The Governor's Man: A Quintus Valerius Mystery

by Jacquie Rogers

  She stumbled across to him, falling on her knees at his feet.

  ‘I had to be with the horses and Cerberus. Now Father has gone, they are all I have. Mother died when I was little, and since then Father has been everything, both parents at once and my best friend. And poor Aunt Julia, who has her own busy life in Aquae Sulis—now she’s stuck with me to care for. I c-can’t do that to her, sir. But how can I go on without my darling father? I’m so alone!’

  He sat with her, holding the child in silence for as long as she needed. She was right about one thing. Marcus had been the centre of her universe when her true parents gave her up. Marcus had given her secure love and a warm happy home here at Bo Gwelt.

  He flinched as the reality hit him. We hid the truth from Aurelia, Julia and I. My fault. If I had listened to Julia that day in Eboracum, it could have been so different. What if Aurelia found out now, he wondered. He looked down at his child, the grey eyes so like his own red with grief, her wide mobile mouth so like Julia’s now crumpled and trembling. She would hate me. I’ve given her nothing, never been a father to her. Best she remains Julia’s niece and ward, and forgets me.

  And yet—isn’t this a chance, the chance, to change all that?

  He allowed a vision to build, piece by piece, in his mind. What if he could repair the damage, make up for the mistakes? If he reclaimed his British family, Julia and Aurelia, wouldn’t that make up for his failure to save Flavius and his own father? Perhaps the Gods might finally forgive him, and he would be worthy of grace.

  He was holding Aurelia still. After a time she quietened, pulling herself upright and wiping a grubby hand across her wet face. She stared up at him, looking puzzled. Then a sound broke into the stable from outside, and she turned to listen.

  ‘Horses,’ she said.

  Into the courtyard cantered three army horses. Two were ridden by troopers in the uniform of the Aquae Sulis company. They dismounted neatly, throwing crisp salutes. The third horse carried a very tired little man, dark-skinned and rumpled. He slid off his mount, near to collapse as his feet hit the ground.

  ‘Sir, Frumentarius, I come with an urgent message from Commander Marcellus Crispus.’ Tertius managed to look both daunted and proud as he handed a sealed letter over. Quintus’s mind snapped back to attention.

  ‘Thank you, Tertius. Good to see you back.’

  The message was concise. The Second Augusta was being mobilised. Marcellus had orders to bring his detachment to muster with the legion at Corinium in three days. From there they were to head east.

  Marcellus proposed to ignore the orders.

  Frumentarius Quintus Valerius, greetings.

  I beg you to make haste to meet me on the road east from the Sabrina landing at Aust. I will brief you then. Time does not allow more now. Send whatever force you can northwards on the Fosse Way, but I urge you yourself to come by sea to save time. I have ordered a navy bireme to embark you at high tide at Cranford Bridge, for passage north up the Severn Sea. From the Aust landing you can ride on to strike my company’s path on the road from Aquae Sulis.

  On no account land on the west side of Sabrina. You must not risk meeting the Augusta before we join forces. You and I must stop this together. Only disaster can result for my deluded legionary comrades.

  I look for you, Brother, by sunset on the second day from receiving this letter.

  Marcellus Crispus

  Quintus studied the letter, frowning. He nodded to Tertius to follow him into a quiet corner of the stable.

  ‘Tell me what you know.’

  The little man swallowed. ‘Not much more than is written there. The legate of the Augusta is rumoured to be ill, hasn’t been seen outside his quarters in weeks. Centurion Crispus no longer trusts some of his brother officers in the Augusta. He fears they may have been coerced or bribed to raise revolt.’

  ‘Bribed with Vebriacum silver?’

  Tertius said nothing. He looked down at the dirt floor, and wriggled his sandals in the dust.

  ‘Right. You don’t trust me either. Although I have saved your life, Tertius, perhaps twice. As you have saved mine. Are we not now brothers?’

  More silence. Tertius looked up at the Roman with unhappy eyes.

  ‘At least tell me where Marcellus believes the legion is posted to.’

  ‘He fears they will be marched to Londinium.’

  So this was it. The coup had begun. Only two men in the province had the authority to command the legate of the Augusta to mobilise his legion. One was his old comrade, the Governor Gaius Trebonius. The other was the Provincial Procurator, Aradius Rufinus.

  Tertius cleared his throat.

  ‘Centurion Crispus wonders whether the Druidess Fulminata has gone to raise the Dobunni tribe at their capital in Corinium.’

  ‘What! Did he not receive my message to arrest her?’

  More unhappy circling of feet in the dust.

  ‘Yes, but the men he sent to intercept were… amenable to her persuasions. Instead of bringing her back to Aquae Sulis, they escorted her to the Dobunni capital. Marcellus was very angry, saying they are deserters. But they might believe themselves to be acting under legionary orders, as part of a plan to unite the rebelling tribesmen with the Isca soldiers.’

  By Mithras! Quintus was very glad they still had Caesulanus. At least here was one source of information. The time had come to press harder for the truth.

  Quintus looked around for Tiro. He wasn’t to be seen, but it was a good bet he’d be in the kitchen, just about the only cleanish intact room left in the villa and where he’d find Britta and Gwenn, no doubt, as well as food and warmth. He sent Tertius with Aurelia to the kitchen, and went himself to find the Sorios. The short day was beginning to wane. Before leaving, Quintus wanted to be sure that their promises of help would be honoured.

  Julia found him first. She glanced at his arm. He scowled, then feeling ashamed of himself raised a fleeting smile of greeting. She smiled back, but after a hesitation that said everything. He made an effort.

  ‘What help do you lack here? I’ll speak to Sorio.’

  ‘No need. Our neighbour has already arranged to send over a construction gang from his own estate at Bawdrip. We should at least have a roof over our heads soon. I will arrange the funeral for tomorrow, and then take Aurelia home with me to Aquae Sulis until probate has been settled and her future is clearer. Britta and I will take care of Aurelia. Don’t be concerned for her, Quintus. I know my brother’s wishes. Aurelia is the sole beneficiary of the estate, and under my guardianship till she comes of age.’

  ‘Claudia?’

  Julia screwed up her face. ‘My brother’s will makes provision for her, but Bo Gwelt is no longer her home. I think we will let Claudia go back to Iscalis and live the quiet life of a widow in Bulbo’s villa.’

  Quintus made no objection; his mind was already elsewhere. Julia might feel he should be consulted about their daughter, but he knew himself to be unworthy of the vibrant little creature who made him yearn for home and peace. He looked away. There was one final thing to be said, and he found it hard to say.

  ‘I know you will do what you have always done for our daughter. You will think of her best interests, love her, and fight for her future happiness. For what it’s worth, I thank you.’

  It was a goodbye, of sorts. Quintus knew what was coming at the end of his road: the final act of his soldier’s life that would settle all. If he lived, he would think then about the future. But he saw little need to plan ahead. A whole trained experienced legion, quite possibly two, against the few men he might scrape together?

  Julia was watching him again. To his surprise she came close, sliding her arms around him, still watching. She lifted her face a little. Her clear blue eyes looked into his. He smelt roses, and saw the flash of the gold owlet necklace as he bent to kiss her mouth.

  Something inside him tore, began to break free.

  A throat was cleared nearby, and Sorio pater spoke. ‘You sent for me, Frume
ntarius?’

  ‘How could he have escaped?’

  Tiro had been dragged away from his tete-a-tete with Britta. There was no sign of the prisoner, Caesulanus, and no horse where Tiro had left him the previous night.

  ‘To be honest, boss, I just plain forgot him, what with the fire and everything.’

  ‘You moron! You useless British moron!’

  Tiro looked upset.

  ‘I apologise, sir. I neglected my duty. I understand you have to punish me, but if there is anything I can do to make up for this, I will.’

  Quintus uncurled furious fists. His burned forearm was awash with fresh pain. He drew a deep breath, and then another. It wasn’t Tiro’s fault. They had all been caught up in the disaster of the fire. Tiro had willingly put himself at risk to help rescue Aurelia. Quintus of all people could appreciate how much fear Tiro had felt in the tunnels of the hypocaust. And gone in anyway. That took guts and commitment.

  ‘Right. You will be punished. You’re coming with me now to undo your omission. Thanks to Marcellus we know where Caesulanus is heading. We may just get there before him.’

  ‘Where, sir?’

  ‘Maybe the biggest battle of our lives, Tiro.’

  Reading the Investigator’s set face, Tiro guessed their chances of coming back alive were not good. He cursed the gods. It seemed unfair to find the sort of girl he’d always looked for, only to lose her now. Just as he’d begun to hope she might feel the same. The words she’d whispered to him a few minutes ago might be the last he would ever hear from her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Tiro was grateful for the full moon and lack of clouds that night, as they rode west along the low ridge of the Poldens. It was a silent night, with only their own hoofbeats and the occasional fox bark to punctuate the quiet. Tiro stretched, easing sore muscles in his back. The healing grazes on his elbows and knees were beginning to itch. He felt thoroughly miserable. Why had he spent his whole life so far making a mess of everything, chasing booze, fun and easy sex? And now, when at last he knew what kind of life he really wanted and maybe had a chance to achieve it, now it seemed likely he would die first.

  At least the scar on his forehead had stopped hurting. He took cheer from that and thought about their next steps. They were to take fast ship at the little port of Crandon Bridge, on the estuary of the Pedrida river. He didn’t need to know more. He’d just go with the flow and throw himself into whatever adventure awaited.

  Ahead of him the Sorio boy led the way, sitting easy on his horse with a light spear in one hand. Nice bit of horseflesh he’s got there, thought Tiro, distracted by the horse’s strong lines and well-pricked ears. Drusus hadn’t needed to be asked twice to be their guide tonight. He seemed keen to shed the lingering image of stooge to Lucius.

  Tiro heard the soft regular footfalls of the chestnut bringing up the rear. As so often the boss was silent, keeping himself to himself. Tiro reckoned Quintus had had words with his lady, too, but there was no knowing the upshot there. And what about young Aurelia? Her true parentage couldn’t be denied; soon as you saw her with the boss, you knew. Poor little lass. Her world had turned upside down, and now her new father was leaving too. But perhaps Aurelia didn’t yet know who Quintus was, wouldn’t know until the Imperial Investigator came back from this mission. That made Tiro sit upright. He’d make damn sure Aurelia got her real father back and in one piece. He’d made that promise in a quiet moment to Britta, and he’d keep it even if all the Furies came after them.

  They broke out from the tree-cover into bright moonlight. Drusus drew rein. They were near the western end of the hills, looking across the bronze-brown Severn Sea towards the country of the Silures. The boy raised his spear, pointing to the left. Tiro saw that a narrow well-made bridle path zigzagged down to a small town on the river bank. The Pedrida looped its way across country from the east, widening and turning muddy as it reached the little port. Decurion Sorio had explained that the silt washed along by Sabrina was carried upstream into the Pedrida by vast tides.

  ‘You won’t believe the tides are round about here, Frumentarius. And we get tidal bores, many times the height of a man. You can’t outpace the water if you’re caught out on the sands. Very dangerous the Summer Country waters are, especially when it’s full moon in spring.’

  Tiro doubted Quintus believed the Decurion. Everyone thinks their own patch is special, after all. But Tiro had seen the difference between high and low tides in the Tamesis, and knew how dangerous tidal waters could be. He edged up to Drusus to peer down over the moonlit settlement. It was a gaggle of storehouses and a few small cottages huddled together between the slope under them, and the sombre silty riverbank. Small merchant ships were tied side-on to the quay, their mainsails furled away. One or two round hide-covered coracles were drawn up downstream.

  Tiro shuddered. He had never learned to swim properly, and had an aversion to the sea. The only waters he enjoyed were the steaming ones in town baths. He didn’t even like water to drink, preferring beer at any time of day. And there was no sign of the fast naval galley Marcellus mentioned.

  ‘When is high tide, Drusus?’ Quintus asked.

  ‘ Around an hour before sunrise.’

  ‘Good. Your father tells me the crossing upriver to Aust should take no more than eight hours with a fast-rowing crew, so we should disembark before dark tomorrow. I gather the waters can be challenging.’

  Tiro spat over his shoulder for luck, catching the cynical look on his superior’s face.

  ‘Time enough for Tiro to make his offerings to the goddess of the river.’ Drusus helpfully pointed to a worn stone marker overlooking the muddy foreshore. Tiro had every intention of paying his respects to the ancient and important goddess Sabrina before entering her watery domain. His musings were interrupted by Drusus.

  ‘That’s odd. There’s a horse coming up. She seems to be riderless.’

  An old mare shambled up the path, turning onto the wider brow of the hill with a faint whinny of greeting to the other horses. She stooped to graze, and Tiro recognised with a shock the old nag they had requisitioned in Lindinis.

  ‘Sir! That’s the horse Caesulanus was tied to.’

  Quintus pulled his chestnut round and began to descend the steep path in haste. Tiro blessed Luna for her timely gift of brilliant light as he followed. Drusus, being young and heedless, kicked his boots into his grey’s flanks and managed to bypass both of them, galloping headlong downhill.

  ‘Young fool,’ Quintus said, but he and Tiro kept pace with Drusus. Miraculously they all arrived at the bottom intact. The moon was still high over the Severn Sea and now they could make out a figure stumbling along the beach. Caesulanus was making for the coracles pulled up beyond the high tide mark. Large pools opened under his feet, making a sucking noise loud enough to be heard over their hoofbeats. They cantered after him, gaining quickly. The man swerved away, heading directly for the water. Perhaps he thought he could get away by swimming.

  Drusus pulled his horse up sharply, and yelled back to them. ’We can’t ride any further. These are shivering sands. We’ll all be sucked under if we go further on horseback.’ He flung himself off his horse. The others copied him. Quintus reached for the boy’s spear. Caesulanus turned his head to look and his very next step slid him knee-deep into the treacherous mud. He seemed to pause, swinging his body to and fro in a vain effort to free his legs. Each movement sucked him further under the silt, now a watery black under the shining eye of Luna. He froze as they cautiously approached, Quintus testing each step with the spear.

  ‘Get me out of this stinking mud, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

  The trapped man’s voice shook. Even that small movement made his body sink deeper. They were close now, Tiro not far from the prisoner. He could see the whites of his eyes, and the shallow rapid breaths betraying his panic. With every breath Caesulanus was sinking further.

  Afterwards, Tiro had leisure to wonder at his own recklessness. N
umber one, he couldn’t swim. Number two, he knew as well as any man how dangerous estuary silt can be. Number three, the dark brackish mud was freezing cold. Number four, he maybe had a better life come back to, with a decent job, and this was no time to act the hero. He stopped counting after number four.

  An image he had seen as a mudlarking child on the slippery banks of the Tamesis thrust into his mind. He had been watching a fisherman with a mud-horse, catching shellfish and spreading the loaded nets carefully into the wooden sledge.

  ’See this ’ere mud horse, lad? It makes it safe for me to go out after the fish without getting stuck in the filthy mud. Spreads the weight, like.’ And Tiro had seen the point, even as a child. The wider the load was spread out on the sledge, the safer the operation would be.

  He flung himself flat onto the cold stinking mud, calling back to Quintus, ‘I’ll get him, sir.’

  He began to crawl, keeping his weight as spread out across the mud as he could. It was terrifying and disgusting in equal measure. Had he been able to look up he would have immediately retreated. Drusus told him later that even as he wriggled his way onwards, Caesulanus had already sunk up to his neck. Tiro could hear the man blubbering, swearing and praying to Neptune. But he couldn’t see what Drusus had already spotted out to sea. He couldn’t hear the lad’s screams of warning over the sucking noise of the wet mud, either. At last he lifted his head to check direction. Only a couple of yards now from the drowning man. Then he heard Drusus’s desperate shouts.

  ‘The bore — Tiro, the bore’s coming in from the sea. You have to come back. Leave him, come back!’

  Tiro didn’t like the sound of this at all. Craning his neck almost to breaking point to lift his head, he saw a dark line approaching on the river, silvered where the moon glanced off the leading edge. It swept in from the Severn Sea at horrible speed, racing up the river and growing taller all the time. Tiro tried to turn. His leading arm sank into the mud. He thought he would die of panic. He couldn’t draw breath. He remembered the awful choking sensation of being trapped in the dark in the hypocaust, expecting to suffocate at every moment. This was like that, but worse. He felt the air squeezing out of his chest, and waited for the cold slimy mud to crawl down his throat.