.

The men turned right again almost immediately before the granary. Ruso reached the corner of the granary just in time to see them turn in at the entrance to the workshops. He knew exactly why he had been sent away. Accius was trying to make sure none of his officers could be accused of being complicit in the application of torture to a serving soldier.

It was a peculiar form of decency. Sacrificing one’s principles for the sake of the child. If only Ruso could convince himself that the result would be worth it.

A voice in his head said, So, can you think of anything else to try?

He couldn’t. Daminius had lied. He was a responsible and ambitious young officer, he knew how important this was, and he had lied.

A dozen or so men in rough working tunics came out of the maintenance yard. They formed up and marched off in the direction of the barracks. So the workshops had been emptied of their regular occupants. Ruso could smell the furnace.

Ruso flattened himself against the wall of the wheelwright’s store, feeling the waft of warm air on his skin. In the gloom of the smithy, the glow of the burning charcoal picked out dark stripes and curves against the far wall. He understood now why the questioner seemed to have brought no equipment. Hanging there were all the implements anyone could possibly need to loosen a man’s tongue. He felt his own tunic prickle with sweat.

A confused shuffle of footsteps was coming toward him down the street. He stepped back into the wheelwright’s shop until the footsteps had passed. When he looked again, a barefoot and gagged figure was standing in the yard, surrounded by four men. Ruso did not recognize the guards. They were certainly not from the Twentieth. Accius was not going to risk a mutiny by putting Daminius in the custody of his own messmates.

The Tribune stepped forward and spoke to the prisoner. “Optio Daminius, none of us want this, but a child is missing and I will do whatever is necessary to find him. Do you understand?”

Daminius nodded.

“Do you have a fresh account of your movements two days ago?”

Daminius shook his head.

Accius stepped back. There was a moment’s silence, then he said, “Carry on.”

The questioner spoke to the guards. One of them entered the workshop, squinted up into the rafters, and then slung a rope up over something and caught the other end. The others stripped a struggling Daminius of his clothes and prodded him forward. Meanwhile someone pumped the bellows and a roar of white flame shot up from the charcoal.

Ruso caught a glimpse of something hanging beside the identity tag around Daminius’s neck. My lucky charm, sir. Never fails. If you’re in trouble, just shout.

Ruso turned and ran.





Chapter 51

There must be someone in: Why was nobody answering the door? Ruso pulled out his knife, used the hilt to rap on the wood, and yelled, “Fabius!”

He must calm down. He must steady his breathing and try to think logically. He was not the first medic to be put in this position. He had more than once had to tidy victims up after torture, but he had never been present at the time. Several of his unluckier colleagues had been ordered to keep prisoners conscious during the process. Afterward, they had not wanted to talk about it and he had not wanted to ask.