The man obediently marched forward with heavy oval shield, lifted a blunt-edged Roman gladius, and began hacking at the wood with vigor, his companions laughing good-naturedly at his effort. His blows echoed from the fortress walls like the ring of an ax.
"Now, for cavalry practice the men ride in the meadows outside," Clodius murmured. "It takes a year to make a good horseman and a lifetime to make a good cavalryman. But basic soldiering skills begin here."
As chips flew, the man began to sweat and his strokes to falter. "His training armor and weapons are twice normal weight," Clodius explained.
"Don't give up now, Brutus!" his companions called. "We need more kindling for the barracks!"
Grimacing, the soldier kept swinging, but his assault had turned to dispirited labor. Finally the decurion raised his arm. "Enough, dull-wit!"
The soldier stopped, arms hanging like ropes.
"Tired?"
There was no need to nod.
"No matter, because you were a dead man twenty strokes ago. First, you let your shield arm drift to your left, making a target of your chest and belly. Second, you were chopping high like a barbarian, inviting a sword point into your armpit." He raised his own arm in demonstration and looked at the other recruits. "Forget the gladiatorial nonsense of fancy arm and footwork. This is war, not the arena!" The decurion crouched, sidling forward. "Now, a barbarian looks fearsome with his long overhead stroke, but in the time he takes to swing, a Roman will kill him three times. Why? Because a Roman doesn't stroke, he stabs-from below, like this." The decurion thrust, and the young man recoiled. "You go for the abdomen. You go for the balls. Stab in… and up! I don't care if your blue-colored Pict is seven feet tall, he'll squeal and go down. You'll be standing on his great gaping face, smelling his blood and shit, while you do the same trick to his brother. Thrust!" He showed the move again. "That's the Roman way!"
The men laughed.
"I get queasy just listening to it," she whispered.
"Decurions like that made us masters of the world. He's the real Hadrian's Wall."
"Men like Galba." She understood some of the hardness of Galba Brassidias then. Understood his dour nature. Most Romans never met anyone like him, and never knew who kept their lives so placid.
They walked back toward the commander's house. An older soldier was standing near the training stockade with his arms stretched out, a centurion's vinestaff balanced on his wrists. "Galba's discipline," Clodius whispered.
"Galba's world," Valeria murmured. "A man's world. So odd to see no other highborn women within these walls."
"Invite Lady Lucinda for company. Or wives from the other forts."
"I will."
"And don't hesitate to ask for me, as a friend."
"I appreciate that, Clodius."
"I almost let you be captured once. I won't again."
"Tribune!"
They looked ahead. Marcus! Valeria's first instinct was to run, but he looked stern, even unhappy. So she stopped to wait for his approach, earning a brief nod of approval at her circumspection.
"A pleasure to see you again, bride. My apologies for not having more time today."
"Clodius has been showing me your fort."
"An assignment he was sly enough to ask for." He turned to his subordinate. "I wish to talk to you in private, Clodius Albinus. Falco is here."
Clodius looked depressed. "Is it about the banquet?"
"The young tribune has already apologized," Valeria spoke up. "The wine made him foolish. Please don't be harsh."
"This isn't your issue, wife."
"I'm sure he'll have more kindness for British beer!"
"This has nothing to do with beer, either."
"But what, then? Why bother him further?"
Marcus was annoyed at her persistence. "It's the slave, Odo."
"Odo?" Clodius didn't understand.
"The one you poured beer on."
"What about him?"
"He's been murdered."
XVII
This man-boy Clodius has not impressed me, from every description I've had of him. "You seriously suspected him of murder?"
I put the question to the centurion Falco, owner of the dead slave, unsure if this bizarre detour has anything at all to do with the real mystery I'm trying to unravel.
"Clodius had impressed no one-except, perhaps, Valeria. They were close to the same age and both newcomers. She bewitched him, I think, which made the other men think him an even greater fool. So yes, the rest of us suspected him."
"Tell me how this came about."
"My slave, Odo, was found dead the morning after the wedding, killed by a table knife thrust to the heart. His head was still sticky with the beer that the buffoon had poured on it, and we all knew Clodius was angry at the Celts for marring his throat. Odo was Scotti, a recent capture, and fighter enough that he hadn't entirely learned a slave's humility. The young tribune was drunk, unhappy, and unable to avenge himself. We thought he might have killed in frustration."
"What did Clodius say in his own defense?"
"He said that he was ashamed of what he'd done to the slave at the banquet and had no reason to harm him further. If anything, he argued, Odo should have more resentment toward Clodius than Clodius toward him. Which of course made us think that perhaps Odo had attacked Clodius. The boy had no alibi. He'd left the wedding in disgrace and hadn't been seen the rest of the evening."
I study Falco. He seems a fair but practical man. His decency has a foundation of iron. "You cared for this slave?"
"I valued him at three hundred siliqua."
"So you wanted the culprit punished?"
"I wanted the culprit to pay me for my loss."
"What did Marcus decide?"
"Nothing, as usual." Falco stops, realizing he has finally betrayed something useful. His glance shifts away as he remembers unhappy times.
"The praefectus was an indecisive man," I clarify.
The centurion hesitates, weighing his loyalties, and then remembers how many are dead. "The praefectus was… careful. We learned eventually that he'd made an early blunder as a junior tribune in campaign against brigands in Galatia. Later, he'd been unfairly caught up in the stink from the sexual scandal of a superior. He'd mismanaged a business of his father's. He'd learned caution, and it's but a short step from caution to fear."
"I'm told he was bookish."
"His library filled two carts. Not at all what we were accustomed to."
"Galba, you mean."
"The senior tribune could be rash, but decisive. The two had different styles."
Different styles. A unit responds to a commander like a team to the rein, and so his personality becomes the personality of his men. Accordingly, it troubles soldiers whenever there's a switch, and it takes them a while to settle under the new hand. If they ever do. "How well did they work together?"
"Awkwardly. The first time I saw Galba in the baths I counted twenty-one scars on the front of his body and none on his back. He had a chain or belt of rings-"
"I've heard of this chain."
"Marcus, in contrast, had never seen real battle. It was even more uncomfortable after our commander's marriage to his inquisitive bride."
"The men did not like Valeria, either?"
"They appreciated her beauty, even when it made the garrison restless with longing. But yes, she made us uneasy as well-even Lucinda was taken aback. Valeria roamed the fort like a decurion. She was curious about the natives and demanded that a kitchen maid teach her and the Roman slave woman the Celtic tongue. She absorbed it like a child, and asked about things that are no business of women."
"What things?"
"Warfare. The mood of the men. The organization of the Petriana. Firing‹ a forge, straightening an arrow shaft, the sicknesses of soldiers. Her curiosity was boundless. Marcus couldn't silence her. He was embarrassed but confused by her, I think, and the men didn't like it. It was no secret that she was the reason for Marcus's command."