Free Roma Mater by Poul Anderson

‘will you take us home?’
    He couldn’t help it, his voice harshened. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I can’t – now – but I will see if there is anything I can do, sweetheart. Be brave, all of you.’
    ‘You’re not Jesus?’ came from a boy. ‘I heard Jesus is the God in the city. I heard He is kind.’
    ‘I am not He,’ Gratillonius said, ‘but I promise Jesus will always watch over you.’ He kissed the hands he held, rose, and turned his back. ‘Goodnight. Try to sleep. Goodnight.’ The wails broke out anew as he left the stable and shut the door.
    ‘New-taken slaves, sir,’ the escort observed.
    ‘That’s plain to see,’ Gratillonius snapped. He strode quickly to the hostel and thundered its knocker.
    Candleglow spilled around the ruddy man who responded. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. Gratillonius was in civil garb. ‘It’s past suppertime.’
    ‘I’ll have supper regardless,’ Gratillonius snapped. ‘For your information, I’m a legionary officer travelling onImperial business. Furthermore, I’ll have an explanation of those kids caged outside.’
    ‘Oh.’ The manager thought for a moment, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s in there, he can tell you better than me. Come in, sir.’ He didn’t require credentials, doubtless reckoning that the soldier who had accompanied the stranger was sufficient.
    Gratillonius bade that man farewell – be courteous to subordinates who deserve it, more even than to superiors – and followed the hostelkeeper into a long room feebly lit by candles. Their burning tallow filled it with stench, like an announcement of the poverty into which the Empire had fallen. Four guests sat benched around one of several tables. ‘Hail,’ called a portly fellow. ‘Welcome.’ Judging by his robe and the rings that sparkled on his fingers, he was the leader of his companions, who wore ordinary Gallic tunics and breeches. They were having a nightcap.
    Gratillonius ignored the greeting. The manager asked him to register – name, rank, avowal that he was on an errand of the state – before taking a pair of candles and guiding him on upstairs. ‘We don’t get many so soon in the year,’ he remarked. ‘You say you’re of the Second Augusta? Isn’t that off in Britannia? Well, well, these be uneasy times, and me, I know to keep my mouth shut. Here you are, sir. I’ll go after my wife. Can’t make anything fancy, I’m afraid, but we do keep a kettle of her good lentil soup on the hob. We’ll get you something pretty quick, sir.’
    He left Gratillonius a light and departed. The centurion glanced around the room. Little was in it but a water jug, basin, chamber pot, and a pair of narrow beds. At this slack season, he’d be alone. He unpacked the small bag he had carried, stripped, scrubbed as well as he was able,dressed anew, and said his prayers – well after sunset, but better than not at all.
    When he returned downstairs, the portly man called to him again: ‘Hoy, there, don’t be so aloof. Come have a drink with us.’
    Briefly, Gratillonius hesitated. But … he had sought here not for the sake of comfort, as the prefect supposed, but in hopes of picking up more gossip, a better feeling for how things were, than he could likely get in barracks. Parts of the Continent were devastated or in upheaval, while he had scant exact information. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and took a place beside the inviter. A youth, son or underling of the keeper, scuttled forth with a cup, and he helped himself from the pitchers on the table.
    ‘My name’s Sextus Titius Lugotorix,’ the portly man said. ‘My attendants –’ He introduced them. They were a ruffianly-looking lot.
    ‘Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, centurion, on special assignment.’
    Lugotorix raised his brows. Seen close up, his face carried a gash of a mouth and eyes that were like two hailstones. He smelled of cheap perfume. His affability was undiminished. ‘My, my, you’re the silent