Semper Fidelis

Chapter 85

A traveler approaching a small staging post on the Eboracum Road at about the sixth hour that day might have noticed two soldiers strolling westward along the road toward him. As they grew closer, he might have been mildly surprised to see that while one was a well-built bearded officer whose outfit was respectable if rather dusty, his companion was chiefly notable for the heavy chains linking both wrists to his left ankle. Should he have happened to overhear any of the conversation between this odd couple as they passed by-which was unlikely, since their voices were low-he might have been further surprised to note that in this westernmost province of the empire, they were speaking Greek.

He might or might not have associated the dusty officer with the four cavalrymen riding slowly along a hundred paces behind, but by then his attention would have been diverted by the unusual spectacle of soldiers still striking camp at such a late hour. Whereupon all other thoughts would have been pushed aside by the pressing question of whether the Falcon’s Rest would still have anything decent left for lunch, or whether the soldiers had scoffed the lot.

“Your tribune tells me,” said Hadrian, “that he refuses to accuse you of murdering his relative because you didn’t do it. Meanwhile, my prefect seems to think he has plenty of grounds for an accusation, and you tell me you’re willing to confess.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Explain.”

“I’ll confess if it keeps the peace, sir. But I didn’t do it.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“I can’t say, sir.”

“I’ve ridden most of the night to get here, Ruso. I’ve got gritty eyes, stiff shoulders, and a bruised arse. Don’t annoy me.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Who did it?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t tell you.”

“You’ll tell me soon enough if I hand you over to the questioners.”

“Probably, sir. But I don’t think it would do either of us much good.”

Hadrian sighed. “And you imagine I won’t accept your confession?”

Ruso swallowed. “I’d very much rather you didn’t, sir.”

“But it would be very convenient, wouldn’t it? The native suspect will remain free, his mutinous comrades-whom your tribune tactfully describes as “boisterous,” by the way-will stop getting themselves into more trouble by accusing my Praetorians of murder; and it will be clear to everyone that the Twentieth Legion answers to its officers, not to some uppity medic and his native girlfriend.”

“On the other hand, sir, you know you would be punishing an innocent man for somebody else’s crime.”

“Given the scale of the convenience, and your apparent willingness to be an unsung hero, that may be a price worth paying.”

“Perhaps, sir.” Ruso swallowed. This was not the way he had imagined the conversation going. Maybe he really had been influenced by his stepmother’s ludicrous presumption of-well, not of friendship, of course; perhaps comradeship would be the word. But back in Antioch, he and Senator Publius Aelius Hadrianus had both been on the same side. Now one of them was the most powerful man in the world, while the other was a nuisance.

Hadrian untied the stopper of his water bottle and took a swig like any common soldier. “I should have Clarus arrest that woman of yours. I hear she’s behind all this.”

“Absolutely not, sir!”

They stepped aside as a rumble of wheels announced the approach of a post carriage. Ruso hopped awkwardly over the ditch and Hadrian busied himself tying the thong back around the stopper. The carriage thundered past, driver and courier oblivious to the fact that they could have halted and delivered many of their messages in person.

“Sir,” put in Ruso as soon as he could be heard, “my wife has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. I won’t confess anything if you arrest her.” Not willingly, anyway. The gods alone knew what he would say once the questioners got to work.

“Hm.” Hadrian stepped back across the ditch. “Let me propose a hypothetical situation. Let us suppose that there are two wives. Neither wife trusts her husband to get on with his own business without her help. I take it you can imagine this situation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The first man’s wife goes bleating to the second man’s wife about some difficulty her husband is having. The second man’s wife, who has a tendency to exaggerate her husband’s shortcomings, expresses some surprise that he has done nothing to help the first man in this situation-a situation about which, of course, both of the wives have only the barest understanding. Are you with me so far?”

“I think so, sir.”

“This is, of course, purely hypothetical.”

“Yes, sir.” If only this whole mess were hypothetical. If only Tilla had held a hypothetical meeting with the empress. If only she had threatened the prefect of the Praetorians with a hypothetical scalpel.

“Now let us say that the friends of the second man’s wife, some of whom are rather more eager to impress her than they should be, listen to this complaint and take it to be an expression of her wishes. So, in a misguided act of loyal service, they arrange for the problem to be dealt with.”

Gods above, the emperor knew the whole story! Everything he and Tilla had risked their necks to find out. Was there anything this man’s spies did not tell him? “If that were to happen, sir, it would be very unfortunate.”

“Especially since, if this came to light, people might mistakenly assume that the wishes were not only those of the wife but of her husband.”

Of course. That was what interested Hadrian. If word got out, people would assume that the murderer of inconvenient senators had now become the murderer of inconvenient centurions. The emperor, whose power traditionally rested on the tripod of the Senate, the army, and the people, would appear to have kicked away a second prop. If his enemies managed to exploit this apparent weakness, he could be in real trouble.

Unfortunately, it was hard to imagine Hadrian confiding any of this to a man he didn’t intend to have safely executed by lunchtime.

Ruso took a deep breath. “Personally, sir, I think if the second husband were going to deal with the problem himself, he would have found a better way.”

Hadrian grunted. “I suppose that’s a compliment.”

“To the hypothetical husband, sir.”

“Yes. Anyway, were someone to come along who was willing to assume the blame for the whole fiasco, I’d imagine that-for the sake of peace and quiet-any sensible man would let him get on with it.”

Put like that, his impulsive offer to confess-which had started out as a way of silencing a few recruits and getting Tilla out of trouble-sounded less like a fatal mistake than a heroic act of self-sacrifice to save the stability of the empire. He said, “Probably, sir, yes.”

“We’ve gone far enough. Turn around.”

Ruso pivoted round his chained ankle and faced back the way they had just come. The cavalry escort now facing them urged their mounts across onto the opposite verge and waited at a respectful distance for the emperor to pass. Ruso eyed the road ahead, unable to repress a hope that Tilla might have defied his wishes and Done Something. She could be galloping toward him right now on a stolen horse, ready to drag him up behind her in some miraculous feat of weight lifting, and …

“I have given this matter considerable thought,” Hadrian announced.

He had said he wanted no help from her. He had told Valens to tie her up if necessary. It was not the sort of request Valens would be likely to ignore.

“As you are no doubt aware,” Hadrian was saying, “I have never sanctioned the killing of innocent men.”

“Yes, sir.” Or should that be No, sir?

“Contrary to what I’ve been told, you seem to be a man who knows when to speak up and when to shut up.”

Was that an acknowledgment that he had done the right thing at Eboracum? “I try, sir.”

“Good. Because if you speak of this conversation to anyone, I shall find out, and neither you nor that woman will live long enough to regret it. Is that understood?”

What Ruso understood was that the great man was speaking as if he had a future. “Absolutely, sir.”

“I am therefore pleased to tell you what my prefect has discovered.” Hadrian paused, as if he was enjoying the moment. “You were all mistaken. There was no murder.”

Ruso swallowed. “No, sir?”

“No. Centurion Geminus diligently carried out his duty at Eboracum despite knowing that he was incurably sick-a fact that he hid even from the medical service. Satisfied that his recruits had passed their final tests, and not wanting to burden his comrades with a long and debilitating illness, he bravely committed suicide. With his own knife, as I’m told you can confirm.”

“Ah-yes, sir.”

“Which only leaves us, Ruso, with the question of where you wish to be posted next.”

Ruso gulped. He was still taking in the barefaced lie that would save his life, and wondering what other fantasies this man had foisted onto the citizens of Rome in the name of decency and stability.

“Pay attention, Ruso. I’m offering you a favor.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn’t expect it.” Although if he had listened to his stepmother, he should have.

“Where shall I send you?”

Where did he want to go? Somewhere warm and dry and civilized. He could go home to the family in Gaul-or, then again, not. He could go to Rome and look after-no, not rich people. But maybe glamorous ones. Gladiators. Charioteers. Healthy young men who suffered from nothing tediously chronic and incurable but had plenty of interesting accidents. He could try new surgical techniques. Make advances. Pay someone-his old clerk Albanus, perhaps-to write down his every thought and publish it. He could become the World-Famous Doctor Ruso. He could finally clear off the family debts. He could buy so many slaves that Tilla would never have to polish his armor or light a fire or interfere with his medical case again. Or cook. Now, there was a thought. He was definitely going to buy a cook.

“I hear my outgoing procurator is looking for a new doctor.”

The words interrupted his reverie.

“I believe he is a generous patron.”

Had Valens really abandoned the procurator’s service because of some old quarrel in Rome? Or had he sacrificed his position out of friendship? Whatever the reason, it would not be fair to take advantage of it.

And then there was Tilla. Tilla, who had been homesick in Gaul. Tilla would be miserable in Rome. And when Tilla was miserable, nothing else was a pleasure, either.

Britannia did not have enough gladiators and charioteers on which to build a career. But it did have plenty of healthy men who had interesting injuries. Soldiers were frequently unlovely, uncouth, and ungrateful. On the other hand, they were mostly young and lively and entertaining, and somebody had to be there to protect them from their own stupidity and that of their officers.

“Well?”

“Sir, I think …” He stopped. “I’d like to keep my current posting with the Twentieth, sir. But can I ask something for my wife?”

Hadrian’s silence was not encouraging.

“She’s somehow ended up on a list of doubtful persons, sir. It was all dealt with years ago, but we can’t seem to get her name off the list.”

“Ah, the wretched lists. A necessary evil. Hard to believe, but there really are people who don’t appreciate the benefits of our rule.”

“Tilla’s very appreciative, sir.” If emperors could lie in a good cause, so could their subjects.

“In that case, I see no difficulty. A native woman married to one of my officers. A fine example to the Britons. Yes. I’ll have the document drawn up straightaway.”

“Document?”

“Citizenship, man!” Hadrian’s heavy features broke into a smile. “Personally granted by the emperor. That should deal with it.”

Ruso blinked. Citizenship of Rome. The privileged status that outsiders could only earn after decades in the army, or keeping order and collecting taxes on behalf of the treasury, or a life of slavery, or performing some outstanding act of service to the emperor or his cronies. It was the one freedom Tilla would not have wanted, and he had just arranged to have it foisted upon her. “Thank you, sir.”

Hadrian turned to beckon his cavalrymen forward. “Have this doctor taken back to his unit,” he said. “And tell them to take those ridiculous chains off. I want him busy looking after my men.”