Semper Fidelis (15 page)

man in front of him, Ruso marveled at the way a couple of trumpet blasts had conjured these splendid ranks of legionaries out of the chaos of half an hour ago. The first call had been the signal for every man to abandon whatever unfinished task lay in front of him, run to his quarters, and scramble into full parade uniform. The second was the signal to assemble. They were now standing like parallel rows of statues lining the road from the marketplace to the east gate, waiting in the low eve ning sun for the most powerful man in the world to pass between them. All around, an excited rabble of civilians chatted and laughed and argued in the sunshine, waiting for the free show. Youths dangled their legs from the eaves of buildings. Children had been hoisted up on parents’ shoulders. A white-haired woman was clinging to a donkey.

Ruso shifted his grip on his shield and watched a fly land on the helmet and begin to crawl up the crest. His ban daged leg was aching and his mind kept going back to two conversations. The first was with Marcus.

He had spotted the tattooed recruit moving toward the barrack blocks with the cautious gait of a man in pain. He offered what was intended to be a friendly greeting. Marcus jumped as if he had felt the cold touch of a ghost, then turned and gave an awkward salute.

His upper lip was swollen to twice its normal size. There was dark blood congealed around his nostrils and a jagged wound at the edge of his hairline.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing, sir.” The swollen lip distorted the edges of his words.
Ruso wondered what else was concealed beneath the tunic. “A training injury, perhaps?”
“Yes, sir.” The Briton glanced around awkwardly, as if he were trapped with a bore at a party and was longing to get away.
“I haven’t forgotten our conversation. I’ll talk to your centurion—”
“No, sir, don’t—”
“I’m speaking!” Ruso was not used to being interrupted by his juniors. “I’ll talk to your centurion when things aren’t so busy.”
Marcus’s eyes widened with desperation. “Please, sir. I’ve changed my mind. I want to keep them, sir.”
“Keep the tattoos?”
“Yes, sir.” A slave emerged from one of the barrack rooms. “I have no complaints, sir,” Marcus announced in a voice loud enough to be overheard.
And that was all Ruso could get out of him.
The second conversation was with Tilla. His message to report to the emperor’s steward had allowed her into the fort, where she had arrived at the hospital with some medicines he didn’t need in order to tell him things he didn’t like the sound of.
First, someone had been in their room in the mansio and left a gruesome souvenir of the visit, and she was clearly not as calm about it as she was trying to pretend.
“I’m going to have this out with Geminus,” he fumed. “It’ll be him, or one of his shadows. And I’ll see the manager. I can’t believe a thing like that can happen and nobody sees anything. It’s outrageous!”
“The manager is asking his staff,” she said, “but there are always people coming and going there. Lots of them are carrying things. Nobody would notice one more sack.”
“Surely the room was locked?”
“Lots of people can pick locks.”
“I don’t want you going back there without me.”
“Then where am I to go when I have finished cleaning and sweeping up for your emperor? It will be all right. We have another new room, and the staff are watching. Now, stop making a fuss, because there is something else I must tell you.”
He did not like the second piece of news, either. Had he not been so busy nor she so pale, he would have quarreled with her, demanding to know why she had allowed herself to listen to more scandalous gossip about Geminus.
“Somebody will have to do something,” she said. “They cannot ignore something like this.”
“I can’t do anything now, Tilla. This is not the time.”
So she had looked him in the eye and said, “Then when is?”
Ruso opened his mouth very slightly and directed a stream of air at the fly. It flew off on his second attempt.
Geminus was strutting up and down the silent ranks, prodding the occasional offender back into line with his stick. Ruso found himself eyeing the end of the stick for traces of Marcus’s blood. He was certain that the clerk had overheard the conversation in the office and reported every word.
And now there was Tilla’s news.
They have been placing bets on the recruits . . .
It made sense. It made sense of the dangerous order to cross the river. It made sense of the training injuries, incurred when the British recruits were urged to compete with each other. It made sense of Austalis and Marcus’s desperation not to be marked out as Britons when they reached Deva, lest they be exposed to more men like Geminus. Geminus, or perhaps his shadows, had beaten Marcus into silence. Now he had taken steps to frighten Tilla. If it was true that Tadius and Victor had been caught trying to report their centurion’s twisted abuse of power to Deva, then perhaps they had been not only threatened but silenced.
On the other hand, it was hard to be rational about a man after being attacked by his dog.
He tensed the muscles in the injured leg. A fresh stab of pain cut through the ache. There were times when it did not matter whether you were rational, as long as you were right.
There had been no physical coercion of Sulio, but there had been no need. Recalling his early conversation with Geminus, Ruso doubted that the centurion had really persuaded the lad to stay in the army. If the conversation had taken place at all, it was far more likely that Geminus— knowing what Sulio might reveal once he was freed—had refused him permission to leave. Trapped inside the fortress, perhaps fearing that he too would shortly meet with some kind of “accident,” Sulio had attempted the only escape that seemed open to him, and Geminus had followed him onto the roof to make sure he succeeded.
Ruso focused his gaze on the blank faces of the men lining the far side of the street. How many of them could testify to Geminus’s bullying? There must be witnesses standing all around him now, too frightened to speak. If only Pera had kept his nerve and clung to the courage that had caused him to slip an accurate postmortem report into the records without anyone else seeing it. He must have watched with horror as Ruso blundered in and drew it to the clerk’s attention. Now the report was destroyed, and Pera had fallen silent. Just like all the others who had failed to support Tadius and Victor. Perhaps it was too far-fetched to imagine that all those minor annoyances at the hospital had been arranged by Geminus. But someone had put that thing in the mansio bed. And then there was the dog. The dog had been a deliberate attack.
If only he had known all of this when he first approached Accius. The tribune would have been compelled to do more than have an informal chat with an old friend.
He caught a snatch of conversation behind him. A woman was saying in British, “. . . to see how she gets it to stay up in coils like that.”
“It isn’t hers,” said a second woman. “It lifts off at night.”
“Really? She must have to pin it very tight to her real hair.”
“Well, I don’t suppose she moves much,” replied the first woman. As their voices faded Ruso heard, “They don’t even wipe their own backsides, these people. They have slaves to—oh! Is something happening?”
There was indeed a stir in the crowd. While the legionaries stared stoically ahead, the civilians were craning for a view of what was approaching down the east road. The chatter died away. The bark of an order was followed by the tramp of heavy boots approaching from the fortress gate as the guard of honor, with Accius at its head, marched out to meet the imperial party.
The trumpets wailed above the sound of cheering and applause. Forbidden to turn and see what was approaching, the legionaries had to wait until the procession passed in front of their eyes, but all around them Accius’s instructions seemed to have had the desired effect. The locals cheered and whooped and waved at the horse guards as if Hadrian’s cavalry were riding in to liberate them from the blighted presence of the Twentieth Legion. Behind them came the Praetorian Guards, identifiable to anyone who did not know them by the scorpions on their shields, and to anyone who did by their air of owning the place already. Ruso could see their officers scanning the crowd for trouble, as if they did not trust the local garrison to keep order. It was strangely satisfying to think that these highly paid arrivals from Rome would be obliged to march across Britannia in the rain just like everyone else.
The noise of the excited crowd rose even higher. Across the street, a couple of youths on a roof clambered to their feet, raised their hands in the air, and began to wave their arms from side to side on their precarious perch as if they were swaying in the wind. Ruso caught sight of the thin civilian liaison centurion trying to order them to sit down. It was hopeless. Others followed suit, and soon the buildings opposite were crowded with arms swaying back and forth in time with the chant of some sort of cheerfully chaotic native greeting.
Geminus raised his stick twice in the air. The ranks of the Twentieth erupted into a roar of “Cae-sar! Cae-sar!”
And there he was. A lone figure with a glittering breastplate over a surprisingly plain tunic, seated on a white stallion, one hand raised in greeting. The face a little heavier than Ruso remembered from Antioch, surveying the crowd with an air of approval. The lanky rider behind him must be the prefect of the Praetorians. Then more guards, and shrieks of excitement from the crowd as six bearers in scarlet tunics appeared, carrying an open litter.
Children were held up to fling handfuls of white petals into the air. They caught in the breeze and floated down like snowflakes. The empress Sabina looked out from beneath her elaborate hairstyle with no obvious emotion. Ruso tried to suppress the question of whether there really were slaves whose job it was to wipe the imperial backsides, and wondered whether the empress’s pallor was white lead makeup or the aftereffects of a rough sea trip and the knowledge that if she wanted to escape this island of dancing and screaming barbarians, she would have to repeat it.
Moments later, on the far side of more ranks of marching Praetorians, Ruso glimpsed a blond woman smiling and waving at him. No doubt she was just caught up in the excitement of the crowd, but he felt oddly moved. It was not often that Tilla appeared to be proud of him.
Then he remembered what they had been talking about earlier, and he knew it wouldn’t last.

^{HE DOG, RUSO}
reminded himself, would not be loose in the streets without Geminus. Geminus was definitely busy because he— and conspicuously not Ruso—had been invited to dine with Accius and Hadrian and Hadrian’s friends and officials this evening. Still, as he set off on the few minutes’ walk from the hospital to the mansio, Ruso found himself alert to the sounds and shadows in the dusk around him. As he rounded the corner he was not sorry to see the lanterns outside the mansio entrance flare into life, and to notice the door slave making his way back inside carrying a taper.
Reassured by the nearness of safety, Ruso clumped up the steps and sat

on the bench next to the unstable tree, whose pot now seemed to have been roped to a pillar. In a minute he would go and find Tilla, but for now he leaned against the wall, stretched out his aching leg, and surveyed the street along which the emperor had passed earlier this eve ning. Noise and light were spilling out from the bars. Groups of native men stood outside drinking, talking, and laughing. A couple had their arms around skimpily clad girls. The respectable women would all have gone home, or to wherever respectable women went at night when it was too far to get back to their own hearths.

Ruso filled his lungs with cool eve ning air that smelled of beer and roast meat and spice and roses. A man needed to sit quietly and think after such an eventful day.

They have been placing bets on the recruits.
This is not the time.
Then when is?
Hadrian had been impressive. He had barely paused to recover from the

march before going across to the headquarters courtyard and greeting the assembled men of the Twentieth, calling them “fellow soldiers,” which pleased them, and adding, “Now that I’ve experienced the climate of Britannia for myself, I’m even more proud of you.” There was a gust of laughter. Ruso could see from their faces that the older men liked him. The recruits, who might be excused for not trusting anyone in authority, seemed to like him too.

He thanked them for their preparations for what he called “this unexpected honor.” He was, he said, “aware of the disruption an imperial visit can cause, even the most welcome one.”

Watching him, Ruso was impressed. This man had risen from being the son of a provincial senator to become a general, a scholar, and now emperor. There was no sign of the country accent that had made him the butt of jokes when he first entered the Senate. He appeared relaxed, well-groomed, and confident despite just having completed a long march after the terrors of a near shipwreck. It was clear that Hadrian was a very determined man.

As expected, he informed the recruits that tomorrow he would be pleased to observe their final trials before their full admission to the Twentieth Legion. He would also oversee the discharge of veterans. The veterans cheered. Ruso had glanced across to where Geminus was standing as straight as a board beneath the magnificent white crest on his parade helmet. The silver disks that testified to past bravery were polished and gleaming on his chest. If he was concerned about how his men would perform, it did not show. As for the recruits themselves, Ruso was not sure it was possible for them to be any more terrified than they already were.

He stood up slowly from the bench, feeling the stitches pull in the back of his leg. The manager of the mansio leapt up when he saw who it was, assuring him his wife was safe and well and that the staff were keeping an eye on the room.

He found Tilla practicing her reading while she waited for him. Evidently they were now to sleep in a large cupboard and to be entertained by the merry whistling of the cook in the kitchen next door.

“A boy who jumped off a wall and sprained his ankle, and one old lady who fainted and fell off a donkey. I have ban daged them both. Everyone else is too excited to be ill, or too drunk to notice. How is it in the fort?”

He hung his cloak on the back of the door and joined her on the bed. “The Horse Guards and the Twentieth are eyeing each other with mutual suspicion,” he said, “and the hospital’s full of Praetorians who haven’t spoken to anyone so far except to complain.”

“But they are all on the same side.”
“Only if there’s an enemy.”
There was a shout from the kitchen and the clang of a metal pan hitting

the floor. He said, “We need to talk. I don’t doubt what you say about Geminus. But if Accius finds out you’ve been listening to more rumors after he told you to stay out of it—”

“I tried not to listen, but she was determined to tell.” She paused, running one finger slowly down his forearm. “Husband, if I tell you who said it, will you swear not to tell Accius?”

“I suppose so.”
“That is not swearing!”
“Tilla, you know I won’t.” That was not swearing, either, but she let it

She leaned back against the side wall and tucked her bare feet between his legs while she explained about the farm she had gone to visit. “Virana is a very silly girl,” she said, “but now I have met her family I am not surprised.”

He shook his head. “What is it about soldiers that sends girls silly?” “You should be glad of it,” she said, wriggling her toes.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.” She moved her foot away from the ban dage. “So the tribune did

nothing about this Geminus?”
“Oh, he did something. He conveyed my ‘complaint’ word for word to
him. Geminus assures me he has no hard feelings over it.”
“And now his dog has bitten you.”
“Evidently the dog doesn’t feel the same way.”
“You could have been killed!”
He slid a friendly hand up her thigh, reminding her of what she might
have lost. She did not seem to notice.
“This proves Barita was telling the truth!” she said. “Now he is trying to
frighten me with a pig head and silence you too.”
“One of the recruits who complained has been beaten up.” “Has he lost his mind? He cannot go round threatening and killing
everybody!”
“He doesn’t have to. He just has to make them think it’s not worth making
a fuss.”
“We must stop this man!”
He slid the hand higher. “Accius won’t do anything. If he believes anything’s wrong—which I doubt—he’s waiting for it all to blow over.” “You will have to talk to someone more important.”
“There’s no one here—” He caught her expression. “Oh, no. No. That
would be ridiculous.”
“You have met him before. You could remind him. I will pray that he
will listen.”
“You’re starting to sound like my stepmother. Besides, I’ve been told to
stay away from him. I’ll talk to the camp prefect about it when we get back
to Deva. Until then I’ll just have to be careful. I don’t imagine any more of
the recruits will step out of line.”
She grasped his hand. “Not now. I am trying to think. And I am thinking
you should be very careful. I saw that pig’s head. I think Geminus is mad
enough to try to stop you from getting back to Deva.”
“Unless he thinks he can make me keep my mouth shut.”
She brought his hand up to her lips and kissed it. “You are a good man in
a bad place.”
“And if I’m not prepared to risk my neck to make that place better,” he
said, “will I still be a good man?”
“I do not know,” she said. “But you will still be alive.”