The Governor's Man: A Quintus Valerius Mystery

by Jacquie Rogers

  Once the unfortunate Gnaeus had been borne away in a hospital cart, Quintus walked west along the revetted riverbank to the Governor’s Palace. Two guards snapped to attention at the sight of his hasta, the miniature lance badge on his shoulder sash. He was clearly expected. The guards handed him over to the Governor’s major domo, who bowed and led the way through several large chambers, all with surprisingly good mosaics. At the back of the villa he was shown into a smaller room, where a broad man stood up to greet him. He was wearing two fine white woollen tunics over each other and red leather boots, despite the warmth from the heated floor.

  ‘Quintus Valerius, Brother!’

  ‘Governor.’ Quintus bowed slightly.

  ‘Nonsense, Quintus,’ said Gaius Trebonius, stepping out from behind his desk. ‘Let’s greet properly as old friends should. You’ve not forgotten Caledonia, eh?’ Quintus tried to relax as Trebonius clapped him on the back.

  ‘Gaius Trebonius, it’s good to see you. Congratulations on your promotion.’

  His comrade’s rise in less than fifteen years from legionary tribune to Governor of a province was impressive. It spoke volumes for Trebonius’s quick-thinking political ability that he had continued to prosper in these times of shifting allegiances.

  Trebonius shook his head, smiling. He motioned to Quintus to join him in worn leather camp seats near a brazier. The Governor poured wine for them both.

  ‘Safe journey? And the leg?’

  ‘Both fair enough, thank you sir.’ He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, even with an old friend.

  The Governor nodded, and took a swallow from his beaker. He fixed Quintus with a direct look, reminiscent of the younger officer briefing his raw new subaltern.

  ‘I never wrote, but I was sorry to hear about your father. Your family…they prosper, I hope?’

  Quintus felt his face harden. The wounds were old but still surprisingly raw. It had been too much to hope that Trebonius had not heard about his father’s disgrace and fall from the Senate. Quintus didn’t know who had engineered the accusations, but he would find out — one day.

  ‘My mother and sister are well enough, thank you, sir. I was able to make adequate provision for them. My sister is married now to a dear friend of mine, and my mother lives with them.’

  Trebonius nodded, then returned to business.

  ‘What did they tell you in Rome about this mission, Quintus?’

  ‘I understand it involves suspected loss of income to the Imperial estate from a mine in south-west Britannia. Hence Rome sending me to be attached to your staff during whatever investigation you deem best.’

  The Governor frowned and picked up his beaker again. He seemed to study the depths of his wine before continuing.

  ‘Well, it is my great good fortune to have your service. I need the best for this job, and Rome sent you, thank the Gods. Let me be straight with you, Quintus. The income from the Vebriacum mines has dropped to almost nothing in the past year or so. The current lessee, Claudius Bulbo, has petitioned my colleague the Provincial Procurator Rufinus for a reduction in rent, claiming the silver content is now so low the cost of extraction is not worthwhile. Bulbo has a reputation as a competent man of business. He ran some sort of large enterprise in southern Gaul before moving to Britannia a few years ago. On the face of it I have no reason not to believe him. The silver in a lead mine can give out after many years of extraction. But we need to know for sure. Other mine lessees have tried to defraud the Emperor in the past.’

  Trebonius looked uncomfortable. ‘And there is another reason I asked for you in particular, old comrade. There have been one or two reports in recent months, unsubstantiated but still worrying, about a resurgence of Druidism among the Durotriges.’

  Quintus cocked his head, puzzled.

  ‘Ah, you won’t know. One of the larger native tribes of the southwest. Their territory covers the Summer Country and south to the coast, including the hills where Vebriacum is sited. They were among the last to be subdued by Vespasian at the time of the conquest, and a difficult job he had of it.’

  Quintus thought this an understatement. He remembered reading of that famed campaign, including the massacre of the defending natives at the Fort of the Maiden.

  Trebonius continued, ‘We’ve had little or no trouble there for many years, but all the same I’d prefer not to have to worry about a Druid uprising so close to the mines. As Imperial business, it’s a sensitive matter. I need an experienced and incorruptible officer to get to the bottom of this. I need you, Quintus, to be my Governor’s Man, reporting directly to me.’

  Quintus wondered about the politics in this province. Normally matters of local policing would be dealt with by the Governor. But anything touching on provincial income, whether loss of taxes, fraud or rebellion, became a matter for Procurator Rufinus too. All too often, in Quintus’ experience, the military and fiscal heads of a province’s government were rivals in power. Plus Trebonius knew very well that Imperial Investigators sent by the Castra in Rome remained the Emperor’s men first and foremost. He decided not to mention that.

  Quintus glanced at his friend. ‘And the Procurator…?’

  The Governor’s eyes flicked away. ‘Aradius Rufinus is an effective official. His background in Rome is…influential.’

  Ambitious, with friends in high places, Quintus translated. He understood now why Trebonius seemed twitchy, and why an officer as experienced as Quintus had been summoned from Rome to deal with the matter.

  ‘Very well, sir. A tactful but top priority investigation, then.’

  The Governor looked relieved. His shoulders relaxed as he stood. ‘I knew you would understand, my old friend. There’s not much more I can tell you. I’ll give you an authorising message for the garrison commander at Aquae Sulis in case you need support, but it’s up to you how you proceed. I suggest you go quickly. Even in this chilly province, native tempers can heat to boiling point once the right flame is set. And the Vebriacum question must not be left long.‘

  Quintus also stood, briskly. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, back onto a formal footing with the Governor now he had his brief. ‘There is just one small matter to sort out before I leave Londinium.’ He told the Governor about Gnaeus. ‘With your permission, I’ll requisition horses, supplies and a replacement aide immediately.’

  ‘Of course. Authorisation for your travel costs and expenses will come as usual from the Procurator’s office in Southwark.’ Trebonius paused; competing expressions chased each other across his broad face. ‘ You might do well to seek a replacement assistant at the Londinium garrison. The commander there has authority to assign military staff to me on request, and he is a personal friend of mine. He’ll sort out a suitable man. Best to keep the more sensitive details of your investigations to yourself, Quintus. There is a bad smell about all this.‘

  Quintus respected his old commander’s instincts, and waited for more.

  ’Sir?’

  Trebonius held his gaze. ‘Just…be discreet, Quintus. Travel carefully. And report only to me.’

  Chapter Three

  The cell door slammed open, metal lock clanging against brick wall in a hideous cacophony. Tiro jolted awake, his head skewered by light and noise.

  ‘Off your arse, you drunken skiver!’

  Two guards dragged Tiro out of the dark cell. He worked hard on putting one foot ahead of another, head exploding as he marched along the corridor of the Londinium Guard headquarters to the tribune’s office.

  The tribune was reading a letter tablet, pale wax glowing white in the waning light of a branch of candles. A stranger—dark, wiry and alert-looking—stood next to the tribune’s desk. There was a miniature lance-head on his leather baldric, the hasta of a detached officer on Imperial business. The man looked at Tiro, grey eyes giving nothing away.

  Frumentarius. So, an Imperial agent. A policeman, or a spy, or both. What is he doing here?

  Tiro felt clumsy, a provincial yokel next to this refined figure.
He thoroughly disliked the foreigner at first sight. The tribune glanced down again at the wax tablet, then up at the stranger.

  ‘Centurion Valerius, this is Optio Tiro. Ah…ex-optio, of course. Tiro, I have orders from the Governor to release you.’

  The tribune opened a desk drawer, letting out a faint lingering odour of cedarwood. Tiro remembered to salute, late and sloppy, but the tribune did not look up. He pulled out a rolled-up document from the drawer.

  'Your discharge from the Londinium garrison.’

  He held the paper out, but Tiro could not take it. His head was thudding violently again, and his hands were trembling. ’Sir, please… I know I was drunk on duty, sir. It won’t happen again. I beg you—‘

  ‘Take it, you fool. The terms of your release. And be grateful you weren’t flogged in front of the whole cohort as well.’

  ‘I can't read, sir,’ Tiro said, shame forcing a rough edge in his voice. The tribune frowned.

  'An optio who can’t read? Maybe the frumentarius will remedy that lack. Well, here it is, plain enough. You are hereby detached from the Londinium cohort, and assigned to accompany Frumentarius Quintus Valerius as stator on his travels in Britannia. Quintus Valerius has been sent by the Rome authorities and in addition holds commission directly from our Governor.

  ‘This is an undeserved second chance for you, Tiro. I will suspend reporting your dismissal, for now. Assuming you serve the frumentarius to his complete satisfaction, you will be re-admitted to the Londinium Guard at your former rank on your return. Fail in this duty by the slightest degree, and your discharge from the army will take immediate effect. Without pension. Understood?’

  The tribune looked at Tiro for the first time, and Tiro felt anger and shame tussling within him. His voice was raw as he answered, but he managed to look steadily through his superior officer at the back wall.

  ‘Understood, sir.’ He wondered if the shame of being parcelled off as a servant was worse than being locked up in barracks for dereliction of duty. He looked at the frumentarius, wondering what mission they were to undertake.

  ‘Best I can do, we’re short of good men,’ the tribune was saying. ‘I hope he’ll do the job you need.’ His expression implied doubt.

  The stranger looked long at Tiro, who felt his own gaze dropping.

  Damned if this Italian is going to look down his nose at me like that. Who does he think he is? He’ll soon find out that the Britannia Superior pancratium champion, bearer of a phalera award for conspicuous gallantry, is not someone to sneer at. Then Tiro remembered that they’d taken away his treasured silver phalera too, stripped from his breastplate in front of the cohort before he was marched away to prison. His hangover headache redoubled.

  The frumentarius waited till they were out of the tribune’s office and around a corner. Then he turned sharply, nearly stepping on Tiro’s feet. His face was still impassive, but the officer’s breath hissed between his teeth as he leaned in close, his voice harsh and one hand bunched into the neck of Tiro’s tunic.

  ‘Right, you barbarian vermin, listen! The only reason I don’t reject you out of hand for this assignment is because the Governor himself chose you. The Gods only know why. He must have a damn good reason I don’t yet understand.’ The brown hand grasping Tiro’s tunic twisted and lifted suddenly, and Tiro was slammed against the wall behind. The Italian was stronger than he looked. Quintus pushed his face right into Tiro’s, so close the breath was hot in his nostrils. ‘One foot wrong — just one — and you’re back here in gaol, with the key thrown away.’ His eyes, hard as flint, bored into Tiro’s. ‘Do we understand each other?’

  Tiro croaked,’ Yessir!’ and slumped as the frumentarius dropped him. He tried to catch his breath, recover some dignity. Quintus Valerius stalked away, leaving Tiro to scramble after him.

  His headache didn’t lessen as they headed south from the fort, but the brisk pace Quintus set caused new waves of nausea to compete with it. Tiro had rarely felt more miserable, not even when his parents died in their fire-swept Londinium slum, leaving him homeless and starving at sixteen. He was a proud Londoner who loved his buzzing city, but boys need food. Back then he had no trade to earn his keep. The Roman army opened its arms to Tiro, and very quickly the men of his auxiliary cohort became the only family he needed. He was naturally quick and tough, a born fighter and happy to pile into any danger. He wasn’t a bad soldier. He had made Optio by the time he was in his early twenties.

  What good was all that sweat, discipline and work now? All thrown away for the sake of a night drinking to the pretty eyes of a tavern slut when I should have been on duty. No warrant officer rank now, no bravery award, no mates, no snug garrison quarters. Just a new boss, and long cold miles to travel without the good company that makes life bearable.

  The moment of returned pride fled as quickly as a girl’s virtue in a garrison vicus. As they crossed the long wooden bridge to Southwark, Tiro looked down at the rough waters of the river and half-wished he had the courage to jump.

  ’Wait here,’ Quintus said, as they were stopped by the guards outside the vast Procurator’s Palace on the south bank. Tiro shivered as gusts of cold air forced their way through his tunic. Along with his pride and rank he’d lost his uniform, and now wore shabby homespun clothes like any other city pleb. What wouldn’t he give for a nice thick birrus, a good bit of British wool to keep the early spring wind at bay?

  The frumentarius was saluted smartly and escorted inside the courtyard, past a large bathhouse range and gardens and into the imposing building where Aradius Rufinus, the Provincial Procurator of Britannia Superior, held sway. Tiro didn’t envy Quintus Valerius. Word in the fort was that while Governor Gaius Trebonius was a good stick and straight as they come, the same could not be said for the Procurator. A crafty customer, they said. But then all men in charge of money were crafty, in Tiro’s experience of quartermasters and supply officers.

  A steady stream of people came and went from the palace, none paying any attention to Tiro. He amused himself guessing their business with the Procurator:

  The clutch of overfed traders in second-hand togas? He reckoned they had been lunching with the Procurator, proposing sure things that just needed the right tax break to come off with a nice little earner guaranteed for the Provincial coffers.

  The drab older woman with a pretty red-eyed daughter in gold earrings and a low-cut tunica? She was looking for an introduction to a suitable marriage partner, youth for money. The older woman came out alone a few minutes later.

  The well-dressed man on a prancing roan, and his companion with a drooping right eye? The first had a fine blue cloak flung back over his shoulders, and clattered out under the arched gateway in style. His companion was mounted on a rather less showy nag. The first man paused, and a passerby in frowsy clothes stepped off the pavement and made his way over to them, exchanging a few words before the horsemen moved on.

  The cohort of tired auxiliaries trudging through the gateway? They’d been seconded from their rathole fort, and would soon be posted somewhere muddy upcountry to ensure the flow of taxes from reluctant farmers.

  The wait lengthened as the faltering afternoon dimmed. Tiro lost feeling in his hands, then his feet. The guards began to cast amused looks at him. A third guard came out of the palace and soon they were all three laughing. Tiro straightened up, took a few turns up and down. Marching to keep warm was all. The third man laughed even louder, and held up his middle finger. Tiro caught the words “Governor’s Man”, with emphasis on the word “Governor”. The three guards lit a brazier and hunched over it. Tiro’s skin crawled. He did not like this group huddling together. It was no way to behave on guard duty. He bristled, stuck out his chest, and set off to give them a few choice words. Let’s just see how they handled themselves, three onto one or not. Some people called it street fighting, but Tiro, twice all-comers Provincial Champion of the mixed martial art pancratium, knew better.

  He nearly barged into Quintus, who was comi
ng back through the gateway leading two saddled and laden horses. Glory be to Mars and Jupiter, there was a birrus strapped to the back of the horse Quintus handed to him.

  ‘On our way, Tiro.’ Tiro’s arm was grasped hard, and he was steered hard about away from the guards, back towards the river. They crossed on foot, the bridge being too busy with traffic to mount the horses.

  ‘Sir,’ Tiro began. Should he tell the frumentarius about the insolent grouping around the brazier? But Quintus ignored him, keeping up such a scorching pace that Tiro soon regained feeling in his extremities. His lingering hangover blew away with the brisk north wind biting his face. So what if the Procurator’s men were ignorant gossips? Nah, keep your thoughts to yourself, my lad.

  He was hungry now, and looked longingly at the hot snacks set out for sale on fast-food counters along the city streets. Quintus seemed oblivious. They didn’t pause till they had left the city through the west gate, mounting their horses at last where the tombstones of the cemetery cropped up through thick grass along the road.

  They rode steadily west. The weather held cool and turned damper, successive waves of thin rain blowing into their faces. The road seemed endless to Tiro, despite his years of slogging around the province with the army. It wasn’t the same without your mates. This close-mouthed frumentarius was no kind of officer in Tiro’s books. No company to lead, no salutes or smart uniform, no burnished weapons on show. Not even any barked commands. Just the occasional low-voiced order to break the long periods of silence as they trotted the horses through Pontes towards Calleva Atrebatum. Drizzle turned to longer showers, and then hardened into a steady rain.

  Quintus was a competent horseman, but seemed to have no intention of pushing their mounts hard to reach their unknown destination. Tiro was no slouch on a horse after a decade as a mounted auxiliary rider, and couldn’t understand why they weren’t using the posting stations. With a wave of the boss’s lance-head badge they could have been speeding along, with frequent changes of horse all to the tune of snappy salutes. Why the secrecy? He didn’t even know where they were heading, or why.