Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

“But I can tell you about a woman and child from the Dumnonii people who are traveling with your escort, who will soon be left widowed and fatherless because-”

“The empress does not want to hear idle gossip!” Accius interrupted.

“But you are the one who ordered her not to speak of anything else,” Sabina pointed out.

Now the scowl was positively sulky.

She turned to the Briton. “Why will this woman be left widowed?”

The Briton lifted her chin. “I cannot tell you, madam.” She pointed to the other two dinner guests. “But your friends can.”

There was no shortage of conversation now. The awkwardness was forgotten, as were the rats. Clarus and Accius both hastened to explain that the Dumnonii woman’s husband was a murderer, that this Briton did not know what she was talking about, that a full investigation had taken place, and that Britons always made trouble. Meanwhile, the source of all the upset was glancing from one to the other of them with a small smile of triumph on her face. Nobody seemed to have noticed the legionary standing in the doorway.

“Stop!” Sabina cried. “Both of you!” She nodded toward the legionary.

“Speak.”

“Message for the tribune, mistress.”

Whatever the message was, it sobered Accius immediately. He excused himself and left in the man’s company.

Sabina addressed the Briton. “You and your husband seem to enjoy stirring up trouble.”

The woman bowed her head. “I am sorry to have disturbed your dinner, madam.”

“On the contrary, you have helped to pass the time in a most entertaining manner-which is just as well, since it seems the wretched staff have forgotten us entirely.” She frowned at the one remaining inn slave. “Go and fetch your master, girl. This is ridiculous!” To Tilla she said, “Unfortunately, I am not in a position to do anything about your friend from the-who are they?”

“The Dumnonii.”

“The Dumnonii. I can do nothing about anything, because I live perpetually surrounded by spies.” She gestured toward her own slaves, lined up against the wall. Nobody flinched. They were used to it. “Rest assured that one of them will be reporting this evening’s conversation. For all I know, all of them will. So I never interfere in military or political matters. I leave all that to the emperor’s men. Clarus, I’m sure you can deal with whatever it is?”

Clarus stood and began to make his way-none too hastily-around the outside of the couches. “With your permission, madam, I will hear what this young woman has to say.”

“Please do.”

He seized the Briton by the arm and led her out of the dining room.

Sabina, alone with her staff, held out her glass for more respectably watered wine. “The emperor’s health,” she said wearily, raising her glass. As she did so, she glanced at the badly painted ceiling and wondered if even Julia would have found it possible to laugh about rats.

Marcus’s words might have been intended to reassure, but they had the opposite effect. As he strode toward the lanterns that marked a feeble welcome to the inn, Ruso asked himself what the recruit might know about Tilla. Why would she not be harmed? Why might any harm have come to her in the first place? Why might harm come to anyone?

He should have stayed in the camp. He had done his duty: Dexter had leapt to his feet and said he would check on the absent guards straightaway, but the more he thought about Marcus’s words, the more uneasy he felt. He would just make sure Tilla was safe, then go back to the men.

Finding Tilla was not as easy as he had thought. The innkeeper denied all knowledge of her, and refused to summon the tribune’s housekeeper so she could be asked.

“But she must be here. She’s traveling with the tribune’s party. Blond, in her twenties, probably with a local girl with-” He extended his arms, fingers splayed, in an exaggeration of the girl’s assets.

“I’d have noticed, sir.”

“Let me in and I’ll find them myself.”

But the innkeeper was not inclined to let him in, and the doorkeeper was very inclined to throw him out, so he made a tactical retreat with “When you find her, say her husband’s looking for her.”

With the brisk stride of a man caught between anxiety and irritation, he headed down the road to where the civilians had set up a makeshift campsite.

Tilla had gone missing.

Something had happened that might put her in danger. Something that Marcus, up to no good, had tried to warn him about. Where was she? Why had he not had the sense to grab the tattooed Briton by the throat and demand to know what the hell he was talking about?

Tilla was not missing.

Any minute now he would find her amongst the camp followers, curled up beside a fire and wanting to know why he was making such a fuss.

Tilla was missing.

She had found out that she was no longer the tribune’s hostage, realized her husband had failed to come for her, and taken herself off somewhere that the Britons knew about and he didn’t.

Tilla was missing.

Still clutching his case and the blanket he had brought thinking he was staying the night, he picked his way through the huddled confusion of vehicles and makeshift shelters and guard dogs and murmured conversations and crying babies and cooking smells that made up the civilian camp. None of the voices that responded to him in the darkness would admit to having seen her. The girl Corinna called out from somewhere to ask how her husband was. He reassured her as best he could, wishing he had better news.

Finally he resorted to shouting, “Tilla!” in the hope that she was hiding and might relent. The only reaction was a cacophony of barking and voices telling him to shut up: People were trying to sleep.

He glanced down the road to where the black shapes of roofs were silhouetted against the starlit sky. Had she taken a room somewhere? There was only one way to find out. Slowly, so as not to trip over tent pegs invisible in the dark, he began to make his way toward the buildings. That was when a movement caught his eye. A figure creeping along the grass verge, just this side of the ditch. Then another. And another. He ducked down, ready to raise the alarm. Then he saw the glint of metal from some idiot who thought he could skulk around unseen in shiny parade armor.

Suddenly, the blast of a trumpet set a dozen dogs all barking at once. The soldiers leapt up, looking like monsters in the starlight, and began a rhythmic, relentless crash of sword hilts on shields. Ruso could sense movement all around him as cries of fear and protest rose from the camp.

“This is an inspection!” roared a voice that had been educated in Rome. “Everyone stay where you are!”

It was the Praetorian officer he had met this morning, but … an inspection? Of a civilian camp in the middle of the night? What was the matter with him?

Children cried. Dogs barked. Adults muttered and cursed as they fumbled with covers and tent ties in the dark.

“The camp is surrounded! Nobody is to leave! Stand still outside your own shelter!”

Gods above, was he going to perform a roll call next? And why, having made his point, did he not stop that awful thumping beat?

“Keep those dogs under control!”

Somebody protested, “There are children here!” and several other voices rose in support.

“No one will be hurt!”

The beat was silenced at last. All around Ruso, whisperers were asking each other what was going on. One brave soul shouted, “What have we done, then?” and a bolder voice ventured, “Clear off back to Rome!”

“Silence!” roared the Praetorian. “Everyone onto the road in an orderly manner! My men will be performing a search. As soon as we have finished, you may return to your beds.”