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

road. But warn your scouts to be very wary. It is highly likely our opponents will be watching the same routes.

‘We should keep our century hidden here meanwhile. Once we know the Augusta is nearing Corinium we’ll move to intercept and do whatever we can to upset their plans at that point. Though I fear it will be little enough.’

Marcellus and his optio left to issue orders to the scouts. Tiro looked at Quintus.

‘Sir?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I realise you may not want to share all your thoughts with me. But do you know yet who might be behind the plot? We know how the Vebriacum silver was being used to bribe the Augusta’s officers, but it can’t be the legion’s own commander issuing the orders, can it?’

This was the question foremost in Quintus’s mind for some time. He didn’t like the only answer he had. Now Tiro was asking, and he could no longer avoid answering.

Tiro spoke again.

‘Just now you asked Marcellus to post scouts on the road east. Are you expecting to see troops arrive from Londinium before any come the other way from Isca?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who is coming from Londinium? Is this the real threat? Has this person got control of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix as well?’

Quintus looked thoughtfully at his stator. Tiro swallowed, and continued.

‘I may have it all wrong, sir, not being a thinker like you. But if what I’ve said is right, it can only be one of two men.’

Still Quintus was silent. Tiro looked really unhappy. What he was suggesting amounted to sedition. Quintus was aware that Tiro had his faults. He was too prone to drink, impulsive, forgetful, disinclined to obey unless he agreed with a course of action. But he was also resourceful, courageous, and, Quintus believed, loyal.  Quintus smiled wryly. The time they had travelled together was short in count of weeks, but they had both moved a long way from their initial distrust and dislike. It had taken the imminent prospect of death and defeat to make him understand this, as with so much else in his life.

‘You’re quite right, Tiro. I do have an idea who we might be dealing with. But even here there may be unwanted ears. So I suggest you think about a few things.

‘First, where we have seen white wax tablets?

‘Second, why didn’t Claudius Bulbo want to visit Southwark?

‘Third - and I say this with great reluctance - why were we two chosen for this mission?’

Tiro looked even more puzzled.

Quintus stood slowly, feeling drained. What wouldn’t he give to rest now, to sleep deeply and to wake with no need to think more of this? He stood lost in his dark thoughts, twisting the bronze owl ring round his finger. He realised Tiro was watching, and mentally shook himself. There was still his duty to be done.

He alone knew who he was up against. He thought briefly of the people he would never see again: his family so far away in Rome; Julia; Aurelia. The best outcome he could hope for was a good death.

He reached out to grip Tiro by the shoulder.

‘Come on, let’s get ourselves a tent and see to the horses.’

The next two days crept snail-like for Tiro, while the century remained quietly encamped waiting for the scouts’ return.  He felt prickly with inaction. His various hurts had eased by now, though he noticed that Quintus still held his left arm hanging straight and avoided making contact with it. Julia had given him more honey and each evening the camp medical orderly replaced the dressings. Tiro caught one glimpse, and saw the arm from wrist to well above elbow a mass of angry red blisters, some of them oozing yellow. He looked away quickly. While he could contemplate his own wounds with equanimity, his stomach for other people’s injuries was not as strong.

So he wandered off to look around the camp for diversion, finding it in a scratch fight competition set up by the optio. Tiro grinned, and pushed his way to the front of the onlookers. Anyone not engaged in their duties—and Decimus Senecio was very good at keeping his men busy—was gathered in a ring around a pair of men. The crowd was cheering, casting insults, and placing bets. Tiro looked on with interest, and rolled up his sleeves. The combatants were well-matched, being of a height and not dissimilar weights. The dark-haired trooper sweeping his fringe out of his eyes was older and more experienced, Tiro judged, but his younger opponent made up with a willingness to keep wading in. They were both using standard army boxing techniques, panting and sweating as they circled each other to trade blows. Eventually the older man landed a punch full in the eye of the younger. His eyelid immediately ballooned, and the optio raised and dropped his arm to signal the end of the bout. Exercise and keeping the blood for battle circulating was one thing. Rendering men unfit to fight another.

Tiro stepped forward. ‘I issue challenge to any who will meet me.’ The little crowd cheered. He heard whispers of “Governor’s Man” and “Londoner” passing from man to man. Right, if they wanted to find out how a city boy fought, they were on. He looked round, wondering who would take up his challenge. A much louder cheer rang out when a tall dark man stepped confidently into the ragged ring. Tiro swallowed. The man had huge bulging muscles, biceps gleaming as if oiled and a torso so sculpted he could have been an ebony statue. Tiro wondered whether he was the cohort’s specialist blacksmith. His upper body development was the most impressive he’d seen in a long time.

‘Messalinus! Messalinus!’ the crowd bellowed. The African grinned, showing perfect white teeth, and darted in like a cobra to grab and throw Tiro. Oh yes, thought Tiro, now we’ll have some