Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

“No.”

“Are you sad about Victor? Corinna says he can hardly walk and please, please, can you tell the tribune again that he really didn’t kill Geminus?”

“Virana, I am supposed to be looking after you for your family.”

“I thought I was here to help you.”

“Yes, but … I am older! I am responsible! You must stop going round the camp, being friendly with the soldiers! What will-” Tilla stopped. Virana would not care what her mother thought. “Marcus won’t want to marry you if he sees you with other men.”

Virana’s mouth rearranged into a pout. “You think I am stupid.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am not. I made sure Marcus didn’t see us.”

Tilla fought back a wish to fling herself backward into the hay and scream. As calmly as she could manage, she went back to her first question. “Who made the recruits think that the Medicus has been talking to the Praetorians, Virana? Was it you?”

Virana squared her shoulders and gave a little wriggle like a hen settling down over her eggs. “I shan’t tell you things if you get cross with me.”

“If you don’t tell me anything useful,” said Tilla, “I shall have you dumped at the side of the road and you can walk home.”

“It is not my fault you are stuck here with that woman! Why is everyone horrible to me?”

“Because you are very annoying. Do you know who told the recruits, or not?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“One of them heard some of the Praetorians talking at the latrines. They said the Medicus was snooping around, asking questions, but it was all right: The native would get the blame. Now Marcus and the others are all arguing about what to do.” She glanced up. “They told me to go away. But I’ll go back if you like. If you give me my dress-”

“No,” said Tilla. “It’s bad enough that you go wandering alone amongst the soldiers, without wearing that.” Seeing Virana’s face fall, she added, “But you have done well, and I thank you.”

Again Virana’s expression changed to one of pleasure and surprise. It was as if nobody else had ever taken the trouble to encourage her.

Tilla pushed aside a faint sense of foreboding. Virana had been told she would be sent home after this. That was what was going to happen. She would worry about how to do it later on.

The owner of the sheep had been warned in advance. Ewes and lambs had been driven into another field beyond the immediate reach of hungry soldiers, leaving a fine swath of cropped grass for the rows of goatskin tents and a fine scattering of droppings to be kicked aside before the occupants of those tents wished to lie down in them. The tents were set out in neat blocks, reproducing the layout of the barracks the men had occupied in Eboracum. The horses and the draft animals were grazing under guard in an adjoining field, and the vehicles had been drawn up on a patch of dry, gravelly ground not far from the gate.

Ruso sat on the back of the hospital wagon, swinging his legs and surveying this scene of impressive organization and calm. Dexter had men patrolling the hedges and ditches of the perimeter, and the smoke from a dozen cooking fires was spiraling into the fading sky. One thing the army knew how to do well was pitch camp. Even the laziest man was spurred into action when his nocturnal comfort depended on his own efforts, and as usual the only complaints came from the squads who found themselves allocated a damp patch. No one would suspect that the men in the tents over by the oak tree had murdered the centurion of the men who were camping by the hawthorn hedge.

With luck, the Praetorians would believe that he had swallowed their implausible account of events on the night that Geminus was killed. If they thought he suspected them, venturing anywhere near their tents after dark would be a very big mistake.

Ruso slid down from the back of the wagon. Austalis was settled. Pera was doing his best to tend to Victor’s wrists and swollen feet, and there was nothing more anyone could do to help. He really should go and rescue Tilla from the custody of the tribune’s housekeeper and see that she was settled with the other camp followers. He could hardly keep up the pretense that she was still a hostage, even if it was for her own good.

“Food!” The voice of the hospital cook rose from behind the wagon. “Come and get it!”

On the other hand, he was very hungry. Perhaps he would just have a bite to eat first. Then maybe he would stay with her in the civilian camp, leaving Pera in charge here. Otherwise he might find himself compelled to make a lone nighttime visit to the Praetorians. He could hardly refuse to answer a call to a sick man just because the messenger who summoned him might be luring him into a trap.

The beans were hot and filling and surprisingly tasty. By the time he had finished a second helping, the evening star had appeared and the fires were points of glimmering light with shadowy figures moving around them. Ruso collected his case and the few possessions he had on the wagon before telling Pera an edited version of the truth that made it look as though he were abandoning his duties for a night with a beautiful blonde. The instruction not to tell anyone where he had gone only made it worse. “But if there’s a problem with Austalis, send someone across. The code word is snake tattoo. ”

“ Snake tattoo , sir?” Pera sounded doubtful.

“Yes,” said Ruso, hoping he would have the chance to explain. Otherwise he would drift into the future as an anecdote. Poor old Ruso. Began to think everyone was out to get him. Used to hide behind his wife and make you say the password before you could speak to him.

He was almost at the entrance to the campground when, instead of the expected challenge from the guard, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round, grabbing at his knife.

“It’s Marcus, sir!” hissed a figure whose face was invisible beneath a hood.

“Marcus? What are you doing wandering about?”

“Visiting Austalis, sir.”

The coat was hardly necessary on such a fine night, and nor was this circuitous route. Ruso guessed that Marcus was trying to avoid being caught by Dexter. Still, that was not his problem. He had more important things to do.

“He’s still doing well, but don’t tire him,” he said. “Just a quick visit. And if he’s asleep, don’t wake him.”

Instead of replying in Latin, Marcus spoke in his native tongue. “Don’t worry about your wife.”

Ruso frowned, thinking he had misunderstood. “Sorry, Marcus. My British is not as good as I thought.”

“Your wife. She will not be harmed.”

“But-”

“We are not as foolish as they think.”

“Marcus?”

But Marcus was gone into the night, and any sound his footsteps might have made in the grass was covered by a shout of laughter from a distant campfire.

Ruso strode out through the entranceway and turned left toward the faint glimmers of light that marked the buildings. As he did so, it occurred to him that not only had he not been challenged on leaving, but there seemed to be no guards covering the gateway at all. Dexter’s men were slipping. And the Britons were up to something.

He turned and walked back into the camp, still unchallenged. He would go and find Tilla in a minute, then come straight back. Meanwhile, Dexter needed to be told.

Sabina tried a mouthful of the soup, confirmed that it tasted exactly how it looked, and pushed it away. Still, what could you expect from a place that thought it was acceptable for guests to dine upstairs in a room overlooking the stables?

If only she had insisted on keeping the head cook.