Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

“Can I enter, sir?” Marcus, the recruit whose split lip and splendid tattoos Ruso was ashamed to realize he had forgotten, was already looming over the bed anyway.

“I’ll get out,” offered Ruso. “You probably shouldn’t be seen talking to me. Give him some water if he wants it; there’s a skin in the corner.”

“Sit down, sir. We respect what you did.” He turned to his friend and murmured in British, “I’d have brought you a beer, but there was nowhere to hide it.”

Ruso, still in Latin, said, “You shouldn’t be calling me ‘sir,’ either.”

Reverting to Latin, the recruit said, “He deserved it, sir.”

“I didn’t kill anyone, Marcus. I just spoke to people.”

Marcus untied the stopper and held the waterskin steady as Austalis tried to tip it with one thin hand. “Did you hear the doctor went to the emperor about Geminus?”

“It didn’t turn out too well,” said Ruso.

“This is what they did to him,” Marcus continued to Austalis, grasping one of Ruso’s arms to show the manacle.

Austalis pushed the water away. “Bastards,” he said.

“They’ve put Dexter in charge now.”

Austalis’s lips moved in response. It was a moment before Ruso realized it was a mime of spitting.

“We think they will tell a story about what happened to Tadius,” said Marcus, who was evidently not as naive as he looked. “And we think they will say Victor killed Geminus.”

Marcus said, “Sir, the men are asking what will happen to us at Deva.”

Ruso hesitated. The Roman officers would find it only too easy to believe the tale that Tadius had been murdered in some wild barbarian ritual and Sulio had killed himself out of guilt. For a moment he considered warning them. But Geminus had been right about one thing: Telling the recruits they were marching into trouble would only make things worse for everyone. Instead he said, “They don’t invite me to briefings these days.”

“They may well accuse me.”

“We are only recruits, sir. You are useful to them.” He nodded toward Austalis, who seemed to have drifted off to sleep. “You are a good doctor.”

“On reflection,” said Ruso, “I think you were wise to keep those tattoos.”

Marcus nodded and got to his feet. “A good choice for a bad reason, sir.

We all wish you well.”

“That’s very good of you.”

Stepping over the length of chain that stretched between Ruso and the back of the wagon, Marcus jumped down. On the ground, he turned and put both hands on the wagon floor, leaned in, and said quietly in British, “You speak our tongue, sir?”

“A little.”

“I could keep you informed, if you like. We know we can trust you.”

“Yes,” said Ruso. “Yes, please do.” He might no longer be an officer, but it seemed he had become an honorary Briton.

There was still no sign of Pera come to check on his patient. In fact, there was no sign of anyone, since the driver of the second wagon had tied the reins of his mules and left them with hay nets while he went to tend to his own needs. Ruso shuffled as far back as the chain would allow, leaned against Austalis’s makeshift bed, and stretched his legs out across the rough wooden floor, listening for the plodding of a horse that might mark the arrival of someone who would punish him for resting.

He gave a guilty start when a shadow fell across the back of the wagon, but it was only Pera arriving at last. He climbed in and glanced at Austalis.

“He’s had some water,” said Ruso. “Fast pulse but no fever, and he’s talking sense.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pera was evidently satisfied that he did not need to be woken. “Sir, there’s a message from your wife.”

Ruso sat up straight. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine, sir. She’s traveling at the back with a …” Pera seemed to be considering his choice of words. “… another woman.” He lowered his voice. “She said to tell you that Geminus was seen with some Praetorians just before he was murdered.”

“What? Does Clarus know?”

“She said to tell you Prefect Clarus questioned the witnesses himself not long after the body was found, sir.”

Ruso stared at him. “He knows? What did he do about it?”

Pera looked nonplussed.

“Sorry, that’s an unfair question. I need to make sure Accius knows what you’ve just told me.”

“She’s going to try and talk to him herself.”

“Right,” said Ruso, pushing aside his unease about the tribune’s interest in his wife. “It might help both you and Victor, sir.”

“Yes. Don’t say anything to anyone else, will you?”

“Are you sure, sir? I was thinking it might raise the morale of the recruits.”

“Exactly. Then the gods alone know what they would get up to.”

“Not 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 jewelry 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.