Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

Was that supposed to be reassuring?

Eventually everyone seemed to be moving toward the road, although in a manner that was far from orderly. Ruso went with them, hearing the sound of soldiers crashing about behind him. The search did not sound too orderly, either.

He joined the disgruntled and shivering collection of civilian travelers lined up for inspection by the flare of torches, and was taken by surprise when the officer ordered him to step forward. Surely the Praetorians had not arranged this search just for him?

No, they had not. When he responded truthfully to “Name?” the officer peered at him and said, “Ah. You again,” and looked down at his medical case. “Another memorial, is it?”

Before Ruso could reply, another voice called out his name.

“Sir?”

The torchlight picked out the gleam of Accius’s armor. This was turning into a very strange night.

Leading him away from the melee on the road, Accius said, “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for my wife, sir. What’s going on?”

“Your wife is over in the empress’s dining room, upsetting people as usual.

Where’s your kit?”

“On a wagon, sir.”

Accius sighed, as if Ruso were being deliberately unhelpful. “Never mind. Arm yourself with something and get down to the camp. The British recruits have deserted.”

“What?”

“Centurion Dexter is also missing. I don’t care about the recruits, but if Dexter’s not already in a ditch with his throat cut, I intend to get him back.”

Angry thin men were always more frightening than angry fat ones. This one hauled her out of the dining room with “The empress does not want to hear your nonsense about the Dumnonii woman!” and waited until they were out in the corridor to add, “And neither do I!”

“But Victor-”

“The deserter murdered his centurion, and he’ll be made an example of. If his family are foolish enough to follow him, the legate will decide what to do with them.”

There were no servants about as Prefect Clarus hustled her toward the stairs. She said, “Sir, I must speak with you!” but he was not listening. “I am on your side, my lord! You cannot trust the tribune!”

That stopped him.

“Sir, the tribune-”

He said, “Nonsense!” but instead of pulling her down the stairs, he seemed to change his mind and bundled her into the next room.

In the gloom she stumbled and fell out of his grasp, colliding with a bed and scrambling to her feet before he could pin her down there.

But he seemed to have no interest in the bed. Instead, he stood between her and the door and said, “If you lie to me, you will be punished.”

She moved closer to whisper, “You cannot trust the tribune, sir.” He had been to the baths: She could smell the oil. “He is making his own separate inquiries into the murder.”

She heard him draw in his breath. “You’re lying.”

“It is true.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “He is trying to prove the deserter did not kill his centurion. He is using my husband.” She moved away slightly, leaving one hand at his throat. “And I”-she pressed it against his skin-“am using his scalpel.”

She felt the blade rise and fall as Clarus swallowed. He had not seen her slip it out from under her skirts as she pretended to fall.

“You could shout for help,” she murmured. “But before anyone hears the words, your windpipe will be sliced in two and your blood will be spraying on the walls. I am the wife of a surgeon, and I know how these things are done.”

“You said you were on my side!” His voice was hoarse, and he sounded aggrieved.

“I lied.”

“I am a guest here! It is inhospitable to lie to me!”

“I lied about that too.” She was not going to waste time arguing. “The men seen with Geminus just before he died were yours,” she said. “I know you have been told that, and I know you said nothing about it to the tribune. So what I am asking myself is: Why is this man saying nothing? Why is he letting an innocent Briton be punished for a murder done by Roman men? Does he have no shame? ”

The blade lifted and sank again, but he said nothing. She pressed it a little harder above where she thought the artery might be, hoping her hand would not slip before he answered her questions.

“Is it no shame for Romans to murder each other?” She could not feel any blood yet. “Answer me!”

“Of course! We are not-” He broke off. Men were shouting in the courtyard. A woman screamed. There was a juddering thud and a cry as if someone had been thrown against the wall. More voices. They sounded like soldiers but they were shouting in British.

“You are not barbarians?” she suggested, keeping his attention on the scalpel. “No. Your guards obey orders. So did you give the order to kill Geminus, or are you protecting the one who did?”

“I cannot say.”

The door burst open. “No swords!” she cried in British, hoping she had guessed right. “I am Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae, and this man is my prisoner.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then a voice said in the same tongue, “Need any help?”

“He is asking if I need his help,” Tilla translated into Latin. “Do I? Or will you speak?”

From outside the room came more cries and the crash of overturned furniture. The air held the sharp stink of something that should not be burning. She could feel Clarus trembling. Not wanting to admit that she had no idea what was happening, she said to the Briton, “How is it out there?”

He laughed. “Easy. They’ll be renaming this place the Eagle’s Downfall.”

“You are taking prisoners?”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “But Marcus says we’ve got to.”

So Virana’s friend Marcus was giving orders. But why bring the recruits here? Surely they had not come to take the empress and her guards hostage? It was madness. Still, she might be able to use it to her advantage. She reverted to Latin. “My people want justice,” she told Clarus. “With every painful step they have seen Victor make, their anger has grown.”

“My men-”

“Your men have been dealt with,” she said, hoping it was true. “We are not afraid of death as you are. Our men are in charge here now. If I hand you over, my people will sell you to the hill tribes for their sport. Perhaps they will impale you on a tall stake stuck in the ground. Perhaps they will roast you alive.” She hoped Christos was too busy tending to some other follower to be listening to this. This was a matter for the old gods. “Even if you live, you will be praying to die.” She gave him a moment to frighten himself with any other gruesome tales he might have heard. “Tell the truth, and I will order them to keep you here unharmed.”

She could not order the recruits to do anything, but that did not matter. The tales of British warrior queens haunted the nightmares of every visiting Roman.

A terrified shriek rose from the direction of the dining room.

Clarus cried, “The empress!”

The shriek died into a rasping gurgle.

“Oh, Sabina!”

Tilla said, “You can do nothing for her now.”

Slowly, he let out his breath. “I will speak.”

The recruit backed out and closed the door.

“Well?” she asked.

“I passed on the order.”

“Who gave you this order?”

He did not reply.

“Tell me, or I will hand you over to my men.”

It was barely more than a whisper. “It was Tranquillus.”

“Tranquillus?”

“The emperor’s correspondence secretary. But it could not have been his idea.”

“Whose idea was it?”