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

head of Rome’s financial administration was currently uneasy that the Emperor’s income from British mines had nose-dived: specifically, the dwindling silver extracted from the lead ore of the vast Vebriacum mines in south-west Britannia. Quintus read on.

You are to be attached for the period of this mission to the staff of the Provincial Governor in Londinium, Gaius Trebonius, and are directed to undertake his orders as you would the Emperor’s. You will, of course, also report by Imperial messenger service direct to the Commander at Castra Peregrina.

Gaius Trebonius. A name he knew well. Gaius had been his superior in the British Legion 11 Augusta, when Quintus had been attached as liaison to the Augusta from the Praetorian Guard. The Praetorian, with brand-new Centurion Quintus Valerius, was among the troops brought to Britannia by Septimius Severus to wage his Caledonian wars.

So many years ago. Quintus tried to picture the youngster he had been then. Proud of being appointed to the Emperor’s bodyguard; full of his first service outside Italy. Happy to make a new friend in the Second Augusta, the burly young Tribune Gaius Trebonius. What a heedless puppy he had been back then!

His old comrade’s name meant much more than that. It had been Gaius Trebonius, a skilled soldier, who had thrust his gladius up under the breastbone of a painted Pictish warrior during that hideous skirmish in the northern bogs, stopping the Caledonian dead. He who had pulled a poisoned spear out of Quintus’s thigh, and bound his own scarf rough and tight over the deep gash. Gaius had saved his life. And he was the only person who knew the whole truth of that dreadful day.

After that had come Eboracum and the long process of healing.

He dragged himself back out of the long tunnel of memory. Great Mithras! Why had he come back here, to this cold, dreary, backward place? He should have requested an alternative mission, asked to be sent somewhere - anywhere - else. He stood, stretched and took two long deep breaths, concentrating on letting the air trickle slowly out of his lungs. It was a trick he had learned in the east, a useful one.

He was here because it was his duty to the Emperor. Because for thirteen years he had owed Gaius his life, and been unable to repay the debt. He wouldn’t think about the rest: the forced marches into mist and mountains north of the old Wall; the bitter hit-and-run fighting; his crippling wound; the agonising withdrawal from Caledonia. Then long days in hospital fighting a maze of nightmares and hallucinations brought on by the poison on the Pictish spear; then the girl in Eboracum. Most of all, he wanted to forget her: the girl, her bright eager face…

Inevitably he stared blindly at the cabin walls, twisting the bronze ring with its little engraved owl on his fourth finger, seeing only the girl: her animated young face with its dusting of freckles turned to his, her loose fair hair lifted by the summer breeze as they stood on Eboracum’s walls, looking out across the grey-stoned northern city.

He shook his head and sat back down at the desk and his papers.

Let’s see…the mining estate at Vebriacum in the Mendip Hills was let to a businessman who extracted the minerals, mostly lead, and sent an agreed amount back to Rome. He retained the rest as profit. It could be a very lucrative business, and these mines had been a valuable source of income to the Imperial Estate since Britannia was first added to the Empire.

The lessee was a Claudius Bulbo. Interesting cognomen, Bulbo. Quintus wondered fleetingly which part of his anatomy deserved to be called “swollen”. Bulbo had already been written to by Aradius Rufinus, the Provincial Procurator in Londinium, responsible for the financial affairs of the southern British province. But apparently Rome was not satisfied with Bulbo’s answer that the silver lodes were depleted. Never one to let go a source of income, the Imperial Procurator had called in Quintus to look into the matter.

This was his mission in Britannia: to help Gaius Trebonius, and to satisfy the Imperial Procurator. Keep those two aims foremost in your mind, let the rest go.

The rowers slowed as Quintus stepped out onto the deck. The northern sky glowered grey-white. It was a cold damp day, which did not surprise Quintus. He had not forgotten the deceptive British climate. The warm clothes hadn’t been for Germania after all. But Britannia was even darker, and with such an unpredictable climate it was probably the worst possible assignment this early in spring. He picked his way along the deck, bypassing the ship’s broken mast.

‘Sir, we’ll shortly be docking. A safe crossing after all, thanks to Neptune!’

Quintus frowned at the shipmaster, just then remembering Gnaeus. The poor man was lying sweating and white-faced in a cot below the foredeck, one leg badly broken when the mast broke and dropped the mainsail during their storm-blighted voyage.

‘About my stator below - get him carried onto the dockside, would you, and I will arrange for the doctors at the army hospital to take care of him.’

The Gaulish captain looked relieved. ‘Thank you sir, I wasn’t sure if you would need me to make the arrangements myself.’

Quintus turned away, his mind passing onto the difficulty of getting another groom. Gnaeus had been at his side for many years, since shortly after Quintus had been transferred to the Castra Peregrina from the Praetorian Guard. They had suited each other: the quiet slave and his withdrawn master. It occurred now to Quintus that Gnaeus’ competence in travel arrangements would be hard to replace. The Gods only knew what kind of assistant would be available here in Britannia.

The naval packet threaded its way through an increasing throng of cargo ships docked beside the wharfs on the north bank. New walls encircled the sprawling city, pale stone