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

to ponder. Shrill trumpet blasts split the air, so close the din threatened to deafen him - once, twice, thrice. Sudden stillness fell over the maelstrom. Men paused in mid-blow, turning to see who was signalling so sharply. Tiro fought vainly to pull air into his lungs. Puffing and crouching over his ribs, he became aware that the battle had frozen. All eyes had turned to something approaching along the Verulamium road.

It was a litter, some invalid being carried along bang into the middle of the battle. Through his pain Tiro stared as the swaying litter came nearer. Now he could see that the purple-fringed drapes on either side were drawn back. The four litter-bearers stopped, lowering the litter with respectful care to allow the occupant to step out. Their passenger straightened up. He had a pale intelligent face, and obviously found it difficult to stand for long. He waited patiently, nonetheless, surveying the scene ahead of him.

A cohort of soldiers bearing a familiar standard marched up behind him, and one of the litter slaves hurried to bring a folding seat from an accompanying wagon. The man sat, passing a grateful smile to the slave. Tiro opened his mouth to say, ’It’s my Londinium lads!’ but Felix Antonius beat him to it. The camp prefect hustled through the silent crowd, and went down on one knee before the pale man.

‘Your Honour,’ he said, head bowed. The man placed one white hand on the wiry grey hair of the prefect.

‘No need for apologies right now, Antonius,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘Time enough in due course. For now, please tell me what is happening here.’

Quintus stepped forward, his left arm bleeding through the sleeve and held stiffly, his tunic covered in mud and blood. Tiro hoped little of the blood was his. But before either the prefect or the frumentarius could speak, Trebonius pushed himself forward, with two of his tribunes alongside.

‘Procurator Rufinus, what a miracle! You’ve had yourself carried all the way from your counting house to grace my victory. I am happy to accept your surrender on the field.’

Tiro shuddered at the sneer in the man’s voice. But he noted that some of the men of the Augusta legion were shuffling and looking uncomfortable. There was a slight but perceptible movement by some along the sides of the road, towards the trees and disappearance. They were stopped by the legionary centurions, more determined to hold their nerve. Tiro guessed they had most to lose if there was to be a reckoning. But he didn’t think the London lads, tough town boys though they were, would be able to hold the field long against five thousand trained men.

The pale man didn’t turn a hair. He looked placidly at Gaius Trebonius, addressing him in a cool clear voice.

‘But I have come to require your surrender, Gaius Trebonius.’

The Governor laughed, loud and full-throated. His staff officers glanced around, as if wondering whether it was appropriate to join in his glee. One tribune did, until the mild glance of the Procurator turned his way. The tribune fell silent.

‘Gaius, I know everything.’

‘Do you, now, Aradius? And how is whatever you think you know going to stand up against my legion? Even with a few dozy garrison layabouts  behind you, and the posse of disloyal farmers this frumentarius has dragged together.’

Trebonius nodded toward the Durotriges in the rear. Marcellus, standing next to Agrippa Sorio, drew himself up and his men stood a little taller.

‘Also, I hate to tell you after you’ve been carried all this way in your litter that I’ve got another legion on the way. If I’m not mistaken, here it is now. You may want to consider a request for mercy to your new British Emperor right now.’

It was unmistakeable. The sound of thousands of booted feet, marching briskly in unison down the north road. The Twentieth Valeria Victrix legion had arrived at last. Tiro suddenly felt very sick. He retched. A really bad idea. He was so blinded by the pain of his broken ribs that he almost missed what came next. The pale man, Procurator Aradius Rufinus, waited calmly, merely summoning Quintus over to him with a wave of his hand. Quintus went, his bad arm hanging loose but holding his shield still. They exchanged a few low words. Tiro couldn’t catch what was said, but noted that Quintus looked happier. Tiro began to feel a bit better. The Procurator turned back to his former colleague. His posture didn’t change, but his voice hardened.

‘The thing is, Gaius, the legate of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix had already decided where his loyalties lay. He put his legion at my disposal quite some time before your attempt to suborn him. So you see, there is little left for us to say to each other. I will now speak to the Second Augusta instead, whom you have led to this disaster.’

Tiro saw a panicky look of shock pass over the Governor’s broad face. But the Procurator seemed not to notice. His voice, still even, was raised to a tone of authority. He addressed himself to the ranks of the Augusta, who were exchanging worried looks. ‘Men of the Augusta, you have been lied to and misled by your former Legate, and now former Governor.  I know most of you were staying loyal to your chain of command. A few, a very few, of your senior officers —‘ here his pellucid gaze swept across the Augusta, lingering on the tribunes, ‘are more culpable, having accepted bribes provisioned by silver stolen from the Imperial estate at Vebriacum. That is a capital offence.’

Tiro silently applauded this tactic. Clever, sir! That’ll sort the blindly trusting sheep away from the plotting goats. No need to destroy a whole legion when you can simply take off its rotten head, eh?

Rufinus paused to allow this to sink in.

‘Enough blood has