Semper Fidelis: A Novel of the Roman Empire Read online

  The travelers from the Twentieth Legion reached a damp and blustery Eboracum early in the afternoon of the next day. The horses splashed across the ford while the pedestrians waited for the ferry. It was a slow and very visible approach, but no one came out from the fort to greet or even acknowledge them.

  While the escort continued to thump on the south gates and bellow, “Open up for the tribune!” Ruso watched Tribune Accius himself glaring at the wood as if he expected to break through four inches of iron-studded oak with a hard stare. Or perhaps he was just mildly annoyed. It was difficult to tell with Accius. The sharply defined nose gave him an air of perpetual haughtiness, and the slight scowl about the dark eyes suggested a preoccupation with weighty matters that lesser men would not understand. Accius, as he had made quite clear, had no intention of spending his military service hunting and carousing like many of the young nuisances sent out from Rome. No: Accius was a nuisance of an altogether more dangerous sort. He was the sort who actually wanted to do something.

  When there was still no response, the tribune twitched a rein and his horse obediently circled round, allowing him to frown at the ferrymen rowing the rest of his entourage across the river. Ruso followed his gaze and watched the first of the two baggage wagons venturing down into the choppy water.

  “Something’s not right,” Accius declared, as if it were not obvious. “Stop knocking.”

  Ruso sniffed. The moist air was sharp with the smell of burning, but the casual whistling of a figure loading crates outside a warehouse downriver suggested that whatever was going on behind the ramparts of the vast and underoccupied legionary fortress was nothing unusual.

  Accius said, “I sent Geminus a message. They should be expecting us.”

  Remembering that Geminus and Accius were related, Ruso did not venture to suggest that the aging centurion might have forgotten. Even if he had, the guards should have heard them by now.

  He hoped the Sixth Legion had not arrived early. Accius had traveled from Deva to represent the Twentieth at the official handover, and his welcome would sound rather hollow if the new arrivals had already thrown down their bedrolls in the barrack rooms while their legate was happily sweating out the grime of the march in his private baths. He said, “Sir? The ferryman’s trying to get your attention.”

  The standing figure in the ferry was pointing downstream past the warehouses, but his words were lost in a cacophony of yelling and waving passengers all trying to help him communicate. Behind them the mule team faltered, alarmed by all the shouting, and the driver struggled to keep the wagon moving across the ford. Finally someone gave the order for silence. A lone voice rang out, “East gate, sir!”

  It was a poor start, and nothing on the short ride around the corner to the east gate suggested to Ruso that Eboracum was going to get any better. It pleased him enormously.

  Ever since the emperor had declared the date of his visit, Britannia’s administrators had been working themselves into an increasing frenzy of counting and tidying and reordering. Everything that did not move was being painted—at least, on the side that faced the road—while inns were being improved and new buildings flung up in the hope that Hadrian might be enticed to stay in them. Friendly tribes in the South—and perhaps here too, if Tilla was right—were busy preparing a spontaneous explosion of joy to mark his arrival. He supposed the less friendly ones would be equally busy stashing away whatever weapons they still held after the recent troubles.

  Meanwhile the Twentieth Legion had been swept up into an orgy of practicing, polishing, and sharpening, pausing to inspect, and then practicing, polishing, and sharpening some more.

  Exasperated by all the fuss, Ruso had devised himself a tour to inspect the medical facilities of the most obscure outposts he could get away with. Eboracum, awaiting a new garrison and currently not home to anyone important, had seemed a good choice. He eyed the peeling paint and the sagging thatch of the civilian buildings with satisfaction. The few still in use stood out along the street like the remaining teeth in ageing gums. Ruso suppressed a smile. This was just the place for a man who wanted some peace and quiet to get on with his work.

  Accius was not smiling. Glancing back down the potholed street, Ruso wondered if Centurion Geminus had said the wrong thing to somebody important. Nowhere looked inviting on a wet afternoon in Britannia, but Ruso had to admit that the faded glory of Eboracum was an especially forlorn place for a decorated war veteran to end his career.

  The grand plaque honoring the late emperor Trajan looked out over a protective ditch choked with weeds, but as the ferryman had predicted, the heavy gates beneath it were open. The guards who stepped forward to greet them looked reassuringly smart and efficient. The tribune and his party were expected—yes, sir! There was accommodation prepared for him—yes, sir!

  Evidently they had been taught to respond to questions in a manner that conveyed boundless enthusiasm. Only when asked where Geminus could be found did they falter. The blush and stammer that accompanied “He’s dealing with an emergency sir!” suggested they were not sure there could be any crisis more pressing than the arrival of a legionary tribune.

  “What sort of emergency?” demanded Accius, who evidently thought the same thing.

  “He’s up on the roof of the headquarters hall, sir.”

  “He’s mending the roof?” Accius was incredulous.

  “No, sir. He’s trying to get somebody down.”

  Chapter 5

  Ruso looked up, tucking his flapping cloak under his thigh and raising a hand to shield his eyes from the spatters of rain. In the center of the fort, at least seventy feet above the ground, a lone figure had straddled the gable end of the massive headquarters hall like a mouse clinging to the neck of a giant stone horse. He was too far away for anyone to make out his features, let alone any expression that might hint at his state of mind. All that could be seen was a bright blond head above a brown tunic and one pale leg ending in a bare foot.

  Below and to the man’s right, about halfway up the building, several other figures were moving about on the wet tiles of the side roof. They were trying to maneuver a ladder so that the hand dangling a swaying rope from a high window could tie it in position. Ruso could hear them shouting to each other, but the breeze and the distance snatched their words away.

  “There he is!” said Accius, looking at the rescuers. “That’s Geminus.”

  The centurion must be the muscular, bald-headed figure directing the operation. Ruso shifted in his saddle. The roofs were not steep, but the wind was blowing in sharp gusts and the tiles were slick with rain. He had seen what happened when a body fell from a great height. He had no wish to see it again, nor to hear the voices of desperate comrades pleading with him to help, as if there were something that could be done.

  He was startled by shouts from farther down the street. “Get on with it, then, sonny! We haven’t got all day!”

  “Are you jumping or not?”

  “Silence!” bellowed a third voice. “You men, get back to work!”

  Half a dozen legionaries in rough working clothes emerged from an alleyway and paused to gaze upward. One was clutching a trowel hastily scraped clean of plaster. Another was holding a brush against the side of a pot with bloodred paint dribbled down the sides. The painter jabbed a middle finger toward the figure on the roof and they all shambled away, failing to notice the visitors.

  A thickset man with graying temples appeared from the same alley. He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of strangers on horseback. He saluted the tribune and introduced himself as Centurion Dexter.

  Accius’s scowl was directed at the man on the roof. “What’s that idiot doing up there, Dexter?”

  “Geminus will have him down in a minute, sir.”

  “No doubt,” said Accius, sounding like a man who had just been proved right about something but was not pleased about it. He eased his horse forward to get a better view. “Or he’ll kill himself in the attempt. I may order him to come d
own and send someone else.”

  “It’s one of his recruits, sir. He insisted on going up there.”

  “He would.”

  The hand from the window swung the rope around and tied the ladder in position. Four men attempted to hold it steady while Geminus began to climb.

  He was halfway up the ladder when it slipped and screeched down the tiles. Accius gasped. The lone centurion clung on, his tunic rippling in the wind. Above him the rope was hanging loose from the window, now with a detached rung swinging about at the end of it. The rung fell out of the rope, struck one of the men holding the ladder, and clattered down the roof, gathering speed before it launched off the edge.

  Above them, the blond recruit was motionless, still straddling the ridge tiles at arm’s length from the drop.

  Geminus bent to say something to the men below him, who adjusted their positions one by one. There seemed to be a discussion going on. Finally the rope was retied to the side struts of the ladder, which was where it should have been in the first place. Accius muttered something under his breath as Geminus stretched up across the gap in the rungs, and kept moving.

  This time the ladder held steady.

  Ruso’s attention was caught by the sound of running feet. Ten or twelve young men appeared around the corner with mattresses slung over their shoulders. The mattresses were silvered with drizzle and the straw had collected in the bottoms of the covers, so that they were swinging about and banging awkwardly into the men’s thighs.

  Directed by the centurion on the ground, they piled them up on the flagstones directly beneath the gable end. Ruso, afraid someone might now encourage the recruit to jump, nudged his horse forward and murmured, “Centurion, you do know he’s too high for that to help?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Ruso, medical officer from Deva. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.” Dexter shrugged. “At least it’ll be over.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sulio.”

  “Your comrade seems to think he can get him down.”

  Dexter snorted. “A real man would have killed himself in private, but the natives have to make a drama.”

  Ruso was aware of a mutter of prayer from one or two of the young men. All were gazing upward at Sulio, several clutching good-luck tokens strung alongside the lead identity tags around their necks.

  “Move along there!” shouted Dexter, adding, “It’s not a bloody show. Get back to training!” as they retreated.

  Geminus was at the top of the ladder now, but he was still not high enough to step onto the roof. He put both hands on the tiles. Ruso could feel the thud of his own heart. Geminus looked very small against the dull gray sky. One leg rose tentatively, then he grabbed the ladder again.

  Ruso instinctively groped behind him to check that his medical case was still strapped behind the saddle. As if it would do any good.

  Geminus repositioned himself, raised one knee, and finally eased himself up over the edge and onto the roof. Ruso wiped the rain off his face and spotted a medical team assembling a couple of stretchers against the wall of the hall, out of the recruit’s line of vision. They had brought a box of dressings but also—more realistically—a bucket of sawdust, a broom, and a shovel.

  Geminus was now picking his way diagonally across the roof toward the gable end. The blond head turned toward him. Geminus came to a halt while they were still ten feet apart. Nothing seemed to be happening. Perhaps they were talking.

  Down in the street, the arrival of breathless runners signaled the delivery of more mattresses. Dexter busied himself directing their arrangement as if they would make a difference.

  Above them, the conversation—if that was what it was—seemed to be over. The recruit was hitching himself backward along the ridge toward safety. Ruso let out a long breath, and then Geminus moved forward.

  Seeing him coming, Sulio stopped. Then he edged back toward the drop. Geminus, concentrating on his own progress, did not seem to have noticed that his man was moving in the wrong direction.

  “Wait!” Ruso yelled, aware that he might be making things worse by interfering. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Stay still!”

  Dexter, seeing what was happening, shouted at his men to stand clear.

  “Centurion Geminus!” Accius’s clipped voice rang out across the street. “This is Tribune Publius Valerius Accius. Halt!”

  Geminus looked down, and paused. Just out of his reach, Sulio clambered awkwardly to his feet. He swayed above the drop, then steadied himself. His wet tunic flapped against his thighs.

  “Sit down!” Everyone was yelling now. Cries of “Don’t do it!” and “Stay there!” and “Don’t be a fool, son!” filled the street, but Sulio did not seem to hear them. He looked back over his shoulder again at Geminus, who raised both arms as if he were trying to hold him steady by embracing the air between them.

  Sulio turned away. He stretched his hands toward the dull sky. He looked as though he was praying.

  “Sit down!”

  “No!”

  The street was silent for one long and terrible moment. Then Sulio hit the ground.

  Chapter 6

  Wherever two main roads met there were soldiers, and wherever there were soldiers there were women, and wherever there were soldiers and women there would sooner or later be small boys, and one of the great delights of small boys was to watch the roads for the arrival of weary civilians and then descend upon them like a cloud of midges.

  On the way into the fort, Minna had slapped at the grasping hands and shouted insults in Latin. The small boys called her names in British that she did not understand, which was just as well. When Tilla emerged from the gates a short while later, still struggling with damp bags and boxes of medicines but no longer with a wagon to put them in, she was glad she had not joined in the trading of rude words. It made it less likely that the scrawny, barefoot helper she now chose to escort her to the official inn would run away with her luggage. In case he was thinking of it, she looked him up and down and said in British, “Don’t I know your mother?”

  Perhaps encouraged by this connection, or perhaps in the hope of a larger tip, he gave her a commentary on the sights of Eboracum as they passed. Tilla, however, was not interested in knowing where Demetrius, the famous grammarian, used to teach, or how to find the temple of Mithras or the bar where the deaf wheelwright had murdered his wife’s mother. What she wanted to do was get out of the wind and rain. What she wanted to know was whether the official mansio was better than the ghastly centurion’s quarters she had just been offered inside the fortress.

  She shuddered at the memory of a kitchen spattered with mouse droppings, a dining room with a gray fan of damp spreading out from one corner, and a lone and worm-eaten cupboard with the door hanging off. She supposed that once it was clear the previous legion was not coming back, the few troops left to garrison Eboracum had looted the unused buildings and then abandoned them. The cupboard was probably too damp to burn.

  “This is it!” announced the boy.

  Tilla gazed at a wooden building on a prime corner site. It was obviously a bar, well used and properly maintained. It was also very obviously a whorehouse. Watching them from the shelter of the doorway with his one good eye was a man shaped like a bear.

  “Ah,” said Tilla.

  The boy swung one of her bags toward a freshly painted slogan on the wall outside. “Look!”

  “Yes,” said Tilla, squinting past the hair blowing into her eyes. “Are you sure this is the—”

  “I can tell you what it says!” announced the boy. “It says, ‘Lucina, Pamphile, and Hedone welcome our heroes from the Sixth Legion.’ Lucina is Mam’s special work name.”

  “‘We speak Latin,’” added Tilla.

  The boy looked at her in amazement. “You can read?”

  “A little,” confessed Tilla, who was still not sure it was a good idea.

  The boy called across to the doorman, “Is Mam around?”


  “Working.”

  The boy shrugged and apologized to Tilla, who said, “We mustn’t disturb her.”

  He took up the bag again. “I’ll take you to the mansio now.”

  Evidently nothing worth telling her about had happened on the next street, possibly because hardly anyone was living there. A shop was offering bread along with a pile of unidentifiable meat, a box of cabbages, and five cheeses arranged in a pyramid on a tray, but at the moment she had no use for any of them. Nor for the shoemaker on the corner, who broke off from his work to offer instant repairs and grease to keep the rain out. A third shop seemed to be offering the sorts of things soldiers collected in barracks and then found they could not carry with them when they left: an old carved chair, a birdcage repaired with twine …

  The official inn was just beyond the east road, and it was a surprise. Its walls were bright with fresh white limewash. Its doors were in place. Its windows had glass, its roof looked intact, and there was no sign of women or cabbages for sale inside. Two slaves in matching cream-and-brown tunics rushed forward to take her luggage. Relieved, she paid the boy more than she should have, and they were both happy.

  The slaves took her to a downstairs room that looked out over the dripping courtyard garden. It was not cheap, but it smelled clean and it had all the things she needed: two narrow beds, two lamps, one table with a jug and bowl, and a wicker chair with a faded scarlet cushion. Better still, there was no sign of anything with more legs than herself living there already.

  The slaves bowed and retreated. She opened the boxes of medicines to check that none of the bottles was broken and that the linen bags were dry after their journey, then slid them away under the beds. There was nothing to replace or refill: They had barely been used on the trip so far. She pulled her sister-in-law’s letter out of its safe place, tucked away in her tunic, and left it in the middle of the table.

  She had no idea what the letter was about. Marcia’s writing was like nothing she had ever seen before. She had given up trying to make out anything beyond Dearest Gaius. Gaius was what the family called him. Dearest was what they added when they wanted something. No wonder he was putting off looking at it. That was one of the bad things about being able to read: people could nag you from a great distance.