Tabula Rasa(90)
He saw now how sheltered he had been. By Fortune, and by a law to which he’d barely given a thought. Regulations stated that a soldier, being neither a slave, an enemy prisoner, nor a barbarian, was not to be condemned to the mines or to torture.
But . . . what if Daminius was guilty? What if he was a convincing liar, and it was Daminius whom Candidus had gone to meet for a drink? What if Candidus had cheated at dice, and there had been a fight, and Candidus had ended up dead and hidden in the wall, and then Daminius had found out there was a witness, and wanted to silence him, and . . .
Ruso shook his head violently, dislodging the elaborate fantasy that had sprung from a man’s simple refusal to reveal where he was on one particular afternoon.
He banged on the door again. “Fabius!”
A voice over his shoulder said, “Everything all right, sir?”
It was Fabius’s clerk. “Fine,” Ruso assured him. “I just need to talk to the centurion.”
The man said, “Very good, sir,” and carried on past.
From somewhere inside the house he heard the approach of footsteps. A female voice said, “The centurion is unwell, sir. Please come back later.”
“I need to see him now. Open the door.”
“Sir, I can’t—”
“He knows what this is about. Tell him if he doesn’t let me in, I’ll stand outside his room and yell through the window.”
“Sir, please—”
More footsteps. A male voice. “It’s all right, girl. Ruso, have they found the child?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll deal with whatever it is tomorrow. Go away.”
“I meant it. I’ll shout outside your window.”
The locks rattled. Finally the door was wrenched open, juddering with the force needed to get the damp wood free. Fabius appeared, with the face of the little kitchen girl pale behind him. Fabius dismissed her, and she scuttled away down the corridor.
Ruso shouldered his way in, closed the door, and leaned back against it.
For once Fabius looked genuinely ill. His breath smelled of wine and vomit. “Doctor.”
Ruso said, “You know what’s happening.”
“No.”
“Is that no, you don’t know, or no, you’ve been told to stay out of it, or no, you’re too drunk to know anything?”
“There’s no need to be rude. I’m not feeling well.”
“What did you say to the tribune about Daminius?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t attempt to defend your own man?”
Fabius winced. “Don’t shout, Ruso. My head is aching.”
Ruso restrained an urge to punch him and lowered his voice. “How are you hoping to get better, Fabius, knowing they’re out there interrogating him?”
“We need to find the boy.”
“He’s your man. He’s loyal, he’s hardworking, and the men like him. I like him.”
“That’s not the point.” Fabius might have been drinking, but he was sober enough to argue cogently.
“Do you have any idea of how much you owe that man?”
Fabius raised a forefinger. “That, Doctor, is why I am not involved. Nor you.”
Ruso dropped his voice to a whisper. “We’re not involved because this is illegal, and you know it.”
“You think I’m callous, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“I’m not callous. Do you know why I’m not lying in bed? Because until they tell me it’s over, I shall be standing in there”—he wheeled round and pointed back toward the corridor—“in there, in front of the shrine, asking the gods to make Daminius tell the truth.”
Ruso turned and lifted the door latch. He had no idea how to deal with a man whose response to the torture of his deputy was to drink wine and stand around praying. Fabius even seemed to think that staying out of bed was heroic.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m his doctor. I should be there.”
“To do what?”
“Oh, don’t waste my time!” Ruso strode away without looking back, but the question still echoed around his mind. To do what?
“I don’t bloody know,” he muttered, not sure whether he was more angry with Fabius for being weak, or Accius for sanctioning torture, or Daminius for telling stupid lies, or Tilla for getting him involved in all this in the first place. As for that unspeakable brute who had lured the boy away . . .
That was the problem. None of them knew who he was, so none of them knew where to place their anger. Instead they were fighting with each other.
Daminius had been strung up by his wrists with his toes barely touching the ground. The glow of the fire in the gloomy workshop lit up his naked flesh and shaded his eyes into deep hollows. The gag had been taken off and his lips were moving, but no sound came out. The little winged phallus hung uselessly around his neck. Perhaps he was reciting a prayer. Ruso remembered that face grinning at him through the muck of the quarry. That’s the spirit, sir.