‘Your slave said she was… indisposed.’
‘Yes, my sister is unwell,’ the boy said. His expression did not waver. He had something of his father’s nerve at least. ‘The shock of her experiences has wounded her deeply, and she is still not in a state to receive visitors.’
‘She has lucid moments,’ the tutor said. ‘But they soon pass. She faints and sweats, cries out, forgets things…’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Castus said in a level voice. A moment passed, and he heard birds singing from the garden courtyard.
‘You are the centurion who was assigned to protect my father,’ Sulpicianus said. ‘Is it true you were with him when he died?’
‘Yes, dominus.’
‘Then… did you not think it was your duty to keep him alive, and not let him fall into the hands of the barbarians?’
Castus took a sharp breath, sitting up straight on the creak shy;ing chair: the boy had been schooled in what to say. He glanced quickly at Aristides, but the tutor looked away. Castus felt angry for a moment, but then remembered. Sulpicianus had lost his entire family. He had a right to judge poorly those who had survived. Say what you need to say, he told himself. Then get out.
‘Your father died by his own hand,’ he said slowly, feeling the clumsiness of his words, ‘and by his own will. If I could have saved him, I would have done it. I would have given my life for his if I’d had the chance. But we were betrayed, and your father chose the honourable way out. He charged me to bring word of his fate to you… and to return this.’
He reached into his belt pouch, fingers fumbling, and found the heavy gold signet ring. Leaning, he placed it on a side table.
‘Thank you,’ the boy said coldly.
‘Your father was a good man. A good soldier. He was think shy;ing of you, at the end. His last words to me were to convey his love to you, and to your sister.’
The boy closed his eyes, and Castus saw his jaw tremble. He was close to tears now. Castus stood up.
‘I will give sacrifice to the gods for your health and the good fortune of your family,’ he said. ‘And please greet your sister for me.’
He caught the tutor’s wry nod as he left the room.
Outside in the cool light of the portico, Castus winged his shoulders and felt a cold shudder running up his spine. He exhaled, letting his anger subside. His shame was harder to be rid of. Surely there was more he could have said? Something noble, or meaningful? But he was a soldier, not a diplomat. He shook his head. There was nothing more he could do for this family now.
As the slave went to fetch his cloak, Castus glanced back across the garden. There was a window high in the far wall, giving light to one of the inner rooms, and Castus saw a move shy;ment there. Marcellina, gazing back at him from the darkened chamber. He held her eye for just a moment, and then she was gone.
16
‘Name?’
‘Julius Stipo, centurion.’
‘What was your profession?’
‘Fullery assistant, centurion.’
Stipo was a short lad, little more than a boy, but his shoulders were broad and he had an open, unintelligent face. Castus grunted and tapped him on the shoulder with his cane.
‘You’re in with Remigius. Cell six. Go.’
The laundry boy picked up his bag of possessions and crossed to the barrack portico, where his future comrades were already waiting. Remigius, an experienced soldier whom Castus had appointed leader of the eight-man section, looked coolly unimpressed with the newcomer.
Standing in the lane between the barrack blocks, this last batch of new recruits were still dressed in civilian clothes, although each already wore the lead disc at his neck that sig shy;nified enlistment to the legion. Castus glanced down the line: a sorry set, the last scrapings of Eboracum’s conscriptable civilian population. But they would bring his century up to something near its old strength, at least.
‘Name?’ he said to the next man.
‘Claudius Acranius, centurion.’
Acranius was a former scenery-painter at the theatre, or so he claimed. Actually, he looked like a drunk, and had a nasty inflammation around one eye. Castus looked over at the barrack portico, crowded with idling men. After only a month, the new soldiers had formed their tight bonds, their networks of allegiance and distrust. He struggled to remember all their names. The pressure of keeping control of them all, keeping them knitted into a unit and not letting the bigger mouths and the fiercer tempers dominate the rest, was a burden.
‘You’re with Placidus. Cell eight. Go.’
Placidus was badly named. A squat and thickly muscled Gaul from a disbanded cohort of the Wall garrison, he had already stamped his mark on the men in his section. They were his gang now, and poor Acranius would have a hard time of it for the next few days, until he buckled under. It was not, Castus told himself, his concern. Anyone joining the legion would have to fight his space, until he had won some respect. It wasn’t pretty, but it was the way of things.
‘Name?’
‘Musius Diogenes.’
Castus cleared his throat, and leaned forward from the waist until the man flinched. ‘You address me as centurion,’ he said.
‘Sorry… centurion. No offence intended!’
‘What was your profession?’
‘Elementary schoolteacher… centurion.’
Castus drew back, staring down his nose. Diogenes was probably his own age, but looked older. His hair was fuzzy and receding from a domed forehead, and his bulging eyes and weak chin gave him a startled look.
‘You make good money as a schoolteacher?’ he asked roughly.
‘Oh, yes, centurion! Fifty denarii a month for every pupil.’
‘So what happened?’ Anyone earning that amount could surely have bought his way out of the draft – many others had done just that.
‘I… have no pupils… centurion!’ the man said, shrugging.
Castus tightened his lips to hide his smile. The man was completely unsuited to the army, but at least he was amusing.
‘You can read and write then, and do arithmetic?’
‘Oh, most certainly, centurion! With a high degree of aptitude!’
Castus frowned heavily, alert for any sign of humour. But the man appeared earnest. He tapped him on the shoulder with his staff.
‘Cell six. Remigius. Go.’
He could already see Remigius shaking his head with a disgusted expression. The schoolteacher too would have a hard time ahead of him. But, well – sink or swim.
Standing braced, staff clasped behind his back, Castus watched the men filing back into the barrack cells. At the end of the portico was a small group of women sitting with their bags and bundles, a few with small children. Nearly half of the new recruits had brought wives with them – more trouble for the future, no doubt. No matter, Castus decided. He would let them jostle and squabble for now, and bawl them out later.
‘Modestus,’ he called. ‘Take over here.’
The optio nodded smartly and marched across to the portico, already shouldering his staff.
Six months, Castus thought, before the emperor would be ready to take the field. Would that be long enough to beat and bully these men into a soldierly shape? It seemed impossible. He stifled a long yawn, turned on his heel and marched towards the centurions’ messroom.
‘Brother,’ said Valens, coming up behind him. ‘Walk with me over to the drill field, will you?’ With all the confusion in the fortress, Castus had not seen his friend in days. The other centurion fell into step beside him and they strolled together down to the main street and turned right towards the gate leading to the drill field.
‘Have you heard the latest?’ Valens said, speaking from the corner of his mouth. Castus turned his head and pressed his chin into his shoulder – he had never been able to speak sideways.