Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

Ruso elbowed his way out of the men’s grasp and stepped forward into the torchlight. “Let him go, Marcus. He’s told you everything he knows. He had nothing to do with Geminus’s death.”

“We know that, sir. He is a coward who left the killing to the Praetorians.” Marcus turned to address the tribune. “Sir, even now this man has not told the whole truth. Ask him about tonight.”

Ruso lowered his voice. “Marcus, have some sense! This is suicide. You can’t get away from here, and the Praetorians are waiting outside. Do what the tribune tells you: Stop now and some of you might live.”

“It is suicide to stop now,” Marcus retorted.

“Let me pass!” Accius’s voice cut through the rising discontent of men whose entertainment had been interrupted. He appeared at Ruso’s side. “Centurion Dexter, I order you to tell me about tonight.”

Dexter mumbled something.

“What? The watch captain let you down?” Marcus shouted in his ear. “I don’t think so! Speak up so the tribune can hear!”

The crowd hushed to listen. But all anyone could hear was the centurion gasping to Marcus, “Should have-run when-you had the chance. You’re a-dead man.”

Marcus leaned down and hissed to the sagging head, “And so are you!” He looked up at Accius. “We are not as stupid as he thinks, sir. He is afraid of what we will say about him to the officers at Deva. He tried to frighten us about what will happen if we go there and then arranged to have the gates unguarded so we could desert.”

It sounded ridiculous, but suddenly several things made sense. The sight of Dexter sitting calmly by the fire, eating bacon, while the watch was nowhere to be seen. The amazing ability of the Britons to overpower half a dozen guards in complete silence. The curious lack of any serious injuries amongst the guards, none of whom had managed to wriggle out from under the hedge until they were found.

Ruso took hold of the spear and prized Marcus’s fingers away from it. Dexter, wheezing, slumped sideways as the rope slackened around him. Several hands caught him and lowered him to the ground.

“We are tired of being afraid, sir,” Marcus was saying above him. “We will go to the next world as men rather than live in this one as cowards.”

Crouched beside Dexter, concerned about broken ribs and internal injury, Ruso heard the centurion mutter a feeble, “Fools.”

“Does it hurt when you breathe?”

“They’ll be sorry-they were born.”

“They had reasons. What happens when you cough?”

“Half-wits!” Dexter gave an experimental cough, took another gulp of breath, and carried on talking. “They’ll be-nailed up. Threatening-the empress.” He rolled over and swore. “Hercules’s balls, that hurts.”

But clearly it didn’t hurt as much as broken ribs would. Ruso left him to recover. The recruits were milling about in the faltering torchlight, not sure what to do now that their complaints had been heard. The smell of beer wafted across the courtyard and a scuffle broke out in a dark corner. There were a few halfhearted cries of protest, but nobody seemed interested in imposing order. There was a crash and cheering as something was knocked over and shattered. Somewhere deep in the stables, a girl screamed. Accius, busy listening to some earnest discourse from Marcus, paid no attention.

Having realized he was not about to be butchered, the tribune had evidently decided the safest course was to concede whatever the men wanted. And Marcus, who seemed to have forgotten that the Praetorians must have the place surrounded, was falling for it. Ruso glanced around, wondering what to do. When the Britons realized they were trapped, this shambles was going to turn very nasty indeed, and the place was packed with civilians who would make ideal hostages for men with nothing to lose.

Dexter was back on his feet now. “Did you let these men out?” Ruso demanded.

“Me?”

“Stay out of sight or they’ll kill you.”

“I’m not afraid of-”

“Or I will.” Ruso pushed his way forward. “Marcus! Get these men under control. Quickly.”

Marcus ignored him and carried on berating Accius. Ruso gripped his earlobe and twisted, digging in his thumbnail. Marcus let out a yell of pain.

“You started this!” Ruso shouted. “Get them under control or we’ll have a bloodbath!”

For a man who was ready to face the next world, Marcus suddenly looked very frightened. He turned to Accius. “Sir?”

Accius raised both hands in surrender. “They won’t listen to me!”

To their left, a couple of drunken recruits had clambered onto the mounting block and were attempting a dance. Somewhere in the darkness, the girl screamed again.

“One of us,” said Ruso grimly, “had better think of something.”

Marcus stood on tiptoe and shouted in the direction of the stable, “Lads! Oi! Leave the girl alone, lads!”

Someone shouted, “Wait your turn, mate!”

The dancers stumbled off the edge of the mounting block and crashed into the crowd.

Ruso shouted in Marcus’s ear, “Is the empress safe? And my wife?”

Marcus yelled back, “Upstairs. The lads were told not to touch them.”

Ruso glanced at the row of upstairs windows. Was that a blond head behind one of them? He could not tell. He reached out and seized Marcus with one hand and Accius with the other, dragging them round the fallen dancers toward the vacant mounting block.

“Tell them they must listen to the tribune,” he urged, pushing Marcus up the narrow steps.

“But, sir-”

“Do it!”

He did it. Either the men were eager for leadership or a powerful god was with him. Ruso neither knew nor cared which. The confusion died down for a moment while the crowd waited for the next part of the show. Pushing Marcus toward the stables with “Go and help that girl,” Ruso urged a reluctant Accius up the steps of the mounting block. “You’re good at making speeches. Tell them you understand why they’re angry. Tell them you respect their loyalty in not deserting. Tell them-oh, tell them any old bollocks. Then tell them you’re supporting their appeal to the empress.”

“But the emp-”

“Now, Accius! This is what all that training was for!”

“Sa-bi-na!” roared the men down in the courtyard, stamping and banging anything within reach in time with the rhythm of the name.

“Sa-bi-na! Sa-bi-na!”

In the upstairs room, a grim-faced Clarus had joined the line of men guarding the corner. He was clutching a metal jug in one hand and what looked like a woman’s hairpin in the other. If it had not been so desperate, it would have been funny.

Behind them, some of the huddled women were weeping. Then Sabina cried, “Do not let them take me, Clarus! Kill me now, I beg you! I know what they did to those poor women in Londinium!”

“Madam, I cannot-”

“Then somebody give me a knife!”

“Madam!” Tilla abandoned the window. “They do not want to hurt you. The tribune has made his speech, and the men have listened. Now they want to present a delegation.”

Sabina’s squeak of “A delegation?” left Tilla wondering if she had chosen the wrong word.

“They want to ask for justice.”

“But the emperor is not here!”

Clarus said, “The empress cannot grant petitions.”

“Madam,” said Tilla, ignoring him, “these men are Britons. They do not know who can grant what.” In truth they probably did, but Sabina did not need to know that. “What they know is that you are the wife of a great leader. You have traveled all over the world with him, and between you, you have won many victories. They believe you are a noble warrior-queen like the ones they honor amongst their own people.”