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

was a clod of mud flying from the grey’s hoofs as the boy set him at a canter back up the hill.

Well before dusk the next day Tiro had to concede that the goddess Sabrina had heard him, and that the skilled sailors of the classis britannica knew their business. A friendly marine took him under his wing on embarkation, and rustled up a change of clothes while Tiro’s filthy clothes were rinsed and dried. Tiro kept well inside the cabin, praying. His marine winked at him, saying, ‘No need to worry, army boy. Our flotilla is based nearby at Abona, and we spend all our time charting these waters. You’re in safe hands.’

Wooden bowls of hot stew were passed out of the tiny kitchen. Warmed and fed, Tiro drifted off into a doze. Quintus spent long periods on deck, talking quietly to the bearded captain and looking north.

By the time the planked keel of the galley slid up the landing at Aust, Tiro was feeling rested and very grateful. It had indeed been a rough voyage, with shifting sandbanks and waters writhing in and out of the inlets along the shoreline. He helped the sailors disembark their horses, who had not enjoyed the passage. A few words from Tiro soothed them, impressing his marine. He saluted with a grin as they passed down the gangway.

The tiny port of Aust crouched under a low cliff, glowing  stripes of pink sandstone and green limestone. Tiro felt in more than usual need of worship, but was disappointed to find there was no time to visit the little temple perched on the cliff. He had to concede that dusk was quickly sweeping up before them. They had some distance to go before night fell. A road built for the legion at Isca would lead them to an intersection with the highway heading north to Glevum, as long as they didn’t miss the crossroads in the dark.

It was a cold night of empty landscape. Tiro hoped it stayed that way till they made rendezvous with Centurion Crispus. He was eager to see the redheaded officer and his troopers.  I just hope you know what you’re doing, young Crispus. He prayed to Mars, god of war, and then to Minerva, goddess of justice and righteous combat.

He feared they would need all the divine support they could get.

Chapter Twenty-three

Two broad roads swept north from Aquae Sulis, like the outspread wings of the Goddess Victory. Each headed to a major city: on the west to Glevum, the old fortress and colonia; on the east to Corinium, the civitas of the large Dobunni tribe. Quintus guessed the Second Augusta would approach the quicker way, direct from Glevum to Corinium on the Great West Road and so on to Londinium. No uprising in Britannia could be successful without taking the capital. That was why both the provincial heads were based there: the controller of military might, the Governor; and the man with the money, the Procurator.

Marcellus had orders to join the legion from Aquae Sulis. Quintus reasoned anyone looking for the reluctant cohort would do so along the direct eastern route to Corinium. So Quintus looked for the Aquae Sulis boys along the west road, where their little camp was masked by the substantial Cotswold Ridge.

The Augusta were impregnable while garrisoned in their fort at Isca. The Aquae Sulis vexillation would have to wait while the mother legion made its long way round the north of the Sabrina estuary, and then use surprise to bolster interception. If interception was indeed what Marcellus had in mind. It was difficult to believe that surprise could make any difference against such overwhelming numbers, but what else could they do?

It was a relief when Tiro’s sharp eyes picked out the low smudge of campfires ahead in the dusk. The Aquae Sulis century was encamped, snug and well-organised, beyond the cleared margins of the access road from Aust. Quintus and Tiro were quickly ushered into Marcellus’s tent in the centre of the camp.

‘Brothers!’ Marcellus rose from his portable desk, and embraced each of them. ‘My optio, Decimus Senecio.’ He nodded at a grizzled veteran, bandy-legged and scarred, who stood to rigid attention. ‘Anything we discuss can be said in front of Decimus. He is my most loyal and experienced man.’

A slave entered the tent, bringing hot wine and bread with chunks of cheese, all gratefully accepted. Then with the tent flaps secured by an armed guard stationed beyond, they settled to confer. Quintus raised the subject of the Dobunni tribe.

‘I understand from Tertius that Fulminata escaped arrest. No fault of yours, Brother,’ he added hastily.

Marcellus looked angry. ‘There will be a reckoning for that betrayal when I catch those two wastrels. I imagine they plan to scuttle back to the bosom of the legion in Isca.’

‘Right. Let’s assume she is still on her way to Corinium. She’ll wait until the legion is close before stirring up the Dobunni, not wanting to lose impetus once she has roused the passions of the young men. The soldiers will join up with the tribesmen. If anything goes wrong, their cover would be that they mobilised to prevent a Dobunni rebellion. By the time the enlarged Augusta enter an unsuspecting Londinium, it will be too late to stop the insurrection.

‘Marcellus, you know this country better than we do. How long for the Augusta to reach Corinium?’

The centurion glanced at his optio. The older man spoke slowly, a deep voice with a heavy local accent. ‘Well, sir, I reckon that’d be all of three more days. See here, it will take a day or two at least to recall all the scouting parties and out-posted men back to Isca. Then they need to assemble and pack, ready to march—something the Augusta has not done for many years. It’s a fair step then from Isca to Corinium.’

‘Agreed,’ said Marcellus.