‘He had a fever earlier,’ Lepidina explained, seeing Ferox’s concern. She was already on her feet. ‘Not a great worry, but I had better take a look and see what I can do. You will excuse me, won’t you?’
Ferox stood up out of respect. ‘Of course, lady.’
‘She is right, husband, as she usually is,’ Claudia said when they were alone again. The food was long since finished and although the slaves would appear soon enough to clear away once they called, none waited inside the room.
‘I know, wife. Or should it be queen?’ Ferox remained on his feet. Claudia Enica stretched out on her couch, the silk dress spreading over her like liquid as her legs moved.
‘It should be both.’ She rested her chin on her hands to watch him. ‘And it should be my lady, and my love and my mistress. Or to put that in the silver-tongued speech of the prince of the Silures turned centurion of Rome, something like this.’ She grunted loudly. ‘Does that sound about right?’
Ferox shrugged. ‘I have always thought my voice a little sweeter than that, but close enough.’ He went over to her couch and sat beside her. ‘Words have never come easily, not when I am with you.’
Claudia Enica turned to lie on her side facing him, one elbow on the raised end of the couch to support her head.
‘Oh, it’s my fault, is it?’
‘In a way, yes. You overwhelm me – you always have.’
‘You sound like Caesar – “And the Belgae attacked their country, laying waste to the tribe’s lands.”’
‘Sorry. Huh!’ he grunted. ‘Is that better?’
‘More familiar at least.’
‘It’s just that you are beautiful, so very perfectly beautiful. Your skin is softer than the silk you wear, whiter than the snows, and your eyes seem to see right through me. Makes me feel naked and helpless.’
‘Hmm, getting better. But you have not yet spoken of my hair. Surely even you remember that you must always tell a woman that she has the loveliest hair.’
‘Well, it’s not blonde!’
‘Pig.’ Claudia Enica rolled so that she was on her back and gave him a smile that was almost shy.
Ferox reached over to touch her hair, drawing out one of the many pins fastening it into place. ‘Your hair is magnificent, the hair of a queen or a nymph.’ He eased himself up onto the couch properly.
‘Not a goddess? There is divine blood in my family – perhaps Caesar’s as well if my poor fool of a brother was not mistaken.’
‘I worry about impiety,’ he said, close to her now, but still sitting up. His hand found her leg, just below the knee, touching lightly as if she was made of the most fragile glass. Memories were coming back, yet after all this time there was nervousness as well. She was beautiful as he had said, and he had always wondered why she had ever wanted to be with him.
‘We are becoming bold, centurion.’
‘That is why they pay me, my queen.’ He smoothed his fingers, feeling her beneath the thin dress. Royal family or not, her clothes and finery were always very expensive and sometimes he wondered how she could afford so many.
Claudia Enica did not react or move, her eyes still staring up at him.
‘Tell you the truth, I’m a bit worried about this.’ His hand clasped her knee through the silk.
She laughed at that, but still did not move into him. Ferox leaned down and kissed her and at last they came together, murmuring without words as their lips pressed together. His hands were on her, hers on him and they lingered on each kiss. After a while he pulled slightly away.
‘Here or the bedroom?’
‘Why not both?’
Ferox’s fingers felt down her leg and grasped at the dress. Slowly he began to pull the silk of her skirt upwards. Her stockings had a different texture, until above them he found bare skin.
Someone coughed. ‘My lord!’
Claudia Enica did not hear or did not care.
‘My Lord Ferox!’ It was Philo, shouting now. ‘It is important, my lord. There is news.’
It was a pity that the law forbade having a freedman whipped as you might a slave. Claudia had heard and was pushing him away.
‘I am sorry, my lord, but they say that it is urgent.’
‘Who says?’ Ferox had sat up, although his hand was still high on his wife’s thigh.
‘The Lords Sabinus and Dionysius. They are at the principia.’
Claudia laughed and lay back on the couch, and when she looked at him she laughed all the more. She was still helpless with laughter when he left the room, trying to straighten his tunic and the toga Philo had insisted that he wear.
The man sitting on a stool and clasping a cup of wine as if his life depended on it did not look up when he entered. His shoulders were hunched, and not from the weight of his mail shirt with its shoulder doubling, for it was clear that the burden was as natural to him as his own skin after many years with the legions. His head was bare, a well-polished iron helmet covered in dust on the table beside him. His face was grey with dust as well, save where the lines of sweat had run down it. There was stubble on his chin, several days’ worth with plenty of grey amid the black, but he was one of those dark-headed men who went grey early. Ferox recognised something about the way he sat and held his head, before the memories flooded back and he knew the man.
‘Here is the commander,’ Sabinus said, his tone gentle. ‘Tell him your news.’
The soldier raised his head, frowned and then drained the rest of the cup. ‘Oh shit,’ he said, ‘it would have to be you.’
Ferox went to the table and offered him some more wine. ‘How are you Tiberius?’
‘Alive, sir.’
‘Well that’s something. Are you still with the Seventh?’
‘Aye, vexillarius in the legion’s cavalry.’ He drained a second cup. ‘That’s good,’ he said and held the cup out again.
‘This is Tiberius Claudius Maximus, who claims to be a Macedonian and is one of the toughest legionaries in VII Claudia pia fidelis. He served with me as explorator when he was a young tiro – what would it be, eighteen years ago?’
‘About that, sir. Sometimes feels like a hundred years.’
‘So what has happened?’
Maximus had come from Sarmizegethusa. ‘Three of us when we started, but the others did not make it. It was all so sudden, and the legate, sir, well he was caught by surprise, begging your pardon.’ Longinus had returned to Decebalus’ stronghold to see the king, but all he found was thousands of warriors surrounding the little Roman fort. The men up there were getting no more food, no more water, and the enemy were all around, watching, but not attacking. The Dacians kept Longinus as a hostage.
‘They asked to talk, and there was not much choice really, was there? Some young broad stripe tribune…’
‘Calpurnius Piso and a lot of other names.’
‘That’s him. He was senior, so he went to see what they offered and came back with good news. They wanted us out, but were willing to let us march away, keeping the Legate Longinus as surety for our behaviour.
‘The tribune agreed. It was that or die of thirst up there unless we fancied attacking their whole army. We were humped and no two ways about it, so that was a way out. So the next day – the day after the Ides, it was, out we trooped, between lines of the king’s men and plenty of the other wild buggers as well. Ugly lot and they were jeering as we passed. Then there was trouble and a bit of fighting before some of the king’s chiefs rode up and yelled at them. The tribune and most of the officers were summoned to see the king – summoned if you please. I was riding escort, and heard them argue. One of the prefects – handsome lad from the Batavians.’
‘Flavius Cerialis?’
‘You know him? Good soldier, even if he did put on airs. Sorry, sirs, not my place to say.’