Semper Fidelis (22 page)

“So fierce!” gasped Virana, as if it were a good thing. “What do we do now?”
“More waiting.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know yet.” Leaving her husband to face trouble alone would be very wrong. Knowing what was right was more difficult.
The carriage that must hold the empress was enormous, pulled by six black horses whose coats gleamed almost as brightly as the freshly washed paintwork. No doubt there would be soft beds inside so the wealthy passengers could rest while everyone else was out in all weathers, escorting them safely across lands where they had no business to be.
“Here they come!” cried Virana. The sound of jingling and clanking pots and pans accompanied the march of the men from the Twentieth: The Praetorians must have commandeered the baggage wagons, while the Twentieth had all their personal kit slung on their backs or loaded onto mules. Tilla recognized Accius on a leggy bay stallion. The squat centurion riding alongside him was Dexter, friend of the murdered Geminus.
Virana was enjoying herself. “There’s Marcus, and . . . Victor! Victor, it’s me! Cheer up!” She turned to Tilla. “They’ve chained him up like a slave! Do they think he’ll run away again?” Before Tilla could answer, she said, “I can’t see the Medicus, can you?”
Tilla raised one hand and pointed to a covered wagon that had just emerged from the gates. Behind it was a figure whose bearing and boots said he was a soldier. The loop of chain between the back of the wagon and his wrists told another story. Tilla leapt down from the cart, waited until Dexter was shouting at a man who had dropped something, and then ran across the rough grass toward the wagon.
“Husband!”
He seemed to be concentrating on the uneven stones beneath his feet.
She fell into step with him. “It is me!”
He looked startled, as if he had just woken. “What are you—”
“I am not leaving you.”
He glanced around. “Careful. They’ll be watching.”
“Are you all right? Your wrists—”
“Valens was supposed to look after you.”
“He did. He does not know yet.” Pale faces were peering out at her from the gloom of the covered wagon, where a skeletal young man was lying under a white blanket. “Those are the people who should be in the grand carriage.”
He said, “I’ll ask the empress to swap.”
She lowered her voice so that the patients could not hear. “Victor has been arrested and they say he is accused of the murder.”
“I know. He says he didn’t do it.”
“He is telling the truth. He was hiding in the loft at Corinna’s house and I was downstairs. I was awake, listening for rats: I would have heard if he had crept out. They said I betrayed him, but it was Metellus.”
“Metellus?”
“He is a slimy liar. If Victor is accused, why have they not released you?”
“I don’t know. Probably because Accius—”
“Get away from the prisoner!”
Something hard smacked into Tilla’s upper arm. She ducked and ran, leaping across the ditch beside the road. When she turned, a centurion was striding away from her husband, who seemed a little less steady on his feet.
“Do not despair!” she called to him, half running to keep parallel with him, and stumbling in the long grass. “I will do something!”
The wagon moved on, taking him away with it.
I will do something.
What?

What could one woman do to change the mind of the army? Their only friend here—unless you counted Virana—was going north with Hadrian. Meanwhile, now that the Legion no longer recognized her marriage, she would be lucky if she was allowed to speak to anyone with influence. Even if she could, they would all support each other. Look how they had all refused to believe their own medical officer when he spoke ill of Geminus. How could a British woman get a soldier released when he was chained up not for a crime but for speaking the truth about the mistreatment of Britons?

She stood alone by the side of the road, rubbing her bruised arm and watching the lines of mules and pack ponies plodding past. She supposed they would make him walk all the way back to Deva. A hard week on the road, and then someone—Accius, she supposed—would accuse him of murder and the legate of the Twentieth Legion would decide his fate.

While the rest of the baggage train rumbled and squeaked past, she whispered a quiet prayer to Christos. The
Amen
was still on her lips when it struck her that Christos was not known for saving innocent men from suffering at the hands of the Roman Army. Perhaps she should look elsewhere.

She would find a place this eve ning to make an offering to the Goddess, but it had to be said that the Goddess had not done much to save her people from the Romans, either. Perhaps, if they stopped at Calcaria, she could make a promise at a shrine to one of the army’s gods.

By the time she had decided this, the orderly baggage train had given way to a straggle of hired vehicles and farm carts: slaves following their masters, and families eager not to be left behind. She stepped forward so that Celer could see her in good time to pull in. No sooner had she done so than a familiar voice cried, “That’s her!”

It was the scalded-like-a-pig woman.
“Traitor!” cried a voice from another cart.
Someone spat.
“Whore!” yelled somebody else.
Tilla flinched as something more solid than spittle flew past her ear. “Go back to your fancy man!”
Tilla felt her pulse rise. There was no sign of Corinna. The scalded-likea-pig woman was seated on the back of a cart, legs dangling. At least, she was until Tilla grabbed both feet and pulled and the woman landed on the gravel, screaming that she was being attacked, and all her friends rushed in to defend her.

In the end, nobody was badly hurt, although clothes were ripped and dirtied and hair was torn out and somebody complained afterward that That Girl had stamped on her toe and ruined her shoe and was Tilla going to pay for it?

No, said Tilla, trying not to sound out of breath: She was not going to pay, because That Girl had only come to defend her when she had been called bad names by women who should have known better. Had she herself not helped when Corinna’s son was scalded? Had she not helped Victor to escape when he was caught the first time? They did not know about that, did they? Well, perhaps they should stop name-calling until they knew what they were talking about. Perhaps, if they wanted to know who had betrayed Victor, they should start by asking the shop keepers.

“Did you hear that, Corinna?” cried the scalded-like-a-pig woman, bold now that she was back in the safety of her own vehicle. “She’s blaming the neighbors now!”

“Leave her!” Corinna, with Lucios on one hip, stepped forward from the crowd of spectators. “I will talk to the doctor’s woman myself. And if anybody calls her names, it will be me.”

“I was not the one who betrayed you,” Tilla insisted, pulling her skirts straight and checking that her purse was still tied to her belt. “We are caught in the same storm, you and I. We should not be fighting.”

“I wasn’t,” said Corinna. She turned to the scalded-like-a-pig woman and the others who had come to her defense.
They did not deserve to be thanked, but at least it made them go away— which was a good thing, because if they decided to have another try, Tilla was not sure how long she could hold them off. Not even with Virana’s help.
With the excitement over, the crowd melted away. The vehicles set off again. The chatter and the cries of children mingled with the sound of wheels on the road and the calls of drivers urging their animals forward to catch up with the baggage train.
In the safety of their hired cart, Tilla cleaned the gravel out of a graze on Virana’s elbow and put some salve on it from the medicine box. “I was glad you were there, sister,” she said. “Thank you.”
The girl’s features were transformed. It was the smile of a child who had just been given an unexpected present. Tilla wondered if anyone had ever thanked her before. “You are a good fighter.”
“I have brothers.”
“I can tell,” said Tilla, replacing the lid on the ointment pot. “And we must let them know where you are.”
Virana’s face darkened. “Must we?”
“Yes. It is not far to the turn, and we can catch up afterward.” Tilla paused. “Or have you lied to me again about them sending you away?”

“You’re wasting your time with that one, miss.”
The rude one said, “We’ve had enough of Romans, all right?” “It’s not her fault!” Flat-nose turned to Tilla. “We told them everything

we could, miss.”
“That didn’t stop ’em,” put in the rude one. “Sick bastards.” Tilla said, “You were questioned about the murder?”
“We saw him come out the gate,” said Flat-nose, “but we never saw no

doctor. Not that I know of. Unless he were one of them fellers with the scorpions.”
“A Praetorian?”
“That’s them.”
“You saw some Praetorian Guards that night?”
He snorted. “Couldn’t miss ’em. All over the place like a plague of rats. Them and the new lot with the funny-speaking women.”
He must mean the Sixth, some of whose families had followed them from their last posting in Germania.
“Where were you when you saw Geminus?”
The brothers glanced at each other, evidently embarrassed. Finally Flat- nose said, “In the ditch.”
“Where Geminus was found?”
“No,” said the rude one, “the other side of the gates. It was getting a bit lively out there. We didn’t want to get stabbed, so we hid. Me and him and our mate. He’s the blacksmith.”
“Why did you not tell the questioners this?”
He frowned. “I did.”
Flat-nose said, “So did I.”
Tilla spoke slowly, just to make sure her meaning was precise. “Did you see anyone near Geminus?”
“I just told you!” The rude one was getting impatient now. “Like I told old Skinny-legs with the fancy sword. I saw the centurions come out the gate banging on their shields. I thought,
Somebody’s in trouble now.
Then Geminus come out with some of them Praetorians. I don’t know why that’s so hard to understand.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Three or four.”
“You’re sure they were Praetorians? It was dark.”
“They had torches.”
“And that’s how you recognized Geminus?”
“Nah. They all look alike with them helmets on. I heard his voice.”
Tilla looked at Flat- nose for confirmation. He nodded. “It was him all right.”
“What was he saying?”
“It was in Latin. Something about going into action together again.”
“And then what happened?”
“We hid.”
“So you didn’t see what happened next?”
“No.”
“What did you hear after that?”
“
Hear
?” said the rude one. This was clearly something they had not been asked before.
“You knew Geminus from his voice. You must have good hearing.”
The brother sighed. “Are you going to call in a man with a whip too?”
“Shouting,” suggested Flat-nose. “Grunting. Like a fight.”
The rude one said, “Did you hear someone breathing funny?” They looked at each other for confirmation.
“We had a good laugh after,” said Flat-nose. “Somebody had the same idea as us, see. We heard him go into the ditch the other side, only that side’s all nettles.”
“Did you hear him complaining?”
They looked at each other, but neither could remember any complaints. “Well, he wouldn’t shout about it if he was hiding, would he?”
Or if he was dead. “And then?”
“We followed the ditch away from the gates, got out where nobody could see, and went back to our mate’s workshop to sleep it off.” Flatnose rubbed his leg and winced. “Then next day we all got woke up and marched in to the fort to see a man who didn’t believe a word we told him.”
“Romans do not believe that ordinary people will tell the truth unless they are in pain,” explained Tilla. “Did you see Geminus again after that?”
“No. Well, he were dead, weren’t he? Lucky they didn’t throw him in our side.”
“From what I hear,” said the rude one. “Good riddance.”
Tilla allowed herself a smile. “Yes,” she said, “I think we are all better without him. Now, about your sister . . .”
“How much are you offering?”
“I am not offering to buy your sister!” Tilla was shocked. “I am come to ask your mother’s blessing for her to travel with me to Deva. Then I will see to it that she gets safely home again.”
Back at the cart, Tilla merely told Virana that she had the family’s permission to go to Deva. She left out the brother’s demand for money, and the fact that the mother had said she need not bother coming back.

^{NE OF THE}
chief—one of the few—pleasures of long-distance marching was that it left a man alone with his thoughts. Today, however, Ruso’s thoughts were not good company. It was difficult to ignore the fact that every step was taking him nearer to . . . He was not sure what, but it would not be good. Once they got to Deva, Clarus and Accius would report on events at Eboracum to the legate. Ruso had not had the heart, or indeed the time, to explain to Tilla that it barely mattered whether or not he was accused of murdering Geminus. Insubordination was a capital offense in itself, and there was no shortage of witnesses.
There were also mitigating circumstances, but who would listen? Accius

would undermine anything he might say by forewarning the legate that the accused was a known complainer with a history of violence against fellow officers. The legate, with whom Ruso was no better acquainted than he was with the moon, would support his tribune, because that was what officers did. It was called loyalty. Ruso could think of better words.

A painful tug on his wrists brought him stumbling back to the present. He quickened his pace to keep up with the wagon and felt something shift around his left ankle. Trying to adjust his pace to get a better view, he prayed that the knot in the leather thong was just slipping and not working itself undone. If the ends came apart, the lacing would gradually loosen all the way along the boot. He would be left shuffling and hopping and trying not to leave it behind until the order came to halt for water.

He must think about something else.
At least it wasn’t raining.
Inside the wagon, Austalis had his eyes closed. The patients seated along

the bench had all adopted different poses, trying to brace themselves against the wheels jolting over the uneven road. Their faces spoke of boredom, although there was at least one man up there who should have been looking pleased with himself: If Ruso had been in charge instead of Pera, the slackers would have been walking. The patient at the back, a man with a torn knee cartilage, was gazing out blankly as if he had not noticed there was a doctor attached to the back of the hospital wagon.

Could a soldier appeal to the emperor? And if he could, would the emperor listen—especially when listening would be an admission that he had been wrong not to believe the soldier in the first place? Come to that, how exactly would the soldier go about getting any appeal past his commanding officers?

The boot felt no looser than before. He glanced back over his shoulder. The driver of the hospital supply wagon was keeping his mules at a safe distance, which Ruso supposed was the only kindness he could offer. Tilla would be farther back with the camp followers. He hoped she was not alone. He was in no position to protect her. He had managed to exchange a few surreptitious words with Pera, who had promised to look out for her, but Pera had other duties.

Do not despair. I will do something.
The gods alone knew what bizarre plan Tilla had in mind, but whatever it was, he was glad of it. Even if it did not work—and he could not see how it could—at least she was here with him. She had been given the chance to go with Valens, and she had done what he had not dared to ask of her: She had chosen him instead.

He was still warming himself beside this small glow of comfort when the trumpet sounded the order to halt. Somewhere ahead of him, the empress would be treated to the sight of a couple of hundred men guzzling from their waterskins and lining up to pee in the ditch. Here the notquite-walking wounded rose stiffly to their feet and were helped out of the wagon by a couple of orderlies. One or two of them murmured, “Thank you, sir,” perhaps because he had had the sense to step out of their way. Or perhaps because they could not think of anything else to say to him. Whatever the reason, it was good to have his existence acknowledged.

Since nobody else seemed to be paying him any attention, he clambered awkwardly into the vehicle and shook the grit out of his boots before turning to find his former patient reaching a hand toward him.

“Sir . . .”
“Austalis. How are you?”
“Not too bad, sir,” said Austalis, which probably said more about his

“I expect Pera will be along in a minute.” Ruso was surprised he was not there now. He stretched out one manacled hand and just managed to reach the man’s pulse. As he was counting, he heard the scrape of hobnails on wood behind him.

“Can I enter, sir?” Marcus, the recruit whose split lip and splendid tattoos Ruso was ashamed to realize he had forgotten, was already looming over the bed anyway.

“I’ll get out,” offered Ruso. “You probably shouldn’t be seen talking to me. Give him some water if he wants it; there’s a skin in the corner.”
“Sit down, sir. We respect what you did.” He turned to his friend and murmured in British, “I’d have brought you a beer, but there was nowhere to hide it.”
Ruso, still in Latin, said, “You shouldn’t be calling me ‘sir,’ either.”
Reverting to Latin, the recruit said, “He deserved it, sir.”
“I didn’t kill anyone, Marcus. I just spoke to people.”
Marcus untied the stopper and held the waterskin steady as Austalis tried to tip it with one thin hand. “Did you hear the doctor went to the emperor about Geminus?”
“It didn’t turn out too well,” said Ruso.
“This is what they did to him,” Marcus continued to Austalis, grasping one of Ruso’s wrists to show the manacle.
Austalis pushed the water away. “Bastards,” he said.
“They’ve put Dexter in charge now.”
Austalis’s lips moved in response. It was a moment before Ruso realized it was a mime of spitting.
Marcus said, “Sir, the men are asking what will happen to us at Deva.”
Ruso hesitated. The Roman officers would find it only too easy to believe the tale that Tadius had been murdered in some wild barbarian ritual and Sulio had killed himself out of guilt. For a moment he considered warning them. But Geminus had been right about one thing: Telling the recruits they were marching into trouble would only make things worse for everyone. Instead he said, “They don’t invite me to briefings these days.”
“We think they will tell a story about what happened to Tadius,” said Marcus, who was evidently not as naïve as he looked. “And we think they will say Victor killed Geminus.”
“They may well accuse me.”
“We are only recruits, sir. You are useful to them.” He nodded toward Austalis, who seemed to have drifted off to sleep. “You are a good doctor.”
“On reflection,” said Ruso, “I think you were wise to keep those tattoos.”
Marcus nodded and got to his feet. “A good choice for a bad reason, sir. We all wish you well.”
“That’s very good of you.”
Stepping over the length of chain that stretched between Ruso and the back of the wagon, Marcus jumped down. On the ground, he turned and put both hands on the wagon floor, leaned in, and said quietly in British, “You speak our tongue, sir?”
“A little.”
“I could keep you informed, if you like. We know we can trust you.”
“Yes,” said Ruso. “Yes, please do.” He might no longer be an officer, but it seemed he had become an honorary Briton.
There was still no sign of Pera come to check on his patient. In fact, there was no sign of anyone, since the driver of the second wagon had tied the reins of his mules and left them with hay nets while he went to tend to his own needs. Ruso shuffled as far back as the chain would allow, leaned against Austalis’s makeshift bed, and stretched his legs out across the rough wooden floor, listening for the plodding of a horse that might mark the arrival of someone who would punish him for resting.
He gave a guilty start when a shadow fell across the back of the wagon, but it was only Pera arriving at last. He climbed in and glanced at Austalis.
“He’s had some water,” said Ruso. “Fast pulse but no fever, and he’s talking sense.”
“Thank you, sir.” Pera was evidently satisfied that he did not need to be woken. “Sir, there’s a message from your wife.”
Ruso sat up straight. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, sir. She’s traveling at the back with a . . .” Pera seemed to be considering his choice of words. “. . . another woman.” He lowered his voice. “She said to tell you that Geminus was seen with some Praetorians just before he was murdered.”
“What? Does Clarus know?”
“She said to tell you Prefect Clarus questioned the witnesses himself not long after the body was found, sir.”
Ruso stared at him. “He knows? What did he do about it?”
Pera looked nonplussed.
“Sorry, that’s an unfair question. I need to make sure Accius knows what you’ve just told me.”
“She’s going to try and talk to him herself.”
“Right,” said Ruso, pushing aside his unease about the tribune’s interest in his wife. “It might help both you and Victor, sir.”
“Yes. Don’t say anything to anyone else, will you?”
“Are you sure, sir? I was thinking it might raise the morale of the recruits.”
“Exactly. Then the gods alone know what they would get up to.”