Free Get Out or Die by Jane Finnis

count the hours.” Felix clasped my hand. “And meantime, my dear, you must all take care of yourselves here. These are dangerous times. Don’t run any risks.”
    I could have done without another well-meaning friend reminding me how vulnerable we were.
    After they rode away, I went the rounds inside and out. The evening meal was well in hand; the olive oil delivery had arrived finally, with the correct number of amphorae for a change. In the stables and the horse-paddocks, I found everything in order. It was the usual quiet spell before the evening’s customers started piling in.
    But the calm was abruptly shattered by an unexpected sound, a cavalry bugle call. Who in Hades could it be at this hour? Not our hunting tribunes returning from the woods, surely? Perhaps a guest just arriving, demanding attention, but then why was he blowing “Prepare to advance”?
    I didn’t have far to search for the answer. Young Titch was in the stable yard, blowing a brass bugle before the admiring eyes, and ears, of the other stable-lads.
    He paused for breath, and held up the battered instrument proudly. “Me dad gave me this. I know all the cavalry calls. Listen, this one’s the Rally….” He demonstrated it, and several more. Then the other lads tried to blow it; most of them got no noise at all from it, and Milo managed a sound like a dying duck.
    “Useful thing, a bugle,” Titch said importantly. “I once saw a feller being attacked, and I blew me bugle and the men ran off, thinking I was the cavalry coming.”
    The other boys scoffed, and I doubted it myself, but it made a good tale.
    He grinned at me. “Would you like a go, Mistress?” He offered me the bugle. I couldn’t work out whether he was paying me a compliment, or being exceedingly cheeky. Probably the latter, but I thought, why not? Let’s show them! I wiped the mouthpiece on my sleeve, and blew a couple of calls, the way my father had taught me: a quite creditable “Form up,” and then “Return to camp.” By this time I was enjoying myself, and I blew “Charge” till the buildings echoed.
    The lads looked at me open-mouthed, and Titch said, “Wow! Where did you learn that?”
    “My father was an army man,” I answered, “and so’s my brother. I probably know more calls than you’ve had hot dinners.”
    “That’s brilliant!” Milo said. “Do some more.”
    I shook my head and handed the treasure back to its proud owner. “One bugler in the place is more than enough. I’d better warn you though….”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m aware that blowing bugles isn’t considered a very ladylike accomplishment. So if Councillor Silvanius ever gets to hear about this, I’ll skin you all alive! Understand?”
    As I turned away it was good to hear their laughter. There hadn’t been much to laugh about all day.

Chapter VII
    Darkness came, and Quintus Antonius grew fire-hot and talked almost continuously as he tossed about in his sleep, but none of it made any real sense. He kept calling for Burrus, for Lucius—our Lucius? Who could say?—and in between whiles he babbled about urgent messages. I wished we did indeed have a doctor, but Albia and I did what we could for him. I bathed his face with feverfew water and tried to get him to drink some watered wine, but he spilt most of it, and Albia bandaged a small bag of dried arnica and violet petals over the bruise on his head.
    The tribunes came in at dusk, disappointed and grumpy after a poor day in the woods; two small wild pigs and a geriatric hare were all they’d managed to catch in their nets. There was only one other guest staying, a quiet elderly contractor buying hides for the army, so Albia and I joined the three of them for supper, leaving the maids to run the bar. I lighted all the bronze candelabra in the dining-room to brighten the place up, and everyone enjoyed the venison. Cook roasted a haunch and served it with a damson sauce, and leeks and carrots from our own garden. I looked out some