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

understand, my old friend. There’s not much more I can tell you. I’ll give you an authorising message for the garrison commander at Aquae Sulis in case you need support, but it’s up to you how you proceed. I suggest you go quickly. Even in this chilly province, native tempers can heat to boiling point once the right flame is set. And the Vebriacum question must not be left long.‘

Quintus also stood, briskly. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, back onto a formal footing with the Governor now he had his brief. ‘There is just one small matter to sort out before I leave Londinium.’ He told the Governor about Gnaeus. ‘With your permission,  I’ll requisition horses, supplies and a replacement aide immediately.’

‘Of course. Authorisation for your travel costs and expenses will come as usual from the Procurator’s office in Southwark.’ Trebonius paused; competing expressions chased each other across his broad face. ‘ You might do well to seek a replacement assistant at the Londinium garrison. The commander there has authority to assign military staff to me on request, and he is a personal friend of mine. He’ll sort out a suitable man. Best to keep the more sensitive details of your investigations to yourself, Quintus. There is a bad smell about all this.‘

Quintus respected his old commander’s instincts, and waited for more.

’Sir?’

Trebonius held his gaze. ‘Just…be discreet, Quintus. Travel carefully. And report only to me.’

Chapter Three

The cell door slammed open, metal lock clanging against brick wall in a hideous cacophony. Tiro jolted awake, his head skewered by light and noise.

‘Off your arse, you drunken skiver!’

Two guards dragged Tiro out of the dark cell. He worked hard on putting one foot ahead of another, head exploding as he marched along the corridor of the Londinium Guard headquarters to the tribune’s office.

The tribune was reading a letter tablet, pale wax glowing white in the waning light of a branch of candles. A stranger—dark, wiry and alert-looking—stood next to the tribune’s desk. There was a miniature lance-head on his leather baldric, the hasta of a detached officer on Imperial business. The man looked at Tiro, grey eyes giving nothing away.

Frumentarius. So, an Imperial agent. A policeman, or a spy, or both. What is he doing here?

Tiro felt clumsy, a provincial yokel next to this refined figure. He thoroughly disliked the foreigner at first sight. The tribune glanced down again at the wax tablet, then up at the stranger.

‘Centurion Valerius, this is Optio Tiro. Ah…ex-optio, of course. Tiro, I have orders from the Governor to release you.’

The tribune opened a desk drawer, letting out a faint lingering odour of cedarwood. Tiro remembered to salute, late and sloppy, but the tribune did not look up. He pulled out a rolled-up document from the drawer.

'Your discharge from the Londinium garrison.’

He held the paper out, but Tiro could not take it. His head was thudding violently again, and his hands were trembling. ’Sir, please… I know I was drunk on duty, sir. It won’t happen again. I beg you—‘

‘Take it, you fool. The terms of your release. And be grateful you weren’t flogged in front of the whole cohort as well.’

‘I can't read, sir,’ Tiro said, shame forcing a rough edge in his voice. The tribune frowned.

'An optio who can’t read? Maybe the frumentarius will remedy that lack. Well, here it is, plain enough. You are hereby detached from the Londinium cohort, and assigned to accompany Frumentarius Quintus Valerius as stator on his travels in Britannia. Quintus Valerius has been sent by the Rome authorities and in addition holds commission directly from our Governor.

‘This is an undeserved second chance for you, Tiro. I will suspend reporting your dismissal, for now. Assuming you serve the frumentarius to his complete satisfaction, you will be re-admitted to the Londinium Guard at your former rank on your return. Fail in this duty by the slightest degree, and your discharge from the army will take immediate effect. Without pension. Understood?’

The tribune looked at Tiro for the first time, and Tiro felt anger and shame tussling within him. His voice was raw as he answered, but he managed to look steadily through his superior officer at the back wall.

‘Understood, sir.’ He wondered if the shame of being parcelled off as a servant was worse than being locked up in barracks for dereliction of duty. He looked at the frumentarius, wondering what mission they were to undertake.

‘Best I can do, we’re short of good men,’ the tribune was saying. ‘I hope he’ll do the job you need.’ His expression implied doubt.

The stranger looked long at Tiro, who felt his own gaze dropping.

Damned if this Italian is going to look down his nose at me like that. Who does he think he is? He’ll soon find out that the Britannia Superior pancratium champion, bearer of a phalera award for conspicuous gallantry, is not someone to sneer at. Then Tiro remembered that they’d taken away his treasured silver phalera too, stripped from his breastplate in front of the cohort before he was marched away to prison. His hangover headache redoubled.

The frumentarius waited till they were out of the tribune’s office and around a corner. Then he turned sharply, nearly stepping on Tiro’s feet. His face was still impassive, but the officer’s breath hissed between his teeth as he leaned in close, his voice harsh and one hand bunched into the neck of Tiro’s tunic.

‘Right, you barbarian vermin, listen! The only reason I don’t reject you out of hand for this assignment is because the Governor himself chose you. The Gods only know why. He must have a damn good reason I don’t yet understand.’ The brown hand grasping Tiro’s tunic twisted and lifted suddenly, and Tiro was slammed against the wall behind. The Italian was stronger than he looked. Quintus pushed his face right