Semper Fidelis: A Novel of the Roman Empire

by Ruth Downie

  Tilla was missing.

  She had found out that she was no longer the tribune’s hostage, realized her husband had failed to come for her, and taken herself off somewhere that the Britons knew about and he didn’t.

  Tilla was missing.

  Still clutching his case and the blanket he had brought thinking he was staying the night, he picked his way through the huddled confusion of vehicles and makeshift shelters and guard dogs and murmured conversations and crying babies and cooking smells that made up the civilian camp. None of the voices that responded to him in the darkness would admit to having seen her. The girl Corinna called out from somewhere to ask how her husband was. He reassured her as best he could, wishing he had better news.

  Finally he resorted to shouting, “Tilla!” in the hope that she was hiding and might relent. The only reaction was a cacophony of barking and voices telling him to shut up: People were trying to sleep.

  He glanced down the road to where the black shapes of roofs were silhouetted against the starlit sky. Had she taken a room somewhere? There was only one way to find out. Slowly, so as not to trip over tent pegs invisible in the dark, he began to make his way toward the buildings. That was when a movement caught his eye. A figure creeping along the grass verge, just this side of the ditch. Then another. And another. He ducked down, ready to raise the alarm. Then he saw the glint of metal from some idiot who thought he could skulk around unseen in shiny parade armor.

  Suddenly, the blast of a trumpet set a dozen dogs all barking at once. The soldiers leapt up, looking like monsters in the starlight, and began a rhythmic, relentless crash of sword hilts on shields. Ruso could sense movement all around him as cries of fear and protest rose from the camp.

  “This is an inspection!” roared a voice that had been educated in Rome. “Everyone stay where you are!”

  It was the Praetorian officer he had met this morning, but … an inspection? Of a civilian camp in the middle of the night? What was the matter with him?

  Children cried. Dogs barked. Adults muttered and cursed as they fumbled with covers and tent ties in the dark.

  “The camp is surrounded! Nobody is to leave! Stand still outside your own shelter!”

  Gods above, was he going to perform a roll call next? And why, having made his point, did he not stop that awful thumping beat?

  “Keep those dogs under control!”

  Somebody protested, “There are children here!” and several other voices rose in support.

  “No one will be hurt!”

  The beat was silenced at last. All around Ruso, whisperers were asking each other what was going on. One brave soul shouted, “What have we done, then?” and a bolder voice ventured, “Clear off back to Rome!”

  “Silence!” roared the Praetorian. “Everyone onto the road in an orderly manner! My men will be performing a search. As soon as we have finished, you may return to your beds.”

  Was that supposed to be reassuring?

  Eventually everyone seemed to be moving toward the road, although in a manner that was far from orderly. Ruso went with them, hearing the sound of soldiers crashing about behind him. The search did not sound too orderly, either.

  He joined the disgruntled and shivering collection of civilian travelers lined up for inspection by the flare of torches, and was taken by surprise when the officer ordered him to step forward. Surely the Praetorians had not arranged this search just for him?

  No, they had not. When he responded truthfully to “Name?” the officer peered at him and said, “Ah. You again,” and looked down at his medical case. “Another memorial, is it?”

  Before Ruso could reply, another voice called out his name.

  “Sir?”

  The torchlight picked out the gleam of Accius’s armor. This was turning into a very strange night.

  Leading him away from the melee on the road, Accius said, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Looking for my wife, sir. What’s going on?”

  “Your wife is over in the empress’s dining room, upsetting people as usual.

  Where’s your kit?”

  “On a wagon, sir.”

  Accius sighed, as if Ruso were being deliberately unhelpful. “Never mind. Arm yourself with something and get down to the camp. The British recruits have deserted.”

  “What?”

  “Centurion Dexter is also missing. I don’t care about the recruits, but if Dexter’s not already in a ditch with his throat cut, I intend to get him back.”

  Chapter 75

  Angry thin men were always more frightening than angry fat ones. This one hauled her out of the dining room with “The empress does not want to hear your nonsense about the Dumnonii woman!” and waited until they were out in the corridor to add, “And neither do I!”

  “But Victor—”

  “The deserter murdered his centurion, and he’ll be made an example of. If his family are foolish enough to follow him, the legate will decide what to do with them.”

  There were no servants about as Prefect Clarus hustled her toward the stairs. She said, “Sir, I must speak with you!” but he was not listening. “I am on your side, my lord! You cannot trust the tribune!”

  That stopped him.

  “Sir, the tribune—”

  He said, “Nonsense!” but instead of pulling her down the stairs, he seemed to change his mind and bundled her into the next room.

  In the gloom she stumbled and fell out of his grasp, colliding with a bed and scrambling to her feet before he could pin her down there.

  But he seemed to have no interest in the bed. Instead, he stood between her and the door and said, “If you lie to me, you will be punished.”

  She moved closer to whisper, “You cannot trust the tribune, sir.” He had been to the baths: She could smell the oil. “He is making his own separate inquiries into the murder.”

  She heard him draw in his breath. “You’re lying.”

  “It is true.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “He is trying to prove the deserter did not kill his centurion. He is using my husband.” She moved away slightly, leaving one hand at his throat. “And I”—she pressed it against his skin—“am using his scalpel.”

  She felt the blade rise and fall as Clarus swallowed. He had not seen her slip it out from under her skirts as she pretended to fall.

  “You could shout for help,” she murmured. “But before anyone hears the words, your windpipe will be sliced in two and your blood will be spraying on the walls. I am the wife of a surgeon, and I know how these things are done.”

  “You said you were on my side!” His voice was hoarse, and he sounded aggrieved.

  “I lied.”

  “I am a guest here! It is inhospitable to lie to me!”

  “I lied about that too.” She was not going to waste time arguing. “The men seen with Geminus just before he died were yours,” she said. “I know you have been told that, and I know you said nothing about it to the tribune. So what I am asking myself is: Why is this man saying nothing? Why is he letting an innocent Briton be punished for a murder done by Roman men? Does he have no shame?”

  The blade lifted and sank again, but he said nothing. She pressed it a little harder above where she thought the artery might be, hoping her hand would not slip before he answered her questions.

  “Is it no shame for Romans to murder each other?” She could not feel any blood yet. “Answer me!”

  “Of course! We are not—” He broke off. Men were shouting in the courtyard. A woman screamed. There was a juddering thud and a cry as if someone had been thrown against the wall. More voices. They sounded like soldiers but they were shouting in British.

  “You are not barbarians?” she suggested, keeping his attention on the scalpel. “No. Your guards obey orders. So did you give the order to kill Geminus, or are you protecting the one who did?”

  “I cannot say.”

  The door burst open. “No swords!” she cried in B
ritish, hoping she had guessed right. “I am Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae, and this man is my prisoner.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then a voice said in the same tongue, “Need any help?”

  “He is asking if I need his help,” Tilla translated into Latin. “Do I? Or will you speak?”

  From outside the room came more cries and the crash of overturned furniture. The air held the sharp stink of something that should not be burning. She could feel Clarus trembling. Not wanting to admit that she had no idea what was happening, she said to the Briton, “How is it out there?”

  He laughed. “Easy. They’ll be renaming this place the Eagle’s Downfall.”

  “You are taking prisoners?”

  “I wouldn’t,” he said. “But Marcus says we’ve got to.”

  So Virana’s friend Marcus was giving orders. But why bring the recruits here? Surely they had not come to take the empress and her guards hostage? It was madness. Still, she might be able to use it to her advantage. She reverted to Latin. “My people want justice,” she told Clarus. “With every painful step they have seen Victor make, their anger has grown.”

  “My men—”

  “Your men have been dealt with,” she said, hoping it was true. “We are not afraid of death as you are. Our men are in charge here now. If I hand you over, my people will sell you to the hill tribes for their sport. Perhaps they will impale you on a tall stake stuck in the ground. Perhaps they will roast you alive.” She hoped Christos was too busy tending to some other follower to be listening to this. This was a matter for the old gods. “Even if you live, you will be praying to die.” She gave him a moment to frighten himself with any other gruesome tales he might have heard. “Tell the truth, and I will order them to keep you here unharmed.”

  She could not order the recruits to do anything, but that did not matter. The tales of British warrior queens haunted the nightmares of every visiting Roman.

  A terrified shriek rose from the direction of the dining room.

  Clarus cried, “The empress!”

  The shriek died into a rasping gurgle.

  “Oh, Sabina!”

  Tilla said, “You can do nothing for her now.”

  Slowly, he let out his breath. “I will speak.”

  The recruit backed out and closed the door.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I passed on the order.”

  “Who gave you this order?”

  He did not reply.

  “Tell me, or I will hand you over to my men.”

  It was barely more than a whisper. “It was Tranquillus.”

  “Tranquillus?”

  “The emperor’s correspondence secretary. But it could not have been his idea.”

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “I don’t know. He said it was a secret.”

  “Do not lie to me!”

  “I am not lying. I was told to get rid of Centurion Geminus in a way that would not be traced back.”

  “And who wanted him dead?” If the murder had been ordered by the emperor’s trusted secretary, it could have nothing to do with the recruits. Nor with an old grudge amongst the Praetorians.

  “I—I think my poor empress …”

  He must have felt the startled shift of the blade. “The empress?”

  “I may be wrong! Tranquillus is the only one who knows.”

  “Tranquillus is not here. You are.” Was it possible that Sabina interfered in her husband’s business after all?

  “Oh, my poor lady! To end in a place like this!”

  “Tell me about the empress.”

  “You will all die for this!” said Clarus, recalling his dignity. “The emperor will take such a revenge on your tribes that—”

  “If he does, you will not live to see it.” She had to get rid of this man and pass on the news. She hoped the recruits had listened to Marcus and taken prisoners. She could leave this one with the rest. “Move slowly and do as I say. If you do anything that makes me think you are trying to escape or call for help, I shall kill you. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  The men guarding the entrance to the dining room stepped aside to let them pass. At the sight of Clarus, four men lined up across the far corner snapped to attention: Praetorians, looking half-dressed without their armor and their weapons. Beyond them, a couch had been tipped over and pushed into the corner. Several heads popped up from behind it. A voice cried, “Clarus!”

  Clarus stopped dead. Tilla almost stabbed him in the back of the neck by accident.

  “Clarus,” cried the voice again. “Thank the gods! Where are the rest of my guards?”

  “Madam! Oh, my lady, I thought—”

  He did not say what he thought, perhaps because he now realized Tilla had never exactly told him the empress was dead.

  “Clarus, whatever is happening? These ghastly natives are all over the place!”

  As Tilla pushed him forward, she heard Minna cry out, “Do not trust that woman, sir! She is one of them!”

  The Praetorians took a pace toward her. A couple had armed themselves with chair legs.

  “Tell them to stand back,” Tilla said. “They should guard the empress, not waste their lives trying to defend you.”

  Clarus did not sound pleased to be reminded of his duty, but he gave the order.

  Tilla stepped away from him. “Now go and join the others.”

  She retreated to talk to the nearest man on the door. To her surprise, he raised his sword. She whispered in British, “I am with you. I am a friend of Corinna and Victor. What is happening?”

  “Buggered if I know,” he said. “I just got told ‘Don’t kill nobody and don’t let nobody out.’”

  “That doesn’t mean me, you fool!”

  “Nobody,” he repeated.

  Perhaps it was safest to wait here for a moment. There were, or there should be, armed men all over the building. In the dark, it would be easy for one of them to make a mistake. Tilla nodded for the benefit of the watching Romans, as if she and this idiot had just been having a discussion rather than an argument. “If they come near me,” she murmured, “it will be your job to defend me, since you made me stay here.” She left him to think about that. Still clutching the scalpel, she walked across to peer through a crack in the window down to the courtyard below. She was almost as much of a prisoner as the Romans now, but she was not going to let the Romans know it.

  Chapter 76

  A couple of fast-moving flares in the distance traced the progress of the search along tracks that the Britons might have taken. Meanwhile, the peace of the camp was a distant memory. A volley of shouts was followed by silence: Someone sensible had decreed that the searchers should allow themselves time to hear any replies to the cry of “Dex-ter!”

  As they approached he saw lights bobbing about above the ditch, picking out the shapes of soldiers hunting for a man who, not half an hour ago, had been sitting by a campfire, eating bacon.

  Ruso felt sick.

  He should have told Dexter that Marcus was wandering around where he shouldn’t be. Instead he had pointed out that the captain of the watch was slacking, mentioned vaguely that the recruits seemed restless, and then left the centurion to deal with forty-six armed and resentful men while he wandered off to look for his wife.

  Someone arrived to tell Accius that several guards had been found dumped under a hedge.

  Ruso felt his stomach shrivel.

  “Dead?” demanded Accius, voicing his own fear.

  “Just knocked about a bit, sir.”

  Clinging to this small shred of comfort, Ruso followed the tribune to the hospital wagons and joined Pera and the orderlies in checking the injured men as best they could by the light of the one remaining lantern. To Ruso’s relief, none of the victims was seriously hurt, although there was an impressive amount of blood and all had nasty rope burns around their necks. It struck Ruso that their accounts of the attack were as graphic as any man might offer if he
were trying to avoid being flogged for not paying proper attention on guard duty. They must have been negligent. How else could the deserters have managed to overpower, tie up, and gag all half a dozen of them without anyone noticing?

  Accius’s eager questioning revealed nothing new. None of the guards knew anything about Dexter. He told them they would be dealt with in the morning, and left them to worry.

  Ruso got up to leave with him. None of this was helping to find either Dexter or Tilla, and now he was afraid for both of them. What the hell had Marcus meant when he said she would come to no harm?

  “Sir?” Ruso hurried to catch up with the tribune, who was doing a good job of striding purposefully about and looking as though he knew what to do next. Ruso felt almost sorry for him. “Sir, has anyone checked the inn?”

  “They haven’t popped out to dinner, Ruso. Just thank the gods the empress is well away from all this.”

  “Just a thought, sir.” He was going to have to explain. But not truthfully. Not now. Besides, he might be wrong. Marcus’s promise might not mean they were planning to enter the building Tilla was in. But if it didn’t mean that, what did it mean? Had they disappeared into the night and taken her with them?

  Accius was still pointing out the stupidity of his first idea. “The empress has a guard, and I was there myself just a few minutes ago.”

  “Sir, they could have taken Dexter as a hostage in the hope of doing a deal. And that’s where they think the officers are.”

  “The place is packed with staff, man!”

  Ruso did not want to have to say it, but it was true. “Most of the staff will be natives, sir.”

  Chapter 77

  It was scant satisfaction to be proved right. The native recruits were not only in the inn: They had taken control of it. Outside, at a safe distance from anything that might be thrown from the roof, the centurion of the Praetorians was briefing his junior officers. In the absence of his commander he seemed to have taken it upon himself to do whatever was necessary. What he deemed necessary was a diversion, so that a small party of his best men could climb over the stable walls and open up from the inside. Accius’s few remaining men from the Twentieth could provide one of the diversions by storming the front steps. Clearly the Praetorians were excited at the prospect of some real action.