Semper Fidelis

Chapter 1

Victor’s left eye felt as though it was about to burst like a squashed plum. He ran his tongue along the inside of his gum, tasting blood in gaps that had not been there before. He made a tentative exploration of a couple of loose teeth, seeing how far they would move. It was a mistake. He gasped and fell back against the trunk of the willow as pain welled up and flooded the lower half of his face.

This will pass, he urged himself, all the while feeling that someone was screwing a hot poker into his jaw. Count to ten. Breathe in … and … One. In … and … Two. Think of something else.

But all that came was the memory of Tadius struggling to rise from the floor, and the voices roaring at him, Get in there, or you’ll be next.

Tadius, lying very still.

Blood pooling in the dust.

As the pain ebbed he crept forward again, peering out between the willow fronds. The trumpets had sounded the hour for the midday meal and there was hardly anyone about. The girl was still alone on the sunny slab that overhung the water, her skirts hitched up and her bare feet dangling in the river. Beside her on the stone sat a wooden platter with bread and cheese and perhaps beer in the cup. She was busy looking at something in her hand. The willow hid her from the guards over on the fort gates. She had no idea that anyone was watching her.

The guards were standing in the shadow of the wall, leaning on their shields and gazing into the distance with the air of men expecting a quiet afternoon. Victor swallowed. There was a time-it seemed years ago now-when he had dreamed that being in the Legion would be a good life.

The girl sighed and flung down whatever she was holding. She pushed a wisp of blond hair out of her eyes and turned her attention to the platter. The sunlight flashed on a blade. His fingers slid toward his own knife, but she was only cutting the cheese. He let out his breath. He did not want to hurt her, but he had to keep her quiet. If she screamed, the guards would come, and he might not be fast enough to get away with the food.

He would stroll up and try to chat with her. If he said he was hungry, she might even offer to share.

He ran a fingertip over his injured eye. She might not. If the eye was as ugly as it felt, she might scream at the sight of him.

The guards were still looking vacant and bored. The girl tore off a big chunk of bread and put it into her mouth.

Victor stepped forward. “It is a good day to eat beside the river.”

The girl jerked round. Her eyes widened in alarm, but instead of screaming she was convulsed by a choking fit. He reached for the platter, ready to grab the food and run before she could call for help, then saw one hand flapping helplessly toward him as she spluttered and tried to draw breath and thought, What if she chokes to death? He stepped behind her, hesitated for a moment, then smacked his hand against the middle of her back.

Moments later she took the beer from him and nodded her thanks.

When she could breathe again without coughing, he spoke slowly, trying not to let his swollen jaw mangle his words. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“If you don’t want to startle people,” she said with the accent of a tribeswoman from farther north, “Don’t creep up on them. Especially when they are eating.”

She was older than he had thought: perhaps in her mid-twenties, and attractive in a way that would have distracted him on better days. He took a deep breath. “I was hoping-”

Her gaze shifted past him. Too late, he heard movement.

As he hit the ground a boot clamped across the back of his neck, ramming his face into the grass. Pain flared from his jaw to his temple. Something hard slammed into the small of his back and a voice said in Latin, “We’ve been watching you, sonny.”

“Please, sir, she was-”

“Shut up!” the voice said, reinforcing its meaning with another blow. “Who d’you think you are, striking an officer’s wife?”

Oh, holy Bregans. She looked like a native. She spoke British. Where were the slaves? The jewelry? The fancy clothes?

“Sir, she was-”

“Shut up!”

There were two of them: one who gave the orders and one who looked as if he would obey them without question and without mercy. As they wrenched his arms back and lashed his wrists together, the woman began to say something. The soldier cut her short: “It’s all right, miss, you’re safe now.”

“But-”

“We’ll deal with him.”

As if to show how, one of them rammed the pommel of a sword into his ribs. He had no idea why the woman cried out. She wasn’t the one being hit. She wasn’t the fool who had thrown away an escape for the sake of bread he couldn’t even chew.

Half dragged, half stumbling, Victor was hustled up through the rough grass toward the fort gates. The officer’s wife was hurrying to keep up, still talking.

“Don’t you worry, miss,” the senior one assured her. “He’ll understand Latin when we’ve finished with him.”

“I want to speak to him myself.”

The men ignored her. A few paces farther on she appeared in front of them, holding her skirts clear of the grass with one hand and clutching a pair of battered boots in the other.

“So!” she said, looking from one to the other. “I am worth rescuing but not worth listening to?”

For a moment Victor thought they were going to barge her out of the way. Then the senior one seemed to think better of it and said gruffly, “The prisoner was watching you, miss. Hiding under the tree.”

She said in British, “Were you watching me?”

He lifted his head to look into eyes that were not quite blue, and not quite green, either.

He staggered as a blow landed on his ear, muffling the roar of “Show some respect!”

Victor lowered his head. Trying to focus on the muddy toes poking out from under the woman’s skirt, he heard himself mangle the words, “I’m very hungry, miss.”

She said, “Have you no family?”

“Not here, miss.” None who could feed him, anyway.

Pale curls tumbled forward as she bent to pull on her boots. “You should have gone to a farm.”

He averted his gaze, afraid another clout would send him sprawling on the grass. He was not going to explain all the reasons why going to a farm was a bad idea. She seemed to think he was a civilian. If the men thought the same thing, there was a chance they might let him go with a beating.

She finished tying her boots and stood up to address the soldiers in Latin. “I thank you,” she said. “Now, will you please fetch my husband? He will know what to do.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then the senior one allowed himself a grunt of disapproval before ordering his comrade to take the message to the gate.

“And ask him to bring his case!” she called after him.

Victor closed his one good eye and prayed that the mighty Bregans would remember the pair of white doves he had promised to sacrifice if he got away safely. He was not to be taken into the fort yet: That was good. But now he had to explain to an officer why he had been hiding under a tree to watch a respectable married woman untie her boots, hitch up her skirts, and dangle her bare feet in the river. And as if that weren’t enough, he had then stepped forward and hit her.

Of course, the man should never have allowed her to wander the countryside by herself in the first place, but in Victor’s experience officers never took the blame for anything.

His new bruises had already begun to stiffen up by the time more men emerged from the fort. The two big lads in chain mail must be part of the German unit based here. The one in the middle was taller than some officers and scruffier than others, but he had the coloring of a man from a hot and dusty place where they talked too much and thought they were clever. Besides, there was no mistaking that walk. They all had it: the confident stride of a man who knew what to do.

Victor stifled the instinct to stand to attention while the men spoke in Latin about “this native” as if he were a stray dog.

The Germans saluted and marched back to the fort. The officer turned to his wife. “This had better be good,” he said.