We waited. Cerberus said nothing and I said nothing back. Maximus edged closer, clearly ill at ease. After what seemed a lifetime, the soldier hurried back.
‘I’m to take him to the guardroom,’ he said breathlessly. ‘The commandant will send someone to have a word with him.’
‘I want to see the commandant in person,’ I complained.
The fellow looked at me. ‘You’re very fortunate to see anyone at all. The commander has refused to admit anyone today except the senior members of the curia and the priests — and that’s because he sent for them himself. Everybody else who’s come here has been turned away. I think it was the mention of your name which did the trick.’
I glanced triumphantly at Cerberus but he was studiously looking past me at the wall.
He contented himself with snapping at the messenger. ‘Well, man, what are you waiting for? You have your orders, I believe — however odd they seem. If the commander says so, take the citizen inside.’ He bared those horrid yellow teeth at me again. ‘Though the slave will stay out here. I don’t recall that any mention has been made of him.’ He gestured to Maximus, who had been waiting anxiously a pace or two behind.
‘Go back to the workshop,’ I murmured to my slave, who looked relieved at this. ‘Tell my son that I’ve gained audience, and I’ll be back as soon as I’ve finished here. Though, on second thoughts, perhaps I’ll look in at the dockside on the way.’
Maximus sketched a bow — mostly at Cerberus and the soldier, I surmised — and hurried off as fast as his legs would carry him. It seemed that fetching water and sorting stones had become a more attractive prospect suddenly.
Cerberus found his voice again. ‘Pass, then, citizen. It seems you’ve got your wish.’ He stood aside and let me through the gate.
I was inside the garrison at last.
THIRTEEN
I was expecting to be escorted through the arch and into the lower offices of the guard tower, where I had been taken several times before. There is a familiar bench beside the window-space in the dim-lit room downstairs where visitors are often asked to wait, and I was preparing myself for a another lengthy period of twiddling my thumbs — no doubt under the incurious gaze of several junior officers. There was generally an octio or two, sitting at one of the tables in the room, writing up reports or calculating requisitions and supplies, or simply warming their chilled hands beside the fire.
But to my surprise my escort led me past the guard tower and out towards the range of buildings in the very centre of the garrison compound. This was the heart of the whole establishment, where the central administrative building, the principia, lay, and — directly opposite — the commander’s private quarters, with its own kitchen, courtyard and latrine. So that was where my guide was taking me? I had been invited to the residence before, but I hadn’t been expecting to visit it today. Perhaps the chief officer was in there talking to the town councillors?
I was about to murmur something of the kind when a shouted order and the stamp of half a hundred feet in unison drew my attention to the exercise ground nearby. This was where the soldiers’ daily training sessions took place, mock skirmishes with wooden swords, javelin contests, and endless rehearsals of field manoeuvres like the testudo — the creation of a ‘tortoise’ by close formations interlinking shields.
Obviously, something of the kind was happening now — over the palisades I could see the helmet tops of serried ranks of soldiers as we passed. Almost the whole contingent, by the look of it. That explained the absence of troops elsewhere, but instead of engaging in any military drill, they seemed to be listening to a fat centurion, who was standing on a makeshift dais at the end — obviously reading something from a scroll — under the metal standards of the signifers.
I was not allowed to linger. ‘This way, citizen,’ my guide said, in a tone that brooked no argument. But instead of going to the praetorium where the commander lived, I found myself following him towards the administration block.
I had never been in the principia before. It is not a place civilians would expect to be. Its contents are a mystery to mere citizens like me, but I’ve heard that it contains the regimental shrine, as well as its treasury, and record scrolls. So it was a complete surprise when the soldier led me straight inside the portico and tapped at the door of a little ante-room that gave onto the entrance lobby.
A muffled voice replied, ‘Who’s there? Identify yourself.’ It did not sound like anyone I knew.
‘Auxiliary Lucus Villosus, returning with the citizen as commanded, sir,’ the soldier shouted back. He contrived to holler deferentially, though still addressing the stout wood of the door.
‘Very well. Enter.’
Villosus — the name means ‘shaggy’ and it suited him — pushed the door open and stood back to let me in. ‘This is the individual, with your permission, sir.’ He gave a smart salute. There was no attempt at the customary rigmarole of invoking the Emperor by all his titles first. Perhaps my escort wasn’t used to carrying messages to senior officers. I blinked in the cool gloom of the ante-room, trying to make out how senior this one was.
I did not have long to wonder. The man who rose to meet me from the desk was none other than the commandant himself. ‘Libertus! You may leave us, soldier.’ He waved a dismissive hand at Villosus, who gave another hesitant salute and sidled out again.
‘So citizen, we meet again,’ the commander said, without enthusiasm. He was as elegant as ever, his armour gleaming in the light of the candles burning on the desk, but his lean and weather-beaten face was drawn and lined and his air of easy authority had abandoned him. ‘You insisted you must see me. Something about a messenger to your patron, I believe.’ The accent was patrician, as it always was, but the voice was flat and near-expressionless — not a bit like his usual light, educated tone. No wonder I had not recognised it earlier. ‘I trust this is a matter of some consequence. I’m not in general seeing anyone, though I have made a special exception in your case. I am occupied with urgent business, as no doubt you can see.’
He gestured to the table-top, which was littered with half-opened vellum scrolls and rolls of bark-paper. The pots, which had obviously contained them, lay strewn around the floor, though it was clear where they had come from: there were shelves of similar containers ranged around the walls, some of them with empty spaces here and there. Evidently this was a storage room for records of some kind and he had been taking them out and sifting through them with some haste.
I made a deepish bow — more than the token inclination of the head which etiquette required. I was still reeling with surprise. I had been expecting an interview with a centurion, at best, and here I was with the most senior-ranking officer in half Britannia. I recognised that this was a compliment to Marcus, rather than myself, but I did appreciate that it was done at all. Besides, I have learned a personal respect for this tall, athletic man. ‘I’m sorry if I disturb you at an inconvenient time, commander,’ I began, apologetically. ‘But thank you for agreeing to see me anyway.’
He cut me off impatiently. ‘Spare me the formalities, just tell me what you want.’ This brusque response, like the disorder in the room, was most untypical. I knew him to be aesthetic, calm and disciplined, but now tension was etched in every feature of his face and his thinning, but normally neatly barbered hair was all awry — he kept running his fingers through it as I watched. I began to feel distinctly uneasy about this interview.
‘It concerns my patron, Worthiness,’ I began. ‘You know he’s gone to Rome?’ I was almost sure he did. He often dined with Marcus, both at the villa and my patron’s apartment here in town — and travel arrangements were certain to have been discussed.