Scaurus shook his head, watching the German walk away.
‘I think not. He’s more than a little lacking in the delicate approach required of a medical man. He’s been that way ever since I saved him from the sword back in the war with the Quadi, and I can’t see him changing now.’ He turned to look at the road ahead, still wreathed in drifting curtains of mist. ‘Well, then, shall we get these cohorts back on the road? I’d estimate there’s still another ten miles to the city, and there’ll be no respite from this cursed drizzle until we get there.’
As the leading centuries formed back into their marching column Marcus noted that Julius was scanning the ground around the corpse of the bandit group’s leader.
‘Lost something?’
His friend nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.
‘My whistle. It was a nice one too.’
Glancing about him, Marcus caught Dubnus’s eye, and saw that he was pointing ostentatiously at his own belt pouch and grinning smugly. Giving up the search, Julius turned back to his colleagues to find Dubnus apparently searching the ground at his feet with exaggerated interest.
‘I could do with a nice whistle; mine sounds like a castrated cat.’
The older man shook his head in disgust as the 3rd Century, set to lead the long two-cohort-strong column of march, started to move again at Clodius’s bellow of command.
‘Very funny, Dubnus. I suppose that’s the price I have to pay for being first into the fight. As per fucking usual.’
He stamped away to join his own 5th Century, leaving the two friends to wait for their men to march past.
‘How long will you hold onto it?’
Dubnus shrugged at Marcus’s question.
‘Until he’s bought a new one? I’ll sneak it back into his pouch once he’s laid out some coin for a replacement.’ He frowned at his friend’s sudden solemnity. ‘What? It’s not like I’ve lifted his purse!’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No, it’s me. I was just thinking how funny Rufius was going to find this.’
Dubnus put a spade-like hand on his friend’s mailed shoulder.
‘I know. I miss the old bastard almost as much as you do, but life, as Morban keeps telling anyone that will listen, is for those left around to profit from it. And here come your boys now. Go and cheer up Qadir with the story of our colleague’s whistle. You know he always turns grumpy when it’s too wet for his lads to play with their bows.’
After another four hours of marching, all of it through an afternoon made into premature twilight by the swirling mist, even Marcus was ready for the day’s journey to end. Marching alongside his chosen man, Qadir, at his century’s rear, he noted that the usually imperturbable Hamian’s demeanour became grimmer as the day progressed.
‘I’m going up to the front to make sure Morban’s not bullying the trumpeter too badly.’
The Hamian grunted in reply, his eyes locked on the gloomy landscape fitfully revealed by the mist’s drifting grey curtains.
Marching up to the century’s head, the Roman found his standard bearer, a twenty-five-year veteran famed for both his acerbic wit and his prodigious appetites for gambling, drinking and whoring, in reflective mood on the subject of their colleague’s unhappiness.
‘I tried to cheer him up at the lunch stop with a few jokes, but he wasn’t having any of it. Perhaps he’s starting to realise what him and his mates tossed away when they decided not to stay with the Hamian cohort back on the Wall. Carting around half their weight in iron can’t be much fun when they’re more used to prancing round the forest wearing next to nothing and shooting the occasion animal for the pot.’ Oblivious to his centurion’s icy stare, he ploughed on. ‘And now here he is, freezing cold, water dripping from the end of his nose and his bow hidden away for days on end for fear of the glue rotting. No wonder the poor bastard’s feeling miserable. Not like us, we’re used to this.’ Marcus stared out into the mist, shaking his head slightly at the realisation that Morban’s view of what might be affecting Qadir’s mood could just as easily be applied to his own situation. ‘Anyway, we’ll be tucked up in this new place’s barracks soon enough, with a few logs in the stove and all this nastiness behind us. And if dear old Qadir can’t take a joke then perhaps he shouldn’t have—’
The standard bearer’s sentiment was interrupted by a shout from further up the column, which promptly came to a halt in a succession of shouted commands from each centurion down the cohort’s column. Hearing the century in front of his own being told to halt Marcus shouted the same command to his men, then barked a terse order to Qadir to watch the ranks and walked forward to see what was happening. He passed the back of the leading century and the reason for the unscheduled halt became clear: a twenty-foot-high stone wall loomed out of the mist. A group of bemused centurions were gathered around a pair of massive wooden gates set in an imposing stone archway that barred the cohorts’ route into the city. The first spear was craning his neck to call up to a pair of soldiers who in turn were peering down into the mist with looks of deep suspicion.
‘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 migh
t 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 office
rs, 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?’
The Leopard Sword Page 3