“Hm.” Hadrian stepped back across the ditch. “Let me propose a hypothetical situation. Let us suppose that there are two wives. Neither wife trusts her husband to get on with his own business without her help. I take it you can imagine this situation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The first man’s wife goes bleating to the second man’s wife about some difficulty her husband is having. The second man’s wife, who has a tendency to exaggerate her husband’s shortcomings, expresses some surprise that he has done nothing to help the first man in this situation-a situation about which, of course, both of the wives have only the barest understanding. Are you with me so far?”
“I think so, sir.”
“This is, of course, purely hypothetical.”
“Yes, sir.” If only this whole mess were hypothetical. If only Tilla had held a hypothetical meeting with the empress. If only she had threatened the prefect of the Praetorians with a hypothetical scalpel.
“Now let us say that the friends of the second man’s wife, some of whom are rather more eager to impress her than they should be, listen to this complaint and take it to be an expression of her wishes. So, in a misguided act of loyal service, they arrange for the problem to be dealt with.”
Gods above, the emperor knew the whole story! Everything he and Tilla had risked their necks to find out. Was there anything this man’s spies did not tell him? “If that were to happen, sir, it would be very unfortunate.”
“Especially since, if this came to light, people might mistakenly assume that the wishes were not only those of the wife but of her husband.”
Of course. That was what interested Hadrian. If word got out, people would assume that the murderer of inconvenient senators had now become the murderer of inconvenient centurions. The emperor, whose power traditionally rested on the tripod of the Senate, the army, and the people, would appear to have kicked away a second prop. If his enemies managed to exploit this apparent weakness, he could be in real trouble.
Unfortunately, it was hard to imagine Hadrian confiding any of this to a man he didn’t intend to have safely executed by lunchtime.
Ruso took a deep breath. “Personally, sir, I think if the second husband were going to deal with the problem himself, he would have found a better way.”
Hadrian grunted. “I suppose that’s a compliment.”
“To the hypothetical husband, sir.”
“Yes. Anyway, were someone to come along who was willing to assume the blame for the whole fiasco, I’d imagine that-for the sake of peace and quiet-any sensible man would let him get on with it.”
Put like that, his impulsive offer to confess-which had started out as a way of silencing a few recruits and getting Tilla out of trouble-sounded less like a fatal mistake than a heroic act of self-sacrifice to save the stability of the empire. He said, “Probably, sir, yes.”
“We’ve gone far enough. Turn around.”
Ruso pivoted round his chained ankle and faced back the way they had just come. The cavalry escort now facing them urged their mounts across onto the opposite verge and waited at a respectful distance for the emperor to pass. Ruso eyed the road ahead, unable to repress a hope that Tilla might have defied his wishes and Done Something. She could be galloping toward him right now on a stolen horse, ready to drag him up behind her in some miraculous feat of weight lifting, and …
“I have given this matter considerable thought,” Hadrian announced.
He had said he wanted no help from her. He had told Valens to tie her up if necessary. It was not the sort of request Valens would be likely to ignore.
“As you are no doubt aware,” Hadrian was saying, “I have never sanctioned the killing of innocent men.”
“Yes, sir.” Or should that be No, sir?
“Contrary to what I’ve been told, you seem to be a man who knows when to speak up and when to shut up.”
Was that an acknowledgment that he had done the right thing at Eboracum? “I try, sir.”
“Good. Because if you speak of this conversation to anyone, I shall find out, and neither you nor that woman will live long enough to regret it. Is that understood?”
What Ruso understood was that the great man was speaking as if he had a future. “Absolutely, sir.”
“I am therefore pleased to tell you what my prefect has discovered.” Hadrian paused, as if he was enjoying the moment. “You were all mistaken. There was no murder.”
Ruso swallowed. “No, sir?”
“No. Centurion Geminus diligently carried out his duty at Eboracum despite knowing that he was incurably sick-a fact that he hid even from the medical service. Satisfied that his recruits had passed their final tests, and not wanting to burden his comrades with a long and debilitating illness, he bravely committed suicide. With his own knife, as I’m told you can confirm.”
“Ah-yes, sir.”
“Which only leaves us, Ruso, with the question of where you wish to be posted next.”
Ruso gulped. He was still taking in the barefaced lie that would save his life, and wondering what other fantasies this man had foisted onto the citizens of Rome in the name of decency and stability.
“Pay attention, Ruso. I’m offering you a favor.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn’t expect it.” Although if he had listened to his stepmother, he should have.
“Where shall I send you?”
Where did he want to go? Somewhere warm and dry and civilized. He could go home to the family in Gaul-or, then again, not. He could go to Rome and look after-no, not rich people. But maybe glamorous ones. Gladiators. Charioteers. Healthy young men who suffered from nothing tediously chronic and incurable but had plenty of interesting accidents. He could try new surgical techniques. Make advances. Pay someone-his old clerk Albanus, perhaps-to write down his every thought and publish it. He could become the World-Famous Doctor Ruso. He could finally clear off the family debts. He could buy so many slaves that Tilla would never have to polish his armor or light a fire or interfere with his medical case again. Or cook. Now, there was a thought. He was definitely going to buy a cook.
“I hear my outgoing procurator is looking for a new doctor.”
The words interrupted his reverie.
“I believe he is a generous patron.”
Had Valens really abandoned the procurator’s service because of some old quarrel in Rome? Or had he sacrificed his position out of friendship? Whatever the reason, it would not be fair to take advantage of it.
And then there was Tilla. Tilla, who had been homesick in Gaul. Tilla would be miserable in Rome. And when Tilla was miserable, nothing else was a pleasure, either.
Britannia did not have enough gladiators and charioteers on which to build a career. But it did have plenty of healthy men who had interesting injuries. Soldiers were frequently unlovely, uncouth, and ungrateful. On the other hand, they were mostly young and lively and entertaining, and somebody had to be there to protect them from their own stupidity and that of their officers.
“Well?”
“Sir, I think …” He stopped. “I’d like to keep my current posting with the Twentieth, sir. But can I ask something for my wife?”
Hadrian’s silence was not encouraging.
“She’s somehow ended up on a list of doubtful persons, sir. It was all dealt with years ago, but we can’t seem to get her name off the list.”
“Ah, the wretched lists. A necessary evil. Hard to believe, but there really are people who don’t appreciate the benefits of our rule.”
“Tilla’s very appreciative, sir.” If emperors could lie in a good cause, so could their subjects.
“In that case, I see no difficulty. A native woman married to one of my officers. A fine example to the Britons. Yes. I’ll have the document drawn up straightaway.”
“Document?”
“Citizenship, man!” Hadrian’s heavy features broke into a smile. “Personally granted by the emperor. That should deal with it.”
Ruso blinked. Citizenship of Rome. The privileged status that outsiders could only earn after decades in the army, or keeping order and collecting taxes on behalf of the treasury, or a life of slavery, or performing some outstanding act of service to the emperor or his cronies. It was the one freedom Tilla would not have wanted, and he had just arranged to have it foisted upon her. “Thank you, sir.”