Semper Fidelis: A Novel of the Roman Empire

by Ruth Downie

  Accius was helping the empress up the steps of the mounting block. There was a confusion of shouting and shushing as everyone told everyone else to shut up and listen. Finally a hush spread across the courtyard.

  Sabina’s earrings glittered as she looked over the heads of the crowd and waited for someone to address her. “Well?” she asked. “You had plenty to say just now. I am listening.”

  There was nervous laughter. Tilla felt her arm released as some sort of whispered argument erupted between her husband and Marcus. Then Marcus stepped forward. “Empress,” he said, and bowed to the figure above him.

  Someone shouted, “Good start, mate!”

  Marcus hesitated, clearly unnerved. “Madam Empress, three months ago there were fifty of us, recruits to the Twentieth Legion. Now three are dead, one is sick, and one is in chains.”

  Sabina said, “Who are you?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Marcus cleared his throat. “Marcus of the Regni. Tonight Centurion Dexter tried to get rid of the rest of us, but we came to report to Tribune Accius instead, because we want to serve the emperor.”

  Sabina inclined her head.

  “And you,” he added quickly.

  She inclined her head once more.

  Marcus said, “We wanted the tribune to know what really happened to the men who died. Dannicus and Tadius and Sulio. And now he does. And … ah … we’re sorry about spoiling your dinner.”

  A cry of “No we’re not!” was followed by a scuffle somewhere in the darkness and hissings of “Shut up!”

  “I see,” said Sabina. “And what is your petition?”

  There was another pause. Tilla could hear whispers of “What’s he saying?” but Marcus seemed not to know how to explain what his men wanted.

  Suddenly Accius stepped forward. “Madam, if I may …”

  “Please do, Tribune.”

  “Madam, these men are proud to be citizens of Rome, but they are also natives, and they are overwhelmed by the honor of speaking with the greatest lady in the known world. Even here in the wilds, everyone has heard of your great virtue and beauty and your many achievements …”

  So that was how you were supposed to talk to an empress. No wonder she always looked bored. Finally he seemed to be getting to the point.

  “They ask your full and absolute pardon for their behavior this evening, for safe conduct to Deva where they can present their case to the legate and receive justice—”

  “Proper justice!” shouted someone. There was a chorus of support. A small chant of “No more lies!” broke out and died away again as Sabina raised one hand for silence.

  “—and for the immediate release of their comrade Victor, whom they believe is innocent of the murder of Centurion Geminus.”

  Tilla noticed that he did not say what he thought of Victor himself.

  Sabina said, “That is it?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  She held out one hand. “I will receive their petition.”

  Accius looked around wildly. “Madam, my men have not yet—”

  “Here you are, Empress!” Virana stepped forward, tugging a little scrap of rolled-up parchment out of her cleavage. Sabina took it between finger and thumb as if she were holding a dead rat by the tail. She teased it partly open with one fingertip and frowned. Then she lifted her head and said in a voice that was clear, but without the strength of one used to making speeches, “Men of the Twentieth Legion, on condition that you leave immediately and peacefully and return to your camp, I, Vibia Sabina Augusta, am pleased to grant a full and absolute pardon for your conduct this evening and to grant your petition.”

  As the cheers gathered into a fresh chant of “Sa-bi-na!” she handed the parchment to Tilla. “Look after it. I can’t read a word of it in this light. I shall have to sign it in the morning.”

  Chapter 81

  Ruso watched the recruits march out of the stable entrance behind Accius, the odd drunken stumble the only hint of the chaos they had caused just now. They appeared to have taken to heart the tribune’s warning that the first man to step out of line again would be crucified, and so would his comrades on either side of him.

  Just before they formed up he had murmured to Marcus, “You’re a different man from the one I met at Eboracum.”

  “It was you who gave me the courage, sir.” Then he grinned as if Ruso would be pleased with the compliment, and as if everything would be all right from now on, and wisely pulled the shoulders of his tunic down over his tattoos before merging in amongst the other recruits.

  Meanwhile, Clarus had rushed outside to ensure that the Praetorians who had been spoiling for a fight didn’t pick one, and then returned to resume his anxious guard over the empress.

  A couple of slaves crept out from wherever they were hiding, barred the gates, and disappeared again. The clearing up would have to wait for daylight.

  Ruso sat on the mounting block, folded his arms, and gazed up at the stars. A horse stamped over in the stables, no doubt relieved that the terrifying humans had all gone away. Tilla had whispered a hasty “Wait for me!” but she had gone inside with Sabina and was probably still trying to smooth ruffled feathers. He should probably go straight to the camp, but he doubted the men would dare cause any more trouble now. He would just enjoy a few more moments of peace, then get out before everyone here locked up and went to bed.

  There above him was the Great Bear, and above it the North Star and the Little Bear, and around them all the constellations he should remember the names of but never could. Through all the madness of this evening they had been shining there, constant, hidden only by the confusion of light and smoke made by humankind. No doubt there was a lesson there that he ought to ponder on the road tomorrow. Tonight, he was merely relieved that the crisis was over.

  Between them, Accius and Sabina had managed to convince the recruits that they should proceed peacefully to Deva. If they were lucky, the legate would uphold Sabina’s unauthorized pardon—it might be politically awkward not to—and withhold the charge of mutiny. Victor, now amply punished for his desertion, would be free from the unjust accusation of murder. And if Clarus chose not to prosecute the Praetorians who had apparently settled an old grudge by murdering their former comrade, that was his business. Even Accius would have to admit that it was a kind of justice.

  A distant owl hooted. Something changed in his peripheral vision, and he realized the light in one of the windows above him had gone out. As he watched, another light died. He got to his feet, noticing for the first time that he was cold, and made his way across the yard to where the lamps were still glowing in the main entrance hall.

  He was almost there when a figure stepped out of the shadows. He had sprung back and grabbed his knife before reason pointed out to instinct that the blond hair belonged to his wife.

  “Husband!” she hissed, raising both hands. “It is me!”

  It occurred to him that “It is me!” was unnecessary, since no one but Tilla was likely to call him “husband.” Next it occurred to him that only a very tired mind would notice that sort of thing when there were far more pressing matters to attend to. Like Tilla assuring him that nobody was dead.

  He was pleased she was safe, and that no one had been killed, and he thanked her for the good news.

  “It was Marcus.”

  “What was?”

  “The horrible screaming and the—” She broke off to give a muted demonstration of a ghastly choking gurgle.

  “I see.” He had no idea what she was talking about, but Marcus had looked perfectly healthy just now and no doubt the explanation would be more complicated than it was worth.

  “One of his friends told me. He learned it from a charcoal burner who used it to frighten off the soldiers when they came sneaking through the woods to steal his fuel.”

  “Ah.”

  “And I can tell you something else: The scorpions from Rome had orders from the emperor’s secretary to kill Geminus.”

  “I see.”

&n
bsp; “How can you see? I have not told you yet. You are just saying “I see’ without listening.”

  “Yes.”

  Then she told him. And then he did see, and he wished he did not, because what she was so proud of having found out was something that would be much, much better left hidden. And the way she had gone about finding it meant that she now had an enemy far worse than Metellus.

  “But I did it to help!”

  “I didn’t ask for your help, Tilla.”

  “You wanted to know who it was. I have found out for you. It was not some old grudge after all. Someone gave the order through Tranquillus. I think the empress was trying to help us.”

  He doubted that, but what Tilla thought did not matter much as long as she kept it to herself. “Who else knows that you know?”

  Tilla gave a huff of exasperation. “You think I am fool enough to go around telling everybody?”

  “If it’s just Clarus, we might be safe. He won’t go round saying he was overpowered by a girl. If you just stay out of his way …” He stopped. How likely was it that Clarus would believe his secret was safe with someone like Tilla?

  Not very. And now Tilla was saying “There is just one other person …” in a tone that suggested he was not going to like this very much.

  “I did not mean to say anything,” she said. “It just came out.”

  “What did?”

  “It was just me and her, alone on the stairs, and she was frightened, and I tried to cheer her, and I think I said … oh, dear.”

  “What?” he demanded.

  “I made sure to whisper. Nobody else heard.”

  “Just tell me what it was!”

  She sniffed. “I said something to the empress about knowing she was on our side. And if the men knew what she had done, they would be grateful.”

  “Oh, gods above!” Ruso ran one hand through his hair. “Whatever possessed you to say that?”

  “I am sorry! I thought …” She shook her head. “I felt sorry for her. She is never allowed to do anything and when she is brave enough to try, nobody knows, so nobody can thank her.” She looked up. “Anyway, I did not say what I was talking about.”

  “You really imagine she didn’t guess?”

  She lowered her head. “She did not question it. I think she knew.” While part of Ruso’s mind was praying, Holy Jupiter, let this not be true, the other part was reasoning that it made far more sense than some ancient Praetorian grudge that could surely have been resolved years ago.

  “This is very bad, Tilla.”

  “I will stay out of sight.”

  He sighed. “The damage is done now. Clarus will assume you were acting for me.”

  “I am sorry, husband!” He could tell from her voice that she was close to crying. “I was trying to help. I am so tired, and so very … oh, why does nothing go right?”

  He put his arms around her, because that was the only answer he had. The hot tears soaked though the shoulder of his tunic. He thought of other times when he had told Tilla to stay out of something, only to find that he was glad of her help. This time it had gone wrong, and it was his own fault as much as hers, because instead of being grateful to her in the past, he should have insisted that she learn the first duty of a wife: obedience.

  When she lifted her head and sniffed he murmured, “We both need to be careful now. We know too much, and we’re more expendable than Geminus. Don’t imagine that because you’ve helped the empress, she will help you.”

  “But … what are we going to do?”

  He stroked her hair. “You’re right,” he said, not because she was but because he could think of nothing better. “We’ll both keep out of the way, and we’ll keep quiet. The empress will leave and life will go back to normal. All this will all blow over.”

  She wiped her eyes on a fistful of his tunic. “That is what you said before.” She released him and reached down to pull something out of her boot. “I have this.”

  He caught a glint of light on the bronze handle of his missing scalpel. “Careful with that!” He tried to take it from her, but she bent to slide it back into its hiding place. She was lucky she had not sliced herself open.

  This was ridiculous. Mixing up medicines, stealing dangerous equipment, assaulting a close friend of the emperor … Why had he not had the sense to do what other men did: to buy a slave and leave his wife at home?

  Somewhere across the yard, a door scraped open. A voice said, “There you are!”

  “Virana,” Tilla sighed as the girl approached. “Are you all right?”

  “Marcus came to save me! Did you see? And the empress will sign my petition in the morning!”

  “I think,” said Tilla acidly, “it is time for bed.”

  “Yes, that is the other good news! Celer is guarding our space in the hayloft.” She looked at Ruso. “There is room for another one, sir.”

  Ruso shook his head. “I’m going back to the camp,” he said. Before he left he squeezed Tilla’s hand, glad that the girl could not see she had been crying. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” put in Virana. “I will look after her for you.”

  As he made his way back toward the entrance hall, he heard a loud whisper of “Oh, isn’t he kind! You are so lucky!”

  No, he thought. She is not. She is cursed with knowing too much. And so am I.

  Chapter 82

  Alone as usual, Sabina lay in the comfort of her own fragranced sheets and savored the silence. The women bedded down on the floor around her would not dare to speak into the darkness unless she gave the order, and of course there were no rats. It had been the sound of mutinous Britons creeping across the roof.

  The tremulous staff from the inn were long gone, as was the dreadful woman from the tribune’s household who had the nerve to ask the slaves—in her hearing!—if the empress was really as all right as she claimed to be.

  Clarus had been harder to get rid of, but he had finally stopped making a fuss when she compromised: no Praetorians standing guard in the bedroom, but however many he wanted outside the door. She heard a floorboard creak as one of them shifted his footing. It would not surprise her if Clarus, ever loyal and now unusually flustered and apologetic as well, was lined up out there with them.

  Safely returned into the care of her staff, she was finding it hard to believe what had happened this evening. All those men chanting her name! She could not restrain a smile. Her name. Not that of the emperor. Sa-bi-na! Raw and raucous and potent.

  For a few brief minutes, she had been more than an unloved wife trailed in the wake of the most powerful man in the world. More than a woman with thinning hair and a tooth held in by gold wire whose slaves tactfully buried her deeper each year in layers of jewelry and makeup and hairpieces.

  They had called for her. They had cheered her. They had listened to her. They had even laughed at her joke. She had felt a thrill run all the way through her as she knew for the first time what real power was like.

  If the men knew what you had done, the Briton had said, they would be grateful to you. What did the Briton know about the murder of the centurion? What exactly had Clarus told her when they were alone together, and how much had she passed on?

  It was a problem she would consider tomorrow.

  Tonight she would enjoy being Sa-bi-na, Warrior-Queen of the Britons.

  Chapter 83

  Morning came, and with it the sound of birds singing and broken things being swept up. The Warrior-Queen of the Britons pulled the sheet up over her face, wishing away the knocking on the door and the urgent whisper of “Madam!”

  The wishing did not work. Sabina, empress of Rome, flapped the sheet back down and said, “What?”

  “Madam, Prefect Clarus is here to speak with you.”

  “Tell him to come back at a sensible hour.”

  “We tried, Madam. He won’t go.”

  She ran her fingers through her thin hair. He could not be allowed to see her like this. Gesticulating to the other
slaves to fetch her clothes, she said, “Ask him if the carriage is mended, and whether—” She stopped herself just in time from calling them my men. “—and whether the soldiers are behaving themselves, and how long it will be before we can get out of this dreadful place.”

  The questions were conveyed, but instead of answering them Clarus called through the door, “Madam, the emperor is in the camp. He will be here at any moment.”

  “Here?” She sat bolt upright. “Why did nobody—What is he doing here?”

  “I sent a message last night, madam.”

  What would people tell him about yesterday? Would anyone tell him how much she had enjoyed it? She turned to her slaves. “Clothes, quickly! Fetch my hair!”

  “Madam, if I could speak with you a little more privately …”

  “In a moment!”

  When she was sufficiently clothed and coiffed to be decent—although the perfect lead-pale skin was still in its pot and the curling tongs were heating in the brazier—she finally allowed him to enter.

  Clarus looked even more cadaverous than usual. “Madam. I am glad to see you looking refreshed and well this morning.”

  “I wish I could say the same of you.”

  “It has been a long night,” he conceded. “But now that the emperor is here, I’m sure all will be well.”

  “No doubt he will enjoy setting us all straight. What do you want?”

  “I thought you would like to know that the officers were very grateful for your help last night, madam. The camp has been peaceful all night.”

  “Good.”

  He lowered his voice. “Although some of the Twentieth seem to think that my men murdered their centurion.”

  So the woman had talked. Already rumors were spreading among the soldiers. “Well, you’re in charge of the investigation,” she told him, settling herself on the stool as the slave approached with the first pot of skin cream. “It’s nothing to do with me. I thought you had some suspects under arrest.”