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

Quintus was distracted, and felt his concentration seeping away. His opponent smiled, and swerved to the side to bring his knife back into deadly play.

But the frumentarius had one more trick up his sleeve. Quintus spun round on his heels, with his sword held in tight and angled upwards. It was a nasty move he had perfected in training at the Castra in Rome many seasons ago. As he completed the turn his sword lashed out with momentum and slashed at the man, wide and deep into his side. It was a difficult manoeuvre. There was a real risk of catching his weapon on the others’ ribs instead of finding a vital organ. But the training and his sword held true. The man gasped and toppled dead into the darkness at Quintus’ feet. He glanced round. No Julia; no tall man in the blue cloak either. Quintus moved back into the lamplight, searching.

The crowd had broken up into small bickering knots. Punches were being thrown, and he heard shouts of consternation and grunts of pain as blows landed haphazardly. He looked around, trying to work out what was happening. A small group of youngsters was heading towards him. In the lead was that friend of Lucius — Drusus, that was it. His eager look had changed to concern, a frown lowering his brows. Quintus saw a plump middle-aged man, an older version of Drusus in a gold-fringed mantle, reach out to grab the boy’s sleeve, saying something urgent. Drusus shook the restraining hand off, and plunged back into the crowd. His father failed to catch him, his trailing toga swamping his movements.

Quintus’s attention was caught by Tiro on the ground behind Caesulanus, crouching, filthy and panting but triumphant. One meaty arm pinioned the other’s sword arm and the other was crooked tight across the centurion’s throat. Tiro called out to two approaching men in relief.

‘Morcant! Rufus! Catch hold of this villain and tie his hands and feet up, would yer? I gotta help the boss.’ He scrambled to his feet, winking at Quintus and looking smug.

‘Pancratium move, sir. Works every time.’

No sign still of Julia, but it was a fair guess that wherever she was, Blue Cloak would be too. Quintus tossed the dice on his choices and began to run, calling over his shoulder, ‘To me, Tiro.’ He didn’t wait, but soon the clump of feet and the puffing behind told him his assistant was following.

The gamble was on. Quintus was betting Blue Cloak had a horse tethered somewhere outside the forum in the high street. There were precious few other places you could leave a horse in this scruffy little civitas. Instead of trying to force his passage back through the market place, Quintus led Tiro at a run along the side of the basilica. They found a narrow passage past the end of the building, probably used as a discreet alleyway for magistrates and decurions on council business. They turned the corner and raced on towards the road behind the basilica. Quintus’s heart was straining now. Not so much from the fighting, or the running. He was used to that after long Imperial service of the dangerous kind. What goaded him was a glimpse of Julia being dragged, struggling, ahead of them. Tiro shot ahead. He threw himself into a curious dive, hitting the man in the blue cloak from behind, low and hard. His shoulder hit the back of the tall man’s knees, and he threw his arms round the long legs, jerking the man off his feet. Blue Cloak fell like an oak, bellowing as he hit the ground. Julia fell too, landing on her shoulder and crying out, but free. Quintus crouched down and checked her with a quick glance. She wasn’t badly hurt. He joined the panting Tiro, standing over the enemy with drawn sword until his assistant was back on his feet and could take guard.

The Lindinis rebellion was over.

Chapter Eighteen

Quintus gently helped Julia back onto her feet. The familiar scent of rosewater reached out to him. Silently, she moved into his arms, shuddering and weeping. Tiro tactfully looked away and  busied himself tying up the prisoners. After a moment Julia stepped back, brushing dust and leaves off her torn robe. Quintus looked her over for injuries. She smiled, saying, ‘I’m tougher than I look. Shame the robe isn’t.’

‘It was a good choice of robe,’ Quintus conceded. ‘Although you had me confused at first.’ The robe reminded him of the old wise-woman.

‘Have you got that little cup, Tiro?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Tiro fetched his saddle bag, reached in and handed the tiny wrapped cup to Quintus.

‘From Velvinna’s house.’ He held it out to Julia. She sniffed the contents, and dipped a cautious finger into the flecked milky fluid.

‘Juice of poppy, mixed into a little wine. With added honey and …ginger? Thank the Lady, at least she died peacefully and without pain. The actress masquerading as a trainee herbalist, I suppose.’

He nodded agreement. He saw a tear glimmer in the stray torchlight as it rolled through the pale dust on her face. There was so much to say, but not now.

He contented himself with, ‘I was wrong to doubt you, Julia. Here — you’d better take care of this too.’ He held out the bottle of dried foxglove. She nodded, recognising the medicine, and tucked it away.

The square was clearing now. Many of the older citizens had taken their protesting younger folk away home. Two men, one big, the other young and slight, were standing guard over the furious Caesulanus. They nodded greetings to Tiro.

‘Frumentarius Quintus Valerius, this is Morcant, brother to Britta and estate manager for Marcus Aurelianus; and Rufus, groom to the Lady Aurelia. They came to help when the dominus and Britta told them where Lady Julia had gone.’

The black-haired man, broad and sun-darkened by a