‘You’ll have to excuse us, brothers; we have an appointment at the guest house with our new officer. Let’s hope this one’s a little more balanced than the previous idiot. That way he might get to live a bit longer.’
Even with the wine’s effects, Rufius was instantly alert, despite his apparent torpor. He nudged Marcus’s foot beneath the table to warn him, raising a curious eyebrow and smiling slyly up at the two men.
‘We did hear the rumours. It’s true, then? Prefect Bassus really stopped a friendly spear?’
Tertius grimaced, but his colleague Appius kept talking without any apparent concern.
‘Well now, if you ask the question that way I’ve got no idea what happened. But if you were to speculate that Bassus had pissed off the wrong men one time too many, I’d have to agree that there’s a certain kind of officer who takes a risk when he turns his back on his own men in a battle.
‘Anyway, enough said. Good luck with your recruits. And watch out for those bloody archers.’
He scooped up his helmet and reached for his cloak, dragging it across the pile of garments and pulling loose the pin from Marcus’s in the process. He bent and picked up the gold shield from the floor, giving its intricate workmanship an appreciative glance and turning it over and noting the words engraved on the obverse before he held it up with an apologetic face.
‘Sorry, I’ve pulled this loose from someone’s cloak.’
Marcus put a hand out with a tight smile and tucked the pin away in his pocket, ignoring a pointed look from Rufius.
Outside the mess, pulling his cloak tighter about him in the evening’s cold as they headed for the guest house, Appius nudged his colleague.
‘Did you see that quiet lad’s sword? Not the long cavalry blade, the other one with the eagle’s-head pommel? Prettier than a whore’s make-up box, proper flash. I’ll bet you he’s the one they’re saying got left a blade by the dead legatus, and you have to wonder why that would be, eh? And that cloak pin, that’d make big money from the right buyer, and it had an interesting inscription too. ‘Keep warm, my son’, and an aquila carved beneath the words. No way he’s local, that’s for certain – in fact I’ll bet he’s the same one that was supposed to be putting it to Bassus’s wife before the lads in the Third Century perforated his back.’
Tertius shook his head, his face thoughtful.
‘No idea. Not that I’d blame the boy if he was, there’s no denying she’s a tasty little piece. Right, here we are. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.’
They entered the town’s official guest house and were shown into the back room. A massively built man sat picking at the remains of a chicken in the light of several lamps, his thick brown beard slick with the bird’s fat. He reached for a towel and wiped his hands and face.
‘Sit down, gentlemen. Wine?’
Tertius took a chair, motioning to his colleague to do the same.
‘Thank you, Prefect, a cup would be nice.’
The senior officer waited until the wine was poured and the housekeeper had withdrawn before speaking again, raising his cup in salute before drinking. His voice was hard edged, clearly accustomed to being heard without interruption.
‘Second Tungrians, eh? I was told you’re a battle-tested cohort. I was told that I’m lucky to be getting a cohort here, at this time, with the barbarians still in the field and plenty of glory left to be had. And I was told lots of things about the Second Tungrians that should make for an interesting discussion once we’re north of the wall with some time to spare. In the meanwhile there are a few things I’d like to know.’
Tertius put his cup down and sat up straight.
‘We’ll do our best, Prefect …’
‘Furius. Gracilus Furius. First things first. Cohort strength?’
‘Seven hundred and twenty-four men fit for duty, sir.’
The prefect pursed his lips.
‘Under strength, then. Casualties?’
‘Yes, sir, all from the battle of Lost Eagle.’
‘Almost a century. So, it’s a good thing I’ve already found a century of prime replacements. Tungrians too.’
Tertius exchanged glances with Appius.
‘That’s good news, sir. I’d heard the only replacements left in town were already spoken for.’
Furius smirked at his circumspection.
‘No need to be coy with me, Centurion, of course they’re supposed to go to our sister cohort. I sought out the officer responsible for replacements and helped him to reconsider his priorities earlier this afternoon. He hummed and hawed a bit, but he soon changed his mind when he saw some coin.’
Tertius frowned unconsciously.
‘There’s a bit of a relationship between us and the First Cohort, Prefect. I’m not sure …’
‘I think you’re more than not sure, Centurion, you think that taking a century of replacements from under the First’s noses would be unfortunate. Dishonourable, even?’
The centurion, sensing that a trap lay before him, trod carefully.
‘Not at all, sir. All I was thinking was that the First Cohort is almost two hundred and fifty men down, that’s all. Their first spear’s going to be pretty unhappy if we have it away with half his replacements.’
Furius’s face took on a sly look.
‘You fought at the battle of the Lost Eagle, Centurion?’
‘Yes, sir,’
‘And that was where my cohort took the casualties for which we need these replacements?’
‘Yes sir,’
‘And, I’ve heard, it was only the intervention of the Second Cohort that saved the First from being overrun by barbarians?’
Tertius realised where the prefect was taking the discussion.
‘Absolutely true, Prefect, we saved their skins all right. One of their centurions said as much to me not an hour ago. Of course, it was the First Cohort that did most of the damage to the barb …’
Furius spread his hands and shrugged.
‘Well, there you are. We take a century’s worth of damage saving our sister cohort from the mess they’d managed to get into, and they get all the replacements. That can hardly be right, now, can it? Eh, Centurion?’
Tertius knew which side to be on in this discussion.
‘Of course not, sir. In which case we ought to be up and away no later than dawn, or run the risk of an unpleasant argument on the subject. I’ve met the officers who’re here to collect those men, and I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong end of their unhappiness.’
Furius smiled knowingly.
‘Yes, I guessed as much. The replacements’ centurion has promised to have our century paraded and ready to go at first light, so let’s get some sleep. Dismissed, gentlemen. Ah … one more question.’
The officers paused expectantly.
‘Another story I’ve heard a few times is that there’s a fugitive believed to be sheltering with one of the wall cohorts. Apparently this fellow is the last living member of a family that the emperor chose to liquidate, but his father sent him away to the northern frontier before the axe fell. There would be great imperial favour for the man that turned him in, perhaps a promotion. So spread the word, the man that identifies this traitor to me will be handsomely rewarded. Very handsomely.’
The First Tungrian officers rose early, and made the short walk to the transit barracks just as the sun was inching clear of the horizon. Expecting to find the barrack office empty, they were surprised to find the transit centurion already on duty. Rufius sized the man up with a swift glance, looking around the white-walled office with apparent indifference.
‘Greetings, Centurion. We’re here for two centuries of Tungrian infantry, reserved for collection by the First Tungrian cohort by order of Legatus Equitius, Sixth Imperial Legion. Point us at them and we’ll get them off your ration strength.’
The transit officer was a sparsely haired man of about forty, his uniform clearly legion issue. He rose from his chair with an apologetic expression a
nd crossed the small room with two limping paces.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen; I have only the one century for you. There’s a lot of demand for replacements, as I’m sure you’ll be aware ….’
He dried up under the stare of four suddenly very hostile men. Julius stepped in closer to him, raising a finger to silence his apology.
‘We were here last night, Centurion, probably long after you’d gone to hide in your quarters. And we saw two centuries of prime infantry ready for collection. So how, I wonder, does that become one century overnight?’
He raised an eyebrow and waited for a response. The other man spread his hands helplessly.
‘Another officer turned up an hour ago, a prefect with two centurions in tow. He gave me a direct order to sign him out a century of the Tungrians to replace battle losses, so I … I did.’
Rufius nudged Dubnus.
‘Go on, lad, you know the routine.’
The powerfully built young centurion stepped past the transit officer, looking carefully at the wooden floorboards. Rufius spoke conversationally, his attention apparently focused on the barrack dimly visible through the office’s open window in the early morning light.
‘We know how it is, Centurion. You’re in possession of one of the most valuable resources for a hundred miles and more. It must be quite a temptation when you’re stuck here in this shitty little port with, what, five years left to serve? So when a senior officer turns up and offers you a combination of stick and carrot to sign him out a few dozen men, well, you find yourself wondering why you should end up with a load of grief when there’s money to be made, don’t you? This officer had a name, I presume?’
The transit officer watched Dubnus’s progress round the office with increasing trepidation.
‘He … ah … he signed as …’
He opened his record tablet with trembling fingers, scanning the words inscribed into the wax with a speed borne of fear.
‘… as Prefect Furius, Second Tungrian cohort.’
Julius’s scowl deepened.
‘The bloody Second Cohort. I should have known it. This new prefect of theirs must be keen. Uncle Sextus will shit a cow when he finds out.’
‘Found it!’
They turned to see Dubnus levering a loose floorboard away with his dagger. Throwing the wood to one side, he fished inside the cavity between floor and ground, pulling out a purse. He tossed it to Rufius, who hefted the small leather bag in his hand.
‘Nice and heavy. Must be a decent enough sum. You know what they say, though – only take a bribe if the sum involved will compensate for the punishment you’ll get for taking it. And in this case the punishment’s going to be quite severe.’
‘But I …’
Julius stepped forward, taking a handful of the wilting centurion’s tunic in one meaty fist.
‘No, I don’t think so. “But I …” isn’t going to be enough to get you out of this one. First off, you’ve pissed us off. We came here for two centuries to replace our losses from the battle of Lost Eagle. You heard about that one? You know, how one cohort was sent to take on the whole barbarian army. How that cohort held its line for an hour and more, and kept the blue-noses in place until the rest of the army turned up? Well?’
He prodded the centurion to get a response.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. And the bad news for you is that cohort was us. We all had good friends killed that day, and we’re not in much of a mood to be messed about. Ever noticed how the road officers tend not to take their usual liberties with men who’ve recently seen combat? Ever wondered why?’ He slapped the centurion twice, lazy blows that twisted the man’s head to the left and right. ‘Now you’re about to find out. Second, our prefect that morning now commands Sixth Legion. You’re still part of Sixth Legion, so when we report this balls-up to him, he’ll likely have you dismissed the service. He hates this sort of corrupt behaviour. Third, my first spear is a right nasty bastard. He’ll want to have you strangled with your own guts when he finds out he’s been done over for a century of men he badly needs, men whose absence could place the entire cohort in peril.’ He clenched his fist tighter, lifting the now terrified man on to his toes without any apparent effort. ‘So, first we’ll beat seven colours of shit out of you, take our one remaining century and leave, and in about a week or so you’ll be a civilian, with no citizenship and no pension. And some time later, some time you’ll never predict, the First Tungrian cohort will find you and leave you in a ditch with the life running out of you. It’s nothing personal, it’s just what you get for pissing off front-line troops. Dubnus, you can have this one.’
‘The Hamians!’
The centurion’s voice was little better than a squeak. Julius snorted his disdain.
‘What about the Hamians? Useless bow-waving women. All they’re good for is hunting game. There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed. We need infantrymen, big lads with spears and shields to strengthen our line. Archers are no bloody use in an infantry cohort.’
He raised his meaty fist.
‘No, mate, you’re going to get what’s coming your way.’
The other man gabbled desperately, staring helplessly at the poised fist.
‘There’s two centuries of them, two centuries. Take them and the Tungrians and that’s two hundred and fifty men.’
Marcus spoke, having stood quietly in the background so far.
‘So we could make a century of the best of them, dump the rest on the Second Cohort when we catch up with them and take back the century he sold them in return.’
Julius turned his head to look at the younger man, keeping the transit officer clamped in place with seemingly effortless strength.
‘Are you mad? There won’t be a decent man among them. They’ll be arse-poking, make-up-wearing faggots, the lot of them. All those easterners are, it’s in the blood. They’ll mince round the camp holding hands and tossing each other off in the bathhouse. Let’s just …’
Marcus spoke over him with quiet assurance.
‘I’ll tell you what, Julius, Rufius gets the Tungrians and I’ll take the Hamians as a double-strength century and weed out the weaklings for dumping on the Second Cohort when next we meet. Or shall we just go back to The Hill still one hundred and seventy men light?’
Julius sighed deeply, then turned back to the transit officer.
‘It must be your lucky day. Here’s the deal. We take the Tungrians, the Hamians, both centuries, mind, and the money. You keep your place here, and perhaps, just perhaps, we don’t hunt you down and kill you. Deal?’
‘Yes!’
He pushed the terrified centurion away, hard enough to bounce him off the office’s wall.
‘Right, Two Knives, you’d better go and get your men ready to move. Let’s see just how bad this is going to be. Oh yes, and there’s this …’
He turned back quickly, jabbing a fist into the transit officer’s face and breaking his nose with an audible crack, then threw a right hook into the reeling man’s jaw which dropped him dazed to the wooden floor.
‘Prick.’
Marcus crossed from the transit office to the closest barrack and opened a door at random. Inside the barrack’s stone-built cell, packed in like sardines on a market stall and dimly lit by the single small window through which the dawn’s chill was seeping into the room, eight Hamians were waiting quietly, fully equipped and ready to march. Raising an intrigued eyebrow, he walked briskly up the line of eight-man rooms to the officers’ quarters, rapped once on the door and walked in. The three olive-skinned men waiting for him snapped to attention, the tallest of them making direct eye contact in a way he guessed was designed to communicate status. He was well built, with wide-set brown eyes above a strong nose and a broad jaw, black hair cropped close to his scalp. Making the instant appraisal of all first meetings, Marcus was struck by the apparent unassuming confidence in the man’s gaze, direct but without any challenge.
‘At ease, gentlemen. Who’s t
he ranking soldier here?’
The tall Hamian nodded briefly, keeping eye contact.
‘I am, Centurion.’
‘Your rank?’
‘I am Acting Centurion Qadir ibn Jibran ibn Mus’ab, Centurion. I currently command both this century and the other, barracked across the way.’
Marcus nodded, looking at the other two men with a raised eyebrow.
‘These men are my seconds, Hashim and Jibril, Centurion.’
‘I see. Very well, Acting Centurion, I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, your new centurion. Your two centuries are to join the First Tungrian cohort as an over-strength century, as replacement for our losses in recent battle. You shall be my chosen man, and these two men your watch officers. You’ll need two if you’re to manage that many men. Perhaps it would be better if you were to provide your men with their commands for the time being, until I have the measure of their command of Latin?’
The Hamian nodded with an impressive imperturbability.
‘Certainly, Centurion. Shall I parade the men? We are ready to march, as you may have seen.’
Marcus frowned.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, your name again?’
‘Please simply call me Qadir, Centurion.’
‘Thank you. And why … why are you ready for the road, I mean? I expected you all still to be sleeping.’
Qadir smiled, placing both hands behind his back and bowing minutely.
‘It was not hard to predict your arrival. The noise of the Tungrian century departing ensured that we were awake, and once it became clear to us that they had been bribed out of the transit officer it was easy enough to guess that we would be part of the compensation he would offer to you. I saw one of your colleagues checking the Tungrians last night, and he didn’t look like a man who would take disappointment quietly. We have been here for three weeks now, watching other centuries arrive and leave, but now the barrel is clearly empty.’
Marcus fought the urge to smile.
‘I see. Very well, Chosen Man Qadir, please parade the centuries for inspection.’
Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two Page 6