Semper Fidelis (18 page)

Ruso stood beside Pera at the bottom of the ditch, running one hand through his hair. He could not believe what he was seeing. Geminus’s throat had been cut open and his head pulled back with an efficiency that suggested the practiced butchering of an animal. A bloodstained dagger lay beside him.

He crouched beside the body, feeling the tingle of nettles against his skin. The dagger slid neatly into the empty sheath at the centurion’s side.

Pera said, “He couldn’t have done that to himself, could he, sir?” “No.”
“What do we do?”
Ruso closed his eyes for a moment and tried to detach his mind from the

shock. “ ‘Time of death, cause of death, any other matters of note,’ ” he recited. “You can do the rest of the details up at the mortuary. Did you bring anything to write with?”

Pera extended a hand, put it on the centurion’s arm, and then quickly withdrew it. “He’s cold, sir.”
“Sometime last night. Cause of death, severing of right and left carotid arteries. Anything else of note . . .” He stood, slapping at the nettle stings. “Did you slide down here or jump?”
“Jump, sir.”
“So did I.” Ruso peered at the side of the ditch, where he could now make out smears of blood. Several clumps of grass were hanging by pale roots. “Looks as though they did it up there,” he said, “and then tipped him in.”
“ ‘They’?”
Ruso said, “You think one man could take Geminus?”
There were two thuds as a couple of the orderlies landed in the ditch behind them. They complained vigorously about the nettles as they lifted the body onto the stretcher and maneuvered it up to their comrade waiting at ground level. The men from the Sixth finally produced a ladder from the gatehouse and Ruso was halfway up it when he heard a growing sound of tramping boots and jingling belt straps. It was followed by a cry of “Make way for His Honour the Praetorian Prefect and Tribune Accius!”
Pera emerged from the ditch and crouched to wipe his hands on the grass before saluting. Ruso recognized the lanky man who had been riding behind Hadrian in the pro cession: Praetorian Prefect Clarus, the only man authorized to carry a sword in the private company of the emperor. Accius was beside him, looking like a man who had not slept well, and behind them Dexter was craning to see what was on the stretcher. Prefect Clarus approached and gestured for the orderly to draw back the top of the sheet. Both he and Accius blanched and turned away from the sight. Dexter stared down at the mutilated body of his comrade, betraying no emotion. The man replaced the sheet.
Clarus said, “Is that him?”
Accius swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Who found him?”
“The perimeter patrol, sir,” said one of the Sixth.
Accius shook his head. “Terrible. Terrible. He was just about to retire. What a tragedy.” Suddenly he noticed Ruso. “You!” His voice was hoarse. “Get away from him!”
“Sir, if I can help—”
“Arrest this man!”
“But, sir—”
“Have him chained up in the guardhouse.”
“Sir, I didn’t—”
The blow to his head sent him staggering sideways.
“Speak when you’re spoken to!” snarled Dexter. “And show some respect to the centurion. Like a flock of vultures, you lot.”
Dazed, he was aware of Accius somewhere in the distance saying, “He can speak at his trial. Until then, get him out of my sight or I’ll have him killed on the spot.”

^{USO’S HEAD WAS}
throbbing. He supposed he should be glad that they had left him the dignity of a loincloth, but the stone walls of the cell were cold and unyielding against his naked back, and the iron bands he had seen two days ago were now cutting into his own wrists. He could not even scratch at the crawling itches of the nettle stings because the chains were too short, clamped to the wall in such a way that it was impossible either to stand up properly or to lower his hands from shoulder height when he sat.

What a fool he had been. What a pompous ass.
I swore to serve
indeed! At every crossroads, he had taken the wrong turn.
Pera’s careful report about Tadius had been destroyed because he had blundered in, trying to help.
Hadrian’s annoyed expression as he had called “Your Majesty!” should have warned him to shut up, but instead he had plowed on.
He closed his eyes and pictured Tilla pulling clothes out of their luggage.
If we do not carry too much and we start now, we can be ten miles away by morning.
If only he could have that moment over again. He would say,
Give me both bags and you take the box.
She had said,
May the gods smile upon you, Gaius Petreius the Medicus
.

He was drifting into a fitful sleep when a key rattled in the lock and the door crashed open.
“On your feet!” bawled a guard. “Septicius Clarus, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, and Tribune Accius to see the prisoner!”
Ruso struggled to his feet and stood with his back straight and his knees bent. It was marginally more respectful than leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out, but much less comfortable.
Clarus stepped into the cell. When Accius joined him, there was barely room to shut the door. Ruso, forcibly shortened and with his thighs already aching from the effort of his unnatural posture, looked up at them and waited while Clarus angled a wax tablet to catch the light from the small, high window. Accius glowered at a space somewhere above Ruso’s head. Normally a disciplinary investigation would be conducted by a tribune, but there were all sorts of reasons why Accius was the wrong man to investigate this, and Ruso guessed he had been forbidden to speak.
“Gaius Petreius Ruso,” Clarus declared, looking up from his notes and addressing him as if he were making a speech in the Forum. “As you are known to the emperor, I will be making the inquiries relating to the accusation of murder that has been made against you.”
“I didn’t do it, sir.”
“I am instructed to inform you that if you confess, things will be easier for your wife.”
“I have no wife, sir. I’m divorced.”
Clarus looked down his nose at him for a moment, then continued. “Last night you were confined to quarters.”
“I was called to a medical emergency, sir.”
“Yes.” Clarus ran one finger over the notes until he reached the point he wanted. “And when the emergency was dealt with, you went out through the east gate disguised as one of my men.”
This was not going well.
“You were seen at the mansio asking for your wife.”
Ruso swallowed.
“There was blood on your hands.”
“The blood was from a patient, sir.”
Clarus let that rest. “There are some doubts about the loyalty of your wife, are there not?”
“I have no doubts, sir.”
“You wouldn’t deny that you asked to see her?”
“I needed to inform her that our marriage was no longer legal, sir. Because I’d been demoted.”
“But you still think of her as your wife.”
The burning in Ruso’s thighs was becoming unbearable. “I didn’t kill Geminus, sir.”
“Several people have told me that you had a grudge against him.”
“Not him personally, sir. The things he did. He caused the deaths of three of his recruits and then made threats against me when I tried to look into it. I wasn’t the only person who—” He stopped just in time and finished with “who had trouble with him” instead of
who wanted him dead
.
“The tribune here was already dealing with the business of the recruits.”
“Yes, sir.” He could stand it no longer. He wriggled round until he could lean against the wall with his aching legs stretched out in front of him.
Accius burst out, “Stand up straight!”
Clarus shot him a warning glance while Ruso shuffled back to his original position. He turned to the prefect. “Sir, I’m not going to escape. Could I have the chains removed?”
“Other men, perhaps,” said the prefect. “A man with your history, no.”
“My history, sir?”
“Your record of violence against fellow officers.”
Ruso frowned. “What?”
Clarus sighed. “You see, Ruso, we know a great deal about you.”
Ruso closed his eyes, realizing at last what—or rather, who—was behind Clarus’s interest in him. “I once pushed Metellus into a river, sir. I did it because he deserved it.”
“And did Geminus deserve what you did to him too?”
“What happened to Centurion Geminus wasn’t justice, sir. And the person who did it is still free.” He took a chance. “I’ve worked as an investigator in the past, sir. I could help you track down the guilty men.”
Clarus snapped his writing tablet shut. “Do the honorable thing and confess, Ruso. You don’t want to meet the questioners, and we don’t want to have to use them on a man of your former standing. It’s undignified.” He turned and thumped the door with his fist. “Guards! We’ve finished with this man.”

Lucios, seated on a rug on the mud floor, grasped the end of one chubby bare foot and looked up for approval.
“Oh, clever boy!”
It was hard to reconcile the grinning toddler with the red-faced, screaming creature she had seen thrashing about in his mother’s arms three days ago.
“Now where is your hair? Where’s Lucios’s hair? Shall I show you?”
The wispy blond hair was duly located and admired. “How about your ears? Oh, look! There they are! Two ears!”
Tilla hoped his mother would be back soon. The child was barely old enough for stories, she was running out of games and she would be glad to get away from this place. Corinna had clearly not been pleased to come down and find her still here this morning, and was even less pleased when Tilla explained that her husband had told her to wait here for a message. So Tilla had promised to find lodging elsewhere, and although they both knew that rooms were as rare as fish feathers in Eboracum at the moment, Corinna had thanked her and offered to pass on the message when it came. Meanwhile, perhaps Tilla would wait behind and watch Lucios while she went out to buy bread?
Tilla had duly noted that she was not to let the boy eat mud, or pull off his bandage, or go near the hearth or out of the gate (which was now barred) or up the ladder (a board was tied across the rungs to keep him off ); and at the least sign of fidgeting or hiding in a corner, she was to insist that he sit on the pot.
Corinna had been gone a long time. There must be queues at the bakery, and no doubt much gossip to be exchanged after the rioting last night. Perhaps Corinna was glad of the break: Caring for a small child all day and night must be tedious. Was that how it would be if they ever had children of their own? And where would “home” be if Accius had her husband thrown out of the Legion?
She wished the message would come.
“I think,” she said, “it must be time for your milk.”
Lucios, easily contented, bounced with delight. While he slurped at the pointed spout—he insisted on holding the cup himself—she busied herself checking the repacked luggage. Essentials were in one bag and things that could be abandoned in the other, just in case she had to move quickly. The medicines would have to stay here until she could collect them. Corinna, whose son had benefited from them, would not begrudge her that.
She divided her small stock of coins into three. Some went back into the purse that she would tie to her belt. She glanced up to make sure Lucios was still safely occupied, then slipped others into a little linen medicine bag slung on twine around her neck, hidden inside her tunic. Then she unrolled a bandage, knotted the last remaining coins inside it, and hitched up her skirts to tie it around her waist. It was difficult to form a knot by feel, especially with the skirt fabric getting in the way, and it took several attempts, but finally she was satisfied that if she found herself traveling alone, she had done all she could to fool anyone who wanted to rob—
Lucios was not on the rug. Her heart beat faster. He was not in the room! Holy mothers, where—“Lucios?” she called, trying to sound calm. “Lucios!” She stopped. “How did you get up there?”
The toddler was balanced on the top rung of the ladder, just out of her reach. He was holding on—loosely—with one hand. The thumb of his free hand was stuffed into his mouth.
“Stay still!” she urged, untying the wretched board that was stopping her from reaching him. He must have bypassed it by climbing up the cupboard shelves. “Hold tight and don’t move, I’m coming!”
By the time she reached the top of the ladder, he was waddling away across the gloomy loft, giggling as if this were a fine new game. “I can see you!” she declared, hoping her voice would frighten the rats into hiding. “Here I come!”

There was no point in being cross. It was her own fault for not watching. She hoped she could get him safely down again before Corinna came home.
The boy threw himself onto a striped bedcover laid out on the floor. She moved towards him, ready to make a grab if he tried to run but keeping a wary eye on the dark expanses under the eaves lest something should scurry out. A misshapen pile hidden by an old gray blanket looked particularly suspicious, but that thing poking out from it was not moving. It was only an old sandal . . .
She stopped. There was nothing unusual about an old sandal in a loft, but this one had toes inside it.
Lucios had tired of the game. He held his hands out toward her. She scooped him up, then retreated carefully down the ladder, holding tight as he wriggled under her arm. As soon as they reached the ground, she carried him out onto the sunny cobbles beside the vegetable patch and placed herself in a position where she could watch the back door of the house. She sat with him between her knees and sang him a please-go- to-sleep song— not too loud, in case she missed the sound of a messenger from the fort knocking at the front.
She had heard nothing from either the door or the loft when Corinna returned. Lucios was finally asleep on a blanket in the shade, thumb in mouth and looking like a cupid in one of those dreadful paintings that decorated the stepmother-in-law’s dining room in faraway Gaul.
“I am sorry I am so late,” whispered Corinna, gathering up her sleeping son. “The army are out on the streets arresting people. I had to hide until they were gone.”
Tilla stabbed a finger toward the thatch and whispered back, “There is someone up there!”
Corinna glanced at her, then carried the boy into the house and lowered him onto the little bed in the alcove. He wriggled and opened his eyes, then found his thumb and drifted back to sleep. She beckoned Tilla across to the dead hearth. “Please tell no one. He has nowhere else to go.”
Tilla said, “It is not my business to tell. So there are no rats?”
Corinna managed a weak smile. “Just the one big one with ginger hair.”
“I will leave now,” said Tilla, wondering what he had overheard. “I will find somewhere else to stay.”
Corinna shook her head. “You should not go yet,” she said, reaching for the wicker chair. “Something very bad has happened.” Sitting on the wooden bench by the ashes of the hearth, Tilla learned that the Twentieth were still here, and did not look likely to leave today.
“Geminus is dead?” Tilla was stunned. This was not how it was supposed to end.
According to Corinna, the army were stopping people to question them about last night. Anyone who did not answer in the way the soldiers wanted was being arrested and taken away.
“What about my husband? Is there any news?”
“I heard . . .” Corinna paused. “I heard that a doctor has been taken for murder,” she said, adding hastily, “But it might not be him.”
“Of course it is him! That is why he sent no message!” Tilla sprang to her feet, grabbing the bench before it toppled behind her. “I must go to the fort!”
“Not yet.” A figure was climbing down from the loft. To his wife Victor said, “How do we know she won’t talk?”
“She is a friend, husband!”
It was hard to recognize this ginger-bearded man as the creature who had begged her for food and then fled across the river. The swelling had gone down and the bruises were yellow stains.
“Her man’s accused of murder,” he said, placing himself between Tilla and the door to the street. “She knows I’m here, and everyone knows I had no love for Geminus. How do we know she won’t betray us to save him?”
Tilla drew herself up to her full height, which was not much less than his own. “Because I give you my word,” she said.
“She brought her husband to help Lucios,” urged Corinna.
“And if it were not for us,” said Tilla, “what would have happened to you when they caught you at the river?”
Victor continued to glare at her as if he were waiting for submission, then closed his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “It is hard to know who to trust.”
“Indeed,” agreed Tilla. “Now, may I leave my bags here while I try to help the man who saved you and tended your son?”
“You may,” he said, stepping aside. “Holy Bregans go with you.”