The neck twisted round. “Piso!”
Lupus signaled Ruso away with one skinny arm while a bald-headed man with muscular shoulders and a club in one hand strode forward to speak to him. So this was the man Ruso had failed to find in Vindolanda. He guessed the big slave who had said too much would be meeting the blunt end of that club when his master got home.
After a moment’s consultation the bald man retreated and Ruso was summoned back.
“My man in Vindolanda bought the boy in good faith. The seller said the family had handed him over to pay off a debt.”
“Did he ask the boy if that was true?”
“The families don’t usually tell them. Otherwise they run away before we collect.”
“Where is he now?”
The vehicle jolted in and out of a large pothole, which gave Lupus’s “I don’t know” a kind of hiccup in the middle.
Ruso held the mare back until Lupus drew level with him again. “What happened to the boy?”
Lupus poked his index finger into his mouth and retrieved something from between his teeth. He looked at it, wiped it off on the furs, and said, “The boy escaped before they got to Coria.”
“That’s a twenty-mile trip. Where exactly did they lose him?”
“I’m very annoyed about it. Piso should have had more sense.”
Ruso said, “If any harm has come to that boy, the family will hold you responsible.”
“But the family handed him over. The loss is mine.”
“No they didn’t,” said Ruso, eyeing the scrawny neck and wondering whether he could lean across and wring it. “Haven’t you heard there’s a child been stolen?”
Lupus sighed. “Every time someone goes missing, traders like me are the first to get the blame. But the moment they want staff, it’s a different story.”
Ruso reined in the mare and let the cart go on ahead. Eventually the chained slaves were shuffling past. Ruso caught Piso’s eye and said, “Where did you lose the boy?”
Piso frowned. “The old crow’s blaming me, is he?”
“We can talk about blame later. Where’s the boy?”
“How should I know?” He stepped closer. “When we found out half the army was looking for him, I wanted to hand him in. It was the boss’s idea to let him go.”
So Branan had not run away at all. “When was that?”
“Last night. Back in Coria.”
“You turned a child loose on his own in a town miles from home? At night?”
The man shrugged. “He’ll be all right. He’s a local.”
Ruso leaned sideways and grabbed Piso’s club with one hand and the back of his tunic with the other, pulling it up so the front rose tight under his chin. The mare, taken by surprise, sidestepped away from the disturbance and Ruso would have been unseated but for one thigh hooked under the horn of the saddle. “He’s nine years old!” Ruso hissed, aware of the other guards coming back to intervene. Trying to lever himself back up without letting go, he said, “Do you know how much trouble you’re in? The Legate of the Twentieth has ordered this search. The governor himself has asked to be kept informed.”
“It wasn’t my idea to let him go!”
“You bought him. You knew who he was and you didn’t bring him back. You’d better help us find him. And catch the seller. If you’re lucky, the governor just might not throw you to the Britons.”
With that, Ruso dropped the club and pushed himself back up into the middle of the saddle. It was hard to make a credible threat if you fell off your horse while doing it.
Several natives who had paused to watch returned to clearing the roadside ditch when he glared at them. Piso retrieved his club and straightened his tunic before saying that he had no idea where Branan had gone last night. Yes, it was after dark. Down by the bridge. No, he had not been given any supplies or warm clothing. The boss had said the natives would take him in.
“In the middle of the night?” Ruso demanded. “What was he supposed to do, knock on doors?”
Piso shrugged, as if these things were no concern of his. “Ask the boss.”
“How do I know you didn’t just kill him and dump him?”
“A body is hard to get rid of. It was easier if he wandered off.”
Ruso shook his head. “You people.”
“I was just doing what I was told.”
“Tell me something useful. Tell me who sold him to you.”
“A legionary called Marcus.”
“Marcus what?”
But of course the man did not know, and since there were probably several hundred Marcuses serving with the Twentieth alone, it was a fine name to pick if someone wanted to stay anonymous. “Had you seen him before?”