what the man was hoping to hear. “Your predecessor, Thessalus, is locked in his rooms convinced he’s the one who did the murder. Which he isn’t, but he does seem to know more than he should about the details. The natives are a bit overexcited at the moment with this Stag Man business, and if they find out we’re charging one of their people with murder when one of our officers has confessed, it won’t go down well. Metellus has questioned him but can’t get any sense out of him. So, we need to get him to withdraw his confession before anyone hears about it, and find out who told him how the victim was killed. See if you can settle him down, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Ruso, hoping his voice did not betray his lack of enthusiasm. He had arrived here with one patient and a few questions about visions of the gods. Now he had a sloppy health service to shape up, a politically sensitive postmortem to carry out, and a deranged colleague. The holiday was definitely over.
10
I CARRY OUT special duties for the prefect,” explained Metellus as Decianus’s guards stepped smartly aside to let them out of the official residence.
“Special duties?” inquired Ruso.
“Whatever he wants done.”
“I see,” said Ruso, admiring this splendidly evasive reply and failing to trace Metellus’s origins from his neutral accent, or to detect any sign of character or background in an even-featured, unmemorable appearance that was only marred by a few flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of an ordinary blue tunic.
Metellus led him away from the headquarters building. As they were passing a line of men waiting for rations outside the granaries he said, “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere, Ruso?”
“I doubt it.”
“Really? I’m sure the name . . .” the man shrugged. “No matter. Where are you from?”
“Gallia Narbonensis. You?”
“Rome,” said Metellus, with the casual air of a man who has no need to prove his superiority. “Appointed by the governor.”
“The new one?”
“No, Bradua. I’ve been here for four years now.”
Ruso wondered what the Batavians made of having a governor’s man foisted upon them. And how secure Metellus’s position now was, since the man who had appointed him was no longer in charge. No doubt he would be anxious to make the right impression when the new governor came to visit.
“Four years is a long time to spend this far from Rome,” observed Ruso.
“It’s not as remote as you think,” said Metellus. “Londinium keeps a close eye on what happens up here. And Hadrian’s known for taking an interest in the provinces. If a man does well here, it’s noticed.”
Presumably if he didn’t, that would be noticed too.
Just inside the west gate they turned and crunched along the gravel of the perimeter road, passing the din of a metal workshop and a yard where men were stripping down a heavy mechanical bolt launcher for repair. Behind it, a line of wooden spear shafts were propped against the wall, ready to have their iron heads attached.
They clattered up the steps to the top of the ramparts and Metellus said, “Take a good look.”
A faint waft of boiled cabbage drifted past as Ruso rested his elbows on the rough wood. Twenty feet below him, a couple of tethered horses were grazing pale spheres in the grass of the security zone. A line of carts was waiting to be allowed entry through the gates. Beyond them lay a jumble of civilian buildings leading down to the bridge. On the far side of the river, three vehicles were crawling along the thin streak of road that led along a valley dotted with grazing animals and the odd cone of native thatch.
It struck Ruso that the whole of Coria could have been picked up and set down within the stout walls of Deva’s legionary fortress and there would still be room to spare.
“This place is sometimes described as a brown oasis in a desert of green,” said Metellus. “A lot of the men from the forts up in the
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Ruso, hoping his voice did not betray his lack of enthusiasm. He had arrived here with one patient and a few questions about visions of the gods. Now he had a sloppy health service to shape up, a politically sensitive postmortem to carry out, and a deranged colleague. The holiday was definitely over.
10
I CARRY OUT special duties for the prefect,” explained Metellus as Decianus’s guards stepped smartly aside to let them out of the official residence.
“Special duties?” inquired Ruso.
“Whatever he wants done.”
“I see,” said Ruso, admiring this splendidly evasive reply and failing to trace Metellus’s origins from his neutral accent, or to detect any sign of character or background in an even-featured, unmemorable appearance that was only marred by a few flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of an ordinary blue tunic.
Metellus led him away from the headquarters building. As they were passing a line of men waiting for rations outside the granaries he said, “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere, Ruso?”
“I doubt it.”
“Really? I’m sure the name . . .” the man shrugged. “No matter. Where are you from?”
“Gallia Narbonensis. You?”
“Rome,” said Metellus, with the casual air of a man who has no need to prove his superiority. “Appointed by the governor.”
“The new one?”
“No, Bradua. I’ve been here for four years now.”
Ruso wondered what the Batavians made of having a governor’s man foisted upon them. And how secure Metellus’s position now was, since the man who had appointed him was no longer in charge. No doubt he would be anxious to make the right impression when the new governor came to visit.
“Four years is a long time to spend this far from Rome,” observed Ruso.
“It’s not as remote as you think,” said Metellus. “Londinium keeps a close eye on what happens up here. And Hadrian’s known for taking an interest in the provinces. If a man does well here, it’s noticed.”
Presumably if he didn’t, that would be noticed too.
Just inside the west gate they turned and crunched along the gravel of the perimeter road, passing the din of a metal workshop and a yard where men were stripping down a heavy mechanical bolt launcher for repair. Behind it, a line of wooden spear shafts were propped against the wall, ready to have their iron heads attached.
They clattered up the steps to the top of the ramparts and Metellus said, “Take a good look.”
A faint waft of boiled cabbage drifted past as Ruso rested his elbows on the rough wood. Twenty feet below him, a couple of tethered horses were grazing pale spheres in the grass of the security zone. A line of carts was waiting to be allowed entry through the gates. Beyond them lay a jumble of civilian buildings leading down to the bridge. On the far side of the river, three vehicles were crawling along the thin streak of road that led along a valley dotted with grazing animals and the odd cone of native thatch.
It struck Ruso that the whole of Coria could have been picked up and set down within the stout walls of Deva’s legionary fortress and there would still be room to spare.
“This place is sometimes described as a brown oasis in a desert of green,” said Metellus. “A lot of the men from the forts up in the
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