Semper Fidelis (23 page)

^{OT LIKE THAT!”}
Tilla snatched at the comb in Virana’s hand. “Start at the bottom, where the tangles are smaller, or you will pull the teeth out.” Virana looked surprised, as if nobody had ever suggested this before.

Tilla was surprised too. She would have expected such ignorance of an empress who only had to call a slave to have her hair attended to, but how could an ordinary girl not know this? Had Virana’s mother bothered to teach her anything at all, or just shouted complaints from a distance while her children fought and argued amongst themselves like wolf cubs?

When the hair was combed, Tilla shifted back awkwardly on the seat and styled it herself, winding in a cream braid with blue edging. She pulled the knot tight so the hair was plaited for a handspan, and then hung in a neat tail down Virana’s back. “That’s better.”

Virana pulled one end of the braid round to examine it, then fingered the beads that were hidden inside the plain brown tunic and pouted.
“What is the matter?”
“I look dowdy.”
“No, you look how a Roman officer thinks a modest woman should look.”
“I don’t want people seeing me like this.”
People
, Tilla supposed, meant the recruits of the Twentieth Legion. “Do you want to meet the Tribune or not?”
“Can’t I just put the necklace out?”
“No. You are supposed to be my slave: You can’t wear more jewelery than I do. And remember, you must stay silent about anything you hear.”
“I know.”
“If you whisper a single word, the gods will make sure the tribune finds out. Then he will have you tracked down by his torturers before they send you to the slave market.”
“I know!”
But knowing was not doing. Of all the women Tilla had ever met, Virana was the last she would have chosen for an escort. Still, it was take Virana or approach the tribune alone, which would give him completely the wrong idea. Virana was worth the risk.
She reached into the food bag and was about to break a piece off one of the pastries she had bought from a roadside stall when a distant trumpet sounded the signal for the second halt of the day. It must be well past noon.
“That’s it!” she exclaimed, pushing the pastry down into the bag. “Celer, stop a moment so we can get down. Then stay with the others and we’ll come and find you later.”
They hurried forward along the verge, passing the baggage wagons now strung out along the road and still moving, the drivers seizing their chance to close up the gaps and rejoin the marching troops.
She felt a surge of pride as she saw him: still striding rather than shambling like Victor, gaze fixed on the uneven road, mind probably somewhere else. She dared not call out in case it brought him more trouble. She hoped Pera had given him the message. It would give him hope.
Virana was more interested in the recruits. “There they are!” she exclaimed, pointing ahead beyond the lines of pack animals munching on their hay nets.
“Don’t draw attention,” warned Tilla.
“I am not!” insisted Virana. “I am only a slave. Why have they got those guards?”
Tilla was wondering the same thing herself. The recruits were sitting in formation on the ground, munching food from their packs and swigging what she supposed was watered vinegar, and which they probably wished was beer. They were surrounded by the upright figures of officers, with Dexter on horseback. When several men returned from standing by the ditch, Dexter shouted, “Right, next lot!” and another squad rose to relieve themselves. Tilla, who had trailed behind many a military unit on the

move, had seen plenty of guards posted during meal breaks, but they had always been looking outward for possible enemies. They had never been turned in to watch the men who were supposed to be their comrades.

Both the Praetorian Guards and the small group of older soldiers of the Twentieth who were returning to Deva were more relaxed. Some were asleep. A few were clustered around some sort of game with counters. Another was whittling a stick. All were evidently enjoying their few minutes of rest in the sunshine.

Sabina’s carriage, meanwhile, was surrounded on one side by folding screens. Slaves were trotting back and forth between the screened-off area and the supply carriage behind, carrying trays with cloths over them. “She has proper tables!” hissed Virana as the straight-backed Praetorians on guard glared at them from under their helmets. “You can see through the gaps. Did you see the silver wine flagon? If this is how she eats on a journey, what will dinner be like?”

Tilla could not imagine. It seemed the empress did not share her husband’s taste for eating simple fare with his soldiers. She hoped Accius was not behind those screens, helping to empty the wine flagon. He would not want to be called away to be told something that was only going to cause him more trouble. The problem was she could not see him anywhere else.

He had definitely dismounted: The bay stallion was in the line of horses under a stand of trees. She and Virana hurried along the verge, trying to search the crowds of men without appearing interested. Still, they attracted remarks that she pretended not to hear. Eventually they had to turn and retrace their steps, silently grateful to an officer who barked at his men to shut up and show some manners: Did they want the empress thinking she was guarded by a herd of animals?

The speech about manners might have usefully been given to Minna too. She was bustling toward the screens with a jug of something when she stopped and announced loudly enough for the whole lunch party to hear, “There’s the prostitute from the mansio!”

Tilla heard Virana draw breath to reply and jabbed her with one elbow. “You are mistaken,” she said, approaching and deliberately speaking a little more quietly than Minna, because with luck around them everyone was listening now. “This young woman you have insulted is my assistant. I am the wife of the Medicus, as you well know, and we are bringing the medicine requested by the tribune.” She held out the bottle, chosen not because it was anything he might need but because it had been the nearest to being empty before she topped it up with water.

“It is a private matter for the tribune only,” said Tilla, adding, “We will accept your apology after we have seen him.”
“Ha! You think the tribune will fall for that? I know nothing about any medicine.”
“It is a private matter,” insisted Tilla, hoping he was listening from behind the screen, because she could not draw out this conversation much longer. If a body slave—or indeed anyone more sensible and less nosy than Minna—arrived, she would be expected to hand the bottle over and leave, and there was no knowing whether he would take the hint and come and find her.
“Really, Tribune!” exclaimed a voice Tilla had not expected to hear. “So you too have been having secret meetings with the Medicus’s wife!”
Whatever the tribune said in reply to the empress was lost beneath a ripple of laughter from the lunch guests. Male hands appeared, grasping one of the screens. Minna gave a squeak of terror and fled. The screen moved to reveal Accius, looking even fiercer than usual. He stepped out. The screen was replaced.
Tilla gulped. Accius was standing over her like an eagle deciding which part of its prey to tear at first. “What?”
“Sir,” she murmured, “I have information.”
“Not now!”
“Then when?”
He glanced round. “Gods, woman! Do you have no idea how this looks?”
“That is why my assistant is here,” Tilla assured him. “Perhaps, sir, you would like to discuss the use of the medicine away from the ears of the guards?”

^{HEY PAUSED TO}
stand halfway between the road and the line of horses flicking their tails against the midday flies. Anyone watching— and there were plenty of men with nothing much else to look at—would have seen Tilla hand over a small bottle to the tribune and give a small bow of respect. They might, if they thought about it, have seen several other things. They might have seen that neither man nor woman wanted to be thought of as holding a secret meeting with the other. They might also have seen that neither trusted the other—the woman had a companion and the tribune had three guards—and yet that they did not quite trust their own people, either, since the companion and the guards had been made to stand out of earshot.

They could not have heard Accius say, “Another anonymous informer?” and Tilla reply, “They are the best sort. These men have no reason to lie: They would rather not have seen or heard anything at all.”

“You expect me to believe that you can get information from these people when our questioners can’t?”
“They told what they knew. Your torturers needed to ask better questions. Nobody asked what they heard, and they were frightened of getting involved.”
“They’re involved now. They’re spreading dangerous rumors, and yet again only you know their names. The only evidence that our recruit was at home in bed comes from a wife who is bound to say that—and from you. I have been patient with you. The Praetorians won’t be.”
Tilla had not thought of that. It was not good. Why did this man always look at things backward? “Sir,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “you have a choice. You can hand me over to the Praetorians for questioning and I will give up the names before long, because I am not brave, and they can catch the witnesses and silence them. Or you can bring justice for your lost relative and defend your own men against false charges of murder.”
“Don’t presume to tell me what my choices are!”
“No, sir. I am sure you can see them for yourself.”
Was that a smile? It was gone before she could be sure.
“It’s very con venient,” he said, “that you should find anonymous informers who point away from your husband.”
“Any true witness would point away from my husband, sir.”
“It won’t free him, you know.”
“No, sir.”
“Who else knows about this?”
This was it: the tricky moment that she had known would come. Naming Pera might put him in danger. On the other hand, if she said nobody else knew, Accius could find a way to silence her and carry on as if nothing had changed.
“I have sent a sealed letter ahead to Deva with a merchant, sir. It is addressed to the legate.”
She might as well have punched him in the stomach. “You’ve done what?”
“Saying that if anything happens to you, he should know that you were investigating the murder of a centurion by the Praetorians.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, sir. I knew you would not want anyone here to be told, but this knowledge may put you in danger, and you know how easily a bad thing can happen to someone, and then it can be covered up.”
The smile was definitely gone now. “So some common scribe knows as well?”
“No, sir. I wrote it myself. My writing is not good but I think he will be able to read it.”
He stared at her for a moment, trying to decide whether this ridiculous invention was true, or perhaps whether a native woman really could write. She did not blink.
Finally he muttered, “You stupid, interfering . . . A letter like that should be in code!”
Yes! He believed it. Or at least he was not sure it was a lie. She lowered her gaze. “I do not know the codes, sir. I have only just learned to write, and I did not think. I am sorry.”
He gave a sigh of exasperation. “This trip has been nothing but trouble.”
There was no need to reply to that.
He peered through the glass of the bottle. “What is this muck?”
“A mixture to ease coughs, sir.”
He put a thumb over the stopper and shook it in a way that suggested he would rather be shaking her. Then he handed it back.
“Drink it,” he ordered.
“But it was only—”
“A ll of it.”
Conscious of everyone watching her, she twisted out the stopper. Then she raised the bottle to her lips, wondering what an overdose of cough mixture might do. It tasted disgusting. She was glad she had not brought the mandrake. That would definitely have killed her.
“If you’re still alive later this eve ning,” he said, “report to me. Alone. Then I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

^{HE GODS, RUSO}
decided, could never be accused of lacking a sense of humor. A few days ago he and Tilla had saved Victor from being locked up inside the fort at Calcaria. Now not only was Victor locked up in a damp and stinking cell at Calcaria, but Ruso was in there with him. He examined the crust on the chunk of barley bread that had been issued with his cup of water, and which seemed to have been left to mature for several weeks before serving. That mark was probably just a scrape, although it could equally have been the tooth marks of a rat that had made a failed attempt to break into it. It felt hollow as he tapped it on his knee. He wondered how well Victor’s jaw had healed and whether the recruit would have to smash off chunks of bread against the wall and then suck them.

At the moment Victor was ignoring the food altogether and sitting with his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands. This was not good. He had walked ten miles: He needed to eat.

“You could build houses with this stuff,” Ruso observed.
No response.
“I found out who betrayed you,” he said.
Victor gave a vague shrug as if he did not care.
“Tilla’s doing her best to get us both out of here.”
If he was pleased to hear this, it did not show.
“If you want to survive this, you need to eat.”
Another shrug signaled that at least the man had heard what he said. “I believe this is food,” remarked Ruso, eyeing the tooth marks again,

He was trying to think what else he could contribute to this one-sided conversation when Victor’s head jerked up. “What does it matter? I am cursed anyway!”

Gods above, was he back to that? “If there’s a curse, Victor, it’s not on you.”
“No?” demanded Victor. “Then you know nothing!”
Ruso’s reply was formed in British. “So my wife often tells me,” he said. “But I am willing to learn.”
Victor buried his face again. Ruso had run out of things to say. Perhaps that was why Victor started to talk.
At times his voice dropped to a whisper and it was hard to follow what he was saying, but the outline of the story was plain enough.
It was a sorry tale. Geminus had devised a ruthlessly efficient system of punishment for offenders, of whom there would doubtless be many amongst a bunch of raw recruits. Instead of going to the bother of flogging them, he would gather all the other recruits together and have the miscreant of his choice chained to a block like a baited beast in the amphitheater. The other wrongdoers were lined up to attack him one by one. “He made us roar,” mumbled Victor. “Like animals. And if you didn’t hit hard enough or roar loud enough, you were the next one chained up.”
That was not the worst of it. According to Victor, while Geminus’s desperate victims fought like wounded beasts, their comrades were expected not only to cheer them on but to place bets on the outcome. “It could go on for hours.” said Victor bitterly. “They called it Sports Night.”
Ruso let out a long breath. There were many questions he wanted to ask, but he dared not interrupt.
“Then they let Dannicus drown. Sulio heard the ferryman yelling at Geminus, asking permission to go and get them. Geminus made him stay back, saying it was too dangerous.” Victor snorted. “Too dangerous for the ferry, but he still made them swim.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because him and Dexter had money on Dann not making it,” said Victor without hesitation. “That was when me and Tad stopped trying to pretend it would be all right in the end. We wrote a letter to the legate.”
With each day that passed, their hopes rose that the message had got through. Almost a week had gone by when Geminus announced the latest Sports Night. As they stumbled down the dark streets to the warehouse,

they tried to assure each other that tonight would be no worse than usual. It was too soon for a reply, and too long since the letter had left. If it had been intercepted, Geminus would have acted before. But Geminus was a man who enjoyed a slow revenge. When all the recruits were assembled, he called Victor and Tadius out into the center, held their letter up, and made them read it aloud.

“And they kept us there, and Tad was chained, and they . . . they . . .” Victor hid his face in his hands. “He was my best friend,” he whispered. “But I was too frightened to stop.”

Ruso let out a long, slow breath.
“I just wanted it to be over.”
“You should never have been put in that position.”
Victor shook his head. “Marcus bribed the gate guards to get me out. He

said all the lads chipped in. I think he lied.” He shifted his position on the damp mud floor. “I wouldn’t have bothered saving someone who did what I did.”

Ruso said, “It had to be one of you.”
But Victor was beyond comfort. “Every morning,” he said, “I wake up to another day Tad will never see. And he’ll never see it because I was a coward.” He looked up. “We were all cowards, sir. One way or another. That’s the curse.”
Ruso closed his eyes, imagining the shame of men forced to make the choice Geminus had given them. Men made complicit in the deaths of their comrades. How would he feel if he had been compelled to fight for his life against a friend? It was unimaginable. Valens, he supposed, would have fought back. Albanus would probably have apologized for his blood making a mess on Ruso’s fists.
Victor was still talking. “I went to see his girl. I told her the truth. I thought perhaps if she forgave me . . .”
Ruso already knew that forgiveness had not been granted.
Victor said, “He said it would turn us into men.”
It had turned them into beasts. Ruso felt almost a physical ache in his chest at the cruel waste of young men who had joined the Legion eager to better themselves in the service of an emperor who had never heard of them. He asked gently, “Did you kill Geminus?”
“I wish I had.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No. And if I knew, I would never tell you.”
“Next time they ask, don’t say that. Just say what you know. Don’t antagonize them.”
“Thanks.”
“Be a friend to yourself, Victor. If not for your own sake, then for your family.”
Victor gave a snort of derision. “Like I was a friend to Tadius?”
Heavy footsteps were approaching. A key scraped in the lock, and within seconds Ruso was being unchained and ordered to his feet.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Tribune wants to see you.”
“Hah!” he heard Victor shout after him, his voice suddenly hard. “Tell the tribune his little trick failed. The native didn’t confess!”