Deva Tales Read online

  ‘Right, you lot. Good work this week. You’ll be moving on down to the hills south of Deva tomorrow, building a fortlet. The optio will be your acting commander for the duty.’ He glanced at his second in command, who gave a professional nod. None of the lads made comment, not mentioning the pale colour of the centurion’s face or its waxy sheen. Ocratius suppressed a shiver for the thousandth time that morning, feeling drained and weak but determined not to show it in front of the men, though they were all well aware of the illness their centurion had picked up on the cold, wet isle of Mona. Lead by example. That was how the centurionate worked.

  With a curt command, he dismissed the fifteen men, who were now beginning to resemble real soldiers, if dirty, smelly and tired ones. As soon as they had dispersed to their barracks and then the fortress bath house, he turned to the optio.

  ‘I would come if there was any way…’

  His deputy smiled sympathetically. It was unusual to see Ocratius laid low by illness, but the chills from the hills and coast of the western lands could fell an ox if they caught hold. ‘Just get back up to strength, sir, and we’ll see you when we return to Deva.’

  With a salute, the optio trotted off back to his barracks and Ocratius heaved a shuddering breath, allowing himself the luxury of shivering with deep bone-chilling cold despite the temperate weather and blue sky. He was about to turn and enter the hospital when his roving eye caught sight of a familiar figure scurrying down the street towards the south gate in a manner most unbefitting a senior officer – especially a veteran of the centurionate. Handy. At least now he wouldn’t have to make an extra trip out for the bureaucracy and could just admit himself to the temporary care of the medicus.

  ‘Pompeius?’

  The camp prefect looked up in surprise as he almost hurried past. There were only a handful of people in Deva that would address him by name rather than title. Most of those were veteran centurions he’d served with before his elevation, and most of those were now posted away somewhere. Indeed, he was sure he’d seen Ocratius’ name on that list. He made himself a mental note to memorise the list and get rid of it, as he should have done ages ago.

  Ocratius frowned at the strange, distracted look on the prefect’s face and the way he almost subconsciously slid the heavy purse of coins he was carrying out of sight under his cloak. Ah well. Now was not the time to mess about with whatever Pompeius had got himself into. Probably another wager gone south.

  ‘You don’t look well,’ the prefect murmured, his eyes darting about nervously.

  ‘I’m due to be posted out to the lead mines, Pompeius, but Mona Island’s made a spirited attempt to kill me. I’m signing off with the medicus. I’ll have to add myself to the sick list until I’m improved. I can hardly lift my bloody vine staff at the moment.’

  The camp prefect didn’t reply, his eyes on something across the street.

  ‘Pompeius?’

  ‘Hmm? What?’ The man’s attention snapped back to Ocratius, or at least, most of it did.

  ‘I’m on the sick list, not away on duty. Can you remember to file the records for me, so I don’t have to attend the headquarters later?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes. Well, Manavia will do that to you. Unhealthy place.’

  Ocratius frowned. ‘Mona. I was on Mona, not Manavia. Pull yourself together, Pompeius.’

  ‘Yes. Mona. Sick List. Lead Mines. Got it.’

  Ocratius pursed his lips, but the prefect nodded distractedly and hurried off down the street.

  With a sigh, the centurion watched his old friend go and then turned to the door of the hospital block behind him. He could almost predict the next quarter of an hour. He’d not met the new medicus properly yet, but they were all alike. Ocratius would accept whatever regime he was given, get signed onto the sick list, and then expect to return to his quarters and shiver into his blankets. The medicus would argue, expecting him to stay under observation in the hospital, at least until his condition was confirmed and he was improving. It would come down to a battle of wills, but if it went as far as pulling rank, the medicus would have the authority to order him to obey as long as he was on the sick list.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

  * * *

  He woke as usual in a cold sweat, though for the first time in three days, he awoke with his thoughts ordered and not entangled in fuzzy, fevered illness. With fresh hope that the ailment had broken at last, he swung his legs off the bed and as his eyesight adjusted, realised what had woken him. The door of his room stood open, despite his desire for privacy – the medicus had been insistent that he needed good air circulation. Across the hall, he could see the mindless lump of flesh that had been legionary Trucido being helped out of his sleeping tunic.

  Great. It was the day they bathed Trucido. Just what he wanted for his morning cleansing: to be lounging in the warm water while it churned and splashed as the ruined legionary spasmed and shook in it. It was the medicus’ confirmed decision that Ocratius be sure to bathe twice each day and spend at least half an hour in the steam room. But he was damned if he was going to once again share the hospital’s small private bath house with that creature.

  Taking a deep breath and rising unsteadily to his feet, he found the fresh tunic that had been left on his table by a helpful orderly. He was gratified to note that his legs were strengthening rapidly while he stood. Yes. The worst of the illness was over.

  Carefully, he slipped his feet into his boots, not bothering with socks. Quickly belting his tunic so that it hung respectably above the knee, he threw the cloak about his shoulders and used the aftermath of the chaos as Trucido was encouraged down the corridor to slip the other way, out past the distracted orderly. He had been flatly refused permission to return to his own quarters, and the same apparently applied to the fortress’ public areas, but he was almost better, and the fortress’ main bath house was only about twenty paces away across the street.

  Scurrying out of the building before any of the medical staff could catch him, he made for the baths, slipping through the doorway into the vestibule and dipping into one of the changing rooms, where he shrugged out of his cloak, tunic and boots, and into a pair of the wooden bath-shoes.

  Quickly, he clacked across the mosaic of the vestibule and out into the wide hallway, where the swimming pool resonated to the noise of off-duty legionaries larking about, where he paused. For a moment, he considered heading to the main bath suite at the far end, but that would be busy at this time of day with legionaries taking a quick dip and soak before duty began. The secondary, smaller, bath suite at this eastern end was less well-attended and usually only by those who had more time to waste, given the addition of a large steam room there.

  Naked and shivering, he passed through the door and almost collided with Pompeius. The camp prefect looked him up and down.

  ‘Ocratius?’

  ‘I know. Shouldn’t be here. But I’m nearly better, so don’t panic. You won’t catch anything.

  Pompeius shook his head. ‘I thought you were out south, building a fort?’

  Ocratius rolled his eyes. ‘Signed off sick, remember? Jove, I swear if your head wasn’t attached you’d have left it somewhere. So you haven’t filed the record, then?’

  The camp prefect frowned. ‘No. Sorry. Can’t remember anything about it. Never mind. I’ll sort it and back-date it when I get into the office. Can’t hang around though. Lots to do, Ocratius. The procurator’s keeping us busy, and tomorrow it’s the big games in his honour.’

  Pompeius licked his lips nervously, and the centurion rolled his shoulders. ‘You’ve got a big wager riding on this?’

  ‘The biggest,’ the prefect replied with a slightly hunted look. ‘Can’t afford to lose now, but it’s on Leonidas, so I should be safe.’

  Ocratius nodded. It sounded fair. ‘Watch yourself, mate. You’re going to wind up in the shit one day, the way you’re going on.’

  Pompeius simply nodded unhappily and slipped round the centurion
out into the main basilica hall, leaving Ocratius looking across the hot bath room. The only other occupants were two younger fellows sitting in the warm water and watching him intently with odd expressions. Both had their vine staff of office sitting on the floor within reach and, though Ocratius didn’t recognise either of them, that told him everything he needed to know. Newly raised to the centurionate and still too new at it to be at ease. They had to bring their vine staff with them even here to exert authority because they didn’t yet exude it like a veteran centurion.

  Both men narrowed their eyes as they regarded him and, as he moved on and sank gratefully into the steaming water, the two whispered something to one another and then, nodding respectfully to a senior, they rose from the bath and slipped out of the room.

  For a moment Ocratius frowned at the behaviour. Still, perhaps they weren’t keen on sharing water with a man who should still be in the sick shed.

  With a sigh, he sank up to the neck and smiled contentedly.

  * * *

  The next morning, Ocratius awoke vastly improved and made a silent prayer of gratitude to Aesculapius for the change. The sky outside his window was inky, so dawn was still some way off, leading him to wonder for a while what had stirred him. Then his ears caught the sound of the medical orderlies out in the hall discussing the day’s coming events in the amphitheatre. It seemed that many of the hospital’s personnel had somehow wangled a pass to the games and the place would be manned only by a skeleton staff for the day. Ah well. It wouldn’t bother Ocratius, who would attend the chief medicus when he arrived and have himself released from sick list. But that was hours away yet. The chief medicus was never an early attendee.

  He couldn’t spend hours waiting on the man in this sick bed, not when he was clearly just about mended. There were too many things to do, and none of them involved watching Trucido flailing as he was led out of his room again.

  Decided on a path of action, he quickly dressed himself, fastening his boots, putting on his weapon belts and tucking his vine staff beneath his arm. He would attend the baths, but first there was something else on his mind. He would make a short visit to the headquarters. Pompeius would probably be in his office if he was as busy as he claimed, and if not, then at least one of his actuarii would be. Time to get the records straightened. He had no faith that the prefect had actually got round to recording his hospitalisation, so he was probably still on file as being away to the south building a fortlet. Best to make sure he got registered on the sick list before the medicus sent in a note to the effect that he was being removed from it.

  Besides, he’d had trouble sleeping last night and had found himself, in the small hours as he heard the second watch of the night echoing around the fortress, contemplating once again the absence of so many veterans and some of the strange behaviour he had been noting among the rest. Viator might be able to clarify some of that for him.

  Testing his legs and happy with the improvement in their strength and steadiness, he strode out of the hospital, ignoring the protestation of an orderly who soon gave up and returned to his wagers with his friends over the day’s games. Strolling up the Via Praetoria, Ocratius made straight for the headquarters where the legionaries on guard simply saluted as he passed, his bearing declaring his rank as much as the staff beneath his armpit.

  Pompeius’ office was lit, but as the centurion strode in through the door he was irritated to find it occupied not by the prefect, but by one of his actuarii who was busily working through figures on a tablet. Ocratius rolled his eyes, accepting regretfully that the prefect was probably busy trying to improve his wager or checking on his investment, and the clerk was his best chance of clearing up the records. Quickly, he asked the man to check the sick records and the actuarius did so, efficiently, confirming that he was not on it. The man kept giving Ocratius a furrow-browed look similar to that of the two junior centurions in the pool the day before, and Ocratius tried not to brood on the fact, instead making sure that he was added to the list and back-dated to his first sick-day.

  As he left the office, he was aware of the clerk’s eyes boring into his back, and he clenched his teeth. Something was definitely going on in Deva. It was, of course, conceivable that one of the legion’s over-efficient actuarii might be aware that Ocratius was supposed to be on detached duty in the south, but the looks of concern were starting to get to him.

  With a heavy breath, he strode back through the inky morning, across the courtyard and into the headquarters basilica, pausing on his way through to bow respectfully to the statues of the emperor and of former commander Agricola and to the shrine of the standards, and then approached the legate’s office, nodding to the guards outside. One of the legionaries knocked and announced him, and Viator bade him enter.

  Ocratius came to a respectable halt halfway between the door and the legate’s desk.

  ‘Centurion? I’ve an appointment. Make this quick.’

  Ocratius nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Just a matter of curiosity, really, sir. I’m fifth most senior centurion in the legion, currently understrength and with two companies of new recruits still barely trained. I was wondering why I was assigned to the construction of the lead mine fortlet, when there were more junior centurions in deva with a full complement of healthy, trained men?’

  Viator looked momentarily confused and then gave a shrug that would have reeked of casual nonchalance had his eyes not conveyed a different message – one of troubled concern.

  ‘With all this fuss over the procurator’s visit, and what with the senior tribune owing his commission to the man, I’ve let him handle much of the legion’s day-to-day functions this past few weeks. Longus has dealt with all officer and troop assignments. You’re an old soldier, like me, Ocratius, so I’m sure you understand. Frankly, I have no time for accountants and politicians. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m expected to play host to the dubious little turd, I’d have taken a cohort of men and joined the governor in the north and left Longus to deal with him altogether.’

  Ocratius gave a half-smile. While no one would be able to fill the boots of the great Agricola, the Twentieth had been lucky to be assigned Viator, who was unusually martial and sensible. Better than being commanded by a politician any day. He straightened his face. Something was still definitely going on.

  ‘I’m also a little concerned by the posting away of so many veterans, sir.’

  Viator frowned, as though the fact was news to him, and he tapped his lip. ‘When the games finish today, I will be having a quiet word with my senior tribune. I shall raise the matter then. Thank you for bringing that fact to my attention, centurion.’

  Ocratius, clearly dismissed, bowed and retreated, passing back through the door and the basilica. As he clattered across the marble surface, he dropped his vine staff to the floor and allowed it to take some of his weight. Perhaps he wasn’t quite well yet. Certainly, his legs seemed to tire quickly.

  The baths. A good soak would reinvigorate him.

  Quickly, he exited the huge hall and crossed the courtyard, nodding at legionary Celer as he passed, and frowning at the presence of the man in the headquarters at this time of day. Perhaps the legionary was here to report more improprieties among his unit. Ocratius smiled, remembering how one of his fellow centurions had been hauled over the coals for corruption on the word of that particular soldier after the northern wars.

  As Celer passed into the basilica, Ocratius shrugged and headed out into the streets, threading his way towards the fortress baths as the first golden glow of dawn began to make its presence felt on the horizon.

  The next hour or two served to relax Ocratius and drive the various worries from his churning thoughts, the waters precisely as hot, warm and cold as they should be, the steam room easing tired muscles, the strigil scraping away the dirt, the plunge pool invigorating, the masseur expert and the cup of well-watered wine pleasant.

  In fact, as he emerged once more into a street now lit by a sun that remained hidden behind a
high, light grey overcast, Ocratius was prepared to admit that he was feeling better than he had at any time since those few days on Mona. Briefly, he dropped in to the hospital, found the chief medicus going through his morning reports and, after a very quick check-over, succeeded in signing himself back to duty.

  For the next hour or two he busied himself with catching up on what had happened during his sojourn in hospital and finally, as the morning wore on, Ocratius decided the time had come to visit the headquarters and seek either temporary assignment or reconfirm his orders to rejoin his unit at the new fortlet. As he passed along the street towards the fortress’ central complex, a voice cut through the general hum of camp life.

  ‘Ocratius?’

  The centurion lowered the tablet of names back to the table, blinking and trying to digest what Tiberia had told him. His eyes slipped across towards the body of the Actuarius who he’d seen only a few hours earlier in the office, and who now lay in a lake of his own blood, a stylus jutting from his neck. What a damned mess. By rights he should already be in the headquarters reporting this to the most senior officer available. There was a distinct possibility, between the procurator’s presence and the games, that Ocratius was the most senior officer available, especially with most of the veterans posted away. Besides, this was too important to turn a rule-blinded eye to.

  ‘Longus is poised to take command of the Twentieth. But why?’

  Ocratius nodded at Tiberia’s words. It was the inescapable conclusion. And it answered a lot of his own questions, too. But still… what a mess!

  He gestured to the body. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about him in the long run, but we’ll have to leave him there for now. I don’t know what Longus is up to. But what with him being an old friend of procurator Severus and the procurator being in Deva this week… well that’s too much of a coincidence to be one at all. Especially while governor Lucullus is in the north and out of the picture. There’s a definite connection that I just can’t quite make. What would an accountant have to gain from a military coup?’