Semper Fidelis

lone nighttime visit to the Praetorians. He could hardly refuse to answer a call to a sick man just because the messenger who summoned him might be luring him into a trap.

The beans were hot and filling and surprisingly tasty. By the time he had finished a second helping, the evening star had appeared and the fires were points of glimmering light with shadowy figures moving around them. Ruso collected his case and the few possessions he had on the wagon before telling Pera an edited version of the truth that made it look as though he were abandoning his duties for a night with a beautiful blonde. The instruction not to tell anyone where he had gone only made it worse. “But if there’s a problem with Austalis, send someone across. The code word is snake tattoo.”

“Snake tattoo, sir?” Pera sounded doubtful.

“Yes,” said Ruso, hoping he would have the chance to explain. Otherwise he would drift into the future as an anecdote. Poor old Ruso. Began to think everyone was out to get him. Used to hide behind his wife and make you say the password before you could speak to him.

He was almost at the entrance to the campground when, instead of the expected challenge from the guard, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round, grabbing at his knife.

“It’s Marcus, sir!” hissed a figure whose face was invisible beneath a hood.

“Marcus? What are you doing wandering about?”

“Visiting Austalis, sir.”

The coat was hardly necessary on such a fine night, and nor was this circuitous route. Ruso guessed that Marcus was trying to avoid being caught by Dexter. Still, that was not his problem. He had more important things to do.

“He’s still doing well, but don’t tire him,” he said. “Just a quick visit. And if he’s asleep, don’t wake him.”

Instead of replying in Latin, Marcus spoke in his native tongue. “Don’t worry about your wife.”

Ruso frowned, thinking he had misunderstood. “Sorry, Marcus. My British is not as good as I thought.”

“Your wife. She will not be harmed.”

“But-”

“We are not as foolish as they think.”

“Marcus?”

But Marcus was gone into the night, and any sound his footsteps might have made in the grass was covered by a shout of laughter from a distant campfire.

Ruso strode out through the entranceway and turned left toward the faint glimmers of light that marked the buildings. As he did so, it occurred to him that not only had he not been challenged on leaving, but there seemed to be no guards covering the gateway at all. Dexter’s men were slipping. And the Britons were up to something.

He turned and walked back into the camp, still unchallenged. He would go and find Tilla in a minute, then come straight back. Meanwhile, Dexter needed to be told.

Chapter 73

Sabina tried a mouthful of the soup, confirmed that it tasted exactly how it looked, and pushed it away. Still, what could you expect from a place that thought it was acceptable for guests to dine upstairs in a room overlooking the stables?

If only she had insisted on keeping the head cook.

If only she had been traveling in a roadworthy carriage.

If only Julia had not been so inconsiderate as to fall pregnant. At least they could have assured each other that one day they would look back on this and laugh.

Separating from the emperor’s party had been a mistake. This was only their second night on the road and, breakdowns aside, it was already clear that her companions had more important things on their minds than entertaining a lone empress. There was plenty of wine, and the innkeeper had found a couple of moderately attractive girls to tootle on flutes, but the scowlingly handsome young tribune of the Twentieth Legion still reclined so stiffly on his faded couch that he might have been lowered in through the ceiling. Meanwhile, Clarus glanced up every time someone entered as if he was hoping to be called away at any moment. Even the wild, murderous doctor (not present, of course) proved to be less wild and murderous than she had hoped: Apparently he had been released and a native arrested in his place.

“So you were both wrong?”

“There will be a trial at Deva, madam,” explained the tribune.

“And was he right about the evil-minded centurion?”

The two men exchanged a glance. Clarus said, “We will see at Deva, madam.”

Both men returned stoically to the soup and offered no further information. The flutes trilled on in the corner.

The door opened. A slave placed an item of no obvious origin in front of them and proceeded to cut it into slices that steamed gently in the light of the lamps. Having established that it was a pig’s stomach, stuffed and roasted in bran, they ate it in silence.

Sabina sighed. The emperor never had this problem at dinner. No one would dare to look tired or distracted in his presence, and besides, since he had an informed opinion upon everything, the room was never short of conversation.

There were two more courses to get through before she could spend the rest of the evening composing another bland letter to Julia (she was sure someone read them before despatch) and beating her staff at board games. She considered pleading a headache, but to leave in the middle of a dinner could look like an insult. Clarus would understand, but it was never a good idea to insult the son of a potentially useful politician … although, since the emperor vastly outranked them, it was possible the other two were equally worried about insulting her. Meanwhile someone had to tell those annoying flute players to stop blowing and go away. And then someone was going to have to make conversation.

“Perhaps,” she said to the tribune, aware that she should have asked this before, “you could tell us what we are to expect in Deva. Apart from my cousin Paulina and a murder trial.”

At least that got him talking. His tactical briefing on the fortress at Deva lasted through most of the fish course. Had she been planning to lay siege to it, the construction techniques currently being used for the stone curtain wall would have been of enormous interest. Unfortunately she was not, and there was still an egg and milk sponge to get through.

This was desperate. Either she would be forced to plead a headache, or …

“That Briton,” she said. “The one who lent us her smelly cart. Married to the wild doctor. She was rather quaint. I think we should invite her in to keep us entertained.”

The tribune was too busy wiping the wine he had just spilled down his chin to reply.

Sabina smiled. “Did her medicine work, Accius?”

“I needed no medicine, madam.” He snatched a towel from the hand of a hovering slave. “The woman wanted an excuse to appeal for the release of her husband.”

Clarus said, “She does not know her place.”

“She’ll be busy serving her husband’s dinner,” put in Accius, who evidently thought she did.

One of his staff raised a hand. Accius snapped, “What?”

The woman whispered in his ear. The tribune’s scowl deepened to the point where he was no longer handsome. “I told him to take her back hours ago! What’s she doing in the stables?”

Sabina smiled. This would serve them both right for being such poor company. “Let’s ask her, shall we?”

They were still waiting for the egg and milk sponge when the Briton arrived. If she was pleased to be rescued from a stable yard in the middle of nowhere, she did not show it. She had not even bothered to comb the hay out of her hair, but at least this time she did not stare in that insolent fashion. Sabina said, “I am pleased to hear that your husband’s difficulty is resolved.”

“I thank you, madam. But the man they now have in chains is not guilty, either.”

“I see you are as refreshingly forthright as before.”

The young woman looked up. “I said some wrong things before. I did not mean offense.”