Semper Fidelis (19 page)

Tilla made another show of hunting through Corinna’s basket as she stood in front of the archway of the east gate. “I am sorry,” she said, scrabbling around under the onions and the wedge of cheese. “It was in here when I went out. I must have dropped it somewhere. What a nuisance.”

“No admission without a gate pass,” repeated the man. He was wearing the blue tunic of the Sixth Legion, so he had arrived only yesterday.
“No, of course,” she agreed. “If you do not know who I am, I will wait while you send a message to the tribune.”
The guard glanced across at his comrades, but they were busy arguing with an old man whose donkey had shed a load of firewood and blocked most of the entrance. He said, “Tribune?”
“Tribune Accius of the Twentieth Legion,” she explained. “Tell him his house keeper Minna is at the gate and he will have a pass sent down straightaway. If you do not, his dinner will be late.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You look like a native.”
“I am the tribune’s personal choice,” she assured him, leaving him to decide what that might mean if he annoyed her. The other guards were still busy insulting the old man, whose only hope of clearing up his scattered load any faster was for them to stop complaining and start helping. “You could ask at the Mansio,” she suggested. “Or at Headquarters. Everybody knows Minna.”
The guard pursed his lips, then stepped aside. “Next time, make sure you’ve got your pass.”
She flashed him a smile of thanks that was much more friendly than anything the real Minna would have given him, and strode into the fort past rows of loaded and abandoned vehicles as if she knew where she was going. Nobody challenged her. With all the recent comings and goings, everyone would assume that somebody else knew who she was. It crossed her mind that a Brigante woman intent on mischief might see her chance to set fire to those vehicles. Today she had more important things to think about.
A slave carrying a basket of loaves on his head gave her directions to the hospital. A heavily built clerk told her that Medical Officer Ruso was not available but he would see if the deputy was free. While she waited outside the office, wondering what she was doing in the fort and how she was going to get back out again, an orderly arrived to deliver linen to the room opposite. She caught a glimpse of a pale figure propped up on pillows. She hoped it was Austalis, because as far as she could see, the figure still had both arms. When she found her husband, she must remember to tell him that. It would be a small piece of good news.
A couple of men dragged a creaking basket of soiled linen all the way along the tiled corridor and disappeared around the corner at the far end. A group of Praetorian guards strolled past. They had the loud voices and confident laughter of men who thought they were more important than anyone they might be disturbing. Tilla kept her head down, and if anyone paid her any attention, she was not aware of it.
The clerk had been gone a worryingly long time when a short young man with dark curls appeared and said, “I’m Pera. Were you looking for me?”
There were times when it was necessary for a woman to shut herself in a room with a man who was not her husband, no matter how alarmed that man might look, and this was one of them. When she told him who she was, he looked even more alarmed. She said, “I need to know what has happened to him.”
Pera reached up and rubbed the back of his neck as if it were aching. When he spoke, it was only to confirm her fears.
She said, “Have they hurt him?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me visit. I heard the Praetorian prefect’s taken charge of the investigation.”
“Perhaps he will be fairer than Accius.”
“They’re talking about a trial before the legate in Deva.”

Tilla had been expecting this. She told them who she was, and they marched her away down the corridor. Out in the street, she turned. Pera was standing in the doorway, still watching her.

Accius was in the same bare office, but this time there was no Minna pretending to darn socks in the corner: just the guard at the door, and some sort of secretary with a stylus at the ready.

The tribune’s gaze wandered over her as if he were assessing an animal for breeding or slaughter.
It was no good hoping he would be merciful. She had met ambitious men like Accius before. They were so busy watching every move of the people they were trying to impress that they did not notice who they were trampling on.
Finally he spoke. “Were you both born fools, or has he become one because of you?”
“Sir, I am sorry you have lost a relative. But my husband did not kill him.”
The scowl deepened, as if he was not used to being spoken to frankly by women. “The Medicus has chosen his own fate,” he said. “You need not share it.”
She was careful to keep her voice steady. “What do you advise, sir?”
Accius rose from his chair and advanced toward her. “I advise you to obey me in future.”
The secretary was so still against the wall that he might have been painted on it. Accius was only a pace away now. He reached out one hand and lifted a curl from her ear. His breath smelled of wine. “I have been watching you,” he said. “I am told that you native women will bed any man who takes your fancy, and have no shame.”
Holy mothers, he must have spoken to Sabina! She must stay calm. She must
think
. He was trying to frighten her. If she gave way, what would it gain her? He was not the one in charge of the investigation, but he could still make trouble for them both. “Sir,” she said, “you were advise—” No, that was wrong. She tried again. “You advised me well before. My duty is to my husband.”
“A man of his rank does not have a wife.”
Before she could stop herself, she said, “And a woman of my rank does not let the army decide who she is married to!”
She waited for the blow to land. You did not challenge a man like this. You appealed to his vanity. “Sir,” she said quickly, “you are an honorable man. I know you will want justice for the death of the centurion.”
He gripped her by the shoulders. “Your husband tried to step over me to get to the emperor.”
She swallowed. “He did not kill Geminus, sir.”
Forcing her back against the wall, he said, “Nobody insults me like that.”
“Sir, he was with the doctors last night, and then he was with me.”
One hand was groping her breast. “We both know that’s a lie.”
“Sir, I beg you—”
But it was not her who made him pause. It was the secretary, tapping on his shoulder. “Sir! Please, sir!”
“What?” snapped Accius.
For a moment Tilla thought the secretary might be a decent man who had chosen to rescue her. But what had saved her was an urgent summons from the emperor. The secretary even asked Accius if they should keep the woman here until he returned.
“Don’t bother. I don’t have time to waste on native whores.”
She took a deep breath. “Sir, I will try to find out who really killed the centurion.”
“What?”
“The local people will not talk to your soldiers, but they talk to me.”
The fierce gaze was leveled straight at her. “Stay out of army business,” he said. “If I catch you near any of my men, you’ll be executed. Guards!” The door opened. “Take her away.”

^{T WAS NOT}
until the soldiers pushed her out of the east gate that Tilla noticed the state of the streets she had hurried through earlier. Parts of Eboracum’s civilian quarter stank of urine and looked as though they had been battered by a terrible storm. Flowers and weeds alike were trodden flat. A couple of people were wandering about with buckets, picking up broken glass for remolding. A slave was washing vomit from a wall and two men were removing a shutter that looked as though someone had punched a hole in it. Opposite the temple of Mithras, a thin trail of smoke still rose from a mess of stark black timbers. A man and a barefoot woman stood in front of the wreckage. The woman was crying. Tilla moved on.

As ordered, she would not talk to soldiers. But as for keeping out of army business . . . well, the murder of Geminus was her business too now.
She soon found there was no shortage of people eager to tell her what had happened last night. Many had damage to property or to themselves to show her. For a lucky few, the outrage was soothed by a good eve ning’s takings, but for most, it had been a costly night. For some, the worry was not over yet. They were now waiting for news of relatives who had been hauled in this morning for questioning.
The trouble was, nobody could tell her anything useful about Geminus. Most people assumed he had been killed by another soldier. Few seemed surprised. And as several people pointed out, all soldiers looked alike in the dark.
According to the sleepy girls behind the bruised but defiant doormen at the bar, soldiers didn’t all feel alike, but none had seen or felt Geminus last night. None seemed at all sorry about it, nor about what had happened to him. Tilla was fairly certain they were telling the truth.
While she was there, the small boy appeared with a stack of kitchen pans and seemed pleased that the lady whose bags he had carried had come back to visit his mother. Tilla promised two sestertii to be shared between him and any of his friends who could give new information about Geminus’s death. With luck, all the children in the town would now be hot on the trail, and a message would arrive at Corinna’s house if there was any news. Tilla was slightly uneasy about this part of the arrangement with Victor hiding there, but she could not think of anyone else to trust.
Slipping into the mansio by the side door, she managed to snatch a brief word with the slave of one of the visiting eastern ambassadors. The man spoke just enough Latin to swear that the visiting slaves had huddled indoors, protecting their masters. Nobody had seen any centurions or men with knives, thank the gods.
The gardener looked up from weeding the rose bed, hoped she had found no more pigs’ heads, and asked if there might be any more mandrake. Tilla would have fetched the whole bottle if it would have released more information, but the gardener knew nothing about the murder. He had enough troubles of his own with that lot (here he glared at the eastern slave) pinching herbs and pissing in the flower beds.
Before she could escape, the manager appeared, asked after her health, and ordered her to leave in a manner so polite that it almost sounded as though he were sorry. He had not seen Geminus, and his guests and staff had already been questioned by the authorities. He was not able to allow her in at the moment. The guests’ privacy had to be respected and the staff were very busy.
“When will they not be busy?”
The manager took a firm grip of her arm and steered her toward the street door. “My staff are always busy.”
Tilla moved on down the street. Nobody had anything useful to offer until a sallow-faced woman filling a water jar at the fountain told her that a man had been seen skulking around the ditch in a suspicious manner. He was wearing a red cloak “to hide the blood.” This became less credible when she added, “He had a bloodstained surgeon’s knife in his hand.”
“You saw all this in the dark?”
“Not me. A friend of someone I know.”
“Is the friend here now?”

“No.”
“Perhaps the person who told you?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because my own man will be executed if I do not find out who did

this.”
“You’re the wife!” The woman snatched up her jar and backed away. “I
can’t help you. Nobody knows anything.”
“If nobody knows anything,” Tilla called after her, “then stop spreading
rumors!”

The shop keeper’s small daughter was helping by passing him the nails one by one while he hammered a diagonal strut across a broken door shutter. He recognized Tilla and offered his sympathies on the Medicus’s arrest.

“He did not do it. Does anyone know who did?”
The man assured her that they knew nothing at all.
“No,” added the small daughter. “We’re not going tell anybody. My da

Tilla laid a hand on the arm clutching the hammer. “Shall we talk in private?”
The truth, once she had managed to extract it from him, was nothing to do with Geminus. Last night drunken looters had smashed their way into his shop, seized anything that took their fancy, and flung at him anything that didn’t. While he was begging them to stop, one of them began to climb the ladder to where his wife, his children, and his day’s takings were hidden in the loft. The shop keeper tried to drag him away. Meanwhile, the wife leaned down and cracked the looter over the head with a chamber pot. The man fell senseless to the floor. The others ran off, leaving the shopkeeper and his wife to decide that the safest thing was to haul the dazed man away and dump him outside the temple of Mithras. “I went to look for him this morning,” said the man, “but he’d gone.”
Tilla surveyed the chaos of broken furniture and cabbage leaves. “I am sorry for your troubles.”
The heroine of the chamber pot appeared from somewhere at the back of the shop. “It could be worse.” She retrieved an onion and a shoe from under the counter. “Anything worth having was already sold, and they didn’t stay long enough to find the money.”
“We didn’t mean to hurt him,” the man said.
The woman said, “
I
did.”
The man ignored her. “We don’t want to lead off on the wrong foot with the new legion.”
“I think,” said Tilla, “that he and his friends will say nothing. They know they should not have been here.”
“That’s what I told him,” the woman agreed. “But he likes to worry.”
“But they will ask you about the dead centurion,” Tilla warned them. “You need to have the girl better trained. Never mind what she is not to say. Think what they might ask, and get her to practice what she will answer.”
As she was leaving she heard the woman’s voice rise from the back of the shop, “What do you mean, ‘much too hard’? Next time,
you
do it!”

^{USO SHIFTED IN}
the chains, wincing as the stiff muscles in his neck and shoulders were forced into movement. He wriggled his fingers to bring the blood back, then wriggled them again to disperse the stabs of pain as the feeling returned. What if the injury was permanent? What use was a surgeon with damaged fingers? What use were any sort of fingers if they cut his head off? He shifted his elbows, shrugged his shoulders up toward his ears, clenched and unclenched his fists, and wondered what time it was.

Daylight still bloomed around what passed for a window, but from where he sat with his back against the cold wall, it was as distant as the stars. He closed his eyes. There was nothing to do in here but worry and drift into a fitful sleep, and he knew which he preferred.

Sometime later, as he was floating back to reality, it dawned on him that there were two sandaled feet on the floor in front of him. The pain in his neck and shoulders as he looked up should have jerked him awake, but when he saw who the feet appeared to belong to, he realized this was one of those deceitful, half-coherent dreams that seemed like waking: the sort that the mind sometimes recalled as real even when reason proved they could not be. He blinked. The figure was still there.

His old friend and colleague looked down at him with an expression of pity. “Gaius.”
This was definitely wrong: Valens was up on the border with the procurator, and nobody outside the family ever called him Gaius.
He tried closing his eyes and opening them again. Above him, the light from the window caught lines on the handsome face that Ruso had never noticed before. Valens looked tired and anxious. That was all wrong too.
Ruso squirmed against the wall and felt the ridges of the stones. If this was not a dream, what was it? A vision? Why a vision of Valens, of all people? Why not a god, or someone useful? Struck by a sudden fear, he said, “Are you dead?”
“No.”
This was not entirely reassuring. Valens was alive, and he himself was seeing things.
The vision spoke again. “I’ve come to try and help you.”
“Can you take these chains off?”
It shook its head. “Sorry, old chap. I did ask, but they said no.”
Ruso supposed that an apparition’s claim to have had a chat with his guards was no more surprising than its initial appearance.
It crouched in front of him. A pair of bleary dark eyes looked deep into his own as if they were searching for his soul. “Gaius, do you realize—”
“Why are you calling me Gaius?”
“Sorry. Ruso. I just thought, since you were a little confused, the family name might—”
Ruso said, “I know what my name is!” before it struck him that if he was rude to the vision, it might disappear. “Sorry.”
It brushed away the musty straw with a remarkably realistic swish of a hand and sat on the floor beside him. “You do realize, don’t you, that the way you’ve been behaving lately is rather . . . odd?”
“It seemed like the right thing at the time.”
“Of course. Look, old chap, you probably don’t know this, but your mind has gone.”
“Has it?”
“Yes. You’re quite crazy. But don’t worry. These things often pass with the seasons. In the meantime I’ll tell them that you’re not quite yourself at the moment.”
Ruso closed his eyes and recalled several patients who had seemed to be living in a different reality from everyone else—a reality that, to them, had been utterly reasonable.
How would you know?
The vision got to its feet. “I’ll get them to bring you some decent food. How about some fresh air? Shall I recommend to Clarus that they let you out for a walk?”
Ruso scratched one ear and wondered whether a vision that believed it could hold conversations with the Praetorian prefect was therefore as deluded as he was. “Yes,” he said. It could do no harm.
“Excellent!” said the vision, with more of Valens’s characteristic cheeriness. “And don’t worry, old chap. We’ll get you sorted out.”
Instead of vanishing, the vision banged on the door and called, “I’m done!”
Ruso scrambled to his feet. “It
is
you! You’re real! What the—Bugger these things!” The chains had jerked him to a halt.
Valens paused in the doorway. The anxious expression had returned. “Ruso, old chap . . . who or what did you think you were talking to just now?”
“I didn’t murder Geminus. And I’m as sane as you are!”
Valens’s very best reassuring smile would have been more reassuring if Ruso had not seen the circumstances in which he usually used it. “Of course you are, old chap. Or at least, you soon will be.”
“I’m sane now! I was just half-asleep and I thought—Don’t leave me here! Valens! Come back!”
But he had gone. Ruso was a lone prisoner in chains shouting at an empty space.