Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

If only he had known all of this when he first approached Accius. The tribune would have been compelled to do more than have an informal chat with an old friend.

He caught a snatch of conversation behind him. A woman was saying in British, “… to see how she gets it to stay up in coils like that.”

“It isn’t hers,” said a second woman. “It lifts off at night.”

“Really? She must have to pin it very tight to her real hair.”

“Well, I don’t suppose she moves much,” replied the first woman. As their voices faded Ruso heard, “They don’t even wipe their own backsides, these people. They have slaves to-oh! Is something happening?”

There was indeed a stir in the crowd. While the legionaries stared stoically ahead, the civilians were craning for a view of what was approaching down the east road. The chatter died away. The bark of an order was followed by the tramp of heavy boots approaching from the fortress gate as the guard of honor, with Accius at its head, marched out to meet the imperial party.

The trumpets wailed above the sound of cheering and applause. Forbidden to turn and see what was approaching, the legionaries had to wait until the procession passed in front of their eyes, but all around them Accius’s instructions seemed to have had the desired effect. The locals cheered and whooped and waved at the horse guards as if Hadrian’s cavalry were riding in to liberate them from the blighted presence of the Twentieth Legion. Behind them came the Praetorian Guards, identifiable to anyone who did not know them by the scorpions on their shields, and to anyone who did by their air of owning the place already. Ruso could see their officers scanning the crowd for trouble, as if they did not trust the local garrison to keep order. It was strangely satisfying to think that these highly paid arrivals from Rome would be obliged to march across Britannia in the rain just like everyone else.

The noise of the excited crowd rose even higher. Across the street, a couple of youths on a roof clambered to their feet, raised their hands in the air, and began to wave their arms from side to side on their precarious perch as if they were swaying in the wind. Ruso caught sight of the thin civilian liaison centurion trying to order them to sit down. It was hopeless. Others followed suit, and soon the buildings opposite were crowded with arms swaying back and forth in time with the chant of some sort of cheerfully chaotic native greeting.

Geminus raised his stick twice in the air. The ranks of the Twentieth erupted into a roar of “Cae-sar! Cae-sar!”

And there he was. A lone figure with a glittering breastplate over a surprisingly plain tunic, seated on a white stallion, one hand raised in greeting. The face a little heavier than Ruso remembered from Antioch, surveying the crowd with an air of approval. The lanky rider behind him must be the prefect of the Praetorians. Then more guards, and shrieks of excitement from the crowd as six bearers in scarlet tunics appeared, carrying an open litter.

Children were held up to fling handfuls of white petals into the air. They caught in the breeze and floated down like snowflakes. The empress Sabina looked out from beneath her elaborate hairstyle with no obvious emotion. Ruso tried to suppress the question of whether there really were slaves whose job it was to wipe the imperial backsides, and wondered whether the empress’s pallor was white lead makeup or the aftereffects of a rough sea trip and the knowledge that if she wanted to escape this island of dancing and screaming barbarians, she would have to repeat it.

Moments later, on the far side of more ranks of marching Praetorians, Ruso glimpsed a blond woman smiling and waving at him. No doubt she was just caught up in the excitement of the crowd, but he felt oddly moved. It was not often that Tilla appeared to be proud of him.

Then he remembered what they had been talking about earlier, and he knew it wouldn’t last.

The dog, Ruso reminded himself, would not be loose in the streets without Geminus. Geminus was definitely busy because he-and conspicuously not Ruso-had been invited to dine with Accius and Hadrian and Hadrian’s friends and officials this evening. Still, as he set off on the few minutes’ walk from the hospital to the mansio, Ruso found himself alert to the sounds and shadows in the dusk around him. As he rounded the corner he was not sorry to see the lanterns outside the mansio entrance flare into life, and to notice the door slave making his way back inside carrying a taper.

Reassured by the nearness of safety, Ruso clumped up the steps and sat on the bench next to the unstable tree, whose pot now seemed to have been roped to a post. In a minute he would go and find Tilla, but for now he leaned against the wall, stretched out his aching leg, and surveyed the street along which the emperor had passed earlier this evening. Noise and light were spilling out from the bars. Groups of native men stood outside drinking, talking, and laughing. A couple had their arms around skimpily clad girls. The respectable women would all have gone home, or to wherever respectable women went at night when it was too far to get back to their own hearths.

Ruso filled his lungs with cool evening air that smelled of beer and roast meat and spice and roses. A man needed to sit quietly and think after such an eventful day.

They have been placing bets on the recruits.

This is not the time.

Then when is?

Hadrian had been impressive. He had barely paused to recover from the march before going across to the headquarters courtyard and greeting the assembled men of the Twentieth, calling them “fellow soldiers,” which pleased them, and adding, “Now that I’ve experienced the climate of Britannia for myself, I’m even more proud of you.” There was a gust of laughter. Ruso could see from their faces that the older men liked him. The recruits, who might be excused for not trusting anyone in authority, seemed to like him too.

He thanked them for their preparations for what he called “this unexpected honor.” He was, he said, “aware of the disruption an imperial visit can cause, even the most welcome one.”

Watching him, Ruso was impressed. This man had risen from being the son of a provincial senator to become a general, a scholar, and now emperor. There was no sign of the country accent that had made him the butt of jokes when he first entered the Senate. He appeared relaxed, well-groomed, and confident despite just having completed a long march after the terrors of a near shipwreck. It was clear that Hadrian was a very determined man.

As expected, he informed the recruits that tomorrow he would be pleased to observe their final trials before their full admission to the Twentieth Legion. He would also oversee the discharge of veterans. The veterans cheered. Ruso had glanced across to where Geminus was standing as straight as a board beneath the magnificent white crest on his parade helmet. The silver disks that testified to past bravery were polished and gleaming on his chest. If he was concerned about how his men would perform, it did not show. As for the recruits themselves, Ruso was not sure it was possible for them to be any more terrified than they already were.

He stood up slowly from the bench, feeling the stitches pull in the back of his leg. The manager of the mansio leapt up when he saw who it was, assuring him his wife was safe and well and that the staff were keeping an eye on the room.

He found Tilla practicing her reading while she waited for him. Evidently they were now to sleep in a large cupboard and to be entertained by the merry whistling of the cook in the kitchen next door.

She was wrinkling her nose before he was fully in the room. “Fish sauce?”