“Good people of Corinium Dubonnorum!’ They cheered again, long and loud.
‘Thank you for your warm welcome. Thank you for your support. Thank you for your loyalty.’
More cheering. Julia was proud of them. Amazing how two hundred or so Durotriges could sound like a whole nation. Trebonius clearly thought so. He took his time before starting his speech of sedition.
Julia had stopped listening. She signalled urgently to Tiro. He made his way to her side.
‘There, behind Trebonius, moving up from the street,’ she murmured. ‘Am I wrong, or is that Antoninus Labienus, back from the dead?’
Tiro looked puzzled.
‘Not sure. Better check.’ He left before she could stop him, slinking forward through the crowd of enraptured men like a fox in a hayfield. She watched him with her heart in her mouth, then looked again at the Labienus look-alike. This time she was almost sure she’d been mistaken. The man standing alongside the Governor was a stranger, wasn’t he? Still, there was something familiar about his height, his looks and the way he tossed his jade-green cloak back over his shoulder.
She was continuing to ponder, aware that Trebonius was still speaking, when her sleeve was tugged imperiously. Two young people stood behind her, one eager and impulsive, the other shy and anxious. Julia felt her stomach somersault. She motioned to Aurelia and Drusus Sorio to move with her out of the colonnade. She threaded her way as delicately as she could between her older white-robed Sisters. She wished she was invisible and was growing angrier every second. At last they were away from ears and eyes, and she grabbed them both by the shoulders and forced them to sit while she glared at them.
Drusus went white, pink, then white again, looking unhappy. Aurelia was her familiar nonchalant self.
‘Aunt Julia, I know you told me to stay at home, but wait till I tell you who we’ve seen.’
Julia opened her mouth to deliver an undertoned rebuke, then shut her mouth again. Too late for reprimands. Aurelia saw her chance.
‘It’s Lucius Claudius.’
‘Lucius?’
‘Yep. Right up there with the Governor - Emperor - thingie. That man whose taking over the Empire with a single legion. Ha!’
Julia opened her mouth again, in disbelief. Aurelia plunged on.
‘And who do you suppose is with him?’
Julia waited.
‘Go on, Drusus, you tell Julia. It was you who worked it out.’
Drusus still looked miserable.
‘I’m very sorry, Lady Julia. know I promised my father to keep Aurelia safe and hidden, but when Aurelia sneaked out of the house, I couldn’t not follow her, could I? I mean, someone had to stop her getting into trouble, and I thought…’
‘By the Goddess Minerva, Drusus, just spit it out. Tell me you’ve seen someone who looks like the man in the blue cloak, who died in the fight in Lindinis. Haven’t you?’
The boy’s unhappiness was replaced by chagrin. Julia felt sorry then. ‘All right. Good guessing,’ she said. ‘Tiro and I agree with you, and Tiro has gone to look closer. Now I want you to return immediately to your billet. It’s not safe here.’
Too late. Trumpets rang out, the brassy sound horribly loud in the enclosed forum. The Augusta was on the move again, marching eastwards out of the city. The fake Dobunni volunteer brought up the rear. The only place to hide Aurelia was in plain sight among the Wise Women. Julia laid her finger across her lips, looking as stern as she could, and they moved backwards to mingle in with the Sisterhood. Drusus gave a crooked grin and slipped away into the ranks of the Summer Country farmers. Julia hoped Agrippa Sorio, marching along some rows ahead, wouldn’t turn to see his disobedient son in the rear. The tribesmen were now passing low hand signals along their ranks, twitching out their swords and readying axes and sharpened tools. Once they were out through the gate, and it was slammed and bolted behind with the legion crossing the bridge ahead of them, those tools and weapons would be pressed into bloody use.
Tiro was even more alarmed by the raucous trumpet call than Julia had been. It caught him too soon, as he was still scurrying past the front ranks of the first century of the Augusta. He was not uniformed. He had no shield, no sword, and nowhere to hide. As soon as the men near him looked around he would be caught. All he could do was keep pace and hope his matching movements would disguise him till they had passed the city gate. Then he would have to trust to his legs and the Goddess Fortuna, and run as fast as he could to the nearest ditch.
A gravelly voice spoke in his ear.
‘Optio Tiro, as I live and breathe. A long way from home, ain’t you?’
Tiro could not stop the salute that sprang automatically from him.
’Sir, I mean Prefect. Yes sir.’ He darted an upward glance. Marching by his side, staring ahead in perfect disciplined step-time with the legion, was his old training officer Felix Antonius, red-crested helmet and all. Not a twitch of his battered face, not a movement out of place of his horny hands. Tiro swallowed, and waited for his doom to fall.
‘At the next street corner, Tiro, you will fall out of line and disappear back out of my life. I don’t know what you’re doing here, and I hope never to see you again. But with my luck, I fear I might. Understood?’
‘Yessir. But -‘
‘No buts, no questions. Maybe I’ve made bad choices, but I always believed loyalty to be the soldier’s ultimate virtue. Now fuck off, and never let me see you on the opposite side again.’
Within three more paces, the legion began to cross the Main Street. Tiro slid away into a doorway, where he tried his best to look like a door until the legion had passed. Then he moved out, still shaking, and joined the Durotriges. He wriggled his way forward to join Agrippa Sorio.
‘Minor detour,’ he told the surprised decurion.
The huge towngates swung apart and the leading ranks of the Augusta marched out in tight order under the towered battlements, through the gate and across the river onto Akeman Street. It seemed to take them forever to pass over the bridge, under which Quintus had left his small band with bows slung, crouching between the vast stone piers just above the waterline. Their job would come soon.
The men of the Aquae Sulis garrison were split into two halves, mounted and hidden among the woods that lined the road beyond the river. Mercifully there was no cemetery on this side of Corinium to cause the removal of trees.
Quintus and Marcellus with their men were bunched amongst oaks on the north-west verge. Decimus Senecio had command of the rest, waiting silently in the woods on the other side. Not far beyond their hiding places the road forked. The left fork headed north to merge with the Fosse Way. If Trebonius had summoned the Twentieth Valeria Victrix, this was the way the northern legion would come. At least, thought Quintus, he’d see the enemy coming and be able to choose the timing to charge. The righthand fork was a continuation of Akeman Street, linking Corinium on to Verulamium and Londinium. This was the road Tertius had told him to watch, though he had no hope of a miracle from that direction.
Quintus didn’t expect any divine rescue. Which was just as well, given the lack of any sizeable military force in Londinium. That warning had been merely a dying fantasy of Tertius.
As the Augusta legion emerged Quintus could distinguish Gaius Trebonius at their head. He had been dreading this encounter for some time. His ultimate fear was that he would be unable to act, frozen by trauma into indecision. His mood was sour. During the long wait after dawn, while the horses breathed warm mist into the dark and the only sound was the dull shuffle of their rag-bound hoofs, his mind jumped back to his last encounter with Julia. She had been so angry when he outlined his tactics for this morning. But what else did she expect him to do? They were desperately outnumbered, and he had a whole city to protect.
‘Why not let the tribe fight for you?’ she said. ‘It’s their country too, my country. Why should you be the one to make these decisions? Even Marcellus has a better right; at least he’s British! What is this maggot in
your head — the drive to sacrifice yourself? You’re no good to anyone dead.’
And then when he said that he hoped it wouldn’t be a senseless sacrifice, and that he did plan to survive beyond the encounter with Trebonius so he could live to report to his commander in Rome, she became almost apoplectic.
‘You bastard! So that was all it was between us, again. A passing lust like before. No wonder you have nightmares. How do you live with yourself, Quintus?’
When he held his hand out to placate her, to try to explain, she pushed past him saying, ‘Just go back to Rome, Quintus. And this time, stay there.’
Hurtful though that look on her face had been, Quintus now found his inner eye dwelling on a different face during the chilly wait in the woods. Now he saw Flavius. Not on his knees in the freezing Caledonian bog, eyes dulled and dying. This was a younger Flavius, the year before he joined the Praetorians. Quintus had been home on leave, and they had gone hunting in the Tiburtine Hills above the vast palace built by Emperor Hadrian. Flavius had ridden ahead. Always impetuous, he’d speared a boar which refused to die. It turned at bay instead and charged the boy, whose terrified horse promptly threw him. Flavius had landed on all fours and remained there, frozen, with the squealing boar turning to charge him again. Quintus was already spurring his horse into the clearing and took immediate aim at the boar. His spear had skewered the bleeding animal and anchored it to the ground where it died, still emitting angry screams. Flavius had suddenly laughed with release and joy and rushed to Quintus, reaching up to grab his arm.
It was this laughing boy Quintus saw now, the Flavius who knew his big brother would always be there for him. Now Quintus finally saw that this was the same look Flavius had given him on the battlefield.
Forgive me, Flavius. You didn’t doubt me, even then. You were sending a final message of love, not despair. You never stopped believing in me. But do I believe in myself? Is that what Julia meant?
The noise of hooves and marching hobnails alerted him. He signalled to Marcellus, who passed the Wait! command to his own party, and on to Senecio. All remained still under the trees, while the legion spilled out through the gateway behind Trebonius and clattered across the bridge. The smaller party of tribesmen followed them. The din made by dozens of horses and five thousand pairs of boots on the wooden superstructure was more than enough to cover any noise made by the small party of archers, scrambling out from under the bridge. With the Durotriges in front to mask them they slipped in through the gates and slammed them shut. There came the sound of wood dragged across metal as the gates were locked and barred from the inside.
The centurion in command of the rearguard of the Second Augusta turned in surprise, and looked up to see helmeted archers now positioned between the defensive crenellations above the gateway. Perfectly positioned to shoot. A further surprise came as he realised that the Dobunni allies immediately behind had raised their weapons and were looking much less friendly.
The advance party saw nothing of this. They were already strung out along the wet road. Trebonius, flanked by the green-cloaked man with Lucius riding behind, paused. Quintus rode out from the trees and took up position in the middle of the road. Trebonius flung up a hand to halt the column. He put on his grey-plumed helmet and gathered his horse’s reins into his left hand. His piercing gaze raked the man blocking his route. A slow smile curled his hard mouth.
‘Frumentarius Quintus Valerius. Well, well, about time. I do hope you and your… allies have come to join us.’ He looked over the heads of his army, towards the tight band of tribesmen now doing their best to menace his rearguard. He laughed openly.
Quintus made no acknowledgement. He raised his right arm, and heard the Aquae Sulis men move smartly out from the woods to range across the road behind him.
‘Oh, I see. Quite the little army. We appear to be surrounded.’
Gaius Trebonius grinned widely. The Augusta men exchanged smirks. Only one man didn’t smile. He tossed his fine green cloak over his left shoulder, and reached for the handle of his sword. Trebonius’s face changed. He adopted a sympathetic look, leaning forward a little to address Quintus alone. It was such a familiar pose of warm confidence and friendship. Quintus shuddered as he recognised it.
‘Quintus, old comrade, how long have we known each other?’ Trebonius waited a moment for a response that didn’t come. He shrugged. ‘Fourteen, fifteen years? Too long for good friends to mistrust each other.’ Quintus said nothing, but touched the hasta badge on his baldric fleetingly. It was a tiny gesture, but those pale sharp eyes missed nothing.
‘I see. It’s your old Roman notion of duty, is it? The sense of obligation, that feeling of owing something to the family, eh? Duty to the Emperor - pah! Alexander Severus is a weak boy ruled by his mother. What kind of blind loyalty is willing to let the Empire sink into anarchy and civil war, when an experienced hand on the tiller could save Rome? And your family? Long since plunged into disgrace and penury. But sticking with an old comrade who has risen in the world through ability and vision — that’s the true loyalty of a good Roman soldier.’
Still Quintus kept silent.
The Governor’s voice took on a less patient tone. He moved restlessly in his saddle, and the plumes on his helmet crest dipped and swayed. ‘When you came to Londinium seeking my help, I supported you. In return I asked you to report only to me. Even though I knew from the intercepted messages of that little Syrian worm at Vebriacum that he was plotting to betray me to Procurator Rufinus. Still, I trusted you. You owed me your life and your unquestioned loyalty. Now it’s time to finally choose your side, Frumentarius Valerius. Whose man are you: Governor’s Man, or boy Emperor’s patsy?’
He paused. Quintus saw the arrogance, the sense of entitlement in his posture.
It was true that he owed this man his life. Quintus had been waiting fourteen years to repay his debt to Gaius Trebonius. Now the time had come to make recompense. He owed Gaius. He owed Flavius, he owed his father, he owed Julia, he owed the Emperor. He thought about the direction his duty must take him to settle his debts to each of them. The image of his brother flashed before his eyes once more. Now he knew which course of action to take, to ensure Flavius had not died in vain. He moved his horse three paces forward, then twitched the reins to bring the chestnut to a precise stop.
’Sir, Governor Gaius Trebonius, my duty to the Emperor and to my men here does not allow me to betray the Empire. However, I understand that the men of the Second Augusta also feel loyalty to their old Legate. It would be a terrible waste of blood to settle our differences in battle and lose these men, if another way can be found.’
Trebonius looked interested, an eager expression that betrayed his hopes. Quintus began to think he would take his bait. He looked down at the road carefully, finding what he needed, and dismounted. One of his little company ran forward and took his horse’s reins to lead it away. Quintus drew his gladius. He knew this might be the last time he did so. He saluted, bringing the blade upright before his face, and swung it away again.
‘Gaius Trebonius, in my role as Imperial Investigator on commission from the Emperor and the Commander of the Castra Peregrina in Rome, I pronounce you traitor and criminal. I strip you of your office of Governor of Britannia Superior. I offer you one last chance to save your honour. Dismount and defend yourself against me, in single combat. Mithras, Lord of Light, I call on you to witness the righteousness of my actions and strengthen my hand.’
The Governor dropped all pretence at comradeship. He scowled. Quintus held his breath. Would Trebonius accept the single combat challenge from an inferior officer?
Quintus had no shield, so took up the defensive position as best he could, with knees flexed and sword angled up. Trebonius flung his reins to Lucius and dropped off his horse, drawing his own sword as he landed. Quintus saw he carried a spatha. The longer blade would give the Governor the advantage. So he did the only thing he could. He rushed Trebonius before he could take up a pose, forcing him to
step back quickly. One more step back… There it was!
The road behind the Governor was cratered with muddy holes after the night’s heavy rain. Trebonius’s backstepping foot slid in a rut, he lost balance and fell. Quintus darted forward, thrusting. The man twisted like a cat and rolled onto his side. Quintus’s gladius scored a deep line along the side of the other’s gilded cuirass, and slashed across his arm. Whether out of vanity or lack of preparation, Trebonius was wearing only the sleeveless decorative breastplate by way of armour. His arms were not protected at all. He swore, rolling out of range again as beads of blood sprang up along the line of the sword cut. The wound was long and already bled steadily. Trebonius got to his feet, then slid again in the bloody slime. Quintus sprang forward. He did not see the man run out from behind the Governor’s horse, a tall man who flung off his green cloak and stepped ahead of the bleeding Governor to threaten Quintus.
‘You want a fight to the death, you bastard? I’ll give you death all right. I am Cassius Labienus, the new Emperor’s deputy. I accept your challenge as his champion. Mine is the right of vengeance. Vengeance for my brother Antoninus, who died at your hands.'
Quintus took stock. Unlike the short solid Governor, this man was tall with a long reach. He was fresh, and had a round shield as well as a spatha. He also had good reason to want Quintus dead.
The Governor's Man: A Quintus Valerius Mystery Page 22
