The Governor's Man: A Quintus Valerius Mystery

by Jacquie Rogers

  Quintus stared at her. He felt sick, a rising nausea that had nothing to do with the dead boy and the stuffy little morgue, and everything to do with long-suppressed memories of horror, pain and long slow recovery. It was her, the girl from the north. Damn her! He thought he had completely crushed the shock of his losses: first his brother, then the girl. This girl, now a beautiful disdainful woman, who had reappeared in utterly the wrong place and time. He forced himself to speak.

  ‘Lady Julia, may I know your status here?’ He tried to speak evenly but even to his own ears he sounded stiff and suspicious. The woman’s glance dropped to his hand. Then she looked at him with palpable hostility. What right had she to be hostile? Quintus had never been raked by such angry eyes, scorched by such a gaze of burning blue. But yes, he had—once. A long time ago, a long way from here.

  “Don’t you know, Frumentarius? Shouldn’t I be asking you — why are you here?’

  Quintus turned abruptly and left the room, ignoring the startled call of the doctor and a whistle of surprise from Tiro. He couldn’t stay in that room, where claws he had long thought sheathed would tear down the defences he had built with such effort. If he had stayed any longer all the calm control he had built over the years would desert him, and leave him to the mercy of his feelings. That couldn’t be allowed to happen, not in front of her. There could be nothing between them now, once the business of the dead boy was resolved. Quintus was a senior Roman officer, and by Mithras, his pride would hold him together. At least till he got outside.

  In the dark courtyard garden, faintly scented by rosemary bushes, he strode around until his leg struck a bench. He sat down heavily. His heart was racing and he still felt nauseous and light-headed. He tried to watch his breathing as he had learned in the east. It was no good; the thudding of his pulse and racing thoughts were too distracting. Unbidden, a long tunnel of memory opened and swallowed him.

  It had been a golden start to his military career: his first active service in a staff job with his father’s proud Praetorian Guard, campaigning with the great Emperor Septimius Severus in exotic Britannia. Then Septimius had died suddenly in early 211 while putting down yet another rebellion in the far north of the island. I wasn’t even on duty when they cremated my lord, he reflected bitterly. So many funerals I didn’t attend. Too stupid to avoid that Caledonian warrior with the blue-painted face. I stood there, transfixed by the deaths around me, too slow to act. The Caledonian slewed sideways in the mud, dodged my gladius and slashed his long native sword deep into my leg. Had it not been for Gaius… And later I’d been too weak to mourn the Emperor, too near death myself even to be told.

  A prickle came from the mass of old scars scything slantwise down his thigh, a faint reminder of the time he had thought despairingly that his career was over. But as the harsh northern winter gave way grudgingly to spring, he slowly healed in the Eboracum military hospital.

  There had been a girl in the forum. A girl who glanced at him as he hobbled around the square on his first foray away from the army medics. He hadn’t got far. His bad leg collapsed under him, and he would have fallen had the girl not caught him. She was tall for a young girl, well-dressed. He was surprised that she had no escort. She told him later that she routinely slipped away from her grandmother’s elderly maid.

  ‘Caecilia is dull and slow. Anyway, what harm can I come to in my mother’s beloved city?’ The girl smiled, and he felt the cool northern light brighten into gold around her. She explained that she was visiting from the south, staying with her maternal grandmother while she trained as a healer at the new riverside Temple of Serapis.

  Quintus saw the image of that girl, clear as cut glass. Her grey robe was plain and her long fair hair braided into a simple plait. But her necklace of golden owls proclaimed her high status, as did her educated voice and the grace of her movements. She smelled of rosewater. She sat with him, talked to him, walked with him every afternoon as the limp slowly lessened. It became a habit to find her waiting outside the hospital, chatting to the orderlies and even the younger medics. She seemed interested in everything around her.

  It was a time of magic. The days lengthened into a perfect summer of swift-song and amber evenings. They explored the quieter parts of Eboracum, finding nooks in the pale grey-stone buildings that allowed privacy for a young couple intent only on each other. For a time he forgot his nightmares, forgot he was a Roman soldier. Until he received a letter from Rome.

  His mother wrote that his father was in political difficulties. Enemies in the Senate were turning against him. His heart turned over as he read this. His father was a proud man of old Roman integrity. It was a deadly combination in those times under the new Emperor Caracalla.

  His mother, however, was resourceful. She had made plans that would save the family, she wrote, even as her husband fell from influence. She had arranged an advantageous match for Quintus with the daughter of an old friend of wealth and high esteem. This marriage would restore the family’s reputation, perhaps allowing his sister to marry respectably also. He must return to Rome immediately. She was sure his sense of duty would bring him back quickly.

  Sitting in the dark on a damp splintered bench in Aquae Sulis thirteen years later, Quintus remembered how love for his father and anxiety for Lucilla had driven him home. The pain and loss of the Caledonian battle was buried deep, so it had seemed then. He reasoned he would still have his career and his family, no matter what he left behind in this distant grey province. His duty was clear.

  The army medics discharged him reluctantly, cautioning him not to strain the newly-healed leg. He was to ship out with a cohort of Legion 11 Parthica departing Britannia the day after next.

  He tried to tell her, tried to explain, but she wouldn’t understand. She turned and ran, her fine-woven summer palla dragging over the paving of the forum as he stumbled and called after her, his voice rough over the lump in his throat. His leg let him down, he couldn’t catch her. He waited in the forum all that day and the next, the last day, but she never came back. He wrote a note begging her forgiveness and had a messenger take it to the house of her grandmother. No reply ever came. So he rode away with the Parthica. He didn’t even know her family name, or where her real home was. On that desperate voyage back to Rome he thought he was leaving Britannia for ever.

  It was too late to save his father. While he was still travelling his father had slipped quietly away, his life ebbing with his blood into the warm bathwater. An honourable suicide, they said. But at least he arrived in time to prevent his open-hearted young sister being forced into a loveless match with some useful ally of his mother. His mother was so enraged and humiliated that she rarely spoke to him again. But he had done the right thing for Lucilla.

  And now here he was, back in the one place that hurt more than Rome. On a mission rapidly getting dangerous and deadly. What would he give to just walk away, put it all behind him?

  He laughed softly. Walk away from his duty? Leave that poor headless boy unavenged? Betray his Emperor? That was not the Valerian way. No, he was stuck here in this barbaric province until the job was over. No matter the cost in hiding his anguish from these strangers, the young centurion, his illiterate provincial assistant Tiro … and Julia. Whatever and whoever she was now.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Tiro came to find him Quintus was his usual reserved self.

  Marcellus Crispus was waiting to accompany them to his small fort on the other side of the Abona, having left Piso and an orderly to their solemn tasks with the dead boy. There was no sign of Julia. Quintus told Marcellus about the attack at Calleva.

  Tiro said, ‘I still wonder if I’ve seen that bloke somewhere before. Bloody great hole he knocked in my head, though. No wonder I can’t remember now.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll ever identify him now.’ Such attacks at a well-run mansio were rare, and without more evidence they were left in the dark. As they walked the short distance along the riverbank, the centurion broke into th
e frumentarius’s thoughts.

  ’Quintus Valerius?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Quintus was calculating the odds of it being a random mugging attempt, and not liking the answer.

  ‘The Lady Julia,’ the young redhead looked abashed, but ploughed on, ‘she had to leave to see her patients before you came back into the morgue. Anyway, Surgeon Piso asked me to pass on a couple of suggestions she made.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  Discouraged by the dry tone, Marcellus paused. Tiro winked at him. Quintus took no notice. He really would have to put the Britisher in his place.

  ‘Um, yes sir. She said the dead boy looked familiar. The lady is the sister of Magistrate Marcus Aurelianus of Bo Gwelt in the Summer Country. He’s the ancestral leader of the Durotriges of Lindinis. She knows the local people well, having grown up there, and I believe she acted as her widowed brother’s hostess until he re-married a few years ago.’

  Quintus stopped dead, thinking. Sister of a tribal noble; resident of the Summer Country near Vebriacum; thinks she knows this dead boy. Could there be links here, between this murder and Vebriacum’s missing silver?

  ‘And, sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ’She suggested we look again in his dispatch bag.’ Quintus ground his teeth.

  They entered the fort. Centurion Crispus nodded to his guard to shut the Principia doors. He laid out on his wooden desk a large leather bag with a shoulder strap. A dark liquid stain ran from the outer flap, tacky but evidently soaked well into the leather. Quintus wrinkled his nose.

  ’Blood.’ He lifted the flap, reaching in to search the interior. ‘Nothing in here. So much for the matron docta and her — ‘ His finger jagged on a rough sliver of wood wedged hard into the base seam.

  ‘What …? Tiro, your tweezers.’

  Tiro pursed his lips and glanced at Marcellus Crispus. He handed Quintus his toiletry set on a brass ring. Quintus used the tweezers to carefully pull a fragment of birchwood into the candlelight. Only a shard remained of what had been a thin note tablet.

  ‘May I?’ asked the centurion. Quintus grunted, and the young commander held the shard closer to the candle light. ‘Very little to make out, but I think on the letter side I can see three characters: TER. On the address side—hmm, wait a moment.’

  Tiro was frustrated. He had excellent eyesight, but without the magic trick of deciphering the little black ink strokes he could offer no help. Maybe the frumentarius was right; perhaps he should learn to read.

  Marcellus Crispus looked again, angling into the light the splintered edge where the sender’s address should be.

  ‘Yes, I thought so. There is a bit more, perhaps part of a sender’s name - VEB. Nothing more. Perhaps in better daylight, tomorrow?’

  Both young men looked at Quintus. His eyes were half-closed, as if seeking inspiration from the Gods.

  ‘Centurion Crispus — Marcellus, if I may? I think after all we are going be spending time working together.’ The centurion looked puzzled.

  ‘I would normally hand a case like this over to you, being the chance killing of a local boy of no particular status. We are already on an urgent Imperial mission. But this murder may have something to tell us about that investigation too. I think we should collaborate, if you agree?’

  This was far and away the most gracious request Tiro had yet heard Quintus make. But Tiro had a pressing question of his own.

  ’Sir, Frumentarius Valerius — what have you found out about the dead boy?’

  ‘The boy? Nothing. But we may be able to discover who sent him on his errand, and why. Marcellus, who runs the mines at Vebriacum in the Summer Country? Not the owner — I mean his manager there, his man of business?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. We’re in Dobunni territory here, and I have no jurisdiction with the Durotriges that far south. But,’ he paused in thought,’ the Lady Julia Aureliana might. Especially as she thinks she recognises the boy.’

  Quintus groaned inwardly. Mighty Mithras, why is this mission such a mess? Look on my years of service in your worship - surely they mean something to you? I will make whatever sacrifice is best pleasing, my Lord, if you can help me see my way more clearly. Preferably without involving the Lady Julia.

  ‘Right. Could we stay here at the fort for a night or two, Marcellus? Discreetly, though—from now on we should stay under cover. Tiro’s horse has gone lame anyway, and mine needs to go back to the mansio here. Can you supply two horses or ponies? Not obviously of Army breeding, no Army saddles.

  ‘We need to carry on looking like civilians, Tiro. But before we leave Aquae Sulis, we’re going to pay a morning call on the matron docta.’

  Quintus could hardly believe he had said this. He saw with resignation Tiro trying to keep a straight face. Julia was the very last person he wanted to see. But he had many years of professionalism to call upon, and he needed whatever local information she might have. He hoped he could remember that, and keep his bearing polite and proper when he saw the lady again.

  As for Tiro—he’d be laughing on the other side of his face when they got up before cockcrow in the morning. He wanted to catch Lady Julia at home in private, early. He needed to know who to speak to at Vebriacum, and it wasn’t going to be the owner Bulbo.

  It was barely daybreak the following day when Quintus and Tiro knocked at Julia’s front door. She owned an elegant little townhouse by the river, stretching back from a narrow frontage and embellished with skilful carvings. Bay trees in white marble stands stood duty on either side of a miniature portico. Quintus glanced down at his nondescript tunic, checked his cloak was arrayed neatly and stood straight. His hands felt clammy despite the morning chill.

  Quintus Valerius, son of Senator Bassianus Valerius, scion of one of the oldest families in Rome, should fear no-one, he reminded himself fiercely. This woman means nothing to you; you owe her nothing and can expect nothing back. He pushed back at the shadows of past pain and loss trying to rush him. Remember, you are a soldier of Rome!

  At his knock a sturdy young woman opened the door. Her chestnut hair was uncovered and she clutched a thick chequered shawl over her drab tunic. A scent of lavender clung to her skirts.

  She frowned at them. Quintus felt taken aback, a feeling that was becoming too familiar since arriving on this forsaken island. It was unusual not to have a male porter, but this servant, judging by her confident bearing, was more than a common household slave.

  ‘My name is Frumentarius Quintus Valerius. I am here to consult your mistress, Lady Julia Aureliana.’

  ‘I know who you are. Sir.’ The young woman blocked the doorway, rounded arms folded across her chest. Quintus found himself missing the deference of Roman slaves. A window shutter creaked over their heads. Someone else in the household was stirring.

  The woman glanced up, and moved aside to let them in.

  ‘Best step inside quick, you’ll be waking up … ,’ she hesitated, ‘the whole household.’

  Tiro saluted her with a nod. She looked straight through him while his best smile went to waste. She didn’t ask his name either, before turning to stalk through the vestibule ahead of them. She threw open a door into a narrow pretty room at the back of the house. There was a dim dawnlit view through tall glazed windows, and a glimpse of a little courtyard to the rear.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  Julia stood near a brazier, wearing a long robe. There was a bowl of spring flowers, daffodils and crocuses, on a side table, but the room held the faint scent of roses. Her owl necklet was on vivid display against the sky-blue of her tunica. She looked remote, untouchable. Quintus longed to rush to her; longed to dash from the room. He stood paralysed, stiff and cold.

  ’Some spiced wine, perhaps?’ Julia nodded to the other woman. ‘Britta? If you would be so kind.’

  The door closed softly.

  ‘I have very little time to spare, Frumentarius. Urgent family duties await me. Could we get to the point, please?’

  That explained the
more formal clothing today. Julia looked more the matrona docta this morning, and was clearly a wealthy woman. Quintus wondered about her husband. He hesitated, debating whether it would be good form to ask after her spouse. She wore no ring, he noted, twisting his own round his finger. Perhaps a widow?

  She was watching him. A dismissive look crossed her face. What was it? Disdain, pride, impatience?

  ‘Lady Julia, it’s good of you to see us so early.’

  There was a stony silence, broken when Britta came back into the room carrying a bronze tray with a carved glass decanter and four matching cups. Steam rose lazily as the housekeeper poured the wine. Despite himself, Quintus relaxed at the rich smell of cinnamon.

  Tiro hurried forward to help Britta serve. She glared at him.

  ‘Madam,’ he murmured, grinning. She tossed her head and turned her back on him to set the tray down.

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace, my lady,’ she told her mistress. Tiro bowed to Britta as she left the room. The plaid shawl slid off one plump white shoulder as the door shut. Quintus saw Tiro was enjoying himself, and felt irritated.

  ‘Lady Julia,’ Quintus said again.

  ‘Frumentarius?’ A rigid look.

  This wasn’t going to work. He was determined not to bring back the painful past. It was a long time ago, and there was nothing between them now. He had hoped they could have a polite conversation like the strangers they were. He tried again.

  ‘Lady Julia, I need information, and think your connections in the Summer Country may be of help.’

  ‘Help for you.’ It was said so scornfully, that if he had not been looking directly at her he would not have known that she shook from head to foot. The most minor of movements, but it cut through him like a knife.

  Tiro broke in.

  ‘My lady, we seek - ‘

  Quintus spoke across Tiro; his voice felt dry as sand in his throat. ‘I’m told you recognised the dead boy.’