Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘We’re all going to have a little chat with Annius about the quality of his rations. You’re going to stay outside and keep nosy people from trying to interrupt us. If anyone does disturb our discussion, we’ll set him on you.’

  Antenoch stood in the doorway, locking his cold bruised eyes on the clerk’s for a moment before turning away to lift an axe handle from the wall, hefting it experimentally to test the wood’s weight. Behind him came Dubnus, in turn momentarily filling the doorway, his eyes flicking across the clerk without any recognition of his existence before he strode into the store. Released, the clerk bolted for the door willingly enough. Annius never cut him in on any of his swindles, so there was no reason to argue with anyone in his defence, much less that lunatic. He almost ran into the other new centurion in the entrance, shrinking back again to let the hollow-eyed officer walk through, the man not even seeming to notice him. Which suited the clerk well enough. What a combination – the freshly recruited veteran centurion he had already learned to fear and an officer the fort’s collective opinion had suddenly decided probably was man enough for the job, after all. He closed the door to the stores building and leant on it in what he hoped would appear a nonchalant attitude.

  Rufius walked to the counter, dropped a bundle of equipment and clothing on to the wooden surface and smacked his hand down with a flat percussive crack.

  ‘Storeman!’

  Annius bustled out of his office, looking about him for his clerk, then, pausing uncertainly at the sight of the new centurions, pasted an uncertain smile across his features and advanced to the counter. His jowly face and high forehead glistened minutely with pinprick beads of sweat.

  ‘Centurion Rufius! What a pleasure! Always good to have experienced officers join the cohort. And Centurion Corvus! All of the camp has heard of your prowess with the sword this morning, quite remarkable! How can I be of service to you and your, er ... colleagues ... ?’

  Finding his bonhomie unrewarded by Rufius’s stern expression, he looked uncertainly to Marcus, found no comfort there, and returned his regard to the older officer, his instincts muttering loudly in his inner ear to play things very carefully with this unknown quantity. How much could the man have discovered in less than a day? He cursed his own stupidity for letting that fool Trajan convince him to push the usual rake-off to such a high percentage.

  To his surprise it was the younger man who stepped forward, raising a patrician eyebrow and curling his upper lip to complete the air of dissatisfaction.

  ‘This equipment, Quartermaster, issued to myself and my colleague Tiberius Rufius yesterday, is quite clearly defective in numerous regards. The mail is surface rusted, the sword is blunter than my grandmother’s butter knife, and even the tunics seem to have seen better days. I trust that you’ll want to remove them from service after what has clearly been a long and illustrious history, to judge from their condition. Oh, and I’m used to a longer sword than the infantry gladius, so see what you’ve got that’ll suit my style better, eh?’

  Annius swallowed nervously, feeling a trickle of sweat running down his left temple. He scuttled back into the store, returning within a minute with two sets of officer’s equipment, his best. He would usually charge a new centurion two hundred and fifty for their full rig, unless they wanted somebody else’s leavings, but this was an occasion, he judged, to forget to mention payment.

  ‘I hope that these meet with your approval, centurions, and solve the problem. You’ll understand that errors sometimes occur, but that’s soon amended. I’ll have to discipline that blasted clerk, issuing such shoddy gear to an officer.’

  He reached a hand out to take the bundle of rejected kit, only to find Marcus’s hand there first, closing over his podgy fingers in a firm grip. Rufius leant on the counter, resting his chin on a bunched fist, a half-smile playing on his lips, his eyes boring into Annius’s. Behind them, Antenoch lounged against the wall, pointedly studying his fingernails for dirt, while Dubnus prowled around the room, casting dark glances at the stores officer. The younger man spoke again, his voice quiet and yet shot through with steel.

  ‘If only it were that simple. You see, when I discovered the poor quality of my own equipment issue, I was prompted to check on the welfare of my men. You’ll be as surprised as I was to learn that I found many of them apparently undernourished. Their food is both insufficient and of a disgusting quality, and has been so, I’m told, since Soldier Trajan was appointed temporary centurion several months ago. Interestingly, when my chosen man offered to take Trajan out over the Wall for a short patrol into the forest last evening, he insisted that this purse of gold be a contribution to the century’s funeral club.’

  He released the other man’s hand, pulling a leather bag from his tunic and spilling its contents carelessly across the counter, watching the fear grow in the other man’s eyes. The coins rattled on to the wood, each spinning gold disc reflecting tiny flickers of yellow light as it sank into stillness across the flat surface. A long silence stretched out, as both men stared at the small fortune lying across the counter.

  ‘Apparently, he wanted to make amends for his previous greed. It seems he was foolish enough to have participated in a scheme to make money by supplying his men with substandard rations, and sharing the profits with somebody in your department ...’

  Annius shifted uncomfortably, opening his mouth to deny any knowledge.

  ‘I ...’

  ‘No, don’t tell me, you don’t want to incriminate any of your staff. We understand completely, any good officer would wish to protect his men from bad fortune, even that of being caught committing a capital offence. Of course, if I were to discover the identity of that person, I’d have them in front of the First Spear the same hour, and see them pay the maximum penalty possible. Don’t you agree, Chosen Man?’

  Dubnus spoke over his shoulder while he leaned over the counter to examine a mail shirt hanging from a rack close to the wide desk, fingering the leather jerkin to which the rings were fastened.

  ‘No, it’d be too quick just to have his head lopped off. I’d take him into the great forest, give him a one-hundred-count start and then hunt him down through the shadows. I’d pin him to a tree with my throwing axe and leave him there to die.’

  Annius looked from Marcus to his men, realising with horror the game they were playing with him, not doubting for a second any of the commitment behind their words.

  ‘That’s still too good,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I’d just break the bastard’s arms and legs and leave him out there for the animals. The wild pigs would make a mess of him before he finally died.’

  Antenoch flipped the heavy axe handle as he spoke, juggling the three-foot length of wood with impressive nonchalance as he shot a hard stare at the stores officer. Annius had heard about the way the young officer had turned the man’s rage to his own advantage on the parade ground, and suspected that he had a good deal of frustration to unleash upon the first convenient target. He looked away, attempting to feign an indifference that he was far from feeling.

  The young officer smiled down at him without mirth, his jaw set hard.

  ‘So you see feelings are running high. Soldier Trajan is already feeling the wrath of his former subordinates by all accounts, although I suspect that a protracted revenge holds more savour for the troops than anything hasty. Of course, he was only the dupe of your man, from the relatively small amount of money he handed over to us ...’

  An opening?

  ‘I could ... pay you ... to keep my clerk out of trouble?’

  The four men stared at him in silence, waiting. He plunged on.

  ‘I could take the man’s profits, give them to you, for use in making amends with your unit, of course. Gods, the fool might have made as much as five hundred from his ill-advised swindle ...’

  Rufius leant across the counter, putting his face close to Annius’s.

  ‘Three thousand. Now. You can reclaim the money from your man at your leisure.’
>
  Annius stared at the officer aghast. That was almost twice as much as they’d actually raked off ...

  ‘Perhaps we could ...’

  ‘Suit yourself. Pay now or I’ll put the matter in the hands of less forgiving judges. You know the story: new officer finds evidence of fraud and feels compelled to take the proof to his superior officer. Frontinius might turn a blind eye to your profit-making activities; I never yet met a senior centurion who didn’t, as long as there was a healthy contribution to the burial club every month. My last camp prefect used to call it “balancing the books”, said some men were born to make money, some to lose it, and this way at least he could guarantee every man a decent funeral. What he couldn’t ignore, though, would be the brand-new, “wet behind the ears” centurion who had discovered how his men were being fleeced, and who would of course be filled with righteous anger. So the price is three thousand – pay up or suffer the consequences. You can think while my young friend buckles on that nice new sword. I’ve seen him take a man’s head off at six feet with one just like it.’

  Annius hesitated, weighing up the alternatives he saw in Rufius’s pitiless stare. A simple death sentence was his only choice apart from cooperating without question; none of his men would hesitate to lay out everything they knew of his various business activities if required to do so by Frontinius, no matter how well they had been paid to take part.

  ‘Of course, to spare a good, if misguided, member of my department, I could probably find the money ...’

  Rufius flipped the hinged section of the counter and walked round behind him.

  ‘Get the money. I’ll come with you.’

  Unable to argue without running the risk that he’d end up face down in the deep forest with a spear between his shoulder blades, Annius huffed into his office, prising up the floorboard beneath which he kept his money. Three of the five leather bags went into the centurion’s waiting hands, the other man sneering his disgust into Annius’s face. Out in the storeroom, he was alarmed to find that Marcus and Antenoch were on the wrong side of the counter, and were examining his inventory with considerable interest. The centurion lifted a mail shirt from its hanger, holding the rings up to a window’s meagre light and rubbing the soft leather undershirt between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘You’re right, Chosen Man, this is very nice mail. Much better than the standard-issue rubbish. Annius, you must have enough here to equip a whole century.’

  ‘I ... I have to keep enough stock to supply each new intake of troops, and spares.’

  Dubnus loomed over his shoulder.

  ‘He keeps the stock all right, but only sells good mail shirts to men who don’t want to repair their own, or want softer leather.’

  ‘I see. How much?’

  The businessman in the stores officer took over, not seeing the trap into which he was running.

  ‘One hundred each.’

  ‘Hmm ... A fair price would be ... sixty, Antenoch?’

  ‘Fifty.’

  ‘Very well, Annius, let’s call them forty sesterces apiece, as my discount for bulk purchase. I’ll take your whole stock. And tunics, let’s say two apiece for my century at five apiece. Now, what else do you have for sale, before we discuss how you’re going to make sure that my men eat like prize gladiators from now on?’

  He turned away from the dazed quartermaster, threading his way deeper into the darker recesses of the store. Regaining his equilibrium, Annius weaved after him, panting his petulant outrage.

  ‘Oh no, Centurion, you’re not going to steal my stock as well as my money! That’s just not fair ...’

  And quailed back against a rack of spears as the Roman spun, his sword flashing from his waist and arcing up to rest against his neck. Marcus’s face scared him more than the weapon’s fierce bite against his flabby throat. Even Rufius’s eyes widened momentarily, before a wolfish grin crept across his face.

  ‘Not fair, storeman? Not much is in these days. My men probably weren’t too impressed at the way you and Trajan fed them shit every day for the last three months. Your choice, one you’re lucky to have, is to bite on the leather and take your punishment. Of course, you could go to the prefect, and see if he’ll accept your word against mine. Shall we go to him now? It might be entertaining to see which of us appears the more credible.’

  Annius shrank farther into the forest of wooden poles, his face red with fear, but said nothing. The sword swung away from its harsh grip on his life, dropping back into its place on Marcus’s belt. Rufius pushed him out of the way, the smile on his face broadening as he headed for the rear of the store.

  ‘I spy amphorae back here! How much for the wine, storekeeper ... ?’

  Annius smiled through the pain, knowing he lacked any choice in the matter. If the young bastard chose to shit on the store floor and then ordered him to clean it up with his tunic, he would have to do as he was told. Later, however, he promised himself, when the new centurions had taken their leave of him, probably in possession of half his stock, bought at knock-down prices with his own money, he would sit silently in his office, brooding over his revenge. That, and the ways in which he might learn more of the enigmatic new arrival’s past.

  Rufius opened the door of the centurions’ mess an hour later, meeting the stares of the officers present with a careful smile.

  ‘Gentlemen ...’

  He waited in the doorway. Marcus stood in view behind him, both of them acutely aware that they had to be invited in for their first visit. The shortest of the cohort’s centurions, a bristly-haired man whom Marcus recognised as the least unfriendly of the gathering for morning report, had apparently just reached the punchline of the joke he was telling. He turned back to the others.

  ‘So the centurion says, “Well, Prefect, normally we just ride the horse to the whorehouse!”’

  He turned back to Rufius.

  ‘Come on then, Grandfather, in you come.’

  Rufius winced, giving Marcus a dirty look as the younger man hid a smile behind his hand. The speaker beckoned again, looking over Rufius’s shoulder.

  ‘And you, young Two Knives, and let’s have a proper look at you.’

  One of the speaker’s companions snorted derisively, turning away to study the wine jug behind the serving counter, one hand teasing at a knot in his heavy beard. The man next to him appraised Rufius and Marcus through eyes that seemed permanently half closed, peering down a nose that had clearly seen better times. Their host smiled openly, showing a selection of crooked teeth in the bristly thicket of his beard.

  ‘Don’t worry about our colleagues here. Otho’s wondering whether he could take either of you in a fair fight, as opposed to the knife-in-the-dark methods that got him to where he is today ...’

  The battered face split into a happy grin.

  ‘While my good friend Julius already knows from your performance this morning that he’d have no more chance against you than I would.’

  His good friend Julius snorted his disgust again, peering disdainfully down his nose.

  ‘Pretty swordsmen don’t necessarily make good officers. Especially when they have no idea about soldiering. He’ll give up soon enough, once the Ninth sees through him.’

  He sized Rufius up with a swift up-and-down glance, nodding with some measure of respect.

  ‘I hear you’ve done your time with the legions – come and see me in my quarter if you’d like to talk soldier to soldier.’

  He strode from the mess, slamming the door behind him. Marcus swallowed his anger, forcing himself to smile again.

  ‘This morning ... ? I was lucky that Antenoch was stupid enough give me a warning. I’m still rusty from too long on the road.’

  The bristly-haired officer raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Still rusty, eh? In that case old Otho had best jump you while you’re still polishing up! I’m Caelius, by the way, centurion of the Fourth Century, although my men call me “Hedgehog” when they think I’m not listening ...’ He pause
d and stroked his prickly scalp for effect. ‘... can’t imagine why! Otho here, also known as “Knuckles”, although you might have guessed that from the state of his face, has the Eighth. Julius, not unreasonably known as “Latrine” since he is, as you can see, built like the cohort shithouse, has the Fifth. Your chosen man was his chosen man until you arrived, hence his sulking demeanour. He’s having to work for a living now, instead of lounging around here and letting the Prince get on with doing the hard work for him.’

  He waved an arm around the other centurions.

  ‘As for the rest of your colleagues, there’s Milo, or “Hungry”, since he’s forever eating and still skinny as a spear, he’s got the Second, and Clodius the “Badger”, both for his hair and his temper. He keeps the Third in a permanent state of terror.’

  The centurion Marcus and Dubnus had encountered earlier on the road inclined his head in an impassive nod.

  ‘Brutus has the Seventh, and has seen more action than the rest of us put together with never a scratch on his baby-soft skin, which is why he answers to “Lucky”. Lastly there’s Titus, or “Bear”, he’s got the Tenth, which is our century of axemen. When we’re in the field they specialise in tree-felling and field defences, and they fight with their axes like barbarians, so they all have to be great big brutes like him. “Uncle Sextus” has the First Century, but you already know that. Anyway, introductions made, will you join us in a drink?’

  Wine was procured by the steward, which Rufius tasted and instantly judged to have come off second best to the long journey from its birthplace.

  ‘Actually, it was wine I came to discuss with you, apart from making our introductions. You see, we made a deal with your deeply unpleasant storeman just now, included in which were a dozen large jars of a rather nice red from Hispania. Perhaps the mess could use them? As a gift from the new boys, you understand.’