Now the sun was beginning to rise. The inkiness had disappeared from the sky, and the garden was starting to glow with greens and yellows. She pursed her lips. Placidius would either be in his barracks – and she had no idea where that was – or he would already be in his office in the headquarters building. Was there any way she could get access to the place? She was not, strictly speaking, supposed to be in the fortress at all, let alone in the headquarters. No. But if she asked one of the guards outside the door to the building to send a message…
They would question why a woman was standing outside the headquarters.
Tapping her lip and clutching her bag, she moved to the house’s exterior door and considered her options. The camp prefect’s house stood in the same row as the tribunes’ houses, along the Via Prinicpalis. The five juniors had the more basic houses down the road towards the east gate. The three better appointed ones, on this side of the camp and close to the granaries, belonged to the senior tribune – Longus, the camp Prefect, and the chief medicus, in that order. From her viewpoint at the doorway, she could see the corner of the headquarters building away to the right, and rows of barrack blocks faced her across the street. The open thoroughfare was starting to fill with legionaries, going about their early morning business. Those in kit and properly ready would already be on duty or heading to it. She fixed on a weary-looking legionary ambling slowly down the street with a towel, his tunic hanging low and unbelted, as yet unshaven, on his way to the bath house. Not on duty yet, then.
‘Soldier?’
The legionary frowned and stopped before the house, clearly surprised at the presence of a woman in his fortress.
‘Miss?’
‘I have a message I need delivering on behalf of Prefect Pompeius. Would you be so good as to do so for me?’
The man’s brow furrowed further. ‘I’m not belted or dressed. And it’s early. And you’re a woman, in the fortress…’
‘It is a matter of urgency. For the camp prefect, who is my betrothed, as you may know.’
The soldier fought a war in his head, but something was clearly bothering him, and the mention of such a senior officer won the day. He sagged slightly. ‘Where’s the message, miss?’
‘It’s a verbal one. Can you find the office of Actuarius Aulus Placidius in the headquarters? He works for the Prefect. Please ask him to come to the prefect’s house to meet with Tiberia Marcia?’
The soldier shook his head, his frown deepening so that his forehead formed a ‘V’. ‘You can’t ask me to go into headquarters looking like this.’
‘You don’t have to visit a senior officer, man. Just deliver the message and then you can go on for your bath.’
The soldier still dithered, apparently unsure.
‘My husband, the camp prefect, would appreciate it.’
With a resigned sigh, the legionary muttered and, nodding acceptance, he traipsed off, exuding irritation. Thank the gods for the womanly powers of persuasion, Tiberia smiled to herself.
Nothing to do now but wait.
Heading back into the warm rooms, she filled her time going around the house and extinguishing lamps, picking up clutter and straightening things until the tension became too much and she sat at the low table, drew out the tablet and stylus and began to memorise the list of names, tapping each one as she went, and pausing only to pour herself a well-watered wine to take the edge off.
It was perhaps half an hour later when there came a hesitant knock at the front door, and a voice called her name.
‘In the triclinium, Aulus.’
As she heard him enter the building and make his way towards the room, she took a sip and ran down the list again. So many names…
Some sixth sense alerted her.
She could almost feel the man moving behind her. She’d heard him enter the room, of course, and he’d walked quite calmly and slowly over to her. But something changed at the last moment, and she could almost feel the ill intent in the man’s shadow as it encompassed her.
She ducked forward as his arm swept round. Had she not moved quickly, she would now be in a headlock. Desperately, she leapt across the corner of the table, thinking to make for the door, but Placidius was between her and her exit. Damn it. The man was unarmed and unarmoured, in just his tunic and belt, as befitted a clerk on duty. But still he was a legionary, trained to fight and to win. Even unarmed, he should be able to best a female civilian.
She slipped her wax tablet across into the hand that held the stylus and swept her now free hand down, picking up the wine jug. As Placidius lunged, she threw the jug and jumped aside. The heavy earthenware container hit him on the shoulder, spinning him away, but he recovered quickly. Far too quickly. She had thought to use the distraction to slip past him and out of the door, but as she tried to pass, he was on her, grabbing her arms and wrenching her over to the side wall of the room. As one of the soldier’s hands fought to control her flailing limbs, the other grabbed the wooden tablet case and wrenched it from her hand.
‘That’s what you saw, isn’t it?’ she rasped as she fought the powerful restraining arm. ‘From behind me when you entered. That’s why you’re doing this?’
‘Be quiet, Tiberia. Where did you get this list?’
‘Incriminating, isn’t it?’ she hissed. ‘I don’t know what it’s for, but I can see what a man in control of those names could do.’
‘Anything he wanted,’ growled Placidius, and the arm tightened around her. Tiberia gasped as her breath was squeezed out.
‘What are you going to do with me?’ she wheezed.
The ominous lack of a reply answered her question most eloquently, and Tiberia realised with cold fear that these were her last few moments in the living realm. Placidius was involved in something and he was quite willing to kill her to keep it quiet. And Pompeius was involved, too?
She was going to die.
No, she was not! She was not going to die in this place at the hands of a clerk. And she most certainly was not going to die without having a chance to deliver a damn good slap around the chops to that idiot betrothed of hers.
‘I’m sorry, Tiberia. Truly I am. This isn’t what I would want, but sadly I’m as trapped in this shit as your other half, and I cannot risk you opening this particular amphora of sour wine in public.’
Casually, the actuarius cast the tablet over to the table and brought his free hand round, ready to restrain her neck. There really were very few things she could do now to help herself but, from a youth spent among four brothers, Tiberia knew best how to break a hold. Taking a deep breath, she sank her teeth into his arm until the tips of her incisors met.
Placidius screamed like one of the restless undead in a Gallic ghost tale. His arm instantly fell away, though she retained a sizeable piece of it in her mouth, blood running down her chin and the sharp, iron taste of blood filling all her senses.
Another thing a youth with brothers had taught her was never to waste an advantage.
By the time she had drawn in two more breaths, Tiberia had the agonised Placidius backed up against the wall. He jerked, ready to fight back, but Tiberia put the tiniest bit of extra pressure on the stylus in her hand and it drew a large bead of blood from the clerk’s throat. Her erstwhile assailant became deathly still, hardly daring to quiver, since even his heaved breaths were drawing blood as the bronze pen sat a hair’s-breadth from penetrating his artery in a most fatal manner.
‘Now,’ Tiberia said, taking a careful breath and making sure not to relieve any pressure on the makeshift weapon, ‘I want a few answers.’
She waited for a few moments, anticipating a nod, but then realised that a nod would be a death sentence with the stylus where it was. Licking her lips, she looked deep into his eyes. ‘This is a list of all those who would need to be under someone’s command in order to completely control Deva. I note that the legate’s name is not on the list. Please enlighten me.’
‘You know why.’
She nodded. ‘Because this
enables someone other than Viator to control the Twentieth in his… shall we say absence? I understand. What about the senior tribune?’
‘That I don’t know.’
The point dug a little deeper and Placidius gasped as fresh blood ran in a rivulet down his neck. ‘Honestly. I don’t know. Maybe he’s tied too closely to Viator? Maybe he’s not necessary? I just don’t know.’
She bit her lip. The man seemed genuine. He was hardly in a position to lie, and she fancied she was capable of spotting lies easier than most. No, Placidius truly had no idea why Longus was not on the list.
‘Why are you on here? I mean, I know why – since you’d be in control of passes – but what’s in it for you? You took an oath to the eagle that you promised not to break, and you get a good rate of pay for a pain-free and not-too-strenuous job.’
‘There’s…’ Placidius swallowed. ‘There’s something that I can’t afford to be known. It would be the end of my career.’
‘What is it?’
‘No. I’d rather die.’ And he was being genuine, she knew. Still, the reason didn’t matter. Blackmail, then.
‘Who is holding it over you?’
‘I don’t know. Whoever it was told me in a rasping voice in the steam room of the baths late one night. We were alone and I never saw him. But the message was damn clear. Be ready to do what I was told or my secret was out. That was a month ago. And then a week ago we got a list of who else we could trust, and who we should be prepared to help. We were supposed to memorise the names and then wipe all the lists. Pompeius is a stupid sod. That list should have been gone a week ago.’
‘Which brings me to my last question,’ Tiberia breathed. ‘Why is my betrothed on this list.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ His expression of surprise was genuine.
Tiberia frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your husband owes huge debts of money, Tiberia. Never could resist a bet, old Pompeius. They’re always hefty ones and, if he bet on Pegasus himself, the bastard’s wings would fall off before the race. No luck at all, your poor sod of a lover. Funny thing is, he was talking about a sure win today on Leonidas the net man. Gathered every sestertius he could. Might even be that, when Leonidas wins, he can pay off the worst debts. I wonder if he thinks he can clear his debts and get off this list? Foolish to try. Whoever put it together is clever and has too much to lose.’
‘Indeed,’ hissed Tiberia as she put all her weight into the stylus and drove it through artery then windpipe and then out the other side, transfixing his throat. Crimson sprayed the wall as she stepped back smartly out of the way of the torrent. Placidius expired quietly and in agony on the floor of the triclinium, soaking the wall and the tiled floor. She tried not to look as the light faded in his eyes. She’d necked chickens and clubbed rats before, but she had never properly taken a life. It was surprising how easy it was. It was to be regretted, certainly, but she would not cry over it. Had she not gained the advantage it would now be her lying on the floor. And she couldn’t have let him live to seek revenge, obviously.
Her brow creased. Not another woman, then. A gambling addiction. The silly old fart. And look how deep he’d got himself. Her mind tracked back over the past month, and she tried to remember each of those occasions she had seen him leave with a sack of money.
One name came back to her repeatedly. Spoken of as he left the house, sometimes spotted in his company on those occasions. One name that seemed synonymous with his pay-outs:
Longus.
The swarthy senior tribune. The reason he wasn’t on the list was because he’d compiled the list!
She would have to get her face and hand clean of blood, and get out of the fortress before the body was found. Dashing to the doorway, she peered round the frame into the street, trying to keep herself hidden, and a flood of relief washed over her as she spotted a friendly face, limping along the street with a sour expression. An old friend of her betrothed’s and a man she trusted implicitly. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be away on detached duty like all the trustworthy centurions.
Never mind. What was important was that he was here. He could help.
With a swift breath, she called to him.
‘Ocratius!’
8. THE CENTURION
Some days previously.
Ocratius Maximus scanned his two new companies of men in the granary, carrying heavy grain sacks back and forth to build up their muscles, and shook his head, leaning heavily on his vine staff.
‘Shower of shit. A couple of lads with potential among them, but a few that’ll break within the month and the rest are just useless malingerers that have been kicked out of the hospital to make up the numbers.’
‘Maybe we’ll get the others back when the rest of the legion returns from the north, sir?’ his optio murmured hopefully. Ocratius’ face hardened. The legate had shuffled the best of all the veterans into the units that were building the forts among the Caledonii so that they had a full complement, and had left the garrison units deficient in both numbers and ability. The centurion’s eyes narrowed at the thought. That was not Viator’s way, and he could sense the senior tribune’s hand in it. Indeed, half the remaining centurions who were veteran officers of merit had been sent north with the next wave of men to bolster the governor’s forces, and now there were precious few officers in Deva that Ocratius would trust to run an orgy in a brothel.
Maybe he’d push his luck and bring the subject up with the tribune.
‘Keep them at it and when that young whoreson gets back from cleaning the shitters, send him to sort out the legate’s bath furnace, alright? I’m off to see Longus.
At a nod from the optio, Ocratius stomped across the fortress, trying not to let the situation weigh too heavily on him. The legion was in no real danger, after all. The local tribes had been pacified long ago, and the only troublesome lands now were far to the north. But there were still occasional problems with bandits and small gangs in the countryside who flaunted the absence of troops to prey on the law abiding, and without good officers and full complements of men in the area the troubles were on the increase.
The senior tribune’s office in the headquarters building was Spartan and organised, largely since Longus did most of his work from his house on the street opposite, preferring the freedom of his own territory to the busy bustle of the command complex. The door was open and Ocratius stood in it and coughed so that the tribune looked up from his work.
‘Ah, Centurion. Good. Just a very quick matter. I note that you and your men have been kicking your heels in Deva for weeks now.’
Ocratius bit down on a number of potential replies and instead cleared his throat and carefully arranged a response. ‘We have new recruits and the hospital contingent, sir. We are attempting to turn them into soldiers.’
‘That’s a job for one of your junior officers.’
‘Not for any centurion who hopes to trust his men in battle, sir.’
Longus gave him a dangerous look. ‘Anyway, Ocratius… I have a task for you. Certain local business magnates have petitioned the legate for protection from raiders and criminals, and the commander has agreed to the construction of a fortlet and signal station some ten miles or so from here. I want you to take your men there and get the place constructed. The legate has assigned a month to the task.’
Ocratius shook his head. ‘Respectfully, sir, the new men need a lot more work yet before they should be assigned that sort of duty. I’m at eighty percent strength, and that includes ten percent recently wounded and newbies.’
‘Then train them in situ.’
The centurion chewed on his lip. No matter how right he was, arguing with the legion’s second in command was hardly a good career move. ‘Might I have a week or two to get the men ready first? If my century is prepared, we could build you a legionary fortress in two weeks.’
Longus paused, apparently deep in thought, and then gave an impatient nod. ‘As long as the fortlet is ready a mont
h from now, but within two weeks I want you on site and starting work, just in case. You understand?’
Ocratius nodded, saluted, and straightened.
‘That is all, then Centurion. Dismissed.’
As the centurion turned and strode from the office, back through the headquarters and off towards the granary where the work was still underway, legionaries lugging sacks to and fro, he mused irritably. Such construction duties were generally assigned to those centurions whose units were filled with muscular engineers and pioneers. Not to those centurions whose command contained raw recruits. His place was in the fortress until the century was trained and in peak condition.
The optio stood at the granary doorway, young Scriptor some seven or eight paces downwind, where the smell of the latrines that still clung to him could waft away in the breeze.
‘We’re to build a fortlet down near the lead mines,’ he announced to his second in command as he came to a halt and toyed with his vine staff in irritation.
‘When there are trained centuries with a full complement of men available, sir?’
‘My thoughts precisely.’
‘And another veteran gets posted out of Deva. Soon there’ll be nobody left here who can command a unit for shit, sir.’
Ocratius nodded. The posting out of all the veteran officers was starting to nag at him. ‘Well I’ve managed to talk the tribune into giving us a couple of weeks. So we’re going to toughen this lot up before we get working. Spend a couple of days running the new lads until they’re broken and then we’re taking them to Mona for a proper exercise. Intensive training. We’ll both go, and we’ll take the latrine lad with us too. The Tesserarius can look after the century here while we’re gone.
* * *
More than a week had passed when the two contubernia of new recruits limped back into Deva, two of the larger lads stretchering the shuddering lump that was Trucido after his fall from the rock. Ocratius waited until the units had reached the hospital and deposited their burden with the medicus, and then called them to attention outside with some difficulty.
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