The last fifteen miles of their journey took them along roads busy with military traffic, and for a while Marcus quailed at the appearance of each new patrol. He soon realised that the troops they passed, recognising the colour of Dubnus’s tunic, were more interested in passing snide comments than looking for fugitive Romans. Another ten-man patrol passed in the opposite direction, one brave soul calling out, ‘Who’s your girlfriend, Chosen?’ once the distance between them was sufficient for safety, and his fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden feeling of superiority.
‘I don’t see much discipline here ...’
Dubnus laughed over his shoulder.
‘Oh, they’ve got discipline! They’re tough, better than most legionary soldiers, better trained, harder trained. All they know is fighting, unlike the legions where every man seems to have a trade first and a sword as an afterthought. They have to be ready to fight at any time, since their enemy is everywhere around them ...’
He was silent for a moment.
‘Their enemy is their own people. Can you imagine what that feels like, knowing that you might have to put your own brother to the sword if it came to war? You’re not a fighting soldier, you wouldn’t understand ...’
Marcus closed his mouth, considering the statement. Perhaps the other man was right. The only soldiering he’d known was in barracks, the continual watch over Rome that was intended to keep a boot on the city’s throat rather than to protect it. What would it be like to face enemies both outside and inside the empire’s walls, a situation perhaps as confusing for the local troops as it was dangerous?
A mile later they saw more troops marching towards them, a full century in campaign array, each man with a heavy pack on his carrying pole and two spears. Dubnus stopped in the road, putting his hands on his hips and smiling broadly.
‘Those men are the best soldiers on the Wall. Those men are Tungrians.’
Their centurion was marching at the head of his men with his helmet buckled to his belt, a big, scar-faced man with a full black beard. A distinctive white streak ran from forehead to collar through his wiry black hair. He recognised Dubnus at some distance and trotted forward from his place, clasping arms with him as if he were an equal before turning and barking orders at his own chosen man to halt the column and give the men a five-minute break. They talked animatedly for a moment or so in their own language before Dubnus turned to Marcus.
‘This is Clodius, centurion of the Third Century.’
The other man nodded carefully, taking in both Marcus’s native clothing and his distinctive physical appearance with a glance. Eyes hard with suspicion momentarily bored into Marcus’s before he turned away to his men. The soldiers treated Dubnus with respect during their brief halt, their body language betraying his apparently dominant position within their small world. Marcus tried to fade into the background, conscious of the troops’ inspection of him. He wondered what they would make of his worn boots and rough local clothing, his jet-black hair and darker complexion. Most of them had the fair local colouring, while only a few had black hair like Dubnus and Clodius.
The century marched away to the east after a few moments, leaving them to resume their own journey. They had passed Fair Meadow, a mile south of the Wall, by mid-afternoon, its whitewashed stone sides standing out from the country around like a ship at sea. Turning north for a short distance, they climbed a shallow ridge, at the top of which the fort for which they were heading came into view. Shaped in the usual rectangle, it butted up to the white line of the Wall at the top of the next ridge, an untidy cluster of town buildings huddled against its lower rampart.
‘The Hill,’ Dubnus confirmed.
At the gate he was greeted with the same mixture of respect and deference that Marcus had noted on the road, and told the sentries to call for the officer of the watch. The centurion arrived quickly, listened to Dubnus for a moment, and then, apparently expecting the arrival, led Marcus away to the headquarters building in the centre of the fort. Dubnus nodded farewell, turning away to rejoin his own unit without any show of emotion. At the entrance to the headquarters, Marcus was delighted and relieved to find Rufius waiting for him.
‘Well, young Corvus, here you are, then! Looking a little thinner if that’s possible, although it suits you well enough. Makes you look more determined, and that’s no bad thing in your situation.’
He dragged the younger man into the entrance hall, away from the sentry’s straining ears, pulling a wax tablet from his tunic.
‘I have a formal request from Legatus Sollemnis to the prefect here, backed up by a quite astonishing amount of gold for the cohort’s burial fund, asking him to take you in ... no, don’t smile yet, man, that’s only a start. Even if he says yes, which I believe unlikely, I expect his First Spear will fight the idea tooth and nail. I know I would in his place. So, before we go in to see the prefect, here are the two rules that you must follow if we are to see you safe. One, keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking as much as possible. I know these people and you do not. Two, if you’re asked a question, keep your answer direct and simple. If you strike them as anything other than what I’ve described, you won’t get past the door. Understand?’
The cohort’s prefect was a dark-faced man, from the north coast of Africa by Marcus’s best guess, and looked to be in his early thirties. He kept a remarkably straight face when Rufius handed over his message from Sollemnis, scanning the tablet for a long moment before tossing it back on the desk in front of the retired officer, one hand distractedly teasing his thick brown beard. Rufius stood impassively in an unconsciously adopted parade rest, uncomfortably aware of both the man’s stare and his unquestioned power inside the garrison’s small world. He made no move to retrieve the message. After a long pause the prefect shifted his gaze from Rufius, sizing up Marcus in a single glance of his dark brown eyes before speaking in a well-educated and reasonable tone.
‘So, it’s better if I don’t know his real name, he’s officially declared traitor, his family are either all dead or in hiding, and yet the commanding officer of the Sixth still sees fit to send him into my care and invites me to betray the empire alongside him. He looks like all the other failures my First Spear rejects each year during recruitment, and yet Gaius Calidius Sollemnis commends him as “intelligent and resourceful” and asks me to take him under my wing. As a centurion! I’m not sure I have sufficient education to express my amazement ...’
Rufius, having taken pains to convince Marcus to remain silent, no matter what the provocation, had the luxury of time in which to draw out a carefully calculated silence of his own before responding.
‘Prefect Equitius, this man is a trained praetorian centurion. He and I fought together on the road outside Yew Grove, when tribesmen surprised our party, and I saw no lack of courage in his eyes on that day. He also wounded an armed horseman in mounted combat during his escape from an ambush outside Yew Grove. He also marched from Yew Grove to this fort in nine days, thirty miles a day. Yes, he is tired, dirty and footsore, but he has courage and determination that you and I should be grateful to call our own. With the right guidance he ...’
The prefect’s calm voice trampled over his sentence, used to being heard with deference under most circumstances.
‘Guidance? And that would be imparted by whom, in your opinion? I’ve got a civil war brewing to both north and south of my sector of the Wall and only four of my centurions with recent combat experience. I’ve got problems enough without having to nursemaid an untrained officer. Besides, my First Spear would laugh in my face – just as you would in his place.’
Rufius shifted his position slightly, weighing his last weapon of persuasion before throwing it.
‘Your chosen man Dubnus seems to think reasonably well of him ...’
Equitius’s eyes narrowed at the name. He stood and walked around the desk, stopping in front of Rufius to speak softly into the retired officer’s right ear.
‘Dubnus? Now you do trouble me. What
part does our very own Brigantian warrior prince play in this tale?’
Rufius thought quickly, praying that Marcus would remain silent.
‘Dubnus and his tent party intervened to save our lives when the barbarians attacked us on the road. Then he chanced upon me and the young man as we were being hunted through a murky dawn, by killers hired by the imperial appointee at Yew Grove. Only his impressive skills in combat saved us both from swift and ignominious death at the hands of those heartless mercenaries ...’
‘I was coming to that. And you can keep the fancy language for the next time you want to overcharge Annius for a consignment of fish pickle. As I’ve received the news, a decurion of cavalry from the Second Asturian Horse at Cauldron Pool and two of his men, part of a detachment serving with the Sixth on attachment, were ambushed by this man and his cronies. Murdered before they had time to arm themselves. All three of them were left dead at the roadside, apparently, and to add insult to injury two of their horses were butchered for their meat. You’re telling me that Dubnus was a part of that?’
Rufius allowed himself to bridle slightly.
‘That he defended our lives at the risk of his own, taking us for innocent travellers beset by robbers, yes. That he attacked defenceless cavalrymen, no. These men were without uniform or insignia, and attacked us without hesitation. Your excellent chosen man saved both of our lives.’
Equitius stared hard at the retired officer, his face set hard.
‘The decurion, in the reports I received, showed signs of torture. A small blade had been used to inflict severe pain upon him as he lay trapped and dying underneath his dead horse. The Asturians have sworn bloody revenge on their altar to Mars. You wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose?’
Rufius shrugged, his face remaining impassive.
‘More robbers would be my guess, Prefect. Desperate to have the decurion’s money perhaps? He made the mistake of abandoning his uniform and, since he looked like any other traveller, he paid a severe price.’
The other man turned away, his face shadowed by disbelief.
‘Hmmm. And Dubnus brought him here.’
‘Only as the result of a request from Legatus Sollemnis, passed on by me. I work for him in a minor capacity ...’
The prefect spun back to face Rufius, speaking into his ear so quietly that Marcus could barely pick out the angry tone of his voice.
‘I know the capacity in which you work, Tiberius Rufius, assessing the Wall units’ readiness and reporting on the situation beyond the frontier to Northern Command. Don’t assume that everyone this side of the Wall is simple minded enough to mistake you for a trader. You should beware your secret reaching the wrong ears on the far side.’
He paced away to stare out of the room’s open window, his hair ruffled by the fresh breeze.
‘Very well, I’ll accept your version of these unfortunate events, despite the fact I don’t trust a single word. I’ll also try to accept Gaius Calidius Sollemnis’s request of me, since I do trust his judgement, and since I still owe him a very substantial debt of gratitude. As for the money he sent you to offer ... I’ll use that to buy my men some decent equipment, if those incompetents over at Noisy Valley still have anything worth bribing out of their stores. Quite how I am to discharge this responsibility is at the moment, however, beyond me ...’
He sat down behind his desk, surrendering to thought, idly pulling at his beard again. Rufius craned his head around, giving Marcus another warning stare of instruction to remain silent. At length the prefect spoke again, his sharp eyes boring into Marcus’s.
‘I presume that you are an educated young man?’
‘Yes, Prefect.’
‘And I presume that you speak little or none of the local language?’
‘Very little, Prefect.’
‘What weapons training have you received?’
‘Ten years’ training with the sword and general skill at arms, six years’ horsemanship, and seven months’ as a praetorian centurion, Prefect.’
The officer got out of his chair again and walked round the desk to look yet more closely into Marcus’s eyes.
‘Young man, while I respect the Guard’s renowned abilities on the battlefield, I’m not stupid enough to suppose that you actually learnt any of the art of modern warfare during your time in their ranks. I hear that it is the practice these days for a certain number of the sons of the aristocracy to be bought positions as praetorian officers each year. I hear that they serve with the Guard for a period, usually in ceremonial roles, and are shepherded at all times by experienced subordinates. Shepherded, young man, to ensure that they do nothing to degrade their unit’s fighting capabilities.’
Marcus winced inwardly at the memory of his clashes with his former chosen man Apicius, who he had often accused of being too harsh a disciplinarian.
‘In return they earn the right to enter the army as senior centurions, usually over the heads of men with much greater experience and ability, and can then return to Rome after a short period of service. Lucrative positions are open to such men, in the urban vigiles or even as praetorian tribunes. Often, it is said, such young men do more harm than good in their first years of command, and keep more capable men out of the positions they have earned by their efforts and successes.
‘To be blunt, Marcus Tribulus Corvus – and trust me, I really don’t want to know your true name – you have been trained to perform the tasks of a ceremonial officer. You know how to ensure that your men look smart on parade; you know the etiquette to be observed on palace duty. Doubtless you know how to address the emperor’s favourite mistress should you chance upon her being serviced by a gladiator during your rounds of the palace. I doubt very much, however, that you have the first idea as to the requirements of an officer on active service. Hmm?’
To Rufius’s relief, Marcus kept his eyes firmly fixed on the wall in front of him, and said nothing.
‘Do you really want to make the attempt to gain a centurion’s rank in this unit? Do you want it badly enough to accept any terms I place upon allowing you to convince my First Spear to accept your candidature?’
Marcus hesitated for a moment, sought Rufius’s eye and, receiving a nod from his friend, took a breath before speaking.
‘Prefect, my family is destroyed, my honour stolen, and I am declared traitor. This is my last chance to save myself and be of service to Rome. If I fail to convince you to let me have this chance, I will have little option except that of suicide.’
Equitius laughed softly, but without malice.
‘Hmm. Stirring words. But I’m really not the person you need to convince.’
The cohort’s First Spear was adamant in his refusal, turning to glare out of the office’s window at the rolling hills beyond the distant parade ground in the at-ease position, as if addressing a gathering of his centurions. The individual rings of his mail shone with a high polish across his broad chest, while his moustache curled in a magnificent glossy arc down his upper lip. He ran a hand across his head, reflexively seeking to smooth hair which had long since fallen out or been shaved close to his skull to leave him almost perfectly bald. A large man, but constant exertion ensured that his body was all muscle, given no chance to run to seed.
‘No, Prefect, no man in this cohort’s one-hundred-and-twenty-year history has ever attained the rank of centurion without first serving in the ranks as a soldier. Usually for at least ten years, often a good deal longer. I have no intention of changing a tradition that has served us well for that long.’
‘I ...’
‘Sir, with respect, I’ve seen combat beyond the rampart. I know what it’s like when the blue-noses charge into the shield wall with their swords swinging. We never stop telling those boys about the superiority of our way of fighting, about the fact that they only need to jab the point of an infantry sword in four inches at the right point of the body to kill a man in seconds. We train them day after day to do just that, until they’ll kill and kill again
on instinct alone in the horror of a battle. And it still scares the shit out them to have some hairy great bastard swinging a battleaxe and running at full speed into their line. The main thing that stops them from running when they’re blasted from head to foot with blood, when the man to each side has been either killed or is trying to hold his guts in, is me, and the other ten officers they know will fight alongside them to the death. Will stand and fight even if they do turn and run, even if only to cover their backs. They hate us and they fear us in equal portions, but mainly they respect us. Very few men of nineteen summers have that kind of leadership potential. Praetorian or not.’
He turned back to face his superior, determined to give no ground to the suggestion. Equitius stared back at him, his expression unrepentant.
‘As I was trying to say, I agree with you completely.’
‘Then why ask me even to speak to him?’
The prefect stood up, walking around the desk to join his senior centurion at the window.
‘Three reasons, Sextus. Firstly, I took that rascal Quintus Tiberius Rufius to one side once the boy had said his piece, and asked him why the Sixth’s commander was willing to risk his life for this matter.’
‘And?’
‘The young man doesn’t know it, but the legatus is his real father. Nor in my opinion must he find out, after the shocks he’s had. Apparently our colleague in arms and the senator were friends in the service, tribunes in one of the Hispania legions, and when Sollemnis got a local girl pregnant, it was Valerius Aquila and his new wife who took responsibility for the child. And, as you’ll be aware every time you look at the equipment our troops use, we owe him more than one favour.
‘Secondly, if we don’t give the man the chance to try, he’ll walk out into those hills and fall on his sword. I’ve seen enough men in that situation, and he has the same look in his eyes ...’ He paused for a moment, staring into space at nothing in particular. ‘... without hope, beaten down by circumstance but still determined to stay in control of his destiny. I have some respect for that attitude, as you may be aware.’
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 8