Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

“I’ll talk to them. They’re my men.”

“They’ve got my prefect. And the empress. It’s too late for talking.”

Nobody seemed to notice when Ruso faded back into the darkness, leaving his tribune to a dispute that might be about saving lives, or about not being told what to do by a mere centurion, or about the Twentieth drawing all the fire so the Praetorians could perform the rescue. Whoever won the argument, it would do no good. He was not sure the recruits would believe anything Accius told them.

They might not believe anything he said himself, but it was worth a try.

The feeble lamps still burned on either side of the front doors, an odd reminder of normal business. As he approached he could hear some sort of native chanting going on inside. The sound brought back memories he would rather not think about.

There was movement up on the roof, a hollow scraping sound, and then a crack, as if someone was shifting and then breaking up a heavy clay tile. He stopped and called out in British, “This is Ruso, the healer. Let me talk to Marcus.”

Behind him he could hear the Praetorian centurion demanding to know who that idiot was, and Accius ordering him to come back as if he were a disobedient dog. With luck, the men on the roof would hear them too.

“I’m coming forward!” he called, then ducked and made a quick sidestep.

In answer, something flew over his head and thudded into the gravel. Broken roof tile was not the easiest of missiles to aim, and they would be throwing toward the sound of his voice in the dark, but Geminus had trained his men well. With no armor or helmet, he was a soft target for anything with sharp edges.

“Marcus will talk to me!” he shouted, dodging again and wishing he had had the sense to borrow a shield. “Go and ask him!”

There seemed to be more movement up there, but no reply came. Perhaps Marcus was not in charge after all. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps Tilla …

He could not think about Tilla. He needed to concentrate.

More movement, and a voice shouting in Latin this time. “Bring the tribune. Just you two and nobody else. No weapons. We are watching.”

To Accius’s credit, his footsteps were crunching forward over the gravel even before Ruso could turn and ask him. They walked forward slowly, far enough apart to make two small targets instead of one large one. The chanting grew louder. Ruso was conscious of being watched from behind and from above. This was very different from the last time he had seen a recruit up on a roof.

He murmured, “The Praetorians aren’t going to try storming the place as we go in, are they, sir?”

“Not unless they want to kill us,” observed Accius.

They passed between the lamps. Ahead of them, one of the double doors swung back. Ruso led the way forward. The chant was pulsating through the darkness. It was like walking under an amphitheater with the crowd above roaring for blood. The heavy door slammed shut behind them. He heard the bar scrape across into the socket. Someone called, “Put down your weapons.”

Ruso lowered his knife to the floor. He was aware of Accius bending down beside him. Hands moved over his body, checking for concealed blades. Then the voice that had spoken before said, “Welcome to Sports Night.”

If she closed one eye, Tilla could see down into the stable yard through the gap in the glass. The chant was coming from the men crowded around the outside. One man knelt in the middle, head bowed. He wore only a plain tunic and boots. His hands were tied in front of him and there was rope around his chest. Above him stood Marcus, the tattoo twisting up his arm like a live snake in the flickering torchlight.

“Silence!” Marcus bellowed in Latin to the crowd. Then when this had little effect, he added in British, “Shut up! We haven’t got long!”

Finally the chanting died down. Turning to look round at his audience, he shouted, “Men, we are honoured by the presence of Tribune Accius and Medicus Gaius Petreius Ruso!”

Tilla stared in horror as Marcus saluted two of the figures standing in the shadows. The rest of the men followed suit. “For your entertainment this evening, sirs, we present … Centurion Dexter!”

Whatever the guests of honor might be saying was lost beneath the roars of approval. Marcus stepped back, raising his right arm. He held a spear. The point hovered just above his victim’s head. The audience cheered. Ignoring shouts of “Spike him!” Marcus eased the spear down behind Dexter’s back. Dexter glanced round in alarm and Tilla saw the fear on his face. For a moment she was puzzled. Then she realized.

“Stand up for the tribune, Centurion!”

Encouraged by a kick, he staggered to his feet.

“How many turns before he tells the truth about Sports Night?” yelled Marcus. “Place your bets!”

Men were shouting out numbers. One roared, “Kill the bugger!”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes!”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Tilla realized the empress was calling to her from the corner of the room, asking what was happening. Without taking her eyes off the figures in the courtyard she said, “They are trying to get justice.”

She wished they were not so very obviously enjoying it.

Marcus bent sideways. He seized the spear by both ends and turned it upside down as if he were winding up a crank. Dexter jolted. The rope around his chest tightened. “One!” roared the audience, with several immediately adding, “Two!” and “Get on with it!”

Marcus bent down to his victim. “Anything to say?” From the way he jerked his head away, Tilla guessed Dexter had spat in his face.

“You must stop this!” cried a voice from the shadows.

Accius was no coward. Even outnumbered by wild barbarians, he was doing his best to defend his man. “This is mutiny! Stop now, before-”

“Before what, sir?” demanded Marcus, one hand on the spear and the other wiping his cheek. “Before he tells the truth?”

“Men, this is Tribune Accius!” As if they would not recognize the cultured tones of his Roman education. “Listen to me. I order you to release that centurion and disband immediately!”

“We would, sir,” Marcus told him calmly, “but this is Sports Night. Normal rules don’t apply. Do they, Dexter?”

He upended the spear again.

“Two!” roared the crowd.

“This is outrageous!” cried Clarus from the safety of the corner in the upstairs room. “The empress can’t be expected to listen to this! Tell your men to stop immediately!”

Tilla glanced back into the room. “They will stop when he confesses,” she said, wondering if they would.

“I confess there was gambling, sir.” Dexter’s voice was clear, if not as strong as before. “Betting on fights. Harmless fun.”

Several cries of “Ha!” and “Liar!” from the crowd almost drowned out Dexter’s next words: “Geminus took it too far.”

“Only two turns!” Marcus called out. “Pathetic.” He looked around at his jeering comrades, though Tilla supposed he could barely see them in the darkness around the pools of torchlight. “I’m betting one more and he’ll tell the tribune all about Dannicus. What do you think?”

The spear had turned five times now. Dexter could hardly stand. He had confessed about the betting on Dannicus and Sulio crossing the river. He had admitted that Geminus had forced Tadius and Victor to fight to the death and that he had done nothing to stop it. The crowd seemed to be growing restless.

The men who had been holding Ruso back against the wall next to Accius (“for your own safety, sirs”) had slackened their grip and were looking round as if they were not sure what to do next. Accius had fallen silent as he listened to Dexter’s confession. For once he seemed to have nothing to say.