Ruth Downie - Semper Fidelis

Put like that, his impulsive offer to confess-which had started out as a way of silencing a few recruits and getting Tilla out of trouble-sounded less like a fatal mistake than a heroic act of self-sacrifice to save the stability of the empire. He said, “Probably, sir, yes.”

“We’ve gone far enough. Turn around.”

Ruso pivoted round his chained ankle and faced back the way they had just come. The cavalry escort now facing them urged their mounts across onto the opposite verge and waited at a respectful distance for the emperor to pass. Ruso eyed the road ahead, unable to repress a hope that Tilla might have defied his wishes and Done Something. She could be galloping toward him right now on a stolen horse, ready to drag him up behind her in some miraculous feat of weight lifting, and …

“I have given this matter considerable thought,” Hadrian announced.

He had said he wanted no help from her. He had told Valens to tie her up if necessary. It was not the sort of request Valens would be likely to ignore.

“As you are no doubt aware,” Hadrian was saying, “I have never sanctioned the killing of innocent men.”

“Yes, sir.” Or should that be No, sir ?

“Contrary to what I’ve been told, you seem to be a man who knows when to speak up and when to shut up.”

Was that an acknowledgment that he had done the right thing at Eboracum? “I try, sir.”

“Good. Because if you speak of this conversation to anyone, I shall find out, and neither you nor that woman will live long enough to regret it. Is that understood?”

What Ruso understood was that the great man was speaking as if he had a future. “Absolutely, sir.”

“I am therefore pleased to tell you what my prefect has discovered.” Hadrian paused, as if he was enjoying the moment. “You were all mistaken. There was no murder.”

Ruso swallowed. “No, sir?”

“No. Centurion Geminus diligently carried out his duty at Eboracum despite knowing that he was incurably sick-a fact that he hid even from the medical service. Satisfied that his recruits had passed their final tests, and not wanting to burden his comrades with a long and debilitating illness, he bravely committed suicide. With his own knife, as I’m told you can confirm.”

“Ah-yes, sir.”

“Which only leaves us, Ruso, with the question of where you wish to be posted next.”

Ruso gulped. He was still taking in the barefaced lie that would save his life, and wondering what other fantasies this man had foisted onto the citizens of Rome in the name of decency and stability.

“Pay attention, Ruso. I’m offering you a favor.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn’t expect it.” Although if he had listened to his stepmother, he should have.

“Where shall I send you?”

Where did he want to go? Somewhere warm and dry and civilized. He could go home to the family in Gaul-or, then again, not. He could go to Rome and look after-no, not rich people. But maybe glamorous ones. Gladiators. Charioteers. Healthy young men who suffered from nothing tediously chronic and incurable but had plenty of interesting accidents. He could try new surgical techniques. Make advances. Pay someone-his old clerk Albanus, perhaps-to write down his every thought and publish it. He could become the World-Famous Doctor Ruso. He could finally clear off the family debts. He could buy so many slaves that Tilla would never have to polish his armor or light a fire or interfere with his medical case again. Or cook. Now, there was a thought. He was definitely going to buy a cook.

“I hear my outgoing procurator is looking for a new doctor.”

The words interrupted his reverie.

“I believe he is a generous patron.”

Had Valens really abandoned the procurator’s service because of some old quarrel in Rome? Or had he sacrificed his position out of friendship? Whatever the reason, it would not be fair to take advantage of it.

And then there was Tilla. Tilla, who had been homesick in Gaul. Tilla would be miserable in Rome. And when Tilla was miserable, nothing else was a pleasure, either.

Britannia did not have enough gladiators and charioteers on which to build a career. But it did have plenty of healthy men who had interesting injuries. Soldiers were frequently unlovely, uncouth, and ungrateful. On the other hand, they were mostly young and lively and entertaining, and somebody had to be there to protect them from their own stupidity and that of their officers.

“Well?”

“Sir, I think …” He stopped. “I’d like to keep my current posting with the Twentieth, sir. But can I ask something for my wife?”

Hadrian’s silence was not encouraging.

“She’s somehow ended up on a list of doubtful persons, sir. It was all dealt with years ago, but we can’t seem to get her name off the list.”

“Ah, the wretched lists. A necessary evil. Hard to believe, but there really are people who don’t appreciate the benefits of our rule.”

“Tilla’s very appreciative, sir.” If emperors could lie in a good cause, so could their subjects.

“In that case, I see no difficulty. A native woman married to one of my officers. A fine example to the Britons. Yes. I’ll have the document drawn up straightaway.”

“Document?”

“Citizenship, man!” Hadrian’s heavy features broke into a smile. “Personally granted by the emperor. That should deal with it.”

Ruso blinked. Citizenship of Rome. The privileged status that outsiders could only earn after decades in the army, or keeping order and collecting taxes on behalf of the treasury, or a life of slavery, or performing some outstanding act of service to the emperor or his cronies. It was the one freedom Tilla would not have wanted, and he had just arranged to have it foisted upon her. “Thank you, sir.”

Hadrian turned to beckon his cavalrymen forward. “Have this doctor taken back to his unit,” he said. “And tell them to take those ridiculous chains off. I want him busy looking after my men.”

Ruso stood waiting to be assigned a horse from the lines, and running over his conversation with Hadrian with increasing unease. He had been offered the chance to heave himself out of the muddy rut that was Britannia, and he had turned it down. He had just demonstrated the depths of cowardice to which his family and his first wife had always known he could sink.

You’re hopeless at putting yourself forward, Gaius.

Think of other people and make an effort.

“Ruso! A word!”

Accius was striding toward him across the grass. “I got you released. Have the decency to tell me what’s going on.”

“I think there’ll be an announcement, sir.”

“There’s already been one. Geminus killed himself, the empress is going north with Hadrian, and Clarus and Tranquillus are being sent back to Rome in disgrace.”

Ruso stared at him. “Why?”

“For being overfamiliar with the empress, whatever that means. Anyway, it’s none of our business. What did the emperor say about me?”

“He said you’d told him I was innocent, sir. I’m grateful.”

“So you bloody should be. What else?”

“Nothing else, sir.”

“So what did he talk about?”

“I can’t tell you, sir.”

“Did he mention my family?”

“No, sir.”

“What did he say about the Twentieth?”

“Sir, I’m really sorry, but I can’t tell you what he said.”

“I see.” The tribune lowered his voice. “So, it seems the Praetorian Guard get away with murdering another of my relatives.”

Across the field, the mules had been hitched to the hospital wagons. Ruso could see Pera helping Victor up to keep Austalis company. Dexter, relieved of duties pending trial, was just visible behind one of the supply vehicles. The remaining junior officers were yelling at the recruits to get a bloody move on. Apparently they had never seen such a bunch of ham-fisted layabouts. Ruso said, “In Geminus’s position, sir, I believe taking his own life was the most honorable thing he could do.”