Empress & Soldier Chapter 15, part 2
In which Druisius asks a favour.
THE TEMPLE IS FINISHED. So is the arch, except for the commemorative words. At Tarquin’s house, I sleep near the back now. The governor’s niece is young, seventeen. They have been married for four months. She is pregnant.
Just now he is holding a letter. “The Emperor is sending the prince,” he says. “And a general. Roscius.”
I have heard the name. He led battles against the Boranoi, many years ago. I say this.
“Yes,” Tarquin says. “He’s been a military advisor to the Emperor for many years. A decent man, if hard, from all I’ve heard.” He folds the letter again. “They’ll be here in about six weeks, with the governor and the new consul. The Trakïyani king and his general will arrive at about the same time. We’ll need to have the consul’s house ready, and host a banquet or two, I suppose. I’ll leave all that to Julia.”
His wife brought her own housekeeper, and servants of all kinds. The housekeeper is older. Competent. Tarquin’s office and his armour and weapons are still mine to keep ordered and clean, but nothing else. The housekeeper will know what is needed, if her mistress does not.
“Where will the prince stay?” I ask.
Tarquin grimaces. “With the governor and the consul, surely?”
I grin. “Ask your wife.”
We discuss what else is to be done. The last construction debris taken away, streets and quays cleaned. Troops drilled back into fighting form. The Emperor’s city must reflect his glory and power. His soldiers, his discipline and strength.
I rarely ask favours of Tarquin. A sergeant does what his captain orders. But I do not want to manage cleaning crews. A sword in my hand again would reassure me. “The caporae can oversee the cleaning, yes? I could drill the men.”
“Is that what you want?” Tarquin looks surprised for a moment, then grins. “I suppose it is. Go ahead. Don’t work them too hard: enough to remind them they’re soldiers, not just builders. Not so much we have half of them off with injuries.”
~
They have forgotten. Mostly. I push them just enough. Even in the winter chill, they sweat through the drills. The medics treat cuts and sprains, one or two broken bones. I shout like my first sergeant did. Men curse and mutter. Two shout back. I make them fight me, swords and shields. I win, both times. The muttering ends.
Tarquin comes to watch. I line the men up for inspection, snap commands. Fast and precise, they obey. Tarquin nods his approval.
“In a week’s time, the Prince and the great general Roscius will watch you drill,” he tells the men. “He will return to Casil to say that the men of my company have not just built a shining city, but are soldiers of skill as well. The Emperor will hear of your prowess. Well done, men.”
They cheer. I see the pride on their faces. What Tarquin has said is true. He turns to me. “And well done, Sergeant.” For my ears only, he adds, “Eat with us tonight?”
I have spent many evenings over the river, tabernas and brothels. Watching, listening. Sometimes on our side, at the places the Trakïyani like to gather. More come to the public baths here now, and the tabernas nearby. Men who do not hold on to old resentments, welcome Casil as an ally. But maybe some men who come for other reasons, too.
I dismiss the men to their capora and the work that awaits them. Then I walk the streets, the route the royal party will take from the quays to Tarquin’s house, from his house to the amphitheatre, the baths, the forum where the temple and arch stand. Thinking of where I would be, if I planned a disruption. Where I would hide, if I wanted to kill. This is the city guards’ work, but they are not what I sometimes am.
The taberna the guard captain likes is not far. Dusk chills the streets. I am glad of my cloak. Less so of my bare legs. I stop at the taberna, but the captain is not there. I will find him tomorrow. If I am to eat with Tarquin and Julia, I should visit the baths.
~
Julia’s gown shows the first swell of her belly. She eats with good appetite. As Bernikë did, once the first months were past. I push the thought back. Boy or girl, this baby will be welcome. We talk of the preparations for the Prince and Roscius, the repairs to the floor mosaic that are almost finished, what the cook is planning to serve. Julia is slight, dark-haired, her face expressive. Excitement and trepidation show as she speaks of the plans.
Julia turns to me. “You will ensure Tarquin’s uniform and weapons are spotless, won’t you, Druisius? And his office?” If she knows I was familiar with her husband’s bed, she has made no sign. I smile. Tell her yes.
“He does know his job,” Tarquin says, but amused, not a reprimand. He treats her with gentleness and respect. She is an important political connection, bearing his child. A faint flush warms her face, regardless.
“I have things to speak to my sergeant about,” Tarquin says. “If you will excuse us, Julia? I will likely be late to bed, so I will wish you a good sleep now.”
She smiles. “Of course.” I follow Tarquin to his office.
“Are we ready?” Tarquin says. The room is warm. I lit the brazier before the meal. He always works into the night. The accounts trouble him. He does not tell me why.
“The men are,” I say. “I walked the streets after you left. They are clean, and there is no graffiti to offend.” I grin. “Or no more than they would see in Casil.” Something nips at my memory. Something half-seen, ignored. Where? What?
“What is it?”
I shake my head. “Something. Maybe words. Not what I was looking for. So I did not fully see it.”
“Do you remember where?” He is interested now.
“No.” I close my eyes, to see the memory better. A wall. A narrow alley between two buildings? Many of those, in this city. “I will walk again tomorrow. With the guard captain. I have things to tell him.”
“What things? What were you looking for?”
“Places the Prince and the general will be vulnerable. To a mob.” I sip my wine. “Or to one man.”
Tarquin stares at me. His eyes do not blink for a long moment. “In daylight?” he says.
“It has happened.” Marcellus told me of a long-dead emperor, killed at midday by men he thought his friends.
“You’ve said nothing to me before. Why are you concerned?” He is annoyed, I think. “Druisius, it is your job to tell me these things.”
He is not the only one annoyed. “I did,” I say. “Months ago, yes? Always discontent, you said. Not important.”
“Surely you’re not worried about something you heard months ago?”
I chew at my lip, thinking. How to explain? “The same sort of talk,” I say. “But persistent. No rise and fall. Always there.”
“If it was real, shouldn’t it be increasing? What you’re describing is just--” He searches for words. “Noise.”
I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe I am over-cautious, yes? But if I am not?”
He leans back, exhales. “Do your scouting tomorrow. Tell me what you find, if anything. I’ll decide what to do then.”
~
Late morning, the guard captain and I walk the streets again. We are dicing friends, a bit more. I think he guesses what else I have done at Tarquin’s orders. We look at recessed doorways, alleys so narrow they are easily missed. Discuss where his men should be. On a wall on a street leading to the forum, I find what I half-saw yesterday.
Among the scrawled phalli and the recommendations for scraptae are some words, written small. Not Casilan, not Odïryan. “Trakïyan?” I ask. I cannot read it. I speak it, enough.
The guard captain nods. His eyes move over the words. “Friends of Seuthe meet here,” he translates. He clicks his tongue. “Seuthe could just be a scraptus. Or even some Trakïyani boy with a taste for adventure in the night.”
As I was. Still am. I am no boy now, but I know the lure of nighttime alleys, strangers. Where a knife to the throat is not a threat, but part of the play. “The name again?” I ask.
He tells me. Not one I know. But I have no interest in young men. I like hard muscle and callused hands. Experience. “Ask around?” I say.
“I will. You too?”
“Across the river.”
We agree to meet in two days. He will assign guards to places we discussed, when the general comes. “We’ll be stretched, though,” he says. “Can you spare soldiers?”
“Except when they are presented to the general and the Prince,” I say. If Tarquin agrees.
My captain is not impressed by what I tell him. “Probably just some scraptus,” he says. He is on edge, irritable. His shoulders are too high. Once I would have massaged them. But Julia brought a bath attendant. That is her job. I use the public baths now.
“We will find out. But if it is not? Will you authorize the use of soldiers to supplement the guard? Sir?” I add. To remind him this is a military matter.
I see it register. The reining-in of his temper. “If you have good reason to believe there is a threat, you and the guard captain, then perhaps. I want Neratus’s thoughts on this, too. Keep me apprised, Sergeant.”
A dismissal. But I do not leave. He looks up from his papers. “What?”
“The visit worries you?”
He waves his hand. “Of course it does.”
“If it had been the Emperor himself, you might be dead of an apoplexy. Yes?”
He stares at me. A moment, before he begins to laugh. Hard, uncontrolled. “Fuck you, Druisius,” he says, through tears and a grin.
I grin back. “Are you offering?”
His laughter stops. The grin changes to a look I know. “Lock the door,” he says.
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