“I am taking out the things we do not need,” she said, tugging at some sort of female undergarment. “If we do not carry too much and we start now, we can be ten miles away by morning.”
“What? Tilla, I’m not-”
“Shhh!” She put her fingers on his lips. “Corinna and the boy are sleeping in the loft.”
“I’m not going to run!” he whispered.
“Then what are you going to do? The Legion will not want you!”
He shrugged. “I swore to serve.”
“But-”
“Besides, where could we go where we wouldn’t be noticed, you and I?” Her silence was his answer. She said dully, “They execute men who disobey orders.”
“Oh, it won’t come to that,” he assured her, pushing aside the moments in the dark depths of the sewer this afternoon when he had felt almost paralyzed with terror. If disease really was caused by foul air, then spending time down here could kill him as surely as having his head severed-only more slowly. “I’ll send a message as soon as I can. Have you got enough money?”
She cast an eye over his beltless tunic. “Have you any to give me?”
“No.”
“Then I have enough.”
He took both her hands in his bloodstained grasp and kissed her on the lips. “Be safe, Darlughdacha of the Corionotatae.”
She stroked his hair. “May the gods smile upon you, Gaius Petreius the Medicus.”
“Look after my kit, will you?” She nodded. Halfway out of the door, he paused. “Why did you want to know about Sabina?”
“Is it true she and her husband hate each other?”
“I believe so.”
“Why did you never tell me this?”
He shook his head, baffled. “You never asked. Does it matter?”
“No,” she said. “Not now.”
Chapter 47
The men of the twentieth had been ordered to have everything packed and ready so they could march out at sunrise, but when dawn came, there was no call to assemble. The old hands began to gather round the water fountains, rinsing and filling their leather bottles for the journey. With no orders to follow, the men stood chatting in the cool air, checking the comfort of their boots, rearranging their packs, and occasionally glancing up into a cloudless sky, hoping to get going before the sun was too high. Loaded mules flicked their tails and looked bored.
When the trumpet finally sounded, it was not to assemble the men but to summon the Legion’s officers. Ruso, who would normally have been amongst them, was left to wait in ignorance along with everyone else. Some of the recruits began to look anxious. Grumblers demanded to know the point of getting up in the middle of the night only to stand around and wait. Meanwhile, several of the more experienced men propped themselves against the barrack walls in the early sunshine, closed their eyes, and appeared to fall asleep.
One of Geminus’s shadows finally appeared with instructions to return to barracks, where they were to sweep the floors and scrub the walls. There were groans of disbelief, and several voices demanded to know the reason for the holdup.
“None of your business,” said the shadow.
“He doesn’t know,” interpreted one of the complainers.
“Yes I do,” retorted the shadow.
“How long’s it going to be, then, sir?”
“Just go and clean up. I’ll be round to inspect in an hour. Not you, Ruso. You’re on latrines.”
Catching the spirit of the moment, Ruso asked, “Why me?”
“Because you ask bloody stupid questions. And if anyone’s seen Centurion Geminus since last night, speak up.”
That got their attention. “Geminus is missing?” demanded one man, evidently sharper than another who asked, “Where is he?”
“Has any man here seen the centurion since last night?”
While Ruso’s mind scurried round a series of possibilities, nobody replied.
“Then go and get scrubbing,” said the shadow.
“Sir, are we leaving today, or not?”
“You’ll be told later.”
To be an officer on latrine duty added humiliation to the routine discomforts of tedium, loneliness, and bad smells, but Ruso had one great advantage over the men consigned to sprucing up their barrack rooms: A man who kept his head down and appeared to be concentrating on scrubbing the flagstones could overhear a regular stream of outside gossip from the occupants of the wooden seating that ran along both sides of the room.
“He’ll turn up. He’s just gone off somewhere to see someone.”
“One of his many friends, eh?” The confidence of the sarcasm told Ruso the voices did not belong to recruits. “And then what: He got lost?”
“Perhaps he’s been struck down for not believing in the curse.”
“Perhaps he’s on a secret mission.”
“Perhaps he’s saying good-bye to his fancy woman.”
“Lucina is as fancy as he gets.”
“Lucina? That’s it, then. He’ll be waiting in the queue.”
“Have the Twentieth found their centurion yet?”
“Don’t think so. They’re even more hopeless than they look.”
“They’re searching all the empty buildings now.”
“They ought to set his dog to find him.”
“A dog needs to follow a trail, dim-brain. His stink’ll be all over the place.”
“Like yours.”
“Ha ha.” A pair of broad feet stepped past Ruso, and a sponge on the end of a stick was lowered into the channel that ran along the middle of the floor. Ruso shuffled out of splashing distance as the sponge was pumped up and down several times to rinse it. A voice said, “Perhaps he’s deserted.”
“Never. Not this close to his retirement money.”
The man smacked the sponge on the edge of the paving to shake out the worst of the water, then thrust it back amongst the others in the bowl of weak vinegar solution. “I heard he didn’t want to retire anyway,” he said, “but it sounds like he’ll have to now.”
“Aulus says the medic’s a crank. The tribune’s backing Geminus.”
Ruso, who had no idea who Aulus was, resisted the urge to look up and see who was talking.
“He might be a crank, but he’s forced the tribune into a corner.”
“I wouldn’t like to be him right now.”
“The tribune?”
“The medic.”
Ruso remembered he was supposed to be working. The men’s departure was drowned out by the swish of bristles on stone.
Ruso dropped the scrubbing brush back in the bucket and sat back on one heel with his injured leg stretched out in front of him. Geminus the war hero was not a man to run away-but if not, where was he?
