While the escort continued to thump on the south gates and bellow, “Open up for the tribune!” Ruso watched Tribune Accius himself glaring at the wood as if he expected to break through four inches of iron-studded oak with a hard stare. Or perhaps he was just mildly annoyed. It was difficult to tell with Accius. The sharply defined nose gave him an air of perpetual haughtiness, and the slight scowl about the dark eyes suggested a preoccupation with weighty matters that lesser men would not understand. Accius, as he had made quite clear, had no intention of spending his military service hunting and carousing like many of the young nuisances sent out from Rome. No: Accius was a nuisance of an altogether more dangerous sort. He was the sort who actually wanted to do something.
When there was still no response, the tribune twitched a rein and his horse obediently circled round, allowing him to frown at the ferrymen rowing the rest of his entourage across the river. Ruso followed his gaze and watched the first of the two baggage wagons venturing down into the choppy water.
“Something’s not right,” Accius declared, as if it were not obvious. “Stop knocking.”
Ruso sniffed. The moist air was sharp with the smell of burning, but the casual whistling of a figure loading crates outside a warehouse downriver suggested that whatever was going on behind the ramparts of the vast and underoccupied legionary fortress was nothing unusual.
Accius said, “I sent Geminus a message. They should be expecting us.”
Remembering that Geminus and Accius were related, Ruso did not venture to suggest that the aging centurion might have forgotten. Even if he had, the guards should have heard them by now.
He hoped the Sixth Legion had not arrived early. Accius had traveled from Deva to represent the Twentieth at the official handover, and his welcome would sound rather hollow if the new arrivals had already thrown down their bedrolls in the barrack rooms while their legate was happily sweating out the grime of the march in his private baths. He said, “Sir? The ferryman’s trying to get your attention.”
The standing figure in the ferry was pointing downstream past the warehouses, but his words were lost in a cacophony of yelling and waving passengers all trying to help him communicate. Behind them the mule team faltered, alarmed by all the shouting, and the driver struggled to keep the wagon moving across the ford. Finally someone gave the order for silence. A lone voice rang out, “East gate, sir!”
It was a poor start, and nothing on the short ride around the corner to the east gate suggested to Ruso that Eboracum was going to get any better. It pleased him enormously.
Ever since the emperor had declared the date of his visit, Britannia’s administrators had been working themselves into an increasing frenzy of counting and tidying and reordering. Everything that did not move was being painted-at least, on the side that faced the road-while inns were being improved and new buildings flung up in the hope that Hadrian might be enticed to stay in them. Friendly tribes in the South-and perhaps here too, if Tilla was right-were busy preparing a spontaneous explosion of joy to mark his arrival. He supposed the less friendly ones would be equally busy stashing away whatever weapons they still held after the recent troubles.
Meanwhile the Twentieth Legion had been swept up into an orgy of practicing, polishing, and sharpening, pausing to inspect, and then practicing, polishing, and sharpening some more.
Exasperated by all the fuss, Ruso had devised himself a tour to inspect the medical facilities of the most obscure outposts he could get away with. Eboracum, awaiting a new garrison and currently not home to anyone important, had seemed a good choice. He eyed the peeling paint and the sagging thatch of the civilian buildings with satisfaction. The few still in use stood out along the street like the remaining teeth in ageing gums. Ruso suppressed a smile. This was just the place for a man who wanted some peace and quiet to get on with his work.
Accius was not smiling. Glancing back down the potholed street, Ruso wondered if Centurion Geminus had said the wrong thing to somebody important. Nowhere looked inviting on a wet afternoon in Britannia, but Ruso had to admit that the faded glory of Eboracum was an especially forlorn place for a decorated war veteran to end his career.
The grand plaque honoring the late emperor Trajan looked out over a protective ditch choked with weeds, but as the ferryman had predicted, the heavy gates beneath it were open. The guards who stepped forward to greet them looked reassuringly smart and efficient. The tribune and his party were expected-yes, sir! There was accommodation prepared for him-yes, sir!
Evidently they had been taught to respond to questions in a manner that conveyed boundless enthusiasm. Only when asked where Geminus could be found did they falter. The blush and stammer that accompanied “He’s dealing with an emergency sir!” suggested they were not sure there could be any crisis more pressing than the arrival of a legionary tribune.
“What sort of emergency?” demanded Accius, who evidently thought the same thing.
“He’s up on the roof of the headquarters hall, sir.”
“He’s mending the roof?” Accius was incredulous.
“No, sir. He’s trying to get somebody down.”
Chapter 5
Ruso looked up, tucking his flapping cloak under his thigh and raising a hand to shield his eyes from the spatters of rain. In the center of the fort, at least seventy feet above the ground, a lone figure had straddled the gable end of the massive headquarters hall like a mouse clinging to the neck of a giant stone horse. He was too far away for anyone to make out his features, let alone any expression that might hint at his state of mind. All that could be seen was a bright blond head above a brown tunic and one pale leg ending in a bare foot.
Below and to the man’s right, about halfway up the building, several other figures were moving about on the wet tiles of the side roof. They were trying to maneuver a ladder so that the hand dangling a swaying rope from a high window could tie it in position. Ruso could hear them shouting to each other, but the breeze and the distance snatched their words away.
“There he is!” said Accius, looking at the rescuers. “That’s Geminus.”
The centurion must be the muscular, bald-headed figure directing the operation. Ruso shifted in his saddle. The roofs were not steep, but the wind was blowing in sharp gusts and the tiles were slick with rain. He had seen what happened when a body fell from a great height. He had no wish to see it again, nor to hear the voices of desperate comrades pleading with him to help, as if there were something that could be done.
He was startled by shouts from farther down the street. “Get on with it, then, sonny! We haven’t got all day!”
“Are you jumping or not?”
“Silence!” bellowed a third voice. “You men, get back to work!”
Half a dozen legionaries in rough working clothes emerged from an alleyway and paused to gaze upward. One was clutching a trowel hastily scraped clean of plaster. Another was holding a brush against the side of a pot with bloodred paint dribbled down the sides. The painter jabbed a middle finger toward the figure on the roof and they all shambled away, failing to notice the visitors.
A thickset man with graying temples appeared from the same alley. He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of strangers on horseback. He saluted the tribune and introduced himself as Centurion Dexter.
Accius’s scowl was directed at the man on the roof. “What’s that idiot doing up there, Dexter?”
“Geminus will have him down in a minute, sir.”
“No doubt,” said Accius, sounding like a man who had just been proved right about something but was not pleased about it. He eased his horse forward to get a better view. “Or he’ll kill himself in the attempt. I may order him to come down and send someone else.”