The Ninth. His father’s cohort. Titus should have been elated. Instead, his gut sank. He looked from Braccus to Centurion Gracilus and back. “Yes, sir. Why, sir?”
“The Ninth needs a good speculatore.”
“What of my work here, sir?”
Braccus waved a hand. “What of it? You’ve had weeks to find a notarius and haven’t done a thing. I’m sure Centurion Gracilus can appoint someone more capable.”
The insinuation grated. Titus clenched his teeth.
Centurion Gracilus spoke up. “If I may, sir, according to Trecenarius Faustus, Titus is very close to catching the man.”
“Actually, sirs—” Titus took a step forward—“I believe we’ve found our man. There’s only to make the arrest now.”
“Excellent.” Braccus nodded. “The Ninth departs for Gaul the day after the Ides of Februarius. From now on, you’ll join them for drills and answer to Centurion Felix Calis. In the meantime, I suggest you make your arrest and say your goodbyes.”
Titus’s stomach went cold at the mention of Gaul. They were sending him to the front?
“Am I being punished, sir?”
Braccus’s eyes went narrow. “Why would you need to be punished, Liberare? Something on your conscience?”
“It isn’t common to be transferred to another cohort, sir.”
“It isn’t common to question your tribune either. Best use your questions to find your notarius.”
Titus flicked a glance toward Centurion Gracilus and saluted once more. “Yes, sir.”
“You are dismissed.”
Titus left the tribune’s office, anger growing in his belly with eachstep. This had to be connected to Quintus and Iris. Instead of returning to the record building where his team celebrated, Titus angled for the gate. He’d meant to send Iris a message about the slave auction, but now, he opted to go in person. Anyway, the tribune had ordered him to say his goodbyes.
XLVI
THREE WIDOWS’ NOTES LEFT TO WRITE,and Valens had run out of ink.
He’d scrounged through Cato’s office, searching the shelves, the boxes on the floor, under the desk, and in the dusty corners. All he’d turned up were a few styli that looked as though Cato had used them to carve stone instead of wax and two bottles of dried ink with no lids to be found. He did what he could to revive them and left the office to see if Cato had an unneglected bottle in the clinic.
“Medical texts are for physicians,” Cato said from behind the drawn curtain. “You shouldn’t be reading them. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“What about the white spots on my tongue?” The last word came out along with the tongue and sounded likethung.
“Completely normal.” Cato’s pleasant tone grew an edge.
Valens surveyed the shelves of dried herbs and bottled liquids, all labeled in Delphine’s handwriting and “organized” in Cato’s haphazard style. Poppy and mandrake sat on a high worktable next to a small scale, pill molds, and tiny bottles intended for individual medicines.
Cato pushed back the curtain to reveal a middle-aged woman with faded hair and a smug expression. “You have to take your health into your own hands, I always say.” She lifted her chin. “No one else is going to do it for you.”
“I still think you would feel better if you got rid of those medical texts.” Cato sighed.
She moved toward the door. “Thank you, Doctor. I don’t have to pay anything, do I? You didn’t do anything, after all.”
Cato blinked. “I’ll have to be compensated for my time.”
“Yourtime?” she repeated, incredulous. “I’ve neverheardof such a ridiculous thing.”
“You said it was a matter of life or death.” He raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t.”
“Well, it might have been.” She huffed and opened her purse, slapping two coins onto the operating table. “You never know with these things. I’ll see you next week.”
