‘Just open the bloody gates and we’ll worry about the paperwork later. I’ve got two full cohorts of soldiers slowly freezing their balls off out here, and I want them in barracks before dark.’
Julius, who was standing behind the senior centurion with a grim look on his dark, bearded face, shook his head at Marcus.
‘This isn’t going to end well. Those are legion troops if I’m not mistaken, and whenever the road menders get involved there’s usually grief.’
Another soldier appeared on the walls, this one wearing the feathered and crested helmet of a legion chosen man. He spoke to the guards for a moment, then leaned out and called down to the auxiliaries gathered below.
‘I’m sorry, Centurion. I’m under strict orders not to open the gates without permission from my own officer. I’ve sent one of my men to find him, but until he gets here there’s no way I can let you in.’
He spread his hands to convey his helplessness with the situation, and then disappeared from sight to leave the first spear fuming with anger.
‘Was that segmented armour I saw before that man went to hide from the wrath of an infuriated first spear?’
The centurions turned to find Tribune Scaurus standing behind them with a questioning look on his face. Frontinius nodded grimly, his face creased with anger.
‘Yes, Tribune. It would appear that the regulars have got here before us.’
Scaurus looked out into the swirling mist for a moment.
‘And I suppose that if we leave this to take its apparent course, the men could be standing around here for quite a while.’
Frontinius nodded again, the angry lines of his expression softening as he turned a quizzical gaze on his superior.
The tribune nodded at him, cleared his throat, and shouted up at the apparently deserted wall.
‘ Chosen Man! Show yourself!’ After a long silence the chosen man looked over the wall again, his face falling when he saw the tribune staring up at him. Scaurus lifted his cloak, showing the other man his finely wrought bronze plate armour, sculpted to resemble a muscled torso. ‘Have a good look, Chosen Man! You’ll observe that I’m not a centurion but the commander of these cohorts, and not without influence, or an understanding of how things work. Which legion might this be that I’m talking with, I wonder? Either the “grunts” or the “scribblers”, I’d guess. Which is it, Chosen Man?’
The chosen man sprang to attention.
‘First Minervia Faithful and Loyal, Tribune!’
Scaurus smiled, muttering quietly to himself.
‘ Got you.’ He looked up at the chosen man for a long moment before speaking again. ‘The “grunts”, then. First Minervia, Faithful and Loyal. A proud name for a proud legion. Tell me, Chosen Man, is that sour-faced old bastard Gladio still First Spear of the Third Cohort?’
The chosen man squinted down at him, clearly wondering just how much influence this unknown tribune might have with his own officers. His answer was carefully balanced to avoid giving any potential offence.
‘Yes, sir. He’s still as cheerful as he ever was.’
Calculating that the moment to attack had arrived, Scaurus raised his voice to an enraged bellow.
‘Well, if I’m not through those fucking gates before I’ve counted to thirty, you’ll soon find out that I’m a good deal less sunny of character than he is, and a good deal more vindictive! Do you understand me?’ The chosen man nodded unhappily. ‘Good. Then let’s get on with it, shall we? Or do I actually have to embarrass us both by starting to count?’
After a few seconds of silence the chosen man turned and disappeared, and a moment later the gate’s man-sized wicket gate yawned open. Shooting a glance at his first spear, Scaurus stepped forward.
‘I’ll go and get this sorted out before the cohorts freeze to death.’
Frontinius pointed to the group of centurions, gesturing them forward with a jerk of his thumb.
‘Centurions Julius, Dubnus and Corvus, you can provide the tribune with an escort. There’s no telling what sort of person’s running around behind those walls, given that there’s a legion involved.’
The men guarding the gate made to close the man-sized door as Scaurus stepped through it, but a firm shove from Julius held it open, while his fierce glare dissuaded them from any thought of objecting to the presence of the tribune’s escort. The hulking Tungrian stared about him with a curled lip before addressing the chosen man.
‘If you toy soldiers are supposed to be keeping the city safe you’re not doing much of a job of it. We’ve got several wounded men on wagons out there, all that’s left of a score or so of bandits who tried to ambush us on the road. You might want to bring them in for medical attention before they die of cold and deny the people of this city the chance to watch them being executed.’ Shaking his head he turned away, staring unhappily into the mist that wreathed the ground inside the city’s wall; it was just as impenetrable as it had been outside. ‘Now, which way to the headquarters building?’
The chosen man waved his men back to the warmth of their guard house before pointing down the road that continued from the gate into the city’s murky interior.
‘That way, Centurion. But don’t be looking for a headquarters. This is a civilian settlement, not a fort. Go down there for a quarter mile or so and you’ll come to a crossroads. The big building on the right is the forum, and, at a guess, you’ll find the officers there, in the basilica.’
The three centurions formed a protective cordon around Scaurus as the party walked forward. Dubnus put a hand on the hilt of his sword, muttering nervously as he stared out into the fog.
‘Four hundred paces to the middle of the city? That would make this place bigger than the Sixth Legion’s fortress at Yew Grove. It’s
…’
‘Enormous?’ A gentle smile was playing on Scaurus’s face as he looked with interest at the buildings looming out of the fog on either side of the road. ‘This is a provincial centre, Centurion. There are perhaps eight or ten thousand people inside these walls, or at least there would have been before the plague came. There are at least a hundred times as many in Rome, and yet Rome’s walls are only three times as long. Which makes you wonder what they’re doing with all the space.’
In the murk ahead of them a pair of blazing torches indicated the entrance to the forum, with a pair of sentries standing guard in front of the high archway. Before the tribune had any chance to explain their presence to the surprised soldiers a legion centurion walked out of the courtyard beyond them, stopping with a start of surprise when he saw the newcomers. Staring with narrowed eyes at the three centurions’ unfamiliar armour and crested helmets, he was further taken aback when he realised who it was they were escorting. Scaurus allowed the silence to play out for a few seconds, watching the calculation in the legion officer’s face before speaking in an acerbic tone designed to communicate his status.
‘Yes, Centurion, this is a senior officer’s uniform, and yes, Centurion, you’re supposed to have your hand in the air some time about now.’
The other man saluted quickly, his face reddening with embarrassment, while the sentries worked hard but not entirely successfully at keeping the smirks off their faces.
‘I’m sorry, Prefect, it’s just that we weren’t expecting to receive any reinforcement.’
Marcus looked at Julius, wondering if his colleague was going to correct the legion man’s mistaken identification, but his questioning gaze was answered only by a slight shake of the big man’s head. Scaurus nodded to the centurion, looking over his shoulder at the dimly visible administrative building on the other side of the forum’s open courtyard.
‘That’s perfectly understandable, Centurion, because we’re not reinforcements. If you’ll show me to your tribune…?’
The centurion led them across the forum’s wide, paved expanse, around which the city’s merchants would gather to tout their wares in better weather, and into the warmth of the basilica. Realising that he was on
the back foot, he made a belated effort to regain some sense of the dominance to be expected in the relationship between a legion and its supporting auxiliary cohorts.
‘And now, gentlemen, if I might ask you to leave your weapons here before you go through for your interview with the tribune-’
Scaurus cut him off in a flat tone, looking about the entrance hall at the rich wall hangings and an elaborate mosaic of Mercury stretched out across the floor.
‘No, Centurion, you might not. I’ve neither the time nor the patience at the moment.’
He walked past the astonished officer and through the hall, his hobnailed boots rapping harshly against the mosaic’s delicate surface, and after a second’s hesitation his centurions followed in a clatter of iron. Dubnus winked at the disgruntled legion centurion, and muttered from the side of his mouth.
‘Just be grateful you’re not left holding his cloak like a uniformed doorman.’
Pushing open the doors at the entrance hall’s far end, the Tungrians walked into a high-ceilinged chamber dominated by a massive table, around which were sitting several men in the crisp white tunics of legion officers and two civilians dressed in togas. They looked round curiously at the unexpected entry, and the youngest of them got to his feet with a look of annoyance on his face, tapping the senatorial stripe adorning his tunic. The Tungrian centurions snapped to attention and saluted crisply, while Scaurus fiddled with his cloak pin, tossing the thick woollen garment onto a chair and revealing his finely wrought breastplate. The young tribune flicked his eyes across the centurions’ mail armour, and his mouth tightened fractionally in response to his prompt assessment of the newcomers.
‘You’re auxiliaries, I presume?’ he said. Scaurus nodded tersely, looking back at the man with a level gaze. ‘Which would make you a prefect? And I have a tendency to insist on the finer points of military etiquette, Prefect. Such as the expectation that even officers should salute their seniors.’
The young tribune’s voice was reasonable enough, but he spoke in a manner which indicated he had grown accustomed to being listened to more than he listened. To Marcus’s trained eye he appeared the model of a legion senior officer, a man in his mid-twenties with fashionably long hair, his beard grown thick and bushy in emulation of the imperial fashion but nevertheless glossy and neatly trimmed. His eyes, hard with their challenge to the unknown officer standing before him, were set close above a classically Roman nose, down which he was looking with an expression of sorely tried patience. Scaurus looked at him with a level gaze for a moment, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a scroll. When he spoke his voice was dry and without any hint of recognition of the other man’s professed superiority in rank.
‘I heartily agree, colleague. I was saying just the same thing to a young legion tribune of senatorial rank only a few weeks ago, when he happened to come under my command, and before he died nobly in battle beside me.’ Watching the legion officers, Marcus noted their various widened eyes and intakes of breath, the signs of men hearing the unexpected. Scaurus shook his head slightly, holding the scroll loosely in one hand. ‘You don’t believe in getting your facts straight before you open your mouth though, do you, colleague?’ The other man turned pale, but as he opened his mouth to speak again Scaurus walked around the table and went face to face with him, his grey eyes suddenly stone hard, and his voice a low murmur that forced the other man to listen intently to make out the words.
‘This is that interesting, perhaps life-defining, moment, Tribune, that we all encounter when we least expect it, that moment of truth when the pit opens up before us, and we have only to step forward to be in it up to our neck. Do you have any questions you might want to ask me before we get down to the good old-fashioned contest to see which of us has the bigger cock? Any doubts as to which of us might end up raising his hand in respect at the end of that conversation?’
The legion tribune shook his head, clearly holding onto his rage by a fine thread.
‘I am Lucius Domitius Belletor, Military Tribune commanding the Seventh Cohort of Imperial Legion First Minervia, on detached duty to safeguard the city of Tungrorum. I have orders from my legion’s legatus to command the services of any and all suitable forces that come within my reach. Which means you, and your men, Prefect.’
He raised an eyebrow at Scaurus, who, holding his gaze, replied in a louder tone than before, ensuring that all of the men around the table could hear him.
‘Very well. I am Military Tribune Gaius Rutilius Scaurus, commanding the First and Second Tungrian Cohorts and on detached duty from the army of Britannia to seek and eliminate bandits, deserters and rebels from the province of Germania Inferior. I have orders from the governor of Britannia not to allow my force to fall under the command of any other officer unless I deem this to be in the interests of pursuing my given orders. Perhaps he foresaw just such an eventuality as this one.’ Belletor opened his mouth to speak, but Scaurus held up a hand. ‘I can see I haven’t yet convinced you, and I see nothing to be gained from our discussing this matter in public. Perhaps we ought to ask our colleagues and these other gentlemen to leave us alone for a few minutes?’
Belletor nodded slowly and turned back to the legion centurions, who were, to a man, gaping in silent amazement at the drama playing out before their eyes.
‘Leave us.’
The officers rose and headed for the door through which the Tungrians had entered, followed after an embarrassing pause by the two civilians. Julius, last to leave the room, closed the heavy oak doors and, spotting a thick curtain clearly designed to improve the privacy of the room, drew it across them.
‘I’m guessing you’re the senior man here?’
He turned to face the speaker, a grizzled man with broad shoulders and big hands, his face riven by a heavy scar that ran from his right eyebrow down across his upper cheek, bisecting his lips and reaching down to the point of his chin. Julius braced himself for the expected torrent of abuse, and both Dubnus and Marcus shifted their stances fractionally, subconsciously positioning themselves to fight. The speaker raised his eyebrows and lifted his hands to forestall any argument although he didn’t, Marcus noted, step back from the challenge.
‘No, there’s no need for you to feel threatened. We’re all on the same side here. I’m Sergius, First Spear of the Seventh Cohort.’ He put out a hand, and Julius shook it without hesitation. ‘Whatever’s going on in there probably has to be said between the two of them and then forgotten, so it’s best we’re out of earshot, right?’
Julius nodded, finding himself starting to warm to the other man despite the unfulfilled expectation of hostility.
‘I’m Julius, Centurion, First Tungrian Auxiliary Cohort, and these two are Dubnus and Corvus. Our first spear’s waiting at the west gate with the rest of the men. Any chance we could get them inside before it gets dark?’
Without the restrictions of an audience of their subordinates, Belletor promptly went on the offensive, putting his finger in Scaurus’s face and spitting a stream of fury at him.
‘How fucking dare you speak to me that way in front of my officers?’
The older man smiled into his anger, shaking his head.
‘You brought it on yourself, colleague. A simple quiet question or two would have shown you the real position of status between us, rather than what you’d like it to be. But let’s ignore your inability to ask questions before throwing your weight around.’
‘My legatus will hear about this soon enough! I’ll have you-’
Scaurus stepped forward, his face white with anger, putting his face inches away from the other man’s and making him take an involuntary step backwards.
‘That was the wrong choice of words, Tribune! Any sorting out between us is going to be done here, between us. Put any idea of using your legatus to deal with me out of your mind, because I’m here and he isn’t! I’ve dealt with your type of officer before, and I’ve learned that allowing your type of officer to delude yourselves only brings m
ore grief than shattering your illusions nice and early. The days when even the least capable man with senatorial rank could tell veteran field commanders with equestrian rank what to do are dying away, Domitius Belletor. And as far as I’m concerned, in this particular small corner of the empire they may as well never have existed.’
He picked up the scroll from the table in front of him.
‘First, Tribune, my orders, which were handed to me by my provincial governor, insist that I operate independently of any other command unless I choose to do otherwise. Secondly, Tribune, the facts are that you’ve less than half my strength in spears and you’ve been given the Seventh, one of the traditionally weaker cohorts in any legion. Your command is highly likely to be packed with raw recruits and boys barely out of the first year’s training. And thirdly, Tribune, my perceptions of your achievements, if I’m being blunt, are that you’ve done little more since you got here than line the walls of this city with your troops. My officers were assaulted by a score of bandits little more than ten miles from these walls, and none of them showed any of the fear for our uniforms that I would have expected if your men were patrolling with anything like the necessary vigour. My two cohorts are hardened from recent battle in the barbarian uprising across the water in Britannia, and I have no intention of wasting their abilities by allowing them to sit around and go soft under your command.’
Belletor shook his head decisively, still refusing to concede the point, his lip curling in amazed contempt.
‘I am a legion tribune! That automatically gives me the right to command you, a mere auxiliary! Anything else is simply-’
To his obvious fury, Scaurus had turned his back and walked away from him, his boots rattling against the floor’s flagstones as he examined the murals decorating the walls. He replied without turning to face the other man, his voice rich with irony.
The Leopard sword e-4 Page 3