Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

He ran a forefinger along the uneven line of script.

“‘Dearest Gaius,’” he read, with difficulty. “‘Greetings from your loving sister. I hope you and Tilla are well and so are we although to listen to some people around here you would never believe it. Little Lucius fell off a fence yesterday and knocked his front teeth out. His mother made a great fuss. Your brother complains all the time, and now he is shouting at me because the man who says he will take this letter wants to get home before dark but it isn’t my fault that nobody told me he was coming and I am writing as fast as I can. Our mother and Diphilus are planning an extension on the west wing and he and your brother argue a lot.’”

He paused. “The tribune will be sorry he’s missing this.”

“The tribune would read faster than you.”

“‘Good news,’” he continued. “‘Unless you have the same news for us we have beaten you to it.’”

The swish of linen on iron fell silent. “She is pregnant.”

“It might not be that.”

It was.

He put a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry.”

“You must wish them well from us both.”

He carried on reading, not because he was interested in what his sister had to say, but because he had long ago run out of reassuring things to say about their own failure to conceive.

“‘Tertius is very pleased with me, as he should be, and is making sure I take plenty of rest every day. I expect Mother has written to tell you we will not have enough to live on when we are a family.’”

“Has she?”

“No, but it’s good to be forewarned.”

“‘As you know, poor Tertius has never really got the advancement he deserves. Well, really there is no future in making clay pots for the next-door neighbor, is there? Of course he was grateful for the job when he was injured and I’m sure they are very good pots but now he is as fit as you are and probably fitter because you are so old.’”

He paused again, waiting in vain for his wife to disagree.

“‘He is also brave and honest,’” he continued, “‘and quite clever in his own way.’”

He said, “Not clever enough to keep away from Marcia.”

Tilla had gone back to polishing. He scanned the rest of the letter in silence. So as you are the head of the family and Tertius has nobody else it must be up to you to help, Gaius. We all know you are hopeless at putting yourself forward but please think of other people and make an effort.

Gods above. His sister was starting to sound like Claudia before the divorce. Unfortunately, he supposed she was right: He ought to try and do something for Tertius.

Having settled that, Marcia was displaying an unusual interest in current affairs.

Did you know that Hadrian is on his way to Britannia?

The reason became clear in the next line.

I hear he has thousands of people on his staff. I’m sure he could find something for Tertius if you ask him nicely enough.

Ruso shook his head in disbelief. He supposed it was his own fault. He had once held several short and dust-covered conversations with Senator Publius Aelius Hadrianus about treating the injured in the aftermath of a terrible earthquake that had flattened most of Antioch and nearly killed the reigning emperor Trajan. Some years later, when Hadrian had risen to even greater fame, Ruso had been foolish enough to mention these fleeting encounters to his family. Instead of being mildly interested, his stepmother had been convinced that persistent demands of And what else did he say? would help Ruso remember a series of cozy chats that ended with Hadrian saying, If there’s ever anything I can do for you, my friend … and Ruso thanking him and promising to be in touch as soon as my stepmother’s told me what I want.

He continued to read. Please don’t let us down, Gaius. I know we are a long way away and you probably don’t think about us much now you have managed to get back into the army, but we are your family, and we will never get another chance as good as this.

He sighed. Marcia was in for a disappointment. With luck, by the time he had made his way back to Deva via every possible outpost and watchtower, the imperial tour would have passed by.

He felt Tilla’s hand close over his own. “We will have a good life,” she said softly.

For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about. Then he realized she had thought he was sighing over their lack of offspring. “Of course we will,” he promised.

Ruso woke in darkness and stumbled across the room to find a bleary-eyed matching slave waiting outside the door with a lamp. Tilla muttered something about getting up to help and promptly went back to sleep. He shrugged his way unaided into his heavy armor, which still smelled of olive oil, eased the hooks into place, and fumbled with the slippery leather thongs in the poor light. When they got back to Deva, he really must find the money for a slave boy.

The storm had cleared overnight. Munching on a wine cake he had grabbed from the table on the way out, he made his way to where Accius’s flunkies were tacking up the horses by torchlight. After a brief acknowledgment when the tribune strode out of his suite to join them, the men from the Twentieth rode across to the fortress in silence.

Ruso, who was on foot, left the others to dismount in the courtyard of the headquarters building and walked around the outside. The street was empty now. In the dull predawn light he stood on the spot where the blond figure of Sulio had fallen. The flagstones had been washed clean, the gravel raked. He bent to pick up something beside his foot. It was a strand of straw that might have come from one of the mattresses.

Above him, the gable end rose black against the clearing sky. What had passed between Geminus and Sulio in those last moments? How had Geminus tried to entice him down, and why had Sulio refused to listen? Did the deserter, Victor, have anything to do with it? Did Tadius? There was definitely something odd about the death of Tadius. Or was Sulio overwhelmed with grief about his drowned lover? He didn’t know. Somewhere in the southern tribe of the Atrebates was a mother who would never know, either.

He tossed the straw aside and headed into the headquarters hall for morning briefing. The dead had never been his patients. This morning he needed to concentrate on the living recruit who had taken a slice off one arm.

The briefing was a formality, since most of those present had already met and discussed the same issues over dinner last night. The sun was just gilding the tops of the surrounding roofs by the time the men were marched into the courtyard, ready to watch the sacrifice. Ruso slipped in next to Pera. The plump centurion poked the line straight with his stick and then moved on. After he was gone, Pera murmured, “Sir, I’m assigned to sanitary inspection this morning. Can you do the ward round?”

As the senior medic Ruso would have expected to be consulted about where Pera was assigned, but this was not the time to say so. Barely moving his lips, and with his eyes focused on a dent in the helmet of the man in front of him, Ruso said, “Of course.” Then he added, “I read your postmortem report.”

When there was no reply, he glanced at Pera, who was standing like a statue. He showed no sign of having heard. “Why can you write the truth but you can’t speak it?”

Still no reply. More men took their places ahead of them. One recruit was hauled out of line for some misdemeanor. As he was being marched out of the courtyard by a pair of Geminus’s junior officers, Ruso heard Pera murmur, “Geminus’s two shadows.”

The miscreant had barely disappeared when the tinny sound of a rattle being shaken around the courtyard served as a warning that the procession was on its way. There was no chance of further conversation now, with the centurions glaring along the ranks like schoolmasters watching for bad behavior.