Semper Fidelis

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.

He’s forced the tribune into a corner. Rumors of his conversation with Hadrian must have spread through the fort. Geminus would have heard of the allegations of betting that had been made against him. Now he had disappeared.

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?

I wouldn’t like to be him right now.

Ruso was not enjoying being him, either, but at least his misdemeanors had brought about some good. Geminus had bullied his last recruit. He would retire with a tarnished reputation. His handsome discharge bonus might be in doubt too.

Ruso emptied the bucket into the drain and rinsed the brush. He was not fool enough to expect a release, nor a reinstatement. Accius could still make plenty of trouble for him, both within the Legion and beyond. But he had known that when he took the risk of speaking to the emperor. He would just have to console himself with the thought that, somehow, justice had been done.

He was about to put the bucket back in the corner when he was startled by the sound of shouting and running feet. Still clutching the bucket, he opened the door and slipped outside to watch.

Pera and three men he recognized as hospital orderlies were hurrying toward the east gate with a stretcher. Two members of the Sixth were running in the opposite direction, one of them shouting, “Where’s the emperor?”

A passing Praetorian asked who wanted to know.

“Primus, optio in the century of Proculus. Important visitor for the emperor.”

A skeptical voice from back in the latrines said, “Another one come to lick the emperor’s arse.”

The Praetorian directed the man toward the legate’s house, adding in a superior drawl, “Try not to make too much fuss. They aren’t always as important as they think they are.”

Ruso glanced around. Nobody was paying him any attention. He weighed the bucket in his hand for a moment, then set it down, swiftly washed his hands, and sprinted down the street after Pera.

Pera’s men were hampered by the stretcher and a box of supplies, and Ruso caught up with them just before they reached the gate. “Want some help?”

Pera looked alarmed but then grasped the situation and gestured to one of the orderlies to hand over the box. Ruso hoisted it onto his shoulder. The men of the Sixth, who had taken over guard duties-Accius must have made his handover speech-were standing strictly to attention at the gates. They paid no heed to the unknown medical team and their shabbily clad slave.

Pera murmured, “You’ve heard, then, sir?”

As they emerged from the archway of the gatehouse he saw a carriage approaching, pulled by a team of four matching bays. There were dark patches of sweat on the horses and the red paint was dull with dust. The man had been right: This was somebody important. “Who is it?”

“He’s dead, sir.”

Ruso said, “Who’s dead?” but his voice was lost beneath the rush of the carriage and its guards sweeping past them into the fort.

Pera led his men for about thirty paces along the outside of the perimeter ditch to where a burly squad from the Sixth Legion stood, apparently guarding the weeds that the maintenance crews had failed to clear in time for the emperor’s arrival.

Pera beckoned Ruso to follow. Then he stepped forward and peered into the ditch. “It’s true, then,” he said.

Below them, protruding from a battered patch of nettles, was a muscular and blood-smeared arm. Centurion Geminus had been found.