Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

“So, Brigante woman,” said the rude one, “you are just as bad as they are.”

“And you are a fool!” snapped Tilla. She turned back to Barita. “I am already in trouble because I repeated what a person told me, hoping as you do that something would be done. They have done nothing to help, and now they are trying to make me say who told them.”

“Tell them it was me! Tell them Barita of the Parisi told you. Tell everyone what I said. If I die, I will be in the next world with Tadius.”

“They will not just come for you, girl! Have you not seen what they do to troublemakers? They will come for your family as well. When they have finished with you they will feast on your animals and sell you as slaves. Do you want that to happen?”

“But your husband-”

She seized the girl’s thin shoulders. “Understand this. I have already explained it to your sister. My husband is a good man, but he is only a doctor. He cannot tell the other officers what to do.”

The girl’s red-rimmed eyes glared into hers for a moment, then she lowered her head. “It was my fault,” she whispered. “All my fault. He talked of nothing but the drowning and how wicked it was. I grew weary of listening. I told him he must either stop complaining or do something about it. So he did something.” She looked up. “If you want to keep your man, tell him to stay silent.”

Tilla gathered the stale-smelling girl into her arms. “Your revenge is to live,” she murmured. “They will go back to Deva in two days. Say nothing to anyone else, and you will be safe.”

“They tried to send a message to the legate in Deva, but they were betrayed.” Barita drew back. “I have no weapons to avenge my man, but I tell you this: There really is a curse upon that place, and upon Centurion Geminus. I know this is true because I am the one who put it there.”

Tilla had left the room in the mansio with its shutters closed. It seemed very gloomy after the sunlit courtyard. That was why she took a moment to notice the figure in the bed. She stepped back, wondering if the slave had let her into the wrong room, but no: There was her bag, and the medicine boxes on the floor. She was not the one in the wrong room.

She opened her mouth to call the slave back, then stopped. There was something odd about the sleeper. Keeping away from the bed and ready to spring toward the open door, she reached out and fumbled with the window latch. Eventually one shutter swung open.

That was when she screamed.

A couple of flies rose from the pillow and circled around the room.

The slaves all arrived at once and crowded into the doorway, craning around each other to gawp at the bloodstained snout of a dead pig poking out from under the sheet. The pig was lying on the pillow where Tilla had woken this morning next to her husband.

Somebody said, “Who put that there?”

Tilla swallowed and forced herself to step forward. Gripping the bedding between finger and thumb, she whipped the blankets back. The “body” was nothing but a couple of cushions.

Standing above the bed, she could see that the spatter of blood up the snout was an arrangement of letters. They were clumsily done-it must be hard to write on a pig’s snout with blood-but she managed to spell out enough to know what it said. One word.

TRAITOR.

She turned to face the slaves. “Did anyone see who put this here?”

But of course nobody had. The manager appeared, stared at the head in horror, and then hurried to promise investigations, punishments, and disposal of the offending object. He assigned Tilla a new room on the opposite side of the courtyard, escorting her there personally while the slaves followed with her baggage and the boxes of medicines. He promised to send warmed wine to soothe her nerves, and a message to alert her husband.

In the end, he seemed so worried about her that Tilla found she was trying to comfort him instead of the other way round. It was only a pig. Just someone’s idea of a silly joke. She was not hurt. She just wanted a clean bed, and this one would be fine, thank you. No, there was no need to leave one of the girls with her.

But when she was alone, someone rapped on the door of the new room and she found herself on her feet, knife in hand, before she had time to reason with her fear. It was a struggle to form the words “Who is it?” and only when it really was the slave with the warmed wine did she feel safe enough to put the knife away.

The problem with the dog bite-apart from the damage, the shock, and the pain-was that it was behind him. From the front, Ruso looked perfectly capable of paying attention to someone else’s problems. Greeted by “Sir, the window in the blanket store’s been leaking and the bedding is all musty,” he was tempted to reply,

I don’t care! I’ve just been chased and bitten by a bloody great wolf dog!

Instead he said, “Oh?”

“Should we launder it, sir? Do you think the emperor will mind a few wet blankets?”

“The Praetorians will,” he pointed out. “They’re sleeping in them.”

“We’ll just air them, then, sir, shall we?”

“Good idea.”

He was relieved to find the treatment room empty. It was only a bite from a dog that wasn’t mad. There was no point in wasting other people’s time, and besides, he was no longer sure he trusted anyone else.

With the worst of the blood wiped off, he lay on his back on the table, raised his left leg in the air, and contorted himself to an angle at which he could examine the jagged tooth marks. It was perversely disappointing not to have something more dramatic to prove how nearly he had ended up as dog food. He reached for the cloth, took a deep breath, and swore as the vinegar penetrated the torn skin.

He was concentrating on the agony of prodding one of the deeper recesses when he heard a discreet cough, glanced through the crook of his left knee, and saw three men standing in the doorway, watching him.

“I see I’m interrupting,” said Accius.

Ruso rolled over and sat up, wincing as the wound came into contact with the wooden bench. “I was bitten by a dog, sir.”

“I’m here to inspect and encourage,” Accius informed him. He might have added, Not to hear more of your complaining. “Any problems?”

“None that I’m aware of, sir.”

“Good.” Accius squinted at a couple of writing tablets held out to him by a secretary. “Looks like the heralds have whipped up a good crowd,” he said, handing the first one back. “Tell them to send plenty of patrols out to keep order. And make sure the crowds know to cheer and wave, not just stare like simpletons.”

The news on the second tablet seemed to surprise him. “Already? This is turning into a circus. Tell them to wait outside. They’ll have to give them to his secretary at Headquarters tomorrow.”

He turned back to Ruso. “Embassies and petitions. Swarming round like ants after honey. Anyway, it’s just as well I had the men smarten up their kit yesterday, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think we’ll put on a good show. Which reminds me: your wife.” Ruso felt himself tense.

“She seems like a practical sort. Ask her to report to the legate’s house, will you? Some steward chap of Hadrian’s has turned up to oversee things, and he’s making a fuss. I’ve sent my own staff in to help, so she won’t be on her own.”

Housework. All he wanted was housework. Nothing to do with informants and names and consequences. Ruso should have been insulted to hear his wife and Accius’s slaves mentioned in the same breath, but instead he was relieved. Hoping she was somewhere a message could reach her, he said, “I’ll see what she can do, sir.”