The Iron Hand of Mars by Lindsey Davis Page B

hissed at me loudly, assuming we were in trouble—which, once he had spoken, we immediately were. I ignored him, but the centurion stiffened. Now he would want to make quite sure who we were, and if he was as thorough as he looked, where we were going, who had sent us, what we were up to out here in this wilderness, and whether anything in our business was likely to produce repercussions affecting him.
    This seemed good for holding us all up for at least a couple of weeks. My dangerous stillness communicated itself to the barber, who subsided unhappily. The centurion glared at us.
    By now I was more or less resigned to people concluding that Xanthus and I were two fancy boys out on a spree. Xanthus was unmistakably a barber—and I was just as obviously too poor to afford a personal attendant. Our horse and mules were drawn from the local stables who supplied the imperial despatch-riders, but there was nothing about the beasts to give that away. The basket with Vespasian’s gift to the XIV had a well-buckled, military air. My own luggage looked businesslike. Yet any hint of officialdom I managed to carry clashed heavily with the barber’s daintiness. Like everyone else, the centurion assessed his Greek-looking cloak and violet tunic with saffron embroidery (it was probably a cast-off from Nero, but I had refused to enquire and give Xanthus the pleasure of telling me). The officer considered the brighter-than-life complexion, the fastidiously trimmed hair and today’s shoes (hole-punched, purple-tasselled jobs). He took in the simpering, insufferable expression. Then he turned to me.
    I stared back, uncombed and unperturbed. I allowed him three seconds of failing to explain me. Then I suggested quietly, “One for the municipal police at the next town with a magistrate?” I was consulting my itinerary; I let him see it was army issue. “We’re three days past Lugdunum; Cavillonum should be only a cricket’s jump ahead. That’s a substantial town…”
    People are never grateful. Offering him a let-out only made him take an interest. He turned back to the corpses. I should have ridden on, but our previous contact with the dead men gave me some sort of fellow-feeling. I dismounted and half jumped, half slid down into the fossa, too.
    I felt no sense of surprise at finding them here, dead. They had carried the marks of men in the midst of crisis. Maybe it was hindsight, but what I had seen of them had seemed to forebode tragedy.
    Signs of what had done the actual damage were minimal, but it looked as if both men had been beaten to subdue them, then finished off by pressure to the neck. Their bound arms proved pretty conclusively that the killings were deliberate.
    The centurion searched them without emotion while his young soldiers stood back more shyly. He glanced at me. “Name’s Falco,” I said, to show I had nothing to hide.
    â€œOfficial?”
    â€œDon’t ask!” That told him I was official enough. “What do you think?”
    He had accepted me as an equal. “Looks like robbery. Horses missing. This stout party has had a pouch cut from his belt.”
    â€œIf that’s it, report their positions as you pass through Cavillonum. Let the civilians deal with it.”
    I touched one of the dead men with the back of my hand. He was cold. The centurion saw me do it, but neither of us commented. The clothing of the one they had turned over was wringing wet where the brackish bog at the base of the ditch had soaked right through the material. The centurion saw me looking at that, too.
    â€œNothing to show who they are or where they were going! I still put it down to thieves.” He met my gaze, daring me to disagree; I smiled faintly. In his position I would have taken the same line. We both stood. He shouted up to the road, “One of you run back to the milestone and take a note of it.”
    â€œYes, Helvetius!”
    He and I took a run