Free Successio by Alison Morton

And for Jupiter’s sake don’t ever call any Scottish people English. They have this love-hate thing. You‘ll know how annoyed they are by how hard they hit you.’ I grinned. ‘It’s a bit like Castra Lucillans and Brancadori.’
    *
    After Sergius left, I called Colonel Stimpson’s executive assistant at their base in the west of England and she patched me through to Michael.
    ‘I don’t know how to apologise for my predecessor’s rudeness, Michael. She somehow didn’t pass your message to me. Of course, we’ll be delighted if you can find time for a liaison visit. How long can you stay?’
    ‘I was thinking of a week to ten days, if you’ll have me. I might add on some leave I’ve got due.’
    ‘Great, I’ll get a programme drawn up for the official visit. Is there anything you particularly want to see or anyone you want to meet in your free time?’
    ‘I’d very much like to have a look inside your university, if that can be arranged.’
    ‘Sure, easiest thing in the world.’
    ‘I’ve also got a little bit of news for you, but we’ll talk about that when I get there.’
    ‘Don’t be such a tease, Michael. What is it?’
    ‘I’d rather not say over the phone.’
    We had one of the most secure military comms systems in the world; even Fort Meade in the EUS had a problem listening in, and I doubted he was using a public payphone either. So what was the problem?
    *
    Nine days later I met Michael off his flight. I threw my weight around and took our wheelbase out airside and had him disembarked first. My driver loaded his bags, we processed him through the military side of Portus Airport and were soon on our way back to the PGSF building. He couldn’t resist gaping like a tourist at everything. I recalled how entranced I’d been by it all when I’d arrived fifteen years ago, so I gave him the running commentary as we drove along. Cream stone with terracotta roof tiles mixed in with tall, much grander blocks and modern buildings standing alongside older ones; somehow it all fit together.
    In the centre, we drove past one side of a huge open square, surrounded on the other three sides by a forest of stone columns and grand buildings – the forum – containing various public offices, including the Senate. The smaller ones were mostly temples. When I’d first caught sight of it, I’d thought it looked like a sword-and-sandals movie set with extras going up and down the steps, but in normal twenty-first century clothes.
    Twenty minutes after we left the airport, we were skirting a hill rising steeply to an old castle ruin perched at the top of a cliff commanding the whole river valley. Halfway up was a beautiful stone house, the Golden Palace. With long single storey wings running out from each side, it looked like a bird poised for take-off.
    I wasn’t sure how much English my driver understood, so describing the scenery kept us to general topics until we were safe inside my office in the PGSF.
    At the guard post, I’d retrieved a slim metal wristband with a tiny screen and clipped it on Michael’s wrist.
    ‘It’s an ID and commset combined. Don’t forget to wear it at all times, otherwise you’ll have sudden company in the form of a security detail. If the guard watch office sees a biosignature in the building without an ID attached on their screens, they automatically respond. Pretty robustly.’ I grinned at him.
    ‘Consider me warned,’ he smiled back.
    ‘C’mon, I’ll take you on the short tour before lunch.’
    One military unit headquarters is pretty much like any another, but our sports area included a sand-floored arena and the armoury for bladed weapons. Michael was drawn to the small museum and talked in his stilted Latin to the curator. Marcellus Vitus had been the primipilus , the most senior enlisted man, before his retirement three years ago. He just knew everything, so I listened carefully too.
    ‘I’d like to have another chat with Vitus, if that can be arranged,’