Empress & Soldier: Chapter 20 part 1
In which Druisius must prove himself again.
I FACE MY NEW COMMANDER, in the big barracks on the city walls. He reads the letter from Roscius, chews his lip. “You’ll lose your rank,” he says. “Start again as a regular soldier.”
I shrug. Maybe best, yes? Until I learn this job. If I choose to stay in it. But better the city, I have decided, than some windswept frontier. My natural place, Tarquin would have said.
“Palace guard doesn’t mean you’ll be assigned to the palace,” the commander tells me. “Even if this general thought you should be. You’re from Casil?” I nod. “What quarter?”
I tell him. “I know the harbour, too.” I will not mention other places. I do not want river patrol.
“Trader’s son,” he says. Not a question. “What are you good at, Druisius?”
“Watching,” I say. “Listening. I like the streets at night.”
“I’ll assign you to night patrols, then. But you’ll need to learn the rest of the city, so I’ll partner you with another man for a month or two. See how you go.” He looks down at the cithar, resting against the chest with my few things. “Do you have somewhere you can leave the instrument, until you’re settled in?”
I know what he means. I am new. Things happen to new men. And their belongings. “You can leave it with me for now,” he says. “But better it’s out of the barracks completely.”
It is Marcellus’s cithar. I cannot risk damage. It does not fit in my chest, which locks. Where I have a glass bottle that once held medicine for the general, a few other things. “I will take it to my brother,” I say. “When I can.” If I am assigned to the docks, Marius will hear soon enough I am back in Casil. So I will go to see him. It was not my brother I ran from.
I am given a bed in a long room. Shown the latrines and the baths, and the room where we eat. Given a new uniform. My short sword and knife are deemed acceptable by the sergeant whose cohort I now belong to. He is dark-skinned, darker than me. Older, too. “A general’s pet?” he sneers.
“I escorted the wounded general home from Serdik. Sir,” I add, as I must. “Only a few weeks, yes?”
“Quite the reward for just an escort,” he mutters.
I keep my face impassive. Most soldiers do not care about officers’ bedmates. This one does. “I saved the governor’s niece from a riot,” I say.
That satisfies him. “Don’t brag about it,” he says, before he takes me to their training field to assess my skills. Others are practicing. Some, off duty, watch. He pairs me with several men. Watches how I use sword and shield, then the knife. I am good enough, it seems.
At the meal I listen more than talk. Answer questions with a grin. When we are done a tall man, skin like a tanned hide, comes over to me. “Druisius. I’m Albius. You’re with me tonight.”
Only a few stars gleam when we begin our patrol. Albius chats as we walk, but his eyes are never still. We go to the eastern gates first, where the carts from the harbour enter. He explains. For the first hours the gates are open, we assist with checking licences and loads. When the stream of wagons slows, we will patrol again.
The third man we approach carries a licence in my brother’s name. I do not recognize him. The cart is in good shape. The mules are healthy, the leather of their harness supple. Marius is prosperous, as his letters said.
We work for two hours, a little more. It is dark now, but torches light the gate. “Three more,” Albius says, “then we’ll move on.”
The last cart carries amphorae. Wine, the carter says. I glance at the load, am about to say ‘go’. Look again. Three amphorae are different, just a little. Maybe from another supplier? But they are mixed with the others, not separate. I reach over, tap one. A dull sound. Not wine.
“What is this?” I ask the carter. But I know. Oil. Its taxes are higher. I say this to Albius.
He makes the carter unload the three amphorae. Checks the contents. Oil, sharp on the tongue. Good oil.
The driver is only a driver. The licence is not his. But he is locked up, or he would warn his master. Men take the cart and mules away. “What happens now?” I ask.
“I report the fraud to our commander. He reports it to the fiscarius’s office. Fines for the trader, if this is a first offense. If he’s been caught before, he could lose his licence.” He eyes me. “I’m surprised you saw the difference in those amphorae, in torchlight.”
In the warehouses light is dim. I learned early to see the variations in shape and height. I do not say this. Or I will be assigned to this duty for a long time. “Luck,” I say, grinning.
Later, we walk the streets. Break up fights, chase a cutpurse. Send, laughing as we do, apprentices to their beds. I am introduced to owners of tabernae, certain scraptae. Shown alleyways and doors that lead to hidden places.
A piercing whistle cuts the night. “Our sergeant,” Albius says, and breaks into a run. I follow. My sword bounces against my thigh. Outside a row of apartments the sergeant has a man up against the wall, his hands bound. A young woman stands nearby, breathing hard. Tears on her cheeks. One hand holding her shawl closed.
“Albius.” The sergeant wastes no words. “The serving girl was on her way to fetch a midwife. Escort her. Druisius, with me. We’ll deal with this scum.”
He drags the man away. Down a passage that leads, by the smell, to a butcher’s yard. “D’you want to do the honours? Or do you want to hold him?” He grins, showing his teeth. “From the size of your hands, I’d say it’s yours to do.”
This is a test. No one will notice more blood on the cobbles here. How far do I go?
“How far did he go?” I ask.
“Had his cock out and her tunic up, but I got there too soon for more.”
“She wanted it,” the man mutters.
“On her way to fetch a midwife? And that was no scream of pleasure.” The sergeant jerks the man’s arms back.
I punch, with force. Jaw, gut, and then I kick his legs apart and bring my fist up between them. Hard. His turn to scream.
We leave him on the cobbles, curled and groaning. In the square we wait for Albius to return. “There’s scraptae,” the sergeant says, offhand. “No call for a man to be forcing himself on a girl. Or a boy.”
“My officers,” I say. “My choice, yes?” He should know, so he does not judge. Or pity, and think less of me as a man.
He clears his throat. Spits, although there is a fine for that. “If you say so. It’s your business.”
Albius and two women appear across the square. The women hurry into a house, calling thanks. Albius joins the sergeant and me. “Taken care of?”
The sergeant grins. “Druisius lands a good punch. In the right places, too.”
The stars are fading. The sky is grey now, not black. Time to return to the barracks. Let the first of the day guards take our places on the streets.
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From "general's pet" to night patrolman. Somehow, I think this phase won't last long!