Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

Pera led his men for about thirty paces along the outside of the perimeter ditch to where a burly squad from the Sixth Legion stood, apparently guarding the weeds that the maintenance crews had failed to clear in time for the emperor’s arrival.

Pera beckoned Ruso to follow. Then he stepped forward and peered into the ditch. “It’s true, then,” he said.

Below them, protruding from a battered patch of nettles, was a muscular and blood-smeared arm. Centurion Geminus had been found.

“What do we do?”

Ruso stood beside Pera at the bottom of the ditch, running one hand through his hair. He could not believe what he was seeing. Geminus’s throat had been cut open and his head pulled back with an efficiency that suggested the practiced butchering of an animal. A bloodstained dagger lay beside him.

He crouched beside the body, feeling the tingle of nettles against his skin. The dagger slid neatly into the empty sheath at the centurion’s side.

Pera said, “He couldn’t have done that to himself, could he, sir?”

“No.”

“What do we do?”

Ruso closed his eyes for a moment and tried to detach his mind from the shock. “‘Time of death, cause of death, any other matters of note,’” he recited. “You can do the rest of the details up at the mortuary. Did you bring anything to write with?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Pera extended a hand, put it on the centurion’s arm, and then quickly withdrew it. “He’s cold, sir.”

“Sometime last night. Cause of death, severing of right and left carotid arteries. Anything else of note …” He stood, slapping at the nettle stings. “Did you slide down here or jump?”

“Jump, sir.”

“So did I.” Ruso peered at the side of the ditch, where he could now make out smears of blood. Several clumps of grass were hanging by pale roots. “Looks as though they did it up there,” he said, “and then tipped him in.”

“‘They’?”

Ruso said, “You think one man could take Geminus?”

There were two thuds as a couple of the orderlies landed in the ditch behind them. They complained vigorously about the nettles as they lifted the body onto the stretcher and maneuvered it up to their comrade waiting at ground level. The men from the Sixth finally produced a ladder from the gatehouse and Ruso was halfway up it when he heard a growing sound of tramping boots and jingling belt straps. It was followed by a cry of “Make way for His Honour the Praetorian Prefect and Tribune Accius!”

Pera emerged from the ditch and crouched to wipe his hands on the grass before saluting. Ruso recognized the lanky man who had been riding behind Hadrian in the procession: Praetorian Prefect Clarus, the only man authorized to carry a sword in the private company of the emperor. Accius was beside him, looking like a man who had not slept well, and behind them Dexter was craning to see what was on the stretcher. Prefect Clarus approached and gestured for the orderly to draw back the top of the sheet. Both he and Accius blanched and turned away from the sight. Dexter stared down at the mutilated body of his comrade, betraying no emotion. The man replaced the sheet.

Clarus said, “Is that him?”

Accius swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Who found him?”

“The perimeter patrol, sir,” said one of the Sixth.

Accius shook his head. “Terrible. Terrible. He was just about to retire. What a tragedy.” Suddenly he noticed Ruso. “You!” His voice was hoarse. “Get away from him!”

“Sir, if I can help-”

“Arrest this man!”

“But, sir-”

“Have him chained up in the guardhouse.”

“Sir, I didn’t-”

The blow to his head sent him staggering sideways.

“Speak when you’re spoken to!” snarled Dexter. “And show some respect to the centurion. Like a flock of vultures, you lot.”

Dazed, he was aware of Accius somewhere in the distance saying, “He can speak at his trial. Until then, get him out of my sight or I’ll have him killed on the spot.”

Ruso’s head was throbbing. He supposed he should be glad that they had left him the dignity of a loincloth, but the stone walls of the cell were cold and unyielding against his naked back, and the iron bands he had seen two days ago were now cutting into his own wrists. He could not even scratch at the crawling itches of the nettle stings because the chains were too short, clamped to the wall in such a way that it was impossible either to stand up properly or to lower his hands from shoulder height when he sat.

What a fool he had been. What a pompous ass. I swore to serve indeed! At every crossroads, he had taken the wrong turn.

Pera’s careful report about Tadius had been destroyed because he had blundered in, trying to help.

Hadrian’s annoyed expression as he had called “Your Majesty!” should have warned him to shut up, but instead he had plowed on.

He closed his eyes and pictured Tilla pulling clothes out of their luggage. If we do not carry too much and we start now, we can be ten miles away by morning.

If only he could have that moment over again. He would say, Give me both bags and you take the box.

She had said, May the gods smile upon you, Gaius Petreius the Medicus .

Whatever the gods were up to, smiling was not a part of it.

He was drifting into a fitful sleep when a key rattled in the lock and the door crashed open.

“On your feet!” bawled a guard. “Septicius Clarus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, and Tribune Accius to see the prisoner!”

Ruso struggled to his feet and stood with his back straight and his knees bent. It was marginally more respectful than leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out, but much less comfortable.

Clarus stepped into the cell. When Accius joined him, there was barely room to shut the door. Ruso, forcibly shortened and with his thighs already aching from the effort of his unnatural posture, looked up at them and waited while Clarus angled a wax tablet to catch the light from the small, high window. Accius glowered at a space somewhere above Ruso’s head. Normally a disciplinary investigation would be conducted by a tribune, but there were all sorts of reasons why Accius was the wrong man to investigate this, and Ruso guessed he had been forbidden to speak.

“Gaius Petreius Ruso,” Clarus declared, looking up from his notes and addressing him as if he were making a speech in the Forum. “As you are known to the emperor, I will be making the inquiries relating to the accusation of murder that has been made against you.”

“I didn’t do it, sir.”

“I am instructed to inform you that if you confess, things will be easier for your wife.”

“I have no wife, sir. I’m divorced.”

Clarus looked down his nose at him for a moment, then continued. “Last night you were confined to quarters.”

“I was called to a medical emergency, sir.”

“Yes.” Clarus ran one finger over the notes until he reached the point he wanted. “And when the emergency was dealt with, you went out through the east gate disguised as one of my men.”

This was not going well.

“You were seen at the mansio asking for your wife.” Ruso swallowed.

“There was blood on your hands.”

“The blood was from a patient, sir.”

Clarus let that rest. “There are some doubts about the loyalty of your wife, are there not?”

“I have no doubts, sir.”

“You wouldn’t deny that you asked to see her?”

“I needed to inform her that our marriage was no longer legal, sir. Because I’d been demoted.”

“But you still think of her as your wife.”

The burning in Ruso’s thighs was becoming unbearable. “I didn’t kill Geminus, sir.”