Semper Fidelis

Chapter 64

“Not like that!” Tilla snatched at the comb in Virana’s hand. “Start at the bottom, where the tangles are smaller, or you will pull the teeth out.” Virana looked surprised, as if nobody had ever suggested this before.

Tilla was surprised too. She would have expected such ignorance of an empress who only had to call a slave to have her hair attended to, but how could an ordinary girl not know this? Had Virana’s mother bothered to teach her anything at all, or just shouted complaints from a distance while her children fought and argued amongst themselves like wolf cubs?

When the hair was combed, Tilla shifted back awkwardly on the seat and styled it herself, winding in a cream braid with blue edging. She pulled the knot tight so the hair was plaited for a handspan, and then hung in a neat tail down Virana’s back. “That’s better.”

Virana pulled one end of the braid round to examine it, then fingered the beads that were hidden inside the plain brown tunic and pouted.

“What is the matter?”

“I look dowdy.”

“No, you look how a Roman officer thinks a modest woman should look.”

“I don’t want people seeing me like this.”

People, Tilla supposed, meant the recruits of the Twentieth Legion. “Do you want to meet the tribune or not?”

“Can’t I just put the necklace out?”

“No. You are supposed to be my slave: You can’t wear more jewelry than I do. And remember, you must stay silent about anything you hear.”

“I know.”

“If you whisper a single word, the gods will make sure the tribune finds out. Then he will have you tracked down by his torturers before they send you to the slave market.”

“I know!”

But knowing was not doing. Of all the women Tilla had ever met, Virana was the last she would have chosen for an escort. Still, it was take Virana or approach the tribune alone, which would give him completely the wrong idea. Virana was worth the risk.

She reached into the food bag and was about to break a piece off one of the pastries she had bought from a roadside stall when a distant trumpet sounded the signal for the second halt of the day. It must be well past noon.

“That’s it!” she exclaimed, pushing the pastry down into the bag. “Celer, stop a moment so we can get down. Then stay with the others and we’ll come and find you later.”

They hurried forward along the verge, passing the baggage wagons now strung out along the road and still moving, the drivers seizing their chance to close up the gaps and rejoin the marching troops.

She felt a surge of pride as she saw him: still striding rather than shambling like Victor, gaze fixed on the uneven road, mind probably somewhere else. She dared not call out in case it brought him more trouble. She hoped Pera had given him the message. It would give him hope.

Virana was more interested in the recruits. “There they are!” she exclaimed, pointing ahead beyond the lines of pack animals munching on their hay nets.

“Don’t draw attention,” warned Tilla.

“I am not!” insisted Virana. “I am only a slave. Why have they got those guards?”

Tilla was wondering the same thing herself. The recruits were sitting in formation on the ground, munching food from their packs and swigging what she supposed was watered vinegar, and which they probably wished was beer. They were surrounded by the upright figures of officers, with Dexter on horseback. When several men returned from standing by the ditch, Dexter shouted, “Right, next lot!” and another squad rose to relieve themselves. Tilla, who had trailed behind many a military unit on the move, had seen plenty of guards posted during meal breaks, but they had always been looking outward for possible enemies. They had never been turned in to watch the men who were supposed to be their comrades.

Both the Praetorian Guards and the small group of older soldiers of the Twentieth who were returning to Deva were more relaxed. Some were asleep. A few were clustered around some sort of game with counters. Another was whittling a stick. All were evidently enjoying their few minutes of rest in the sunshine.

Sabina’s carriage, meanwhile, was surrounded on one side by folding screens. Slaves were trotting back and forth between the screened-off area and the supply carriage behind, carrying trays with cloths over them. “She has proper tables!” hissed Virana as the straight-backed Praetorians on guard glared at them from under their helmets. “You can see through the gaps. Did you see the silver wine flagon? If this is how she eats on a journey, what will dinner be like?”

Tilla could not imagine. It seemed the empress did not share her husband’s taste for eating simple fare with his soldiers. She hoped Accius was not behind those screens, helping to empty the wine flagon. He would not want to be called away to be told something that was only going to cause him more trouble. The problem was she could not see him anywhere else.

He had definitely dismounted: The bay stallion was in the line of horses under a stand of trees. She and Virana hurried along the verge, trying to search the crowds of men without appearing interested. Still, they attracted remarks that she pretended not to hear. Eventually they had to turn and retrace their steps, silently grateful to an officer who barked at his men to shut up and show some manners: Did they want the empress thinking she was guarded by a herd of animals?

The speech about manners might have usefully been given to Minna too. She was bustling toward the screens with a jug of something when she stopped and announced loudly enough for the whole lunch party to hear, “There’s the prostitute from the mansio!”

Tilla heard Virana draw breath to reply and jabbed her with one elbow. “You are mistaken,” she said, approaching and deliberately speaking a little more quietly than Minna, because with luck around them everyone was listening now. “This young woman you have insulted is my assistant. I am the wife of the Medicus, as you well know, and we are bringing the medicine requested by the tribune.” She held out the bottle, chosen not because it was anything he might need but because it had been the nearest to being empty before she topped it up with water.

Minna frowned at it. “What is that?”

“It is a private matter for the tribune only,” said Tilla, adding, “We will accept your apology after we have seen him.”

“Ha! You think the tribune will fall for that? I know nothing about any medicine.”

“It is a private matter,” insisted Tilla, hoping he was listening from behind the screen, because she could not draw out this conversation much longer. If a body slave-or indeed anyone more sensible and less nosy than Minna-arrived, she would be expected to hand the bottle over and leave, and there was no knowing whether he would take the hint and come and find her.

“Really, Tribune!” exclaimed a voice Tilla had not expected to hear. “So you too have been having secret meetings with the Medicus’s wife!”

Whatever the tribune said in reply to the empress was lost beneath a ripple of laughter from the lunch guests. Male hands appeared, grasping one of the screens. Minna gave a squeak of terror and fled. The screen moved to reveal Accius, looking even fiercer than usual. He stepped out. The screen was replaced.

Tilla gulped. Accius was standing over her like an eagle deciding which part of its prey to tear at first. “What?”

“Sir,” she murmured, “I have information.”

“Not now!”

“Then when?”

He glanced round. “Gods, woman! Do you have no idea how this looks?”

“That is why my assistant is here,” Tilla assured him. “Perhaps, sir, you would like to discuss the use of the medicine away from the ears of the guards?”