The Wolf's Gold: Empire V

by Anthony Riches

  With the two men balanced on the point of fighting, Scaurus stepped out of his tent with a look of amazement, walking quickly to stand between them with a horrified Arminius at his shoulder. He barked out an order in a voice that brooked nothing less than immediate obedience.

  ‘What in Hades is going on here? Give me that child . . .’ He reached out and took Mus by the arm, pulling him away from Gerwulf and passing him to Marcus. ‘Hold on to him, Centurion, until we’ve got to the bottom of whatever it is that caused our colleague to react so forcefully.’

  Marcus drew Mus to one side, feeling the tension and the urge to flee coursing through the child’s trembling body. The tribune turned back to Gerwulf with raised eyebrows.

  ‘So, Prefect?’

  Gerwulf glared at Mus, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

  ‘We caught the child stealing from our stores a few months ago, and when we tried to catch him he put a knife through one of my men’s hands and left him unable to grip a sword. He escaped by the skin of his bloody teeth, and I swore that if we ever crossed paths again I’d have his life for that devious little trick.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  Scaurus turned to find Julius standing behind him.

  ‘When my woman managed to get the boy to talking the other night, he told us that his village had been razed to the ground by armed men dressed much like us – and very much like your men for that matter – and that he’d escaped being killed by these soldiers by fleeing into the forest. The acts he described sounded like wholesale murder and rape to me. And here’s the worst part of it, Prefect. The boy’s village was a colonia, a village founded by veterans of the Thirteenth Legion on the edge of the province. Whoever it was that tore their world apart was knowingly murdering Roman citizens, men retired from the service with honour. What sort of man do you think could order such an atrocity, and what sort of men would follow such an order?’

  Gerwulf laughed angrily, waving a dismissive hand.

  ‘I can recognise a lie when I hear one, First Spear. I wonder if you can?’

  Julius stepped forward until he was nose to nose with the German, his face set hard.

  ‘I’d like to think so, Prefect. In my experience, one of the clearest signs of a liar has always been the trick of answering a question with a question, rather than the truth.’

  Before the fuming German could respond, Scaurus shook his head and stepped in forcefully.

  ‘And that’s quite enough public argument, gentlemen. We’ll settle this discussion in private at a later date, when all the facts are completely clear and when, more importantly, we don’t have ten thousand angry tribesmen camped outside our walls. Is that clear?’

  He looked to Marcus and Julius, both of whom nodded quickly, then turned his attention back to Gerwulf whose face was a study in disbelief.

  ‘You’re going to take his word over—’

  ‘Is that clear, Prefect?’

  The German mastered himself with a visible effort.

  ‘Yes, Tribune.’

  Gerwulf saluted and turned away, white-faced with rage, and Scaurus stood and watched him go until he was safely past the guards at the camp’s low earth wall.

  ‘Well, there goes a new enemy. And it was going so well . . .’ He sighed and looked at Mus, still shivering violently in Marcus’s firm grip. ‘I think you and I need a serious conversation, young man. Bring him to my tent, Centurion, but do it gently. I think he’s been through enough coercion for one day. You too, First Spear, since you seem to know more about this than any of us.’

  Back in the tent he gave Mus a long, searching stare, then turned to Julius with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘So what’s the story he told you?’

  Julius pursed his lips wryly.

  ‘He didn’t exactly tell it to me, Tribune. As far as he’s concerned we’re all soldiers, and soldiers aren’t to be trusted. He told it to Annia, while Centurion Corvus and I sat in the background and did as she told us.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  Marcus spoke up.

  ‘Which was to keep our mouths shut and allow the boy to tell us his story in his own time.’

  Scaurus sighed.

  ‘I’ve always known in my heart there was a reason why soldiers aren’t allowed to marry. It seems we break some rules at our peril.’

  Julius raised an eyebrow.

  ‘With all due respect, Tribune, the lady and I aren’t married.’

  Scaurus laughed hollowly.

  ‘From what I’m hearing it sounds as if you might as well be. No matter, tell me what it was that the boy had to tell you.’

  Julius and Marcus looked at each other, and after a moment’s pause Marcus spoke.

  ‘The boy seems to have witnessed the massacre of his entire village. They were prosperous enough from the little he could tell us about the place, and their status as retired soldiers made the tribes wary of raiding them, knowing that the Thirteenth Gemina would come down on them like a collapsing bathhouse if they took any liberties with the legion’s veterans. The army even supported them by buying food from them on a regular basis, it seems, because the boy talked about a soldier with a crest like ours that he saw several times. And then one night it was all torn apart by armed men who ripped through the place in minutes, killed all of the men whether they fought to defend their homes or not, raped the women and butchered their animals for food. Mus saw his father and brothers die, and he gave a description of his father’s murderer that sounds quite a lot like our new friend Prefect Gerwulf. And—’

  ‘It was him.’ The soldiers turned to face the boy, almost forgotten in the corner. ‘That is the man who killed my father.’

  He fell silent again, his face streaked with fresh tears.

  ‘The worst of it is that the boy told us his mother and sisters were being raped when he ran for his life. And then he told us how old the girls were.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The youngest of them was seven, the oldest thirteen.’

  The tribune turned away with a troubled expression, staring at the boy for a moment.

  ‘We have no proof, and only the word of a nine-year-old child against that of a valuable ally of the empire, a man of proven loyalty and in command of over two thousand battle-hardened troops. If, no, when Gerwulf goes to Belletor with this matter, my colleague will simply tell me to hand the boy over and be done with it, and any attempt to argue with him will be all the excuse he’s been waiting for, doubly so since I’ve had to expose him as the incompetent he is to mount an effective defence of the mines.’

  He stared up at the tent’s roof with a thoughtful expression.

  ‘So perhaps the time has come for me to stop dancing to the tune that was set out by the First Minervia’s legatus, and to start treading on Domitius Belletor’s toes.’

  5

  ‘What baffles me is how a hundred bored soldiers can keep control of that many tribesmen. Surely if they rushed their guards there’d be no way a single century could stop them?’

  By the time darkness had fallen across the valley a fine drizzle was drifting across the hills in curtains that found their way inside the soldiers’ armour and trickled down necks and backs with dispiriting ease. Dubnus was duty centurion, and since the Fifth Century had the duty of standing guard on the Sarmatae prisoners, Marcus had joined him as he made his rounds of the sentry positions. His friend grunted at the question, shrugging and then shivering in disgust as the gesture allowed another line of cold rainwater to run down his back.

  ‘They’re damp, cold and hungry, and every one of them looks at the guards’ spears and imagines ending his life here to no purpose. Besides, there are easily twice their number of troops within two hundred paces. They’ll offer us nothing worse than dirty looks, because any man that shows a sign of having any spirit left in him will be pulled out for a swift beating. Just look at them.’

  They paused at the side of the four-foot-deep ditch which had been dug around the prisoner
s’ enclosure, and whose bottom had already collected enough water to present a mirror for the blazing torches that burned every twenty paces. On the other side of the entrenchment the captured Sarmatae warriors were huddled into a space carefully laid out to be barely large enough to accommodate their numbers. Clustered around a few braziers whose contents glowed red through the sea of bodies, they were clearly far more concerned with keeping warm than with any attempt to escape. Dubnus shook his head in disgust.

  ‘They’ll be freezing cold after a day doing nothing in the open at this time of year, and there are only enough fires to keep them all warm if they’re constantly changing places to give everyone a turn in the heat, which of course never happens. And since they’re fed just enough to keep them quiet, some of them inevitably go hungry, which divides them against each other. Even if they did have the stones to have a crack at the guards, they’d still have to climb down into that . . .’ He pointed down into the trench that had been dug to contain the prisoners. ‘And then they’d have to hoist themselves up on this side straight into the shields and spears of the guards. Not to mention the fact that half of them would have broken ankles from the leg-breaker Julius had cut into the floor of the ditch. No, we’re safe enough from . . .’

  Dubnus paused, having realised that an armoured figure was approaching them down the entrenchment’s edge. Having apparently realised that his centurion was present, Marcus’s chosen man strode up to the officers with a determined look on his face, stamping to attention in front of the two men and saluting Marcus with his usual punctilious precision.

  ‘Centurion Corvus, sir!’

  Marcus returned the salute with as much gusto as he could muster.

  ‘Stand easy, Chosen Man Quintus, I trust we find all well with you?’

  Quintus nodded quickly.

  ‘Yes, sir, all’s well here. The prisoners are all behaving themselves quietly enough, although we did have one small problem earlier. Soon enough dealt with though.’

  He grinned at the two centurions, raising his fist and kissing the knuckles with a hard grin. For the sake of politeness, and in the hope of building some better relationship with the man by dint of finding something for which he might offer his deputy some praise, Marcus decided to show some interest.

  ‘A problem, Chosen? What sort of problem?’

  Quintus launched into his explanation, still stood rigidly to attention.

  ‘One of the prisoners approached a guard and asked to see the officer he heard had been over the turf wall and into the barbarian camp. Said he was the king’s brother or some such nonsense. I gave him a clout and sent him packing, the cheeky bastard.’

  Dubnus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘And how would he have heard about the centurion’s little adventure, eh Quintus, unless your lads have been fraternising with the prisoners? Has Morban been up to his old tricks with them perhaps, sniffing for gold?’

  The chosen man shook his head indignantly, his expression apparently genuinely scandalised.

  ‘Certainly not, Centurion! You know how it is though, the men do talk, and if a prisoner can speak Latin then he’s likely to overhear what—’

  Marcus snapped awake, bending to look into Quintus’s face with an expression that widened the chosen man’s eyes in alarm.

  ‘Latin? He spoke to you in Latin?’

  Quintus nodded slowly, his smug expression melting fast under the heat of his centurion’s intense scrutiny.

  ‘Yes, sir, as well as you or I. All the same, I wasn’t going to have him—’

  Marcus’s suspicion became incredulous anger in a heartbeat.

  ‘Get your arse back into that enclosure and find him, Chosen Man Quintus! And if you don’t find him alive then don’t bother coming out again! Move!’

  Quintus turned and fled, while a thoroughly incensed Marcus looked about him at the men guarding the prisoners, searching for any target on which to vent his spleen. Dubnus laughed softly at him, drawing his attention away from a pair of soldiers who were, he guessed, only barely holding onto their self-control.

  ‘Well if Quintus has been missing Julius and his rough and ready ways, I’d say you’ve probably just cured him of that particular yearning. That was just as hairy-arsed as our good friend ever managed when I was his chosen man, and you can take that as a compliment if you like.’

  Quintus returned after a tense wait with a bedraggled prisoner in tow, and his obvious sense of aggrievement was left unsalved by Marcus’s swift dismissal with instructions to find a plate of food and a hot drink for the man.

  ‘Hot food, mind you Quintus, I’m sure there’s a pot bubbling somewhere close to hand to feed the guards. We’ll be in the duty officer’s tent.’

  He led the way with Dubnus bringing up the rear in best menacing form, but the prisoner seemed untroubled by the potential for violence, looking about himself with an interest apparently undimmed by either a day in captivity or the lump beneath his right eye. Once inside the tent’s welcome warmth Marcus called for more lamps and sat the man down, placing his damp cloak close to the brazier that was heating the enclosed space.

  ‘While we wait for my deputy to bring you something to eat, perhaps it would be best to find out whether you’re going to earn it. Who are you?’

  The captive looked back at him with a steady gaze.

  ‘If it’s true that you met Prince Galatas Boraz today, then you already have a good idea of my identity, Centurion.’

  Marcus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest with his vine stick tapping impatiently at one shoulder.

  ‘We’re not playing party games here. Whoever you are, the outcome of this discussion is of far more concern to you than it is to me. If you turn out to be nothing more than a man with a gift for languages, then you’ll be back inside that ditch with your fellow captives before you even get a sniff of a bowl of stew. So I’ll ask you one more time, who are you?’

  The prisoner shrugged, apparently untroubled by the Roman’s impatience.

  ‘Galatas will have asked after his father, of course, and in the same breath I’d expect him to have wondered as to the fate of his brother and his uncle. I am Balodi Boraz, his uncle. I could have proved that statement yesterday, by showing you my gold chain, but I hid it on the battlefield before your men took me prisoner.’

  Dubnus nodded.

  ‘Very wise. It would either have been stolen or identified you as a noble, and worthy of special treatment. You can find it again?’

  Balodi shrugged.

  ‘We can only hope so.’ He shot a sideways look at Marcus. ‘Is Asander still alive?’

  Marcus shook his head.

  ‘We’ll keep the questioning to this side of the discussion, Balodi, if that’s your real name. You asked to see me. Why?’

  The Sarmatae noble leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  ‘Because I was told you had been over that wall of yours, and gone down into our camp to attempt a negotiation with my brother’s son. I just wanted to meet the Roman who went face-to-face with my brother’s kinsman by marriage, Inarmaz, and lived.’

  He watched the expression on Marcus’s face closely while he was speaking, and on seeing the Roman’s reaction to the Sarmatae noble’s name his smile became a grin.

  ‘Oh yes, now we both have the proof we wanted. You know that I am who I claim to be, and the look on your face when I mentioned his name assures me that you did indeed speak with Galatas, because I’m sure Inarmaz would have been close to his shoulder. Most likely he was trying to work out where best in his nephew’s back to put the knife, when he inevitably seizes power for himself.’

  His wet cloak was starting to dry in the brazier’s relentless heat, tendrils of steam drifting up from the damp wool. Marcus stared at the prisoner for a moment before speaking.

  ‘You suspect that Inarmaz covets the throne?’

  The noble shook his head impatiently.

  ‘No, I suspect no such thing. I know it for a fact. My brothe
r’s brother by marriage has always been the most fiercely opposed member of our tribe’s rulers to our having any truck with your empire, whereas our father always raised both of his sons to be realists in these matters. He once took both of us out onto the great plain, to the place where our tribe’s sacred sword juts proudly from our soil, and pointed to the east, then the south, and finally the west. Every time he pointed, he said just one word.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And that word was “Rome”. “My sons,” he told us both, “in every direction other than to the north, our peoples’ lands are bordered by Rome, a people so rich that they have armies of tens of thousands of men who do nothing but fight wars and practise for war, and whose leaders constantly scheme to increase their empire’s wealth. If we provide these men with sufficient reason they will slaughter our warriors, enslave our women and children and turn our grasslands into farms, which we will be forced to work for them. All my life I have sought to keep these people at a distance by means of guarded friendship backed by the promise of unremitting war should they venture north of the river Danubius, and when I die that task will fall on you both, may the sword help you.”’

  He glanced at the cloak, more moisture steaming out from those parts of the garment closest to the brazier.

  ‘But my father made one mistake, late in his reign when the light in his eyes was starting to dim. He married my older brother Asander to the daughter of a neighbouring king, a sweet little thing while she lived, but with her came her brother Inarmaz, and with Inarmaz came all the poison with which his father had been feeding to him all his life. My brother’s brother in marriage is, as you will have gathered, deeply hostile to your empire, and much of what he says on the subject finds an echo in my people’s hearts. Over the years, like the water leaving that cloak as steam, the heat of his hatred has burned out the good sense our father worked so hard to establish in the tribe’s thinking. His constant outpouring of hatred has made them ready to take arms against Rome once more.’

  ‘But your brother?’