The Governor's Man: A Quintus Valerius Mystery

by Jacquie Rogers

  A calm voice, clear and commanding, broke through.

  ‘Don’t try to turn. Reach your right hand back towards me, carefully. As far behind as you can. Extend it fully. You’re within touching distance of Drusus’s spear. We’ll pull you out. Just lie completely flat and still, let us do the work.’ The broad iron head of the boy’s spear was pushed into his open hand. Tiro closed his freezing hand round it. He wriggled over to grab the shaft with his other hand. At once he felt a steady pull, gradually swivelling him round to face the shore. With gathering power Quintus and Drusus heaved on the spearshaft. Tiro was moving faster now and could help with some movement of his legs. The smell of the deadly sands was right up his nostrils and his eyes were watering with salty grit, blotting out vision. Drusus shouted, ‘Too late, Sabrina has him!’ Tiro shut his eyes, thought one last time of Britta, and waited for the tall wave to close over his head.

  Before the bore reached him his feet abruptly steadied into firmer sand. He was washed waist-deep by rising silty water, but with feet down and firm he could release the spear. He stumbled onto the shore, and turned back to look across the estuary. He was dripping and shivering convulsively.

  There was no-one there.

  ‘Where’s he gone, the prisoner?’

  ‘To Hades. Without telling us anything.’ Quintus sounded defeated, and turned away. Drusus had a lingering look of terror on his young face.

  ‘The river took him! The Goddess Sabrina in her wrath rose in a massive wave and rolled over his head. He just disappeared. It was horrible.’ The boy choked in apparent effort not to cry like a small child. Quintus was already climbing up the slippery river bank, back turned. Tiro pulled himself out of his stupor, cursing, and grabbed Drusus by the arm.

  They trudged back to the port, cold and dispirited. They gathered the horses back together, retrieving their bags and cloaks. Caesulanus had been a villain all right, but Tiro had seldom witnessed a more disgusting death. He wrapped his dirty but welcome birrus round himself, and tried to steady himself.

  It was probably only a few minutes’ wait, but Tiro was numb with cold by the time Quintus called out, ’Here they are!’ He heard the swift rhythmic beat of oars moving in disciplined momentum. A sleek double-banked naval ship swept along the river towards them, helped by the spring tide and buoyed up on the lingering bore. It raced past them, appearing to swivel on a sestertius as commands rang out along the open deck. The mainsail was swiftly gathered in, and the ship hove-to alongside the quay, settling into position as if it had always been there.

  A dark bearded man in the uniform of a naval officer leapt lightly off the bow calling, ’Frumentarius Quintus Valerius?’

  Tiro groaned. A ship meant more waves, more water. And more danger, from the description Decurion Sorio had given them of the passage up the Severn Sea.

  No time to waste then. Tiro hurried over to the ancient pillar where a tiny spring washed the Goddess’ stony feet. He reverently dropped a denarius he could ill-afford into the water, and prayed earnestly to the lady of the mighty western river for a safe passage. They bade farewell to Drusus, who grinned, saluted and leapt onto his horse with the ease of a boy who has lived all his life in the saddle. The last Tiro saw of him was a clod of mud flying from the grey’s hoofs as the boy set him at a canter back up the hill.

  Well before dusk the next day Tiro had to concede that the goddess Sabrina had heard him, and that the skilled sailors of the classis britannica knew their business. A friendly marine took him under his wing on embarkation, and rustled up a change of clothes while Tiro’s filthy clothes were rinsed and dried. Tiro kept well inside the cabin, praying. His marine winked at him, saying, ‘No need to worry, army boy. Our flotilla is based nearby at Abona, and we spend all our time charting these waters. You’re in safe hands.’

  Wooden bowls of hot stew were passed out of the tiny kitchen. Warmed and fed, Tiro drifted off into a doze. Quintus spent long periods on deck, talking quietly to the bearded captain and looking north.

  By the time the planked keel of the galley slid up the landing at Aust, Tiro was feeling rested and very grateful. It had indeed been a rough voyage, with shifting sandbanks and waters writhing in and out of the inlets along the shoreline. He helped the sailors disembark their horses, who had not enjoyed the passage. A few words from Tiro soothed them, impressing his marine. He saluted with a grin as they passed down the gangway.

  The tiny port of Aust crouched under a low cliff, glowing stripes of pink sandstone and green limestone. Tiro felt in more than usual need of worship, but was disappointed to find there was no time to visit the little temple perched on the cliff. He had to concede that dusk was quickly sweeping up before them. They had some distance to go before night fell. A road built for the legion at Isca would lead them to an intersection with the highway heading north to Glevum, as long as they didn’t miss the crossroads in the dark.

  It was a cold night of empty landscape. Tiro hoped it stayed that way till they made rendezvous with Centurion Crispus. He was eager to see the redheaded officer and his troopers. I just hope you know what you’re doing, young Crispus. He prayed to Mars, god of war, and then to Minerva, goddess of justice and righteous combat.

  He feared they would need all the divine support they could get.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Two broad roads swept north from Aquae Sulis, like the outspread wings of the Goddess Victory. Each headed to a major city: on the west to Glevum, the old fortress and colonia; on the east to Corinium, the civitas of the large Dobunni tribe. Quintus guessed the Second Augusta would approach the quicker way, direct from Glevum to Corinium on the Great West Road and so on to Londinium. No uprising in Britannia could be successful without taking the capital. That was why both the provincial heads were based there: the controller of military might, the Governor; and the man with the money, the Procurator.

  Marcellus had orders to join the legion from Aquae Sulis. Quintus reasoned anyone looking for the reluctant cohort would do so along the direct eastern route to Corinium. So Quintus looked for the Aquae Sulis boys along the west road, where their little camp was masked by the substantial Cotswold Ridge.

  The Augusta were impregnable while garrisoned in their fort at Isca. The Aquae Sulis vexillation would have to wait while the mother legion made its long way round the north of the Sabrina estuary, and then use surprise to bolster interception. If interception was indeed what Marcellus had in mind. It was difficult to believe that surprise could make any difference against such overwhelming numbers, but what else could they do?

  It was a relief when Tiro’s sharp eyes picked out the low smudge of campfires ahead in the dusk. The Aquae Sulis century was encamped, snug and well-organised, beyond the cleared margins of the access road from Aust. Quintus and Tiro were quickly ushered into Marcellus’s tent in the centre of the camp.

  ‘Brothers!’ Marcellus rose from his portable desk, and embraced each of them. ‘My optio, Decimus Senecio.’ He nodded at a grizzled veteran, bandy-legged and scarred, who stood to rigid attention. ‘Anything we discuss can be said in front of Decimus. He is my most loyal and experienced man.’

  A slave entered the tent, bringing hot wine and bread with chunks of cheese, all gratefully accepted. Then with the tent flaps secured by an armed guard stationed beyond, they settled to confer. Quintus raised the subject of the Dobunni tribe.

  ‘I understand from Tertius that Fulminata escaped arrest. No fault of yours, Brother,’ he added hastily.

  Marcellus looked angry. ‘There will be a reckoning for that betrayal when I catch those two wastrels. I imagine they plan to scuttle back to the bosom of the legion in Isca.’

  ‘Right. Let’s assume she is still on her way to Corinium. She’ll wait until the legion is close before stirring up the Dobunni, not wanting to lose impetus once she has roused the passions of the young men. The soldiers will join up with the tribesmen. If anything goes wrong, their cover would be that they mobilised to prevent a Dobunni rebellio
n. By the time the enlarged Augusta enter an unsuspecting Londinium, it will be too late to stop the insurrection.

  ‘Marcellus, you know this country better than we do. How long for the Augusta to reach Corinium?’

  The centurion glanced at his optio. The older man spoke slowly, a deep voice with a heavy local accent. ‘Well, sir, I reckon that’d be all of three more days. See here, it will take a day or two at least to recall all the scouting parties and out-posted men back to Isca. Then they need to assemble and pack, ready to march—something the Augusta has not done for many years. It’s a fair step then from Isca to Corinium.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Marcellus. ‘I think they will not get there for another few days, most likely on the fourth day from now.’ He fell silent for a moment, sipping at his wine. The only sound was the faint crackle of coals burning in the brazier. A buffet of breeze made the tent walls wallow, presaging rain coming in from the west. Full dark had fallen, and pressed in behind the flickering oil lamps.

  ‘So, here is our position. Apart from your company, Marcellus, there are just we two. That limits what we can realistically do. Fortunately the community leaders in Lindinis scuppered the attempt by Fulminata and her cronies to raise rebellion there. I have asked a Lindinis town councillor, Decurion Agrippa Sorio, to raise and arm the Durotriges to follow us in support. But it will take time to muster them, and time to march them to our aid. Neither are they trained or adequately equipped to fight. Is there any other help we can call on, anyone nearby we can rely on to remain loyal to the Emperor?’

  Marcellus shook his head. ’No way of knowing, sir. My men are all with me to the end, of course. But they are only a century, though at least an over-sized one. With all my couriers and scouts now recalled, we are 105 men.’

  ‘107, sir, counting me and the boss!’

  Marcellus smiled faintly at Tiro, but the smile was tired and did not reach his eyes. ‘I thought to call out the citizens of Aquae Sulis, who know and value our garrison, I believe. And — well, I wondered, Quintus, whether the two of us could appeal directly to the men of the Augusta legion? The officers are mostly bought and sold, but I would bet the ordinary troops—who always bear the brunt of any fighting—might be open to persuasion. They all worship the Principate, of course, and have sworn their lifelong loyalty to the Emperor. Perhaps they will disobey their officers’ orders, and keep faith?’

  Quintus shook his head at that. He feared Marcellus was allowing his sense of what was right to overcome reality. The men would follow the lead of their centurions. And the centurions, the backbone of any legion, would sniff the wind to see which way it was blowing, and vote in favour of the strongest-seeming leader. Right now, that person was whoever had planned this coup. There was only one chance of reinforcement left, a very remote one. There was another legion in Britannia Superior. The XX Valeria Victrix, based at Castra Deva in the far north-west. Could that legion be persuaded to stay loyal and march south to stop the rebellion? Could it be done in time?

  Marcellus was doubtful.

  ‘I know very little of the Deva legate, only that he is quite new in post. I believe he took over the Twentieth a bare few weeks before our Provincial Governor Trebonius arrived in Londinium. His loyalties are not known to me. His appointment may well have been at the request of the new Governor.’

  Quintus nodded. That was often how promotions and appointments happened. It was all about who you knew.

  ‘Too late anyhow,’ broke in the optio. ‘No chance to alert the Valeria Victrix now. By the time we get a message up to Deva and they march all the way south to us, we’ll be dead and buried. Or food for crows.’

  It was a blunt but likely assessment.

  ‘No point in even thinking about the third British legion at Eboracum. Separate province since Emperor Septimius Severus split Britannia, different Governor, even further away. They won’t get involved in our internal disputes.’

  Quintus sighed. For a moment the name of Eboracum took him back to the old days there: to pain and poppy juice; to nights battling drugged visions of the pleading eyes of Flavius; to the smell of rosewater and sunbathed dusty city walls; to long fair hair ruffled by the summer breeze.

  A disturbance came from outside the tent. The guard poked his head in.

  ’Sorry to disturb, sir,’ he said to Marcellus. ‘Message from our vexillation medicus, Anicius Piso.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The surgeon was summoned to attend the Legate of the Second Augusta in Isca.’

  Marcellus wrinkled his brow. ‘Yes, we know this. The Legate has been ill for some time.’

  ‘The surgeon reports the Legate has died, sir. He thought you should know.’

  ‘Is Piso there still?’

  ‘On his way back to Aquae Sulis, probably arrived by now, sir. His courier said something about needing to be back at the hospital urgently.’

  Marcellus waved the man away, and raised a concerned face to Quintus.

  ‘So we now know for sure our legion’s general had no hand in this plot. I thought it unlikely. He was always a man of honour, but fast losing any ability to command in recent weeks. Someone else of standing in the legion is behind this.

  ‘What should we do now, Frumentarius? My men are loyal and well-trained, but is it my duty now to lead them into a deathtrap?’

  Three pairs of eyes fixed themselves on Quintus. Marcellus looked worried, and upset at the loss of his general; Senecio resigned to obey; Tiro alert and keen.

  ‘Well, it’s just us and the Aquae Sulis men until Sorio joins us. Let’s use what we have to best advantage. Marcellus, I suggest sending scouts out along the three main roads. A pair to Corinium to assess the Dobunni mood. One man to report back to us, the other to carry on towards Deva. He is to check along the road north out of Corinium and hopefully discover whether the Twentieth legion has been mobilised. We may not be able to raise the Valeria Victrix ourselves, but we have to know whether anyone else already has.

  ‘We should also keep an eye on the progress of the Second Augusta from Isca. And finally, I want to know if there is any movement of troops on the east road. But warn your scouts to be very wary. It is highly likely our opponents will be watching the same routes.

  ‘We should keep our century hidden here meanwhile. Once we know the Augusta is nearing Corinium we’ll move to intercept and do whatever we can to upset their plans at that point. Though I fear it will be little enough.’

  Marcellus and his optio left to issue orders to the scouts. Tiro looked at Quintus.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I realise you may not want to share all your thoughts with me. But do you know yet who might be behind the plot? We know how the Vebriacum silver was being used to bribe the Augusta’s officers, but it can’t be the legion’s own commander issuing the orders, can it?’

  This was the question foremost in Quintus’s mind for some time. He didn’t like the only answer he had. Now Tiro was asking, and he could no longer avoid answering.

  Tiro spoke again.

  ‘Just now you asked Marcellus to post scouts on the road east. Are you expecting to see troops arrive from Londinium before any come the other way from Isca?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is coming from Londinium? Is this the real threat? Has this person got control of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix as well?’

  Quintus looked thoughtfully at his stator. Tiro swallowed, and continued.

  ‘I may have it all wrong, sir, not being a thinker like you. But if what I’ve said is right, it can only be one of two men.’

  Still Quintus was silent. Tiro looked really unhappy. What he was suggesting amounted to sedition. Quintus was aware that Tiro had his faults. He was too prone to drink, impulsive, forgetful, disinclined to obey unless he agreed with a course of action. But he was also resourceful, courageous, and, Quintus believed, loyal. Quintus smiled wryly. The time they had travelled together was short in count of weeks, but they had both moved a long w
ay from their initial distrust and dislike. It had taken the imminent prospect of death and defeat to make him understand this, as with so much else in his life.

  ‘You’re quite right, Tiro. I do have an idea who we might be dealing with. But even here there may be unwanted ears. So I suggest you think about a few things.

  ‘First, where we have seen white wax tablets?

  ‘Second, why didn’t Claudius Bulbo want to visit Southwark?

  ‘Third - and I say this with great reluctance - why were we two chosen for this mission?’

  Tiro looked even more puzzled.

  Quintus stood slowly, feeling drained. What wouldn’t he give to rest now, to sleep deeply and to wake with no need to think more of this? He stood lost in his dark thoughts, twisting the bronze owl ring round his finger. He realised Tiro was watching, and mentally shook himself. There was still his duty to be done.

  He alone knew who he was up against. He thought briefly of the people he would never see again: his family so far away in Rome; Julia; Aurelia. The best outcome he could hope for was a good death.

  He reached out to grip Tiro by the shoulder.

  ‘Come on, let’s get ourselves a tent and see to the horses.’

  The next two days crept snail-like for Tiro, while the century remained quietly encamped waiting for the scouts’ return. He felt prickly with inaction. His various hurts had eased by now, though he noticed that Quintus still held his left arm hanging straight and avoided making contact with it. Julia had given him more honey and each evening the camp medical orderly replaced the dressings. Tiro caught one glimpse, and saw the arm from wrist to well above elbow a mass of angry red blisters, some of them oozing yellow. He looked away quickly. While he could contemplate his own wounds with equanimity, his stomach for other people’s injuries was not as strong.