The Governor's Man by Jacquie Rogers (best beach reads TXT) 📕

Tiro turned his head, but they all heard it at the same time: the clatter of hoofs in the cobbled yard, and the sound of an imperious young voice calling for the yard boy.

‘It’s Master Lucius! Quick, you must leave.’ Tertius ran to the window and flung open the shutters once more, but Quintus caught him by the arm.

‘That young man – that’s Lucius Claudius? Don’t worry. Look, he’s going straight back out of the yard again.’

They saw a dark-haired, expensively-dressed young man hand his horse to the stable boy, and immediately leave again through the yard gateway, heading downhill into the town. Tertius dragged a hand over his sweating forehead, and sat down as heavily as his little frame allowed. ‘By Astarte, that was close. My heart nearly left my chest!’

‘Right, we may not have much time left. We’ll have to split up. Tiro, don’t worry about the docks; I’ll go there. You follow Lucius. If Tertius is right and he’s meeting Caesulanus, I want to know what they say and do.

‘Tertius, we’ll push our luck here a few more minutes. If your master Bulbo arrives, I’m here on official business, checking taxes paid or some such. You can leave the talking to me. Now show me your hidden records, and tell me exactly what you sent by way of messages to Londinium, and to whom. And why you suspect the mines security chief is behind all this.’

Tiro, moving with a speed and silence that would have surprised his drinking cronies in Londinium, pulled his birrus hood back down over his face and hurried out of the office after Lucius.

Chapter Twelve

Tiro approached the old fort cautiously. He’d kept Lucius in sight easily enough. Tiro arrived to find an open-topped wagon pulled up close alongside the dilapidated wooden building. A harnessed ox was feeding nearby. He squeezed himself behind the wagon to watch and wait. His heart was racing. This was where he belonged, in the action, getting on with the job. What if he pretty much solved this case single-handed? What would the frumentarius say? What would Britta think? A scene unfolded in his head: himself, modest, controlled; Britta leaning close to him, face turned up, her lavender scent in his nostrils …

The scene dissipated as Lucius came out of the barracks carrying a load wrapped in canvas. A big man, looking like a retired soldier but moving with the strength and grace of a gladiator, came out behind the boy. His load was at least twice the size. The big man — Tiro guessed it was Centurion Caesulanus — hoisted the bullion into the wagon with a grunt. Lucius struggled with his smaller load. Caesulanus laughed. Lucius looked angry, but glanced down into the wagon, and he smiled too.

The big man slapped Lucius hard on the back. ‘Get a shuffle on, boy! Naught to amuse, everything to lose. We need to get these bars off to the boys at Chilton Polden, soon as. If that little rat Tertius comes snooping round, the fat’ll be in the fire and no mistake!  I might have to slit his scrawny throat, and you wouldn’t want his blood all over your fancy clothes, would you now? So shift yourself, give us a hand with the rest. Then you can get off home on that showy nag of yours.’

The smile stayed pasted rigidly on Lucius’s face.

Tiro tucked himself further down, and tried not to breathe until they’d both gone back inside.  He reached through the slats of the wagon and wiggled out one of the metal bars. It was incredibly heavy, double axe-head shaped, with an incised stamp on one side. Tiro had no idea what the stamp meant. Not his fault. He couldn’t read, could he? But he knew the shapes were letters, which might tell a tale, and he knew someone who could read. He slipped the ingot into the pouch on his belt.

The pair returned with more ingots. Lucius dropped one, just missing his soft leather boot.

‘Hecate!’ the boy swore. He leaned over, then froze, looking under the wagon. ‘There’s someone here!’

It was Tiro’s turn to swear, but no time for that. He stood, drawing his dagger. His birrus, so long his friend, now turned traitor and he got his hand tangled in the folds. There was a sudden thump on the back of his head. Not again! He thought, as his feet were swept away and he fell into a black pit.

Tiro woke an aeon later, the back of his head lanced by pain and his vision blurred and dancing. He was lying in the wagon, bouncing along a rutted road. A hood was over his face and his hands were tied together behind his back. Ah, Gods! — it was his own damned birrus wrapped round his head. He tried again to pull his dagger from his belt. It wasn’t there, unsurprisingly. Moving cautiously to avoid alerting the two men, he felt heavy cold rectangular objects stacked all around his body.

At any event, he’d found the missing silver. And landed himself right in the proverbial.

The rough ride lasted a good couple of hours. Tiro was cramped, cold and bursting to piss when the swaying came to a halt. Two new voices hailed Caesulanus in the British tongue. Tiro could speak the language fine, but these men had a rough rolling accent that made them difficult to understand. Lucius answered in Latin, his voice high-pitched and nervous.

‘He’ll have to be got rid of. We can’t have any witnesses.’

Rumbles of alarm from the two local lads, then the centurion weighed in.

‘All in good time. I’ve a story to hear from him first. Maybe a score to settle. We heard from the Palace that this bloke and his boss were on their way to snoop, so a mate of mine was sent