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

wouldn’t do no good if I did,’ the boy said simply. ‘They spoke foreign.’

‘Foreign?’

‘Yep. Like that one, all foreign.’ The boy pointed at Tiro, who laughed despite the pain in his face at this description of his Londinium accent. Actually it was Quintus with his clipped Roman speech who was the real foreigner. ‘But I remember ‘em fine,’ the boy went on. ‘The tall man had a fancy roan horse. What a beauty that horse was!’

‘If it helps, I can report the incident to the Aquae Sulis garrison for you,’ Quintus told the innkeeper. ‘We’re awaited by the commander there on another matter and expect to see him within a couple of days.’

The innkeeper expressed his gratitude. He bustled away once his wife had arrived to salve Tiro’s bruise and bind up the cut with a clean cloth. She gave as her opinion that stitches wouldn’t be needed. Quintus accepted the offer of a free meal and a flask of decent wine to be brought up to their chamber. Tiro, who enjoyed bars and company, began to grumble until Quintus said, ‘Best we keep to ourselves. Until we know who attacked you and why, we watch our step.’  Tiro agreed, and shut up. Quintus said no more; he apparently wasn’t ready to share his thinking. Still the close-mouthed toff, thought Tiro. He reckoned one of them needed to do some working out. About this attack, its purpose, who had known they were on the road. He tried to recall all the people he had seen coming and going at Southwark. Dodgy place, Southwark. Merciful Juno, my head hurts!

They turned in as soon as they had eaten. Tiro woke once in the night, disturbed by the frumentarius thrashing around and groaning in a dream. Tiro was glad Quintus had put his gladius out of reach under the bed. By dawn they were away again, heading out through the western gateway of Calleva for the crossroads, where they would turn south-west towards the sacred spa of Aquae Sulis.

Two days later, having spent the night at a more salubrious mansio in the prosperous town of Cunetio, they stopped to eat on the way to the small settlement of Verlucio. Tiro found the meal tasty: a picnic lunch of local ewe’s milk cheese and bannocks, with a handful of hazel nuts.  No competition for the greasy hot food he often bought from street takeaway stalls in Londinium. But still, not bad for country grub. The rain had stopped and the day was brightening; the air felt cold nonetheless.  Tiro persuaded his silent boss to let him light a small fire, but the firewood to be found by the road-side was damp and smouldered reluctantly.

Tiro thought back before the attack at Calleva.

‘Sir, I was wondering about a couple of  blokes in Londinium — ‘

Quintus raised his waterskin to drink, then paused, turning his head sharply.

‘ Can you hear army horses, Tiro?’

Tiro could do better than that; he had sharp vision. He looked west, shading his eyes from the thin shafts of southerly light.

‘A patrol, sir. Perhaps a dozen cavalry?’

Quintus nodded, and Tiro guessed lunch was over. He kicked dirt over the smouldering logs, gathered up their packs, and unhobbled the horses. A party of horseman approached at a canter, kicking up spurts of muddy water. In the lead was a young red-headed centurion, who waved his troop to a stop, dismounted, and saluted Quintus.

‘Frumentarius Quintus Valerius?’

‘You are?’

‘Centurion Marcellus Crispus, commanding the spa garrison at Aquae Sulis, sir. We had word you were on the road. We have a serious crime to report, sir.’

Tiro watched with satisfaction as surprise turned to concern on the face of the Imperial Investigator. It was a fleeting look until the calm face of Roman authority returned.

So, this trip is getting more interesting by the day. The night attack at Calleva and now this.

‘Quite a coincidence, Centurion. We were on our way to report a crime to you. You have saved us the trip to Aquae Sulis.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ the young redhead said. ‘I’ll need to escort you there in any event. A murder victim was found a couple of days ago near here, and is now in the morgue at the Temple clinic.’

‘I’m unsure why this concerns me. Surely something you local troops can handle?’

The young officer flushed.

‘Well, sir, it’s not that straightforward.  The body was found on the road between Aquae Sulis and Cunetio. A dead dispatch rider, perhaps attached to one of the Imperial waystations. There’ve been a few muggings on the main roads recently, but this is different. The body was discovered by a local farmer driving stock early to market, maybe the first passer-by that morning. As I say, the body was found, and reported to me.’

The young man seemed to run out of words.

‘Well?’

‘Well, sir …’

’Spit it out, man. I’m on important Imperial business. Surely the death of a courier can be dealt with in the normal way, reported to Londinium with whatever investigation you would do for a mugging that’s gone wrong?’

Tiro recognised the note of impatience in his boss’s voice. He pitied the centurion. But the young officer surprised him, drawing himself up and taking an even breath before replying.

‘Sir, apart from an empty dispatch bag, the body is all that was retrieved. No head was found. The victim had been decapitated.’

Tiro looked round at the riders, and spat sideways for luck. They all seemed uncomfortable. One or two were shifting in their saddles, anxious to get away from even the image of such a death. He could hardly blame them.

A beheading? And the head taken away? Tiro was a city boy, through and through, but even he had heard tales of the long-ago when Rome first came to Britannia. Stories of the Druids, those powerful religious leaders who could turn