Semper Fidelis

Chapter 63

One of the chief-one of the few-pleasures of long-distance marching was that it left a man alone with his thoughts. Today, however, Ruso’s thoughts were not good company. It was difficult to ignore the fact that every step was taking him nearer to … He was not sure what, but it would not be good. Once they got to Deva, Clarus and Accius would report on events at Eboracum to the legate. Ruso had not had the heart, or indeed the time, to explain to Tilla that it barely mattered whether or not he was accused of murdering Geminus. Insubordination was a capital offense in itself, and there was no shortage of witnesses.

There were also mitigating circumstances, but who would listen? Accius would undermine anything he might say by forewarning the legate that the accused was a known complainer with a history of violence against fellow officers. The legate, with whom Ruso was no better acquainted than he was with the moon, would support his tribune, because that was what officers did. It was called loyalty. Ruso could think of better words.

A painful tug on his wrists brought him stumbling back to the present. He quickened his pace to keep up with the wagon and felt something shift around his left ankle. Trying to adjust his pace to get a better view, he prayed that the knot in the leather thong was just slipping and not working itself undone. If the ends came apart, the lacing would gradually loosen all the way along the boot. He would be left shuffling and hopping and trying not to leave it behind until the order came to halt for water.

He must think about something else.

At least it wasn’t raining.

Inside the wagon, Austalis had his eyes closed. The patients seated along the bench had all adopted different poses, trying to brace themselves against the wheels jolting over the uneven road. Their faces spoke of boredom, although there was at least one man up there who should have been looking pleased with himself: If Ruso had been in charge instead of Pera, the slackers would have been walking. The patient at the back, a man with a torn knee cartilage, was gazing out blankly as if he had not noticed there was a doctor attached to the back of the hospital wagon.

Could a soldier appeal to the emperor? And if he could, would the emperor listen-especially when listening would be an admission that he had been wrong not to believe the soldier in the first place? Come to that, how exactly would the soldier go about getting any appeal past his commanding officers?

The boot felt no looser than before. He glanced back over his shoulder. The driver of the hospital supply wagon was keeping his mules at a safe distance, which Ruso supposed was the only kindness he could offer. Tilla would be farther back with the camp followers. He hoped she was not alone. He was in no position to protect her. He had managed to exchange a few surreptitious words with Pera, who had promised to look out for her, but Pera had other duties.

Do not despair. I will do something. The gods alone knew what bizarre plan Tilla had in mind, but whatever it was, he was glad of it. Even if it did not work-and he could not see how it could-at least she was here with him. She had been given the chance to go with Valens, and she had done what he had not dared to ask of her: She had chosen him instead.

He was still warming himself beside this small glow of comfort when the trumpet sounded the order to halt. Somewhere ahead of him, the empress would be treated to the sight of a couple of hundred men guzzling from their waterskins and lining up to pee in the ditch. Here the not-quite-walking wounded rose stiffly to their feet and were helped out of the wagon by a couple of orderlies. One or two of them murmured, “Thank you, sir,” perhaps because he had had the sense to step out of their way. Or perhaps because they could not think of anything else to say to him. Whatever the reason, it was good to have his existence acknowledged.

Since nobody else seemed to be paying him any attention, he clambered awkwardly into the vehicle and shook the grit out of his boots before turning to find his former patient reaching a hand toward him.

“Sir …”

“Austalis. How are you?”

“Not too bad, sir,” said Austalis, which probably said more about his mental resolve than his state of health. He should have been left in the care of the Sixth until he was stronger.

“I expect Pera will be along in a minute.” Ruso was surprised he was not there now. He stretched out one manacled hand and just managed to reach the man’s pulse. As he was counting, he heard the scrape of hobnails on wood behind him.

“Can I enter, sir?” Marcus, the recruit whose split lip and splendid tattoos Ruso was ashamed to realize he had forgotten, was already looming over the bed anyway.

“I’ll get out,” offered Ruso. “You probably shouldn’t be seen talking to me. Give him some water if he wants it; there’s a skin in the corner.”

“Sit down, sir. We respect what you did.” He turned to his friend and murmured in British, “I’d have brought you a beer, but there was nowhere to hide it.”

Ruso, still in Latin, said, “You shouldn’t be calling me ‘sir,’ either.”

Reverting to Latin, the recruit said, “He deserved it, sir.”

“I didn’t kill anyone, Marcus. I just spoke to people.”

Marcus untied the stopper and held the waterskin steady as Austalis tried to tip it with one thin hand. “Did you hear the doctor went to the emperor about Geminus?”

“It didn’t turn out too well,” said Ruso.

“This is what they did to him,” Marcus continued to Austalis, grasping one of Ruso’s arms to show the manacle.

Austalis pushed the water away. “Bastards,” he said.

“They’ve put Dexter in charge now.”

Austalis’s lips moved in response. It was a moment before Ruso realized it was a mime of spitting.

“We think they will tell a story about what happened to Tadius,” said Marcus, who was evidently not as naive as he looked. “And we think they will say Victor killed Geminus.”

Marcus said, “Sir, the men are asking what will happen to us at Deva.”

Ruso hesitated. The Roman officers would find it only too easy to believe the tale that Tadius had been murdered in some wild barbarian ritual and Sulio had killed himself out of guilt. For a moment he considered warning them. But Geminus had been right about one thing: Telling the recruits they were marching into trouble would only make things worse for everyone. Instead he said, “They don’t invite me to briefings these days.”

“They may well accuse me.”

“We are only recruits, sir. You are useful to them.” He nodded toward Austalis, who seemed to have drifted off to sleep. “You are a good doctor.”

“On reflection,” said Ruso, “I think you were wise to keep those tattoos.”

Marcus nodded and got to his feet. “A good choice for a bad reason, sir.

We all wish you well.”

“That’s very good of you.”

Stepping over the length of chain that stretched between Ruso and the back of the wagon, Marcus jumped down. On the ground, he turned and put both hands on the wagon floor, leaned in, and said quietly in British, “You speak our tongue, sir?”

“A little.”

“I could keep you informed, if you like. We know we can trust you.”

“Yes,” said Ruso. “Yes, please do.” He might no longer be an officer, but it seemed he had become an honorary Briton.

There was still no sign of Pera come to check on his patient. In fact, there was no sign of anyone, since the driver of the second wagon had tied the reins of his mules and left them with hay nets while he went to tend to his own needs. Ruso shuffled as far back as the chain would allow, leaned against Austalis’s makeshift bed, and stretched his legs out across the rough wooden floor, listening for the plodding of a horse that might mark the arrival of someone who would punish him for resting.

He gave a guilty start when a shadow fell across the back of the wagon, but it was only Pera arriving at last. He climbed in and glanced at Austalis.

“He’s had some water,” said Ruso. “Fast pulse but no fever, and he’s talking sense.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pera was evidently satisfied that he did not need to be woken. “Sir, there’s a message from your wife.”

Ruso sat up straight. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine, sir. She’s traveling at the back with a …” Pera seemed to be considering his choice of words. “… another woman.” He lowered his voice. “She said to tell you that Geminus was seen with some Praetorians just before he was murdered.”

“What? Does Clarus know?”

“She said to tell you Prefect Clarus questioned the witnesses himself not long after the body was found, sir.”

Ruso stared at him. “He knows? What did he do about it?”

Pera looked nonplussed.

“Sorry, that’s an unfair question. I need to make sure Accius knows what you’ve just told me.”

“She’s going to try and talk to him herself.”

“Right,” said Ruso, pushing aside his unease about the tribune’s interest in his wife. “It might help both you and Victor, sir.”

“Yes. Don’t say anything to anyone else, will you?”

“Are you sure, sir? I was thinking it might raise the morale of the recruits.”

“Exactly. Then the gods alone know what they would get up to.”