‘You were lucky, old friend, very lucky. If that tent party of auxiliaries hadn’t chanced on you…’
Rufius nodded sagely, a dark look in his eye.
‘I know. We were carrion. Mind you, if that was good fortune I still wonder just what chance put those tribesmen in our path.’
‘Yes… Well, enough of your boasting, you haven’t introduced me to your bloodstained young friend…’
‘This is Marcus Valerius Aquila. A fellow traveller from the south, and soon to be a brother in the service of Mars, all the way from Rome itself. And, despite the slightly travel-worn appearance of his clothes, not to mention the fine pattern of dried blood across his face, a man of influence, promised a position on the Sixth’s staff.’
The innkeeper turned back to Marcus with a gravely inclined head.
‘My apologies, a young gentleman. So, will you both be staying, sirs?’
Rufius pulled a mock grimace.
‘Despite the hideous expense of your lodging, the mediocre quality of your board and the watery nature of your wine, yes, we both need lodging for the night.’
‘Excellent. My man Justus will see to your horses and take the baggage to your rooms. You take a couple of hours to sweat out that blood, and I’ll have two of my very best roasted duck waiting for you, cooked in their own fat and served with a sauce of wild honey, red wine and herbs. And for you, Rufius, because I know your needs of old, I’ll crack open my last amphora of a rather special Iberian red. How does that sound?’ As the pair made their way through the town towards the fortress baths, clean tunics under their arms, the familiar sound of hobnailed boots clattering against the road’s surface swelled behind them, echoing through the narrow streets until the sound and its reverberations merged into a constant roar. The windows of the buildings to either side of the road, shutters closed against the cold, were quickly opened to allow the curious to look into the street. Several of the female onlookers obviously shared a keen professional interest in the arrival of a body of soldiers at the fortress to judge from the way that hair was hastily let down and, in at least one case, breasts placed on open display. The standard-bearer and leading century of a legion cohort swept around the corner behind them at the march, heading for the fortress gates in the dying light of dusk. Rufius pulled Marcus into a doorway and off the street as the leading troops poured past, rank after rank of soldiers pounding up the street with their heads back to suck air into their bursting lungs, belting out a bawdy marching song.
… my brother keeps a restaurant with bedrooms up the stairs, but none of them will talk to me ’cause I’m a legionnaire!
Rufius smiled with fond memories, his lips moving to the song as the legionaries kept coming in a seemingly unending column. Centurions and chosen men stalked alongside their centuries, shouting commands at their men to carry their fucking spears straighter and stop eyeing the bloody prostitutes, while century after century pounded past. As had been the case with the troops who had escorted him up the road from Dark Pool, Marcus found their appearance disappointing after the spit and polish he’d got used to in the Guard. Shields were clean, but not shining, armour and weapons lacked the finely detailed workmanship to which he was accustomed, and their clothing was utilitarian — rough leather boots, heavy woollen tunics and coarse woven leggings all spattered with mud from the road.
His eye was caught by a group of horsemen, however, whose equipment looked every bit as fine as that he was used to, their polished cuirasses tied together with clean ribbon. Tiberius Rufius pointed at them and put his mouth close to Marcus’s ear to shout over the din, coughing at the dust kicked up by the units’ passing.
‘It must be at least half of the Sixth, out for fitness training. That’s the legatus and his staff, with an escort from the legion’s cavalry. They’re drafted in from an Asturian cohort from up north on the Wall, but most of them are German. Funny how the roughest barbarians always look the smartest once they’re given uniforms…’
Marcus nodded distractedly, watching the legion’s commander ride past in the midst of his staff tribunes, grim-faced cavalrymen to their front and rear. The man’s head turned as his horse passed the doorway, and he nodded recognition at Tiberius Rufius as he passed out of sight. Marcus looked at the older man, his eyebrows raised.
‘You know the legatus?’
‘I’ve sold the Sixth locally bred cattle, and given him a little information about the border region. What else can an old soldier do but help out his former mates?’
They stood in silence as the rest of the column ground past, waiting until the last century had passed over the bridge and into the fortress before leaving their doorway and stepping out into the near-dark street and continuing on their way. The garrison’s bathhouse was as large as was necessary to cope with the cleansing and leisure needs of several thousand legionary infantry, the imposing halls lit with hundreds of large torches.
Changed out of their battle-stained clothes, the two men oiled their naked bodies and slipped on wooden-soled bath shoes to protect their feet from the hot floors. They went through the chilly frigidarium and into the steam room, finding seats among the dozens of soldiers who sat perspiring in the clammy heat. Tiberius Rufius pointed to a floor mosaic depicting Mars in full armour, and brandishing an infantry sword.
‘That’s your first god for the next few years! Who were you brought up to respect the most?’
‘The household shrine is dedicated to Mercury, so that’s who I always prayed to first.’
‘A good choice in a merchant’s house. Mercury won’t begrudge Mars your attention while you’re in the service, though. Always be sure to seek his blessings before you embark on any course that may end in battle. Jupiter, it’s hot. I can feel the dirt being forced out of me. Scraper! Over here, boy!’
They endured the clammy heat for another fifteen minutes, luxuriating in the pleasure of a good sweat, and the chance to get the last of the barbarian blood out of their skins. Climbing into the hot bath for a moment to remove any residue, they went through to the hot room and settled down again. Tiberius Rufius bought them a small flask of wine and a small cake apiece, ‘just to get our appetites up’, and they sat in companionable silence, watching off-duty soldiers, some lifting weights in one corner of the room, others content just to play dice and drink wine, each man loudly invoking Fortuna’s divine help before tossing the bone cubes. Almost dozing in the oppressive heat, Marcus opened an eye lazily as a magnificently muscled black-bearded man walked across the room, settling on to the bench opposite their resting place. He nudged Rufius with his elbow.
‘Isn’t that…?’
‘Yes, our saviour from this afternoon. Dubnus, wasn’t it?’
‘He looks like an ugly piece of work.’
Rufius frowned.
‘I suspect there’s more to the man than you’d guess from his outward appearance. You might find a chat with him educational. Perhaps he’ll join us for a cup.’
He beckoned the other man to come across and join them. The Briton rose, padded across the floor and settled on his haunches facing the two, his thick black eyebrows raised in question above hard grey eyes. Marcus estimated his age to be about twenty-five years. The Briton nodded to Rufius, acknowledging his presence, but gave no sign of greeting to the younger man. Rufius returned the compliment, gesturing to the wine flask alongside him on the bench.
‘Chosen, we were wondering if you would be willing to join us in a cup of wine, as recognition of your actions of this afternoon?’
The Briton regarded the pair with a level gaze before replying.
‘I will not drink with a Roman.’
To Marcus’s surprise, Tiberius Rufius’s face muscles did not move as much as a twitch.
‘You disappoint me, but it is your choice. Tell me, what is it that you have against my friend’s illustrious city?’
The Briton’s face twisted at the question.
‘Your question surprises me. You’ve been here a while,
to judge by your appearance. Surely you can see what they’ve done to this country — taken our lands, killed our forefathers and fucked our women.’
‘So why do you serve in our army?’
The words were out of Marcus’s mouth before he could control his reaction. The Briton swivelled his head to face him.
‘I serve in the First Tungrian Cohort, not in your army. I defend my people from attack by the northern tribes. My people have no defence against them without the presence of the auxiliary cohorts.’
‘No defence? With three legions within a few days’ march?’
The man facing him smiled without mirth.
‘Your legions defend Rome’s interests — your mines, your farms, everything which makes your people rich. My people have grown soft in the time since you conquered us, and become used to living on the scraps from your table. Without men like me on the Wall, the northern tribes would raid our settlements many times in each year. Your legions wouldn’t lift a sword until Roman interests were in danger. My thanks, Tiberius Rufius, but I will not drink with you today.’
Rising smoothly from his squatting position, the Briton walked back to his former seat, settled on to the bench and closed his eyes. Tiberius Rufius watched him for a long moment, cocking an eyebrow at Marcus’s pale, angry face.
‘Hmmm. That is an interesting man, and I think we can now officially discount any possibility that he’s stupid. Come on, let’s drown that irritation in another cup of wine…’
Their bath complete, the two men dressed in their clean tunics and walked back to the inn for dinner. The duck promised by Ennius was brought to their table roasted to perfection and coated with a delicious sauce, and the red wine he poured for them was of the quality Marcus had become used to drinking at his father’s table. Rufius poured cup after cup for him until, with a belated realisation that his face was suddenly feeling numb, and that he was losing the power to string together a coherent sentence, the younger man decided it was time he was in bed. As he staggered unsteadily up to his room, half carried by his new friend, he recalled, with the needle-sharp random insight of the truly drunk, a comment his companion had made hours before.
‘Rufius… you said that Mercury was a good hous’hold god for a merchan’. I didn’t tell you Father was a merchan’…’
The fact that he got no answer seemed to be of little importance at the time.
After putting the drunken Marcus to bed, Rufius, having deliberately rationed his wine intake to keep his wits intact, slipped back down the stairs. He handed Ennius a coin and left, strapping on his sword and taking up his pack. He walked through the torchlit streets to the river bridge and across, to the fortress’s main gate. Challenged by the gate guards, he stood his ground confidently in the teeth of their levelled spears.
‘You’d better fetch the duty centurion, boys, and look lively about it. I’ve got an appointment inside, and it doesn’t pay to keep Calidius Sollemnis waiting.’
The duty officer marched up, took a look at the veteran and waved him through the gate, raising a sardonic eyebrow to his deputy. At the entrance to the headquarters building he was brought up short at the main entrance by a tall blond man dressed in mud-spattered armour coming out past the sentries, his plumed helmet dangling by its chinstrap. Rufius stepped back, inclining his head with careful respect.
‘Tribune Perennis, salutations. You’ve had a full day on the road, it appears.’
The other man dropped his hands to his hips in a confident stance.
‘Tiberius Rufius. Well, don’t you always manage to turn up when things get interesting? Doubtless merely coincidence, just as always seems to be the case. And yet we never see you out in the countryside, no matter how carefully we look.’
Rufius smiled gently, keeping his face neutral.
‘Yes, Tribune, well, I like to move around with a degree of caution. You can never be sure just who’s waiting to jump out on you in these troubled times. Only today I heard a man with a surprisingly German accent exhorting a bunch of drunken Brits to carve out my liver.’
The officer laughed quietly, with a faint smile that failed to touch his eyes.
‘German, eh? How very interesting. Well, never fear, senior centurion, my Asturians will take care to look out for you on the road. Our paths will cross one day soon, of that I’m quite certain. Goodnight.’
Rufius watched him walk away with hard bright eyes, muttering so quietly under his breath that even the sentries’ straining ears were frustrated.
‘Not if I see you coming first, you cocky young bastard.’
*
A beaker of water in the face served well enough to wake Marcus from a seemingly endless nightmare of roads and hills. Rough hands pulled him from the bed, still dressed in the tunic and leggings he’d worn the previous night, putting him on his feet and holding him upright while his head swam. A disgusted voice cut through his daze.
‘Pissed! Throw some more of that water over him.’
The sudden cold sting shocked him into a degree of consciousness. A pair of armoured and armed legionaries were holding an arm apiece to keep him vertical, while a centurion watched impatiently from the doorway, an oil lamp in one hand throwing unsteady shadows against the walls. He considered vomiting, but fought the impulse down after a moment of awful physical indecision.
‘Waking up, are you, you little shit? Good, you’ve got two minutes to pack. After that, anything you haven’t stowed gets left behind. You, take that sword and make sure he doesn’t get a chance to grab it off you, he’s dangerous behind a blade from what I’ve heard.’
The marble-hard face left no room for argument. Stuffing his travel clothes, left dirty on the room’s chair for washing in the morning, into his saddlebag, Marcus checked that his purse was still in place at his belt.
‘Ready? Right…’
His voice returned, hoarse from the wine’s bite.
‘Wait… where are you taking me?’
The centurion stepped across the tiny room to put his face close to Marcus’s, close enough for his sour breath to register, and for grey whiskers to stand out of the black of his beard. He reached out a hand and, with cold, hard fingers, took the younger man’s jaw in a firm grip.
‘For a short and painful interview with the legatus, cumstain. After which I’d be happy to go a round or two with you in a closed room, you fucking traitor!’
‘What!?’
‘Shut your face! Bring him!’
The innkeeper was waiting grim faced outside the room. The centurion nodded to him.
‘Pay your bill.’
Marcus numbly dropped coins into the outstretched palm.
‘Petronius Ennius… my friend Rufius…?’
Ennius shot him a hard stare, his mouth set in a grim line.
‘Left straight after dinner. And well away from you, from the looks of things.’
The soldiers hustled him from the inn, moving briskly through the town’s dark streets. Across the river bridge, through the main gate’s man-sized wicket gate and into the fortress they marched, past sentries waiting at the parade rest for their dawn relief. A building loomed out of the torchlit gloom, the door watched by another pair of legionaries. Inside there was warmth and light, a mosaic floor and painted walls, pleasant enough to take the chill away from Marcus’s skin in the few moments that he waited, still under close guard, in the house’s hallway. Waiting for the officer’s return, he spent several moments examining the quality of a wall painting representing the goddess Diana hunting with two dogs, but all the while he stared at the artist’s handiwork, trying to affect an indifferent air, his mind raced frantically, trying to account for the sudden turn of events that saw him under armed guard where he should have been greeted as an equal. It was a circumstance for which he was completely unprepared, and he was sure that his disquiet was showing beneath the attempted veneer of confidence. Resolving to remain silent as to his mission for the time being, although the desire to end the charade pressed
heavily on him, he awaited the officer’s return, concentrating on a studied ignorance of the guards’ curious stares. The centurion eventually returned, motioning the soldiers to stay where they were.
‘Keep his belongings here and don’t touch them, they might contain evidence against him. You, come with me.’
He followed the officer past yet another guard into a large office, hearing the door shut behind him. The centurion pointed to a spot on the room’s floor, sliding his sword from its scabbard.
‘Stand there and don’t move. If you do move, I’ll put my iron through your fucking spine. And don’t speak unless you’re asked to!’
Seated at the heavy wooden desk was a tired-looking man in his mid-thirties, his white tunic edged with the thick senatorial stripe, his black hair cut somewhat longer than was the formal military style. Marcus found his face strangely familiar for some reason, and wondered distractedly whether they had met before. Another, younger man, whose tunic bore the thinner equestrian stripe, lounged against the room’s far wall, casting a calculating gaze over Marcus. Blond hair and piercing blue eyes hinted at northern European ancestry somewhere in his not too distant past. The seated man sat in silence for a moment, then spoke with a swift and practised formality.
‘Marcus Valerius Aquila, I am Legatus Gaius Calidius Sollemnis of the Sixth Imperial Legion. This is Titus Tigidius Perennis, my senior tribune, who I’ve asked to attend this interview to act as a witness to my decisions. I’ve had you brought to my residence since I didn’t want to do this in the headquarters building — too many eyes and ears, I’m afraid. Before we go any farther in this matter, I will declare an interest in your case — I was at one time a close friend of your father’s, although we haven’t spoken for some five or six years now. You look very much as your father did at your age…’
He raised a hand in pre-emption of any question.
‘No, you’re here to listen. Marcus Valerius Aquila, do you know why I ordered you to be brought here at this time?’
The opportunity was irresistible to a young man in desperate need of reassurance.
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 3