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

into Tiro’s, so close the breath was hot in his nostrils. ‘One foot wrong — just one — and you’re back here in gaol, with the key thrown away.’ His eyes, hard as flint, bored into Tiro’s. ‘Do we understand each other?’

Tiro croaked,’ Yessir!’ and slumped as the frumentarius dropped him. He tried to catch his breath, recover some dignity. Quintus Valerius stalked away, leaving Tiro to scramble after him.

His headache didn’t lessen as they headed south from the fort, but the brisk pace Quintus set caused new waves of nausea to compete with it. Tiro had rarely felt more miserable, not even when his parents died in their fire-swept Londinium slum, leaving him homeless and starving at sixteen. He was a proud Londoner who loved his buzzing city, but boys need food. Back then he had no trade to earn his keep. The Roman army opened its arms to Tiro, and very quickly the men of his auxiliary cohort became the only family he needed. He was naturally quick and tough, a born fighter and happy to pile into any danger. He wasn’t a bad soldier. He had made Optio by the time he was in his early twenties.

What good was all that sweat, discipline and work now? All thrown away for the sake of a night drinking to the pretty eyes of a tavern slut when I should have been on duty. No warrant officer rank now, no bravery award, no mates, no snug garrison quarters. Just a new boss, and long cold miles to travel without the good company that makes life bearable.

The moment of returned pride fled as quickly as a girl’s virtue in a garrison vicus. As they crossed the long wooden bridge to Southwark, Tiro looked down at the rough waters of the river and half-wished he had the courage to jump.

’Wait here,’ Quintus said, as they were stopped by the guards outside the vast Procurator’s Palace on the south bank. Tiro shivered as gusts of cold air forced their way through his tunic. Along with his pride and rank he’d lost his uniform, and now wore shabby homespun clothes like any other city pleb. What wouldn’t he give for a nice thick birrus, a good bit of British wool to keep the early spring wind at bay?

The frumentarius was saluted smartly and escorted inside the courtyard, past a large bathhouse range and gardens and into the imposing building where Aradius Rufinus, the Provincial Procurator of Britannia Superior, held sway. Tiro didn’t envy Quintus Valerius. Word in the fort was that while Governor Gaius Trebonius was a good stick and straight as they come, the same could not be said for the Procurator. A crafty customer, they said. But then all men in charge of money were crafty, in Tiro’s experience of quartermasters and supply officers.

A steady stream of people came and went from the palace, none paying any attention to Tiro. He amused himself guessing their business with the Procurator:

The clutch of overfed traders in second-hand togas? He reckoned they had been lunching with the Procurator, proposing sure things that just needed the right tax break to come off with a nice little earner guaranteed for the Provincial coffers.

The drab older woman with a pretty red-eyed daughter in gold earrings and a low-cut tunica? She was looking for an introduction to a suitable marriage partner, youth for money. The older woman came out alone a few minutes later.

The well-dressed man on a prancing roan, and his companion with a drooping right eye? The first had a fine blue cloak flung back over his shoulders, and clattered out under the arched gateway in style. His companion was mounted on a rather less showy nag. The first man paused, and a passerby in frowsy clothes stepped off the pavement and made his way over to them, exchanging a few words before the horsemen moved on.

The cohort of tired auxiliaries trudging through the gateway? They’d been seconded from their rathole fort, and would soon be posted somewhere muddy upcountry to ensure the flow of taxes from reluctant farmers.

The wait lengthened as the faltering afternoon dimmed. Tiro lost feeling in his hands, then his feet. The guards began to cast amused looks at him.  A third guard came out of the palace and soon they were all three laughing. Tiro straightened up, took a few turns up and down. Marching to keep warm was all. The third man laughed even louder, and held up his middle finger. Tiro caught the words “Governor’s Man”, with emphasis on the word “Governor”. The three guards lit a brazier and hunched over it.  Tiro’s skin crawled. He did not like this group huddling together. It was no way to behave on guard duty. He bristled, stuck out his chest, and set off to give them a few choice words. Let’s just see how they handled themselves, three onto one or not. Some people called it street fighting, but Tiro, twice all-comers Provincial Champion of the mixed martial art pancratium, knew better.

He nearly barged into Quintus, who was coming back through the gateway leading two saddled and laden horses. Glory be to Mars and Jupiter, there was a birrus strapped to the back of the horse Quintus handed to him.

‘On our way, Tiro.’ Tiro’s arm was grasped hard, and he was steered hard about away from the guards, back towards the river. They crossed on foot, the bridge being too busy with traffic to mount the horses.

‘Sir,’ Tiro began. Should he tell the frumentarius about the insolent grouping around the brazier? But Quintus ignored him, keeping up such a scorching pace that Tiro soon regained feeling in his extremities. His lingering hangover blew away with the brisk north wind biting his face. So what if the Procurator’s men were ignorant gossips? Nah, keep your thoughts to yourself, my lad.

He was hungry now,