Set during chapter 2 of Deva Victrix.
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Eight months ago, Francis would be eating a late breakfast at this time, or, better yet, if the previous night had been well-spent, would still be sleeping off its excesses.
Yesterday, he had retired to his bed long before midnight, both sober and alone.
"There have been several unsubstantiated reports of skirmishes along the western edge of the border with Caledonia."
Eight months ago, he would have been eagerly anticipating the day ahead. There would be friends to visit, perhaps assignations to keep, and afterwards the theatre to attend, or a concert, or party, or lecture given by one of the pre-eminent authorities in whatever field of study had lately taken his fancy.
Everything comes late to Deva. The most fashionable lords and ladies of Highgate would have been considered outmodedly dressed a year ago in Gallia; in Roma, two. He has seen every play in production at least once, listened to every concerto, and read the libretto to every opera staged at the playhouse.
The Devans themselves have nothing to say that he has not heard before. He has yet to meet any exceptional mind or wit, or even someone who can hold his attention throughout the course of a single conversation.
He had to beg, plead and – in Alfred's case – blackmail his siblings into staying with him for a spell, just to keep from falling into the habit of talking to himself in desperation.
"The Paupers' Order humbly request that you consider donating them the disused Post Office building in Old Town. It's stood empty, they say, since the new sorting office was opened ten years ago, and has since fallen into disrepair. They propose to renovate it, and then use it as a shelter for the destitute population thereabouts."
Eight months ago, he wasn't aware that the town of Deva even existed.
His reasons for choosing to make his home here rather than in the slightly more salubrious environs of Eboracum are as sound as they ever were, but he still finds himself wishing, every day, that he'd continued in his happy ignorance.
"And the Butcher's Guild cordially invite you to attend their quarterly review meeting."
Eight months ago, he and the concept of a Butcher's Guild were not on so much as nodding terms.
The Francis of eight months ago was a very lucky man.
"That's all of this morning's correspondence, Your Highness," M. Jansen, says, neatly adding these last three letters to the small stack on his desk that they've already reviewed.
Everything about the man is neat and methodical – from the tidy tail of his hair down to the spit shine of his shoes – and he's as economical with himself as he is with the Imperial monies Francis entrusts him with the accounting of. Each movement he makes is contained, he speaks no word without purpose, and his expressions typically give away nothing of his thoughts.
Such qualities make him almost impossible to read and thus something of an enigma as a man, but as a secretary, they make him invaluable.
Francis isn't sure that he likes him, but he certainly appreciates him.
An infinitesimal upward tic of M. Jansen's left eyebrow indicates that he's ready to take note of the replies he will be expected to send, and so Francis begins: "Inform Legate Giordano that he has my permission to dispatch a century to the border from the barracks at Luguvalium so they can investigate whether there's any truth to those reports.
"The Paupers' Order can have the old Post Office, and a donation of a hundred gold towards the repairs. Let them know that I believe in their cause wholeheartedly, and ask that they say a prayer for me to whichever deity they believe most fitting.
"Thank the Butcher's Guild for their invitation, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline it. Tell them that… I have a prior engagement, have suddenly been taken ill, or that the stars are ill-fated for our meeting; whichever you think they'd be least likely to take offence at."
M. Jansen gives a politely understated cough of correction. "Your predecessor made sure to attend each guild's quarterly review session every year he was stationed in Eboracum, I believe."
Francis' predecessor was the son of a pig farmer, who had risen steadily through the ranks of the Imperial army over thirty years of exemplary service, and had been given the governorship of Northern Britannia upon his retirement in recognition of his dedication to the Empire. He had thrown himself into the role – down to its very dullest elements – with a passion that approached zealtory, determined to prove himself worthy of the honour that had been bestowed upon him.
He had considered his posting a great reward for a life well lived.
Francis is twenty-six years old, his life is in Gallia, and, to his mind, it had barely even begun before his father ripped it away from him.
His posting feels like a prison sentence.
"I know nothing about the Guild's trade, M. Jansen," Francis says, unfolding himself from the narrow, unpadded chair he's been confined to for far, far too long. "I've never even entered a butcher's shop, never mind bought anything from one. What could I possibly contribute to the proceedings?"
M. Jansen's face is blank, but as it is very rarely anything else, it does not constitute an answer in and of itself. His silence, on the other hand, is much more telling.
"As I thought," Francis says. "And that concludes our business for this morning?"
"It does, Your Highness."
From the specific angle of the little bow M. Jansen offers him, Francis recognises it as one of farewell. He'd never dream of saying it aloud, but his body is clearly asking that he be left alone to get on with his work in peace.
Francis gladly obliges him.
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As the clouds outside are the steely sort of grey that promises an imminent downpour – a particular hue that Francis dubbed Brittonic within the first week of his exile, as it had seemed to him then that the skies over his new homeland would never be any other colour – Francis decides to take a turn around the palace building rather than the gardens to work out the ache in his muscles.
The governor's palace is smaller than Francis' father's in Lutetia, and even Maman's Augustodunum estate house where Francis had spent most of his youth, but it's still large enough that walking two circuits around its ground floor is generally sufficient to help him recover from time spent in the horrible little chair in M. Jansen's office.
When he passes by the glass paned doors to the conservatory on his second circuit, he catches sight of a figure moving around in the room beyond them.
A figure which has no right to be there.
At this hour, not one member of Francis' resident family will have even begun to bestir themselves, and Ivan is the only member of his staff who has permission to enter the conservatory unaccompanied during daylight hours.
He had been stricken with the ague during the night, according to M. Jensen, and was too weak to rise from his bed.
Even though there is a quarter century of guards posted around the palace and its grounds at this moment, all of them highly-trained and combat ready, no armour is without its chink. An equally skilled thief could doubtless find a way to evade their notice.
The gaudy sword at Francis' hip is little more than a symbol of his office – 'Pretty, but useless,' his father had said when he presented it to him on his last night in Gallia. 'It suits you well.' – but it's sharp enough that he could still do some real damage with it if needs be.
He rests his right hand in preparation atop the bejewelled pommel and eases open one of the doors with his left.
The intruder's attention is seemingly so intently fixed on the small rose bush a few feet away that he does not react to either the creak of hinges or the soft sound of Francis' footfalls when he steps down onto the conservatory's tiled floor.
Perhaps he cannot even hear them over his own. He walks with great purpose but very little grace, appearing to slam all of his weight down with each step he takes. And he's a big man: tall, and broad across the back.
Heavily muscled, too, it becomes abundantly clear as he draws closer. Although his roughspun trousers bag loosely around his hips and thighs, his shirt looks to be at least two sizes too small, and clings almost indecently close to every last line of his chest and arms.
Whatever his interest in the roses might be, it doesn't seem to be theft, because when he finally reaches them, he does not attempt to lift the pot; he simply crouches a little and then reaches out to touch the closest flower.
Francis takes a cautious step forward, tilting his head slightly so he can better see the man's face.
In profile, at least, he resembles very closely the statues of long-dead heroes that pepper the Imperial gardens in Roma: his nose, chin and jaw are all strong, but perfectly proportioned, and his skin is marble smooth.
The only details which mar the picture are the bristles on his cheeks and his hair, which sticks up from his crown and out above his ears in chaotic spikes which no Roman sculptor worthy of the name would ever consider inflicting on one of their creations.
His lips are also fuller than any they would carve and there's something about the way the bottom one blanches slightly when he sinks his teeth into it in thought – or perhaps the long length of his eyelashes, which look strangely delicate when set in contrast to the rest of his features; or perhaps the gentle way he runs his fingers across the rose's petals; or perhaps his everything – that makes Francis forget every ounce of good sense that the gods and his maman had given him. That makes him incredibly foolish.
The man might not be a thief, but he's most definitely a trespasser. Francis should call for the guards.
He doesn't.
He takes another step towards him and says, "The Gallian rose. It's very beautiful, is it not?"