Titus laughed aloud, well used to their habitual arguments about the way he led his men and delighted to have drawn blood with his jibe.
‘I shouldn’t worry your pretty head on the subject, Prince Dubnus, you’ll never have command of my boys. I plan on outliving you, given your habit of throwing yourself into the thick of the fight at the first opportunity. You’ll be the one who ends up as a pincushion, not me!’
The two men grinned at each other, ignoring Arminius who was shaking his head in disgust at their argument.
‘Two grown men arguing as to who’s got the biggest prick? If your first spear was here, he’d be telling you both to get a grip.’
The two centurions turned to look at him with hard smiles, and Dubnus smirked in amusement.
‘And this from a long-haired slave whose main duty is to test the heat of his master’s bath!’
The German raised a sardonic eyebrow.
‘Serving Rutilius Scaurus has many benefits that you may not have considered, Dubnus. Remember all those dinner parties he was invited to at every fort we camped outside on our march back up the Rhenus? While you were taking your pick of the rather thin selection of overpriced and underwhelming whores on offer, I was taking my pick of the female servants in a nice warm kitchen, once I’d eaten my fill. And, I’ll remind you, I get to know where we’re going long before it filters down to your level.’
He paused, looking at the chests in their orderly line along the quayside.
‘So I’ll tell you this for nothing: from my experience of senior officers, the way those two invited our boy for a private chat, there’s no way we’re going to be strolling back to whatever dunghill it is you’re keen to get back to any time soon.’
Prefect Castus looked at his colleague with an expression which very clearly communicated that his part of the briefing was at an end.
‘As I told you, Fulvius Sorex, Rutilius Scaurus has lost neither his perceptive abilities nor his direct manner in the last ten years. I suggest you enlighten him as to our purpose in coming here.’
Sorex nodded, stepping forward.
‘Yes, that’s astute of you, Rutilius Scaurus. We could indeed have sent a junior officer to bring you the latest news, which means, as you have already surmised, that your presence here presents us with something of an opportunity.’
Marcus spoke, his voice suitably respectful despite the question’s sharp edge.
‘It’s more than that, isn’t it, Tribune? We present you with the only means possible to get something done, something you judge to be vital?’
Scaurus stared at the young centurion for a moment before turning back to Sorex with a disarming smile.
‘Forgive my aide his temerity, colleague, he does have the tendency to speak out of turn when something occurs to him, although on this occasion I suspect he’s cut to the heart of the matter. Do continue, Centurion Corvus.’
The young centurion spoke again, his voice clear and hard in the barrack’s silence.
‘From what you’ve said, Tribune, every other military unit in the whole northern military zone is under orders to hold position, orders with all the weight of the throne behind them. The sort of orders that a man disregards at the risk of his career, his life and even his family’s lives, if he miscalculates badly enough. And here we are, as if sent by our Lord Mithras himself, the answer to your prayers for a force of men big enough to do whatever it is you think needs doing, and not subject to the restrictions placed upon your freedom of action by Prefect Perennis.’
In the young centurion’s mouth the praetorian prefect’s name become something akin to an expression of hatred, spat from between bared teeth with the vehemence of a man ridding his mouth of venom sucked from a snake bite. Scaurus spoke quickly, taking back the focus of attention, his voice deliberately breezy.
‘My man Corvus has the measure of it, I suspect. So what is it that needs doing so badly that you’ve both come all this way to meet a pair of travel-weary auxiliary cohorts off the boat from Germania Inferior?’
Sorex leaned forward, lowering his voice in spite of their privacy in the barrack.
‘Sixth Victorious is a legion with unfinished business, Tribune Scaurus. We lost an eagle in the first days of the northern tribes’ rebellion, and with it the head of Legatus Equitius’s predecessor Sollemnis, both lost in an ambush sprung north of the wall by a tribal leader called Calgus—’
Scaurus waved a dismissive hand.
‘Don’t trouble yourself with the history lesson, colleague. The centurions here both fought in that battle, and witnessed your legion’s betrayal by one of your predecessors, although I expect his part of the disaster has been quietly forgotten since then, given who his father was.’ He paused and waited for Sorex to acknowledge the open secret that it was the praetorian prefect’s son who had orchestrated the Sixth Legion’s disastrous losses for his own ends. ‘Centurion Corvus was part of the fruitless hunt for the legion’s lost eagle, and all three of us subsequently took revenge upon Calgus and his tribe for their actions.’
Sorex took a moment to master his irritation at being cut off.
‘I see. Well then, you may find my news on the subject of the eagle, the legatus’s head and this fellow Calgus of interest. We have intelligence that all three are gathered in the same place, ripe for capture.’
Marcus shook his head with an expression of disbelief.
‘That’s impossible, Tribune. I killed Calgus before we left the province.’
Sorex raised a patrician eyebrow.
‘You killed him, Centurion? You actually saw him die? Because the way I’ve heard it, he was crippled and left for dead by a Roman officer, in the expectation that the wolves would find him and exact an unpleasantly slow death. Except, it seems, by means which I neither understand nor particularly care about, he managed to avoid such a gruesome end. And more to the point, Centurion Corvus, he apparently still has possession of my legion’s eagle. An eagle whose loss, as you all well know, puts the Sixth on borrowed time and at constant risk of being cashiered and broken up to reinforce the other legions. In its place another legion will be raised, and the Sixth’s officers will either be sent to serve elsewhere under the cloud of their shame or simply dismissed from imperial service in disgrace, with their careers at a premature and ignominious end. All of which means that it will come as no surprise to you that before formally relinquishing his command to me, Legatus Equitius charged me with achieving just one task before his replacement arrives. He ordered me to spare no effort in finding and retrieving the Sixth Legion’s eagle, and I gave him my word that I would do so. And let me assure you, gentlemen, whatever else I may or may not be, I am certainly a man of my word.’
Prefect Castus leaned forward again, his gaze locked on Scaurus.
‘So here we are, Rutilius Scaurus, in possession of detailed knowledge of where the legion’s eagle waits impatiently to be retrieved, but without a single man we can task to its rescue without putting them at risk of dreadful retribution if their disobedience is discovered. Not to mention the strong potential for our own execution. But you and your men are subject to no such restriction. You can be away into the frontier zone in hours, and have the Sixth’s eagle safely back in friendly hands within days, not to mention the dead legatus’s head. It’s time the poor man was made whole, and allowed to sleep in peace with his reputation restored, and you’re just the men to bring that about, I’d say.’
When Scaurus and his officers returned to the dock in the company of the legion officers they were greeted by the sight of the first of the Tungrian cohort’s transports sidling up to the quayside. The ship had a round-bottomed hull, having been constructed for carrying capacity rather than for speed, and, with its sails for the most part lowered and only enough canvas spread to allow it to crawl carefully into port, it was wallowing on the incoming tide in a way that Marcus knew from grim experience would be making the men on board queasy and eager to disembark.
‘That’s your
century, isn’t it, Dubnus?’
The big man stared hard at the ship for a moment before nodding his agreement.
‘Yes. There’s my miserable sod of a standard bearer busy heaving his breakfast over the side. A shame to have got so close to dry land and still not manage to keep your biscuits down.’ He winked at Titus and Marcus before snapping to attention and throwing tribune and first spear a vigorous salute, his facial expression the epitome of determination. ‘I’ll go and get them disembarked and off into the transit barracks, with your permission First Spear?’
Julius nodded, and Titus waved him away with a dirty look, leaning close to Marcus and muttering a comment in a rumbling tone so that only his colleague would hear it.
‘Someone needs to tell that boy that sucking up isn’t going to get him anywhere. Look at the smirk on the camp prefect’s face.’
The two centurions stared at the scene before them on the quay’s worn planks. The warship Mercurius had undocked and was backing away from the quay, the oarsmen pulling its heavy hull away from the land with slow, rhythmic strokes while the marines on deck stared impassively down at the legion centuries standing guard over the ten chests they had delivered from Germania. Julius looked over at the legionaries, then back at the warship’s slowly receding bulk.
‘They’ll anchor in the channel to make room for another transport, so you can bet that Tribune Sorex is going to want to get those chests away before another century of our lads is dumped into his lap, if they contain what we’re all thinking.’
The legion tribune was engaged in brisk discussion with the procurator who had accompanied the cargo across the German Sea, consulting a writing tablet that the other man had produced for his perusal. As the Tungrian officers watched, Avus pulled a purse from his belt and tipped out a handful of coins for the tribune to examine, waiting while Sorex picked one and raised it for closer examination. Titus’s eyes narrowed as he watched the two men discussing the chests’ contents, and at length he growled a single word.
‘Gold.’
Marcus nodded his agreement with his friend’s opinion.
‘Indeed. And if each of those chests is filled with coins like that one then we’re looking at enough money to pay all three Britannia legions for a year or more.’
Sorex placed the coin back in the official’s hand and nodded, gesturing to the nearest of the chests. He waited while the heavy lock was opened, waving the closest soldiers away before raising the lid and peering at the contents for a moment. Julius snorted, sharing a moment of amusement with his tribune.
‘Now there’s a man with temptation put before him.’
‘I doubt it.’ Marcus and Julius turned to look at Prefect Castus who had moved silently to stand alongside the first spear. ‘The tribune’s father is an extremely rich man. I doubt that the sight of even that much gold is going to excite him when his father’s property in Rome is probably easily worth two or three times as much. He’ll make very sure that the chests are carefully watched though, set guards upon the guards so to speak.’
Marcus frowned at the sight of the tribune moving on to the next chest and waving a hand to order the procurator to open it for his perusal.
‘What’s it all for, Camp Prefect? Why bring so much money into the country in one shipment and risk losing the lot in the event of a storm?’
Castus shrugged.
‘That sort of information is beyond my need to know, I’m relieved to say. My job is simply to make sure that it all gets to Yew Grove without any of it going missing, after which I shall bury it nice and safely in the treasury next to the chapel of the standards and then start praying for that gaping empty space in the chapel where there should be an eagle to be filled before the empire finally runs out of patience with the Sixth.’
He looked out into the mist, tipping his head to a dark spot which was slowly coalescing into the shape of another transport creeping into port to take the place vacated by the now invisible warship.
‘And here’s another one of your ships. I’d better go and get that gold moving, before Fulvius Sorex starts getting nervous at the thought of your soldiers dribbling on his precious cargo. He already looks about as twitchy as a stores officer presented with a century of new recruits to equip.’
The Tungrian Fifth Century disembarked from their transport with the look of men who were profoundly relieved to have their boots back on solid ground for good after a week spent hugging the coast of Germania, Gaul & Britannia. Several men bent wearily to kiss the quay’s wooden planks, while others touched amulets or simply muttered prayers of thanks for their safe delivery to land. Their chosen man Quintus, responsible for the century when Marcus was elsewhere, busied his soldiers with the routine of parading in their usual marching formation alongside the cohort’s other centuries, inspecting each man’s equipment to ensure that none of them had managed to leave anything aboard the transport in their relief at reaching dry land. Discovering that one of the younger soldiers had managed to mislay both his dagger and the iron butt-spike from one of his spears, his voice was once again raised in a tirade of abuse as the mortified soldier scrambled back up the gangplank and onto the ship in the forlorn hope of recovering his equipment from the acquisitive hands of the transport’s crew. The century’s standard bearer, a stocky man whose lined and weather-beaten face gave him the look of a man comfortably past the age of retirement from imperial service, chuckled happily and muttered an aside to one of the men behind him.
‘There’s another, which makes four. One more and I win the wager.’
The veteran to whom he was speaking shook his head with a grin, looking down the quay at the figure walking towards them.
‘I doubt it, Morban old mate. I’d say you’re out of time …’
The standard bearer shook his head in disgust, saluting tiredly as his centurion stopped a few paces away and received Quintus’s salute, formally assuming command of the Fifth once more.
‘Oh yes, here he comes now, looking as fresh as any man that’s enjoyed a good night’s sleep. Bloody typical, we get to lurch across the sea in that leaky puke bucket while the favoured few are entertained on a racing hound of a warship. They were probably here hours ago, with time for a few beakers of wine while they waited for us to roll into harbour …’
Marcus ignored his standard bearer’s usual monologue of discontent for a moment, looking up and down the ranks of his century with an eye on his men’s physical state after the best part of a week afloat and finding their faces on the whole considerably more cheerful than he would have expected. Turning back to the grumbling veteran he put out a hand for the century’s standard, smiling grimly at the reluctance with which Morban handed it over.
‘It seems that the sea air has disagreed with more than your temper, eh Standard Bearer?’
Frowning in apparent non-comprehension, the burly soldier looked up at his officer questioningly.
‘Centurion?’
Marcus lowered the standard until its metal laurel-wreath-encircled hand was inches from Morban’s nose.
‘Unless my eyes deceive me, Standard Bearer, this once faultless symbol of our century’s pride is showing signs of rusting. I suggest that you improve its appearance considerably before we parade again, or my disappointment will be both vocal and prolonged.’
He turned back to the ranks of soldiers, raising his voice to be heard.
‘How many of you were sick during the voyage, I wonder? One hand in the air if you managed to avoid vomiting the whole way from Germania.’
Thirty or so hands went up, and the young centurion turned back to Morban with a smile.
‘And you were giving odds on how many men being sick, Morban? Forty?’
A voice sounded from the front rank, the gravelly rasp of a soldier called Sanga who was one of the century’s stalwarts.
‘It was forty-five, Centurion.’
‘I see. Oh dear …’ Marcus made a show of reaching for his writing tablet and checking the numbers inscri
bed upon it before speaking again. ‘So if there are sixty-eight men in the century, of whom nearly half managed to hold on to the contents of their stomachs …’ Shaking his head in mock pity, Marcus turned back to Morban. ‘You’ve a long memory when it comes to odds, haven’t you, Standard Bearer? Doubtless you recalled the voyage over to Germania last year, and how we were tossed mercilessly by waves the whole way there. As I recall it, hardly any of us survived without throwing up on that voyage, myself included. Unlike the one we’ve just completed, with hardly a swell to bother us. So, what odds were you offering?’
‘One as per man under or over the target, Centurion.’
Marcus smiled again at Sanga’s confirmation of what he had suspected.
‘I see. A rusty standard and a purse made considerably lighter than you might have wished. Isn’t life just a valley of tears some days?’ He leaned to speak quietly into Morban’s ear, his lowered voice hard in tone. ‘Polish that standard, Morban, polish it to within an inch of its life. Make it shine as if it were solid gold fresh from the jeweller’s workbench, or you’ll find yourself watching another man carrying it, and adopting your status as an immune while you forge a new and exciting career in waste disposal. Latrine detail beckons you, Standard Bearer, if I don’t find that proud symbol of my century’s pride in the condition I expect at my next inspection.’
He turned back to the troops, looking up and down their line as his brother officers and their chosen men chivvied their soldiers into order. Julius’s trumpeter blew the signal for the cohort to come to attention, the call promptly repeated by each century’s signaller, and Tribune Scaurus walked out in front of his men with a slow, deliberate gait, stopping a dozen paces from their ranks and looking up and down the long line of weary faces. The soldier who had been sent to search for his equipment bolted back down the gangplank with a look of terror at the scowl on Quintus’s face, throwing himself into the century’s formation just as the tribune drew breath to address them. Tribune Sorex and Camp Prefect Castus stood off to one side, and Marcus noticed a group of four men gathered behind them, each of them wearing a black cloak over his thick brown tunic.
The Eagle's Vengeance Page 4