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

Hurtful though that look on her face had been, Quintus now found his inner eye dwelling on a different face during the chilly wait in the woods. Now he saw Flavius. Not on his knees in the freezing Caledonian bog, eyes dulled and dying. This was a younger Flavius, the year before he joined the Praetorians. Quintus had been home on leave, and they had gone hunting in the Tiburtine Hills above the vast palace built by Emperor Hadrian. Flavius had ridden ahead. Always impetuous, he’d speared a boar which refused to die. It turned at bay instead and charged the boy, whose terrified horse promptly threw him. Flavius had landed on all fours and remained there, frozen, with the squealing boar turning to charge him again. Quintus was already spurring his horse into the clearing and took immediate aim at the boar. His spear had skewered the bleeding animal and anchored it to the ground where it died, still emitting angry screams. Flavius had suddenly laughed with release and joy and rushed to Quintus, reaching up to grab his arm.

It was this laughing boy Quintus saw now, the Flavius who knew his big brother would always be there for him. Now Quintus finally saw that this was the same look Flavius had given him on the battlefield.

 Forgive me, Flavius. You didn’t doubt me, even then. You were sending a final message of love, not despair. You never stopped believing in me. But do I believe in myself? Is that what Julia meant?

The noise of hooves and marching hobnails alerted him. He signalled to Marcellus, who passed the Wait! command to his own party, and on to Senecio. All remained still under the trees, while the legion spilled out through the gateway behind Trebonius and clattered across the bridge. The smaller party of tribesmen followed them. The din made by dozens of horses and five thousand pairs of boots on the wooden superstructure was more than enough to cover any noise made by the small party of archers, scrambling out from under the bridge. With the Durotriges in front to mask them they slipped in through the gates and slammed them shut. There came the sound of wood dragged across metal as the gates were locked and barred from the inside.

The centurion in command of the rearguard of the Second Augusta turned in surprise, and looked up to see helmeted archers now positioned between the defensive crenellations above the gateway. Perfectly positioned to shoot. A further surprise came as he realised that the Dobunni allies immediately behind had raised their weapons and were looking much less friendly.

The advance party saw nothing of this. They were already strung out along the wet road. Trebonius, flanked by the green-cloaked man with Lucius riding behind, paused. Quintus rode out from the trees and took up position in the middle of the road. Trebonius flung up a hand to halt the column. He put on his grey-plumed helmet and gathered his horse’s reins into his left hand. His piercing gaze raked the man blocking his route. A slow smile curled his hard mouth.

  ‘Frumentarius Quintus Valerius. Well, well, about time. I do hope you and your… allies have come to join us.’ He looked over the heads of his army, towards the tight band of tribesmen now doing their best to menace his rearguard. He laughed openly.

Quintus made no acknowledgement. He raised his right arm, and heard the Aquae Sulis men move smartly out from the woods to range across the road behind him.

‘Oh, I see. Quite the little army. We appear to be surrounded.’

Gaius Trebonius grinned widely. The Augusta men exchanged smirks. Only one man didn’t smile. He tossed his fine green cloak over his left shoulder, and reached for the handle of his sword. Trebonius’s face changed. He adopted a sympathetic look, leaning forward a little to address Quintus alone. It was such a familiar pose of warm confidence and friendship. Quintus shuddered as he recognised it.

‘Quintus, old comrade, how long have we known each other?’ Trebonius waited a moment for a response that didn’t come. He shrugged. ‘Fourteen, fifteen years? Too long for good friends to mistrust each other.’ Quintus said nothing, but touched the hasta badge on his baldric fleetingly. It was a tiny gesture, but those pale sharp eyes missed nothing.

‘I see. It’s your old Roman notion of duty, is it? The sense of obligation, that feeling of owing something to the family, eh?  Duty to the Emperor - pah! Alexander Severus is a weak boy ruled by his mother. What kind of blind loyalty is willing to let the Empire sink into anarchy and civil war, when an experienced hand on the tiller could save Rome? And your family? Long since plunged into disgrace and penury.  But sticking with an old comrade who has risen in the world through ability and vision — that’s the true loyalty of a good Roman soldier.’

Still Quintus kept silent.

The Governor’s voice took on a less patient tone. He moved restlessly in his saddle, and the plumes on his helmet crest dipped and swayed. ‘When you came to Londinium seeking my help, I supported you. In return I asked you to report only to me. Even though I knew from the intercepted messages of that little Syrian worm at Vebriacum that he was plotting to betray me to Procurator Rufinus. Still, I trusted you. You owed me your life and your unquestioned loyalty. Now it’s time to finally choose your side, Frumentarius Valerius. Whose man are you: Governor’s Man, or boy Emperor’s patsy?’

He paused. Quintus saw the arrogance, the sense of entitlement in his posture.

It was true that he owed this man his life. Quintus had been waiting fourteen years to repay his debt to Gaius Trebonius. Now the time had come to make recompense. He owed Gaius. He