Semper Fidelis

Chapter 40

The dawn briefing was a crowded affair, but Ruso was greeted by nobody except the plump centurion, who looked too hungover to know who he was grunting at. He was not sorry to make his way back to the hospital, where he intended to remain while men with fiercer ambition tried to impress each other.

Austalis’s smile of greeting was encouraging in more ways than he could know. Ruso supervised the changing of his dressings and, since the kitchen orderly had been commandeered by Hadrian’s cook, went to fetch the breakfast nobody had remembered to bring. This took longer than expected, as he was called upon to intervene in a squabble over what the Praetorians called “requisitioning” of saucepans and the kitchen slave called theft. Thus he emerged completely unaware of the panic that had gripped the other end of the corridor.

The kitchen slave had ladled a generous helping of honeyed milk into Austalis’s cup. Ruso was concentrating on not spilling it across the tray when the sound of footsteps and voices caused him to glance up to avoid a collision. Half a dozen men were bearing down on him. At their head was the tall figure of Hadrian. The short, flush-faced man next to him was Pera.

Recalling the tribune’s order to stay out of Hadrian’s way, Ruso stepped aside to allow them to pass just as the emperor reached the end of a sentence.

“That’s him, sir!” declared Pera, with obvious relief.

Hadrian stopped. So did everyone else. Ruso, back to the wall and still clutching the tray, felt a sudden sympathy with patients who found themselves surrounded by a gang of apprentices and an instructor ready to show them how to conduct an intimate examination. He could not salute without dropping the tray, and without the salute his “Hail Caesar!” sounded rather odd.

Hadrian put his well-groomed head on one side and peered at Ruso. “Don’t I know you?”

He really must insist that Tilla stopped praying for things. “Ruso, Your Majesty. We met after the earthquake in, um …” Gods above, what was the place called? His memory had deserted him.

“I thought so,” said the emperor, seeming not to notice his confusion. “I never forget a face. I don’t know why I bother having a man to tell me who people are: Half the time I know more than he does. Ruso. You were one of the rescuers in Antioch. A terrible business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you’re in charge here now?”

He said, “I’m only here for a few days, sir. Pera’s usually the man to talk to.”

Pera, who must have thought he had escaped, did not look grateful to be placed back in the target area.

Hadrian glanced from one to the other of them with an air of amusement.

“Ah, Pera. Back to you. So what can you tell me about the Britons?”

Pera’s hand rose to his neck. “Th-they’ve calmed down a lot since last year, Your Majesty.”

“So I hear,” agreed Hadrian, apparently satisfied. “But I’ll be leaving the Sixth over here in case there’s any more trouble.”

Pera swallowed, as if he was not sure whether he should thank the emperor or not. Hadrian, evidently used to smoothing over conversations with the tongue-tied, turned to Ruso. “So, Doctor Who Isn’t in Charge, how are you finding things in Eboracum?”

Ruso glanced round at the faces: one or two sympathetic, most bored, Pera rigid. They were waiting for him to answer this bland question with something suitably reassuring.

This is not the time. The emperor had affairs of state waiting for him, and a crowd of ambassadors following him around like a long unwieldy tail. He didn’t want a litany of complaints any more than Ruso wanted a list of symptoms after casually asking an acquaintance about his welfare.

But Geminus’s regime in Eboracum had left recruits dead and injured, families bereaved, a woman and child abandoned …

He was conscious of Hadrian assessing him, the famously piercing eyes seeing an officer who was too nervous to go far.

He took a deep breath. “It’s a lot better than Antioch, sir.”

Hadrian chuckled. “Indeed. Now, while the pair of you decide who’s in charge, I shall visit some of your patients.”

Later, Ruso could remember very little about Hadrian’s tour of the hospital. Austalis, whose injury was not explained, was declared to be “a brave lad.” There were occasional silences that Pera stepped in to fill. Meanwhile Tilla’s question was echoing around his mind. If this was not the time, then when was?

As the senior doctor, he was surely not just here to patch up the sick and wounded as they were presented to him, any more than a commander’s only role in battle was to stand in the front line and stab the enemy one by one. It was his duty to organize the defences, to devise strategies that might prevent them from harm in the first place. It was his duty to challenge something that was making the men here very sick indeed.

Yet, when a man with the power to change things had asked him how things were in Eboracum, he had pushed aside his duty and said the sort of thing his superiors wanted to hear. Thinking of Marcus’s battered face as he remembered the glib It’s a lot better than Antioch, sir made him feel hot with shame.

Hadrian was leaving the bedside of the last overawed patient. “Well, your men seem to be doing a good job in here.”

Pera said, “Thank you, sir.”

Everyone else began to shuffle out behind him. It was over. Hadrian was happy. Everyone was satisfied. The reputation of the Twentieth was intact, and Ruso had missed his chance.

As the last flunky filed out, Ruso dodged past him into the corridor. “Your Majesty! Sir!”

Everyone turned. The hangers-on looked shocked. Hadrian looked impatient, then glanced at his friends. “Did I forget something?”

“Sir, you asked a question and I didn’t answer it properly.”

Beyond Hadrian he could see Pera in the corridor, eyes wide in horror. He should have rehearsed this, he realized now. Hadrian was used to receiving ambassadors who had been polishing their speeches for months. But it was too late. This was his moment, and instead of feeling bold he was shaking as if he had just offered himself up to an underfed tiger.

One of the flunkies stepped forward and murmured, “Sir, the recruits will be waiting to start their trials.”

“In a moment,” Hadrian snapped. Ruso quailed at the annoyance in the voice.

“My lord,” he said, switching to Greek. At least the patients wouldn’t understand. “My lord, I think I should tell the truth.”

Hadrian’s expression was stern. “I think that would be a good idea.”

“My lord …” He stopped, conscious that everyone was waiting to hear what he had to say. If only he could speak privately with the great man … but Hadrian, by dint of his very greatness, was perpetually surrounded by other people.

Hadrian indicated his rotund secretary and the lanky Praetorian prefect. “These are my friends. You can speak openly.”

That was when Ruso noticed the nondescript man loitering at the back of the group. Metellus, security adviser to the outgoing governor. Metellus, who had put Tilla’s name on one of his infamous lists. Metellus, whom Ruso had last seen flailing about in the muddy waters of the river Tamesis-after Ruso himself had pushed him in there.

“Well?” said Hadrian.

Ruso cleared his throat. “My lord, there are good men here in Eboracum. But there are also men who order their juniors to face dangers just for the pleasure of betting on the outcome. Three Britons who joined your legion to serve you are dead because of it.”

He stopped speaking. Somewhere, someone slammed a door. The crash echoed down the corridor. Everyone except Metellus was watching Hadrian to see how he would respond. Metellus was watching Ruso.

This was not the time. He saw that now. He had allowed Tilla to push him into a terrible, catastrophic mistake.

The great man lifted his head. “I see.” Behind him, faces appeared, peering round the end of the corridor. Even if they didn’t understand, someone would be bound to translate for them as soon as the emperor was gone.

“Have you informed your superiors?”

It was a question he should have foreseen.

Tell the truth again. Just leave parts out. “Tribune Accius is aware that something’s wrong, my lord, but I’ve only just found out the details for him.”

“Well, I’m sure he will deal with it appropriately.”

And with that, the moment was over. Hadrian and his entourage swept out of the hospital entrance and away down the street.

Pera must have slunk away. Ruso was alone in the entrance hall. He leaned against the wall, feeling nauseous.

At a time like this, a man should be comforted by philosophy. Virtue, said the Stoics, was the only possession worth having. But he was no longer sure that he knew what virtue was, and the faint whisper that Tilla would be proud of him was not going to be enough to sustain him through the storm that was to come.