Semper Fidelis

SEMPER FIDELIS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Medicus
Terra Incognita Persona Non Grata Caveat Emptor

To Vicki and Mike Finnegan (You’ll know why.)
Hadrianus . . . . Britanniam petit, in qua multa correxit . . .
Hadrian . . . made for Britain, where he set many things straight . . .
Historia Augusta,
Life of Hadiran
SEMPER FIDELIS
A NOVEL
IN WHICH our hero, Gains Petreius Ruso, will be . . .
accompanied by
Tilla, his wife, a native Briton
avoided by
Victor, a deserter
upset by
Sulio, a recruit

set straight by
Publius Valerius Accius, an ambitious tribune Geminus, a veteran centurion
Dexter, another centurion

alarmed by
Austalis, a youth with an injured arm
Marcus, a British youth with splendid tattoos
The two shadows (names unknown) of Geminus (See “Set straight by” above.)

investigated by

Septicius Clarus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard ignored by
Suetonius Tranquillus, secretary to Hadrian and a well-known writer Minna, Accius’s house keeper
Lucios, son of Victor

quoted by
Pera, a former pupil
thanked (offstage) by
Corinna, girlfriend of Victor
undermined by
Metellus, head of security for the retiring governor of Britannia
misunderstood by
Valens, a former colleague

and in which he will seek to avoid
Hadrian, the emperor
Sabina, the empress
Virana, an unwise young woman, sister to Barita (See below.) Bella, a dog

while failing to meet
Dannicus, a recruit—because he is already deceased
Tadius, another recruit—see above
Barita, sister of Virana—because she refuses to leave home Marcia, his own sister—because she lives in Gaul
Paulina, friend of the empress—because she lives in Deva Lucina, Hedone, and pamphile—because he is a busy man with no time to hang around chatting to girls in bars.

SEMPER FIDELIS


V

^{ICTOR’S LEFT EYE}
felt as though it was about to burst like a squashed plum. He ran his tongue along the inside of his gum, tasting blood in gaps that had not been there before. He made a tentative exploration of a couple of loose teeth, seeing how far they would move. It was a mistake. He gasped and fell back against the trunk of the willow as pain welled up and flooded the lower half of his face.

This will pass,
he urged himself, all the while feeling that someone was screwing a hot poker into his jaw.
Count to ten. Breathe in . . . and . . . One. In . . . and . . . Two. Think of something else.

But all that came was the memory of Tadius struggling to rise from the floor, and the voices roaring at him,
Get in there, or you’ll be next.
Tadius, lying very still.
Blood pooling in the dust.
As the pain ebbed he crept forward again, peering out between the willow fronds. The trumpets had sounded the hour for the midday meal and there was hardly anyone about. The girl was still alone on the sunny slab that overhung the water, her skirts hitched up and her bare feet dangling in the river. Beside her on the stone sat a wooden platter with bread and cheese and perhaps beer in the cup. She was busy looking at something in her hand. The willow hid her from the guards over on the fort gates. She had no idea that anyone was watching her.
The guards were standing in the shadow of the wall, leaning on their shields and gazing into the distance with the air of men expecting a quiet afternoon. Victor swallowed. There was a time—it seemed years ago now— when he had dreamed that being in the Legion would be a good life.
The girl sighed and flung down whatever she was holding. She pushed a wisp of blond hair out of her eyes and turned her attention to the platter. The sunlight flashed on a blade. His fingers slid toward his own knife, but she was only cutting the cheese. He let out his breath. He did not want to hurt her, but he had to keep her quiet. If she screamed, the guards would come, and he might not be fast enough to get away with the food.
He would stroll up and try to chat with her. If he said he was hungry, she might even offer to share.
He ran a fingertip over his injured eye. She might not. If the eye was as ugly as it felt, she might scream at the sight of him.
The guards were still looking vacant and bored. The girl tore off a big chunk of bread and put it into her mouth.
Victor stepped forward. “It is a good day to eat beside the river.”
The girl jerked round. Her eyes widened in alarm, but instead of screaming she was convulsed by a choking fit. He reached for the platter, ready to grab the food and run before she could call for help, then saw one hand flapping helplessly toward him as she spluttered and tried to draw breath and thought,
What if she chokes to death?
He stepped behind her, hesitated for a moment, then smacked his hand against the middle of her back.
Moments later she took the beer from him and nodded her thanks.
When she could breathe again without coughing, he spoke slowly, trying not to let his swollen jaw mangle his words. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“If you don’t want to startle people,” she said with the accent of a tribeswoman from farther north, “Don’t creep up on them. Especially when they are eating.”
She was older than he had thought: perhaps in her mid-twenties, and attractive in a way that would have distracted him on better days. He took a deep breath. “I was hoping—”
Her gaze shifted past him. Too late, he heard movement.
As he hit the ground a boot clamped across the back of his neck, ramming his face into the grass. Pain flared from his jaw to his temple. Something hard slammed into the small of his back and a voice said in Latin, “We’ve been watching you, sonny.”
“Please, sir, she was—”
“Shut up!” the voice said, reinforcing its meaning with another blow. “Who d’you think you are, striking an officer’s wife?”

SEMPER FIDELIS


Oh, holy Bregans.
She looked like a native. She spoke British. Where were the slaves? The jewelery? The fancy clothes?
“Sir, she was—”
“Shut up!”
There were two of them: one who gave the orders and one who looked as if he would obey them without question and without mercy. As they wrenched his arms back and lashed his wrists together, the woman began to say something. The soldier cut her short: “It’s all right, miss, you’re safe now.”
“But—”
“We’ll deal with him.”
As if to show how, one of them rammed the pommel of a sword into his ribs. He had no idea why the woman cried out. She wasn’t the one being hit. She wasn’t the fool who had thrown away an escape for the sake of bread he couldn’t even chew.
Half dragged, half stumbling, Victor was hustled up through the rough grass toward the fort gates. The officer’s wife was hurrying to keep up, still talking.
“Don’t you worry, miss,” the senior one assured her. “He’ll understand Latin when we’ve finished with him.”
“I want to speak to him myself.”
The men ignored her. A few paces farther on she appeared in front of them, holding her skirts clear of the grass with one hand and clutching a pair of battered boots in the other.
“So!” she said, looking from to the other of them. “I am worth rescuing but not worth listening to?”
For a moment Victor thought they were going to barge her out of the way. Then the se nior one seemed to think better of it and said gruffly, “The prisoner was watching you, miss. Hiding under the tree.”
She said in British, “Were you watching me?”
He lifted his head to look into eyes that were not quite blue, and not quite green, either.
He staggered as a blow landed on his ear, muffling the roar of “Show some respect!”
Victor lowered his head. Trying to focus on the muddy toes poking out from under the woman’s skirt, he heard himself mangle the words, “I’m very hungry, miss.”
She said, “Have you no family?”
“Not here, miss.” None who could feed him, anyway.
Pale curls tumbled forward as she bent to pull on her boots. “You should have gone to a farm.”
He averted his gaze, afraid another clout would send him sprawling on the grass. He was not going to explain all the reasons why going to a farm was a bad idea. She seemed to think he was a civilian. If the men thought the same thing, there was a chance they might let him go with a beating.
She finished tying her boots and stood up to address the soldiers in Latin. “I thank you,” she said. “Now, will you please fetch my husband? He will know what to do.”
There was a moment of hesitation, then the senior one allowed himself a grunt of disapproval before ordering his comrade to take the message to the gate.
“And ask him to bring his case!” she called after him.
Victor closed his one good eye and prayed that the mighty Bregans would remember the pair of white doves he had promised to sacrifice if he got away safely. He was not to be taken into the fort yet: That was good. But now he had to explain to an officer why he had been hiding under a tree to watch a respectable married woman untie her boots, hitch up her skirts, and dangle her bare feet in the river. And as if that weren’t enough, he had then stepped forward and hit her.
Of course, the man should never have allowed her to wander the countryside by herself in the first place, but in Victor’s experience officers never took the blame for anything.

His new bruises had already begun to stiffen up by the time more men emerged from the fort. The two big lads in chain mail must be part of the German unit based here. The one in the middle was taller than some officers and scruffier than others, but he had the coloring of a man from a hot and dusty place where they talked too much and thought they were clever. Besides, there was no mistaking that walk. They all had it: the confident stride of a man who knew what to do.

Victor stifled the instinct to stand to attention while the men spoke in Latin about “this native” as if he were a stray dog.
The Germans saluted and marched back to the fort. The officer turned to his wife. “This had better be good,” he said.


R

^{USO HAD ALREADY}
noted with relief that the young man’s black eye and swollen jaw were too mature to have been administered by his wife. Or by the Germans, who had sloped off up the hill with obvious disappointment now that their sport had been taken away from them. “I’ve just left spiced chicken and a decent wine,” he said. “Why aren’t you over at the inn?”

Tilla frowned. “If I have to listen to the driver and that woman for much longer, I shall get off and walk. I went to eat in peace by the river and look at your sister’s letter, and this man came to beg for food. Do you think his jaw is broken?”

Ruso, setting aside yet again the disagreeable prospect of a letter from his sister, cast an eye over the native’s injuries. They looked like the result of a brawl. Perhaps somebody else had caught him pestering their wife.

The man had shortish ginger hair, appeared to be in his early twenties, and—apart from the bruises—seemed to be in excellent physical shape. Still speaking Latin, Ruso asked, “Been in a fight, soldier?”

The native looked up. There was fear in his eyes.

“It is all right,” Tilla assured him in British, but the words were still on her lips as the man sprang away and pelted down the slope toward the river.
“Stop!” cried Tilla.
Ruso seized her by the wrist before she could give chase.
“My husband is a doctor!” she cried. “He can help you! Come back!”
The man’s tethered hands gave him a peculiar gait, as if he were trying to run through something sticky.
Ruso released his grip on her wrist.
“We will give you food!”
The man did not break his stride.
“What is the matter with him?”
Ruso folded his arms and watched as the man staggered across the river, lurching as the current pulled at him and then recovering to struggle up the slippery bank without the help of his hands. Finally he vanished into the woods on the far side.
“He’s either stolen his civilian clothes,” Ruso observed, “or his army boots. My money’s on the clothes.”
“Will you send the soldiers after him?”
He bent to pick up his case. “I’ve got enough patients without chasing after more.”
“What will happen to him?”
“I’m guessing he’s one of the British recruits they’ve started taking into the Legion. Not a very bright one. He’s got rid of his belt, but unless he has the sense to change his boots and hide amongst the locals while his hair grows, he’ll be caught.”
“But he has the voice of a Southerner,” she said. “He has no one around here.”
“So?”
“The local tribe might sell him back to the army.”
Ruso reflected that British tribes were always more complicated than you thought. “Well, it’s not our problem.”
Assuming that the spiced chicken would be cold and the wine would be finished by now, he accompanied his wife back to the river bank to compete with the local ducks for a share of her lunch.
“My brothers,” said Tilla, raising her voice over the din of a squawking flotilla lunging for the bread as it hit the water, “would never have joined the Legion.”
Since Tilla’s brothers were not Roman citizens and had been killed by neighboring cattle raiders before they were twenty years old, this was not surprising. “And would they have said,
Our sister would never marry a soldier
?”
“You are not a proper soldier,” she said, flinging the next handful toward a lone bird hesitating at the back. “You are a medicus.”
Ruso glanced down at his army belt and reflected that this fine distinction might be a comfort to Tilla, but it was invisible to everybody else. He had renewed his vows to the emperor. He was an officer of the Twentieth once more, and it did not matter that he had only come back because he missed the salary and the camaraderie and because he never, ever wanted to work as an investigator again. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, he was just another soldier.
When all the food was gone, he escorted her back to the inn. “Just stay out of trouble this afternoon, will you?”
“If that driver is still in there telling stories about how stupid the natives are, I may punch him on the nose.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “If it needs straightening afterward, send him up to me.”
On the way back past the gate guards he wondered if he should, after all, report the escaped Briton as a deserter. Then he remembered it was his own wife who had prized the man away from the guards, and decided someone else could do it.

V

^{ICTOR STRUGGLED ON}
into the deep shade of the woods, his head pounding with every step. His throat was sore. His legs felt like lead. He was torn all over by brambles. He stumbled over a root and went headlong, crying out at the jolt of the landing but knowing he was lucky: The rotting leaves had broken his fall. He lay still, trying to listen over the rasp of his own breathing. Nobody seemed to be following him.

He began to squirm, curling up into a position in which he might be able to reach the clasp knife they had not taken because they had not searched him properly. Whatever they had tied around his wrists was digging into his flesh. His fingers felt numb and clumsy. Slowly, patiently, he managed to tease the little knife out of its hiding place in the sodden sheepskin that lined his boot. Still listening for pursuers, he pried it open and tried to angle the blade against the binding without cutting himself. He could move it only a fraction of an inch at a time. He had no idea whether it was having any effect.

Suddenly the knife slipped out of his grasp. He yanked his wrists against the binding, but it felt tighter than ever. Groping for the knife amongst the leaves, he touched a smooth surface with the tip of one finger. He stretched out his hand. He had two fingers on the blade now, pressing down to get some purchase. It shifted, flipped away from beneath his fingers, and landed somewhere out of reach.

Victor lay back, exhausted. He was beginning to shiver. He thought:
I could die here.
He dared not go back to Eboracum, but if he went home, what would he tell everyone? That he had run away in the fine army boots Corinna’s family had given him for a leaving present? Even if his people took him back, what if Geminus and his men came looking for him? Whole families had been known to be condemned as traitors. There was always room on the ships for more slaves to feed to Rome.
He couldn’t go to his own people. He wasn’t going back to the army. He couldn’t rely on hospitality from other tribes. There was only one place where he was wanted, and he definitely couldn’t risk being found there.
He had made a mess of everything.
That was when Victor, champion wrestler of the Dumnonii tribe for two years in a row, only the second Roman citizen in his family, proud recruit to the Twentieth Legion, father of one, almost able to read and write, laid his head on the ground and wept like a girl.

T

^{HE 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.

SEMPER FIDELIS


“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 the just 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.”