The hall was always full of dogs, and Nyall, watching them scuffling over the bones and crusts on the floor, thought that if he didn’t find some exercise for his restive men they would soon be snarling among themselves like the hounds. He would take them west and let them snarl at Arngunn instead, and shake the old man out of indecision. He felt restive and on edge himself, as if they were all only marking time. He fidgeted in his chair at the High Table, scraping it back and forth in the rushes on the floor, eager to be gone – westward to spit in the eye of the legion commander and his Eagles, and in the eye of the eagle-faced centurion who had sent the commander’s final message back with Geir the envoy. His German had had the accent of the Semnones, Geir had said, and had been rude enough to have been learned at his mother’s knee. That was unlikely. But one of these days Nyall would put a knife to his throat and find out where he had learned it.
He fidgeted some more, tearing his bread into little balls and rolling them between his fingers. Kari, a warrior of the Companions with the dark hair and eyes of the half-blood, saw him and smiled, reaching up onto the wall behind him for the deerskin bag that hung there with his harp in it. The Germans did not breed harpers, preferring a harsher music, but Nyall’s mother had taught Kari when his own captive mother had died and the boy had needed something to hold to for a while. When he had proved to have the music in him, she had sent to her own people for a Gaulish harp for him.
Kari could fight like a wildcat, and had thrashed those of his playmates who had taunted him by saying his harping was a womanly thing; now it was accepted with a certain pride that Nyall the chieftain had a harper among the Companions.
Kari took out his harp, ran his fingers lovingly along the strings, and began to make something to keep his chieftain amused. Not the lilting, running battle music of the Gauls, or the trumpets of the Romans, but a battle music, harsh as a long sword blade, stirring as the war chants of his father’s people – a striding sound with the feel of the high mountains and the crashing, cold ocean in it.
Nyall stopped twitching and leaned forward to listen, and at the end of the High Table, Lyting leaned forward also, the braided knot on his blond head catching the firelight like gold, his blue eyes eager and shining. Kari’s song soared into a chant of death and victory, and the red-haired woman looked at each of the three in silence.
IX The Peace of the Wine Jars
Paulinus proved to be right about the Vindonissa road. The morning after his conversation with Correus, the surveyors were out in force, measuring and arguing with each other. The legate strode about with a map in his hand, the tribunes trotting behind him, making suggestions. He looked as if he wished they’d go away.
By noon they were digging the first ditches in the half-frozen ground, and two full cohorts were set to clearing timber. It was snowing again and Labienus watched it gloomily through the surgery window while he attended to the morning sick parade. Another winter of frostbite and lung disease. Not to mention every ass who tried to cut his foot off with an axe.
But the Vindonissa road was vital, and they knew it. Correus found he had little trouble encouraging the fourth century to put their backs in it, once he had explained the problem.
He drew a map for them in the muddy snow. “See, here is Vindonissa. Their road extends as far as this.” He scratched an X with his vine staff. “And we are here.” Another X. “And the Germans are here, and here, and anywhere else you care to name including probably hiding under your beds. So. If we don’t meet with Vindonissa now, before hard winter, we aren’t going to get a chance come spring.”
There was no argument. Even the legionaries could see far enough ahead to know that the German wolf pack that was gathering to the east would be out and howling on their trail with the first thaw. They worked like bullocks, hauling dirt and logs, awkwardly muffled in cloaks and trousers, with their breath coming up around them in steam. Correus was down in the roadbed with them, somewhat before Labienus recommended, but as he explained wearily when the surgeon finally took the stitches out, the positive effect his early return would have on his men was more important than an ache in his leg.
“Well, some exercise won’t hurt it,” Labienus said. “But take it easy and let the muscles heal, or you’ll have a limp that won’t take a long march.”
Correus worked somewhat more carefully after that, but the leg was healing with no problems and he was grateful. Flavius was up and about now, and avoiding him, but there was more than enough work on the road to put that problem at the back of his mind.
As for the other officers, a subtle shift in attitude had begun. Men who once would have been reluctant to give him the correct password were now being civil, and those who had ignored him were suddenly friendly. Correus began to feel a sense of belonging, not only to the legion now, but to his fellow officers and the close-knit brotherhood of the Centuriate. That went a long way toward making up for the ache in his thigh and the dark, brooding look on his brother’s face.
The only exception was Centurion Silvanus. While not a friend, Silvanus had never been less than friendly. But lately his attitude had been hostile at worst, and at best one of cold dislike. Even the other centurions noticed it with raised eyebrows, but it did not seem to alter their own new friendliness to Correus; Silvanus had a habit of tacking against any prevailing wind. Correus resolutely ignored him. He could, he thought, put up with one jackass. Although he had somehow thought differently of Silvanus…
A letter from his father, affectionate and full of praise for his promotion, reached Correus a few days later, and the day after that, one from Aemelia – smuggled into the post through the connivance of Julia, he suspected. Or worse yet, his mother, Helva. Aemelia’s father would burst if he found out. But the letter was so full of hero worship and ignorance of what life in a frontier camp was like, that he couldn’t help smiling. A few weeks of seeing him fall into bed every night blue with cold and black and stinking with mud, and she’d get over her passion for him in a hurry.
* * *
At last, when they were at the limits of their endurance and on the cold knife-edge of winter, the Eighth Legion met with Vindonissa. The legate called a two-day holiday in reward, and they poured back into the camp, cheering and exhausted, with the Vindonissa road crew and its legate.
The generals held a council and sent off another plea to Rome for more men; the officers wondered if they’d get them and breathed a sigh of relief over the completion of the road; and the men of both legions prepared to take their pleasures as they found them.
The current camp had been in place for several months, and the usual ragtag clutter had begun to establish itself nearby. The entrepreneurs who followed the army were a movable business, and a jumble of peddlers’ tents and wine stalls and the hardier of the trollops from Argentoratum did a thriving business.
One of the wine stalls, which bore the dubious title of The Emperor’s Own on a wooden shingle over the door flap, had somehow acquired a wagonload of Falernian wine. Judging by the proprietor, a shady-looking Egyptian with a missing ear who carried three knives in his belt, it was probably stolen. But it was good wine, and anyone who could afford his prices descended on it thirstily.
The Emperor’s Own was a motley structure, half scavenged timber, half tent, with tables made of anything the Egyptian had found lying around. Correus sat leaning against a tent pole in the corner, nursing a cup of Falernian and trying to keep his temper.
Silvanus sat at the next table with his back to him, somewhat more rigidly than even his lorica demanded, pointedly ignoring Correus. Silvanus was crowded, which was his own fault, since there was room for another at Correus’s table; but Silvanus, seeing who the first occupant was, had chosen to teeter instead on the end of another bench, one hand gripping the rough plank for balance. He called to the Egyptian for another cup of wine.
The Emperor’s Own was jammed with legionary and auxiliary officers and such of their men as could put down the price of the Egyptian’
s Falernian. There was a dice game going in one corner, and some cavalry officers were trying to round up a few souls foolhardy enough to stage a horserace on the log road. Across the room someone was singing a plaintive, off-key ballad about a girl named Chloe who hadn’t waited for him. Every so often someone would throw something to shut him up, and he would brood in silence for a while before doggedly resuming his song.
Outside, it was cold as the breath of the north wind, but The Emperor’s Own was warm with wine in the blood and the press of bodies. It was almost a relief when someone drew the doorflap open and a whistle of cold air came in behind him. Three legionaries ducked in under the flap, shaking the snow from their cloaks, and staggered through the clutter of benches and tables to the makeshift counter that served as the divider between the public space and the storage bins. There were holes cut in the counter top to hold the long conical amphorae, and it swayed precariously as the newcomers leaned on it.
“Hey, you, Ptolemy, give us some wine!” It was plain that this was not the first stop in their celebration.
“The name’s Anset,” the Egyptian said softly, crossing his brown arms on the counter, the cat-headed hilt of a dagger within easy reach of his fingers. “Let’s see your money first.”
“I don’t think the little weasel trusts us,” one of the legionaries said, and his fellows nodded solemnly, glaring at the Egyptian. The speaker seemed about to comment further when he lost his bearings and staggered backward, fetching up with a thump against Correus’s table.
“The Egyptian son of a bitch shoved me!” he announced indignantly, staring at the innkeeper.
Correus stood up. “I think you’ve had enough.” He put a firm hand on the legionary’s shoulder.
The man heaved himself around and eyed him belligerently. “Who’re you?”
‘The man with the vine staff,” Correus said, hefting it. ‘Take your friends and get out of here before you end up spending the night in the guardhouse.”
There was a crash as Silvanus stood up and spun around also, his cup in pieces on the dirt floor and the wine soaking into the damp ground. “Keep your hands off of my men, Julianus!”
Correus raised an eyebrow. “Oh, are they yours? Well, they’re awash. Take care of them yourself.”
The legionary peered at Silvanus and seemed to recognize him. He opened his mouth to speak and a stink of sour wine washed over them.
“Get out of here, Glaucus!” Silvanus snapped.
“But, sir—”
“Go!” Silvanus was furious, his face tight under the fading tan, and the legionaries beat a retreat. “And as for you, Julianus, can’t you keep your hands off of anything that isn’t yours?”
“Just what does that mean?”
“Ask your brother!” Silvanus spat at him. “No wonder you carried him back so careful! I’d call that about a tenth part of what you owe him!”
Correus had no idea what Silvanus was talking about, but by this point he was too angry to care. Under Silvanus’s goading, his temper had totally escaped its guard. He took a step forward and the men at Silvanus’s table prudently picked up their cups and retreated. The Egyptian came out from behind his counter and stationed himself in front of his amphorae.
“You’ve been snapping about my heels like a dog for the last month,” Correus said. “Now’s your chance!”
“Large talk for a whore-born bastard,” Silvanus snarled.
“Outside!” the Egyptian said firmly, touching his dagger. They had enough sense left under their fury to obey him.
Silvanus was hardly through the door when Correus jumped him, and a moment later they were rolling in the snow. Silvanus kicked free and staggered to his feet, and Correus swung. He couldn’t see well in the darkness, and he pulled off his helmet and flung it to one side. Silvanus did the same and swung back, connecting at a point just above Correus’s lorica, on the collarbone. Correus fell back and then came in again, catching Silvanus on the chin, feeling as he did so the other centurion’s fist in his ear.
The customers of The Emperor’s Own poured out of the wineshop after them, and a pair of sentries came running up to investigate the commotion. When they saw that the combatants were officers, they hesitated. “Let them be,” someone said. “This has been coming; better to settle it.”
Correus and Silvanus circled each other in the snow, Silvanus bleeding from a split lip and Correus with an unpleasant ringing in his ear. Silvanus threw another punch and grunted in pain as he caught Correus full on his iron lorica. Correus took advantage of this to punch Silvanus in the face again, and then his feet slid out from under him in the snow and Silvanus was on top of him. He swung again. Silvanus ducked and hit Correus hard in the jaw and then Correus kicked Silvanus off and rolled aside. He came up just in time to send Silvanus crashing back hard against the stump of a tree.
Silvanus started to rise and then subsided again, the wind knocked out of him. One eye was red and swollen and his mouth was bleeding.
Correus stood over him, panting. He spat blood into the snow and was relieved to see that no teeth came with it. His ear hurt but his temper was subsiding with the satisfaction of seeing Silvanus propped against that tree stump. “Maybe next time you won’t be in such a hurry to listen to my brother.” Correus raised himself on the balls of his feet a little and settled back again. He seemed to be in one piece. He felt good.
Silvanus started to get up and Correus raised a fist. “Don’t bother,” Silvanus said. “Next time maybe I won’t.” He struggled to his feet and wiped the blood out of his mouth. His blond hair hung dankly over his brow and his gold-flecked eyes had the look of a man who is rethinking things. “Get lost,” he said curtly. “It occurs to me that I may have heard the wrong end of a story.”
Correus turned and walked away through the crowd now dispersing toward the lamplit doorway of the wine stall. Somehow he didn’t feel as vindicated as he had a moment ago. He turned back abruptly to Silvanus. “Come and have a drink.”
Silvanus picked up his helmet, and Correus fetched his. They turned into the wine shop together. The other officers gave them a wide berth, but the Egyptian eyed them thoughtfully, then shrugged, and poured the wine.
Silvanus took a drink and winced as the wine burned his cut lip. He looked at Correus. “Your nose is bleeding.”
Correus took off his neck scarf and held it to his nose.
“Tell me your side. About your mother,” Silvanus said.
“My mother?” Correus’s voice was muffled behind the scarf. “Oh…” A certain amount of light was beginning to dawn. “My mother is my father’s mistress. Has been for years. He bought her in Gaul when she was about fifteen. She’s made a life for herself, I suppose, but it’s not one I would want.”
“And Flavius’s?”
“Lady Antonia?” Correus thought a moment. “She’s a good woman. I’m fond of her. To tell the truth, she’s been more a mother than mine. Mother’s maternal instinct doesn’t run very deep. She’s…” He took a swallow of wine and his face was sad. “She’s adapted… to suit her circumstances.”
“Who holds the reins in the household?” Silvanus prodded.
“Lady Antonia,” Correus said flatly. “And my father, in the end. Mother gets what she wants sometimes by sheer determination, when her wishes and my father’s ride together, anyway. But… I wouldn’t want to be her.”
Silvanus looked thoughtful. “That’s why you won’t own a slave.”
“Yes.” Correus waved his arm at the Egyptian for more wine. “Your turn. Now tell me how my brother explained it all.”
“I gave him some wine…” Silvanus said, by way of excuse. “And he… he was unhappy.”
“Never mind,” Correus said. “I saw the mood he was in. I should have known.”
Silvanus gave him the tale as Flavius, miserable and half drunk, had told it: a wife supplanted from her rightful place in her husband’s house by a pretty, conniving tart who had wangled adoption and preferential treatment for h
er bastard son as the price of her own favors. Silvanus was an unconventional soul, but there was a moralistic streak in him and a strong belief in duty, and the picture that Flavius had painted had left him outraged. Now he felt put upon. He had liked Correus well enough at the start. He peered into his wine cup glumly. “I’ve been had.”
Correus drained his own wine cup and thought it over carefully from all sides. “That you have,” he said finally. “Cheer up,” he added, perceiving a bright spot. “We had a nice fight.”
“Yes, we did, didn’t we?” Silvanus looked happier. He waved at the Egyptian for more wine, and they fumbled in their pouches for some coins. They were both getting very drunk. The ache in Correus’s ear was beginning to fade. “What in Mithras’s name are you doing in the same legion with him?” he heard Silvanus ask.
“I promised my father,” Correus said shortly.
“Mistake,” Silvanus said.
“Yes.”
“I expect Flavius is sorry, now that he’s thought about it.”
“He’s always sorry,” Correus said. “Afterward.”
“Oh well, when you get your cohort you’re bound to be posted somewhere else.”
Correus raised his cup. “To the day.” It was empty again, so they shouted once more for the Egyptian.
“Still,” Silvanus said, “we had a nice fight.” He sounded regretful. He liked to fight, and now he couldn’t fight with Correus anymore. He explained this in a somewhat convoluted fashion and Correus nodded.
“Seems a pity.” There was a certain exhilaration in punching someone’s nose in the cause of justice. “Can’t fight you, though,” he said. “We’re friends.”
“Blood brothers,” Silvanus agreed.
“What we need is a… a… non-friend,” Correus explained.
The Centurions Page 17