‘Your point is taken, Standard Bearer. I will remember to apply it rigidly when your continual flow of insubordination and invention of schemes to defraud your fellow soldiers leads to your taking your turn to dance on the shaft of a nail. Or would that be different?’
The two men stood in silence and watched as the Second Cohort marched onto the parade ground and took their place behind the First. The Tungrians were loaded for the march, their carrying poles topped with the bundles that contained their lives, and it wasn’t hard to detect a certain lack of enthusiasm for the day’s march in the soldiers’ bearing. Once the Tungrians were settled in place the legion cohort made their entrance, and the soldiers standing behind Marcus started their accustomed stream of insults and jibes, albeit muttered at a volume low enough to prevent them carrying beyond their own ranks. Swinging to face his men, Marcus lifted his vine stick to Quintus who was standing in his usual place behind the century’s ranks.
‘Chosen Man Quintus, you have my permission to put your pole through the head of the next man to speak! And on this occasion I won’t be finding fault with your selection of targets! Should you give a nasty headache to the most unpleasant man in the century in error I’m sure he’ll know who to blame once the initial shock has worn off.’
He turned back to watch the legion cohort’s arrival, smiling at the sudden complete silence behind him as the likely consequences of the next smart comment sank into his soldiers’ minds.
‘I see the German’s come to see us off.’
The Roman turned his head at Morban’s muttered comment, quickly finding Gerwulf standing alone at the side of the parade ground in full uniform.
‘Indeed so. I wonder . . .’
A hurrying figure caught his eye, a woman dressed in a heavy cloak against the morning cold and escorted by a pair of solidly built men, one of whom was carrying a long bundle in his arms. She hurried across the parade ground looking from side to side, obviously seeking out somebody in particular.
‘It’s the floozy that owns the Ravenstone mine. Gods below, but she could make a man forget that he ever had any troubles. Good legs, fair-sized tits, a pretty face . . . and all that gold.’
Marcus ignored the standard bearer’s musings and watched as Theodora made a beeline for Scaurus. With a sudden presentiment of what could have upset the woman quite so badly, he stepped out of his place in front of the century and strode down the cohort’s line to join the tribune and the first spear as they listened to her near hysterical recounting of the night’s events.
‘They broke into the villa at dawn and held my staff at sword-point. They killed the boy, Gaius!’
Scaurus leaned closer, staring into the woman’s eyes with a slitted gaze, his voice hard in the sudden silence as she fell quiet at the sight of his murderous expression.
‘Who were they?’
His answer was a wail of despair and fury, as she turned and pointed at the stationary figure of the German prefect still staring at them from the parade ground’s edge, a smile creasing his lips.
‘They didn’t say, but it must have been him! Look at him standing there with that smug expression on his face and tell me that they weren’t his men!’
Looking at the bodyguard’s burden, Marcus realised that it was Mus’s body, wrapped in a sheet. A small bloodstain had leaked through the material, and the realisation that the child must have been killed with a blade sent a wave of icy fury through him, but before he could move Scaurus barked out a command.
‘No!’
The tribune stared at his furious officers with a face set hard.
‘If we have no proof then we cannot act. Gentlemen, return to your duties.’ Neither Julius nor Marcus moved, both men staring across the parade ground at Gerwulf with murderous intent, but before either of them could translate intention into action the tribune spoke again, his tone suddenly matter of fact.
‘This one we lose, it’s as simple as that. I thought asking Theodora to hide the boy was enough to safeguard him, but I was wrong. He’s dead, which destroys the last chance of anyone bearing witness to Gerwulf turning his men loose on that village. And if any of us attempt to make him pay for Mus’s murder Belletor will be provided with exactly the evidence he needs of my insubordination. The bastard’s got away with it this time, and he knows it.’
The German stared at them for a moment longer and then raised his arm in an ironic salute. He turned and strode away down the hill without a backward glance, leaving the three men staring at his back until he vanished from view among the tents of his cohort’s camp.
6
‘The legatus will see you now, Tribunes.’
Scaurus motioned to the door, gesturing for his colleague to enter the legatus’s office in front of him. Belletor accepted the invitation with alacrity, clearly keen to put himself in front of the man who would be the arbiter of their fate ahead of his rival. The legatus rose from the desk behind which he was sitting and walked round it to greet him, his face professionally bland as he accepted first Belletor’s salute and then Scaurus’s. Whilst his facial bone structure and hair colour were clearly North African in origin, from the coastal lands previously occupied by Rome’s ancient enemy Carthage, his skin was surprisingly pale by contrast with the darker hue that usually accompanied such an appearance.
‘Domitius Belletor, welcome to Porolissum. I am Decimus Clodius Albinus, legatus of the Thirteenth Legion and joint field commander of imperial forces in the province.’
Belletor saluted formally, a frown creasing his brow.
‘My thanks, Legatus, although I am at a loss as to how you were able to discern which of the two of us was which?’
Albinus smiled slightly, indicating Scaurus with a wave of his hand.
‘It was easy enough, Tribune, given that I’ve known Gaius here since he was a fifteen-year-old. I’m surprised that he’s never mentioned our long association to you.’
Belletor’s eyes narrowed as the implications of the legatus’s statement sank in. He dithered for a moment before speaking again.
‘In that case, Legatus, you will doubtless be aware that I am the commander of the auxiliary detachment that arrived here this morning. My command comprises a legion cohort, two auxiliary cohorts, a squadron of auxiliary cavalry and one thousand native horsemen.’
Albinus nodded easily, seating himself behind the desk again and waving to a pair of chairs set out ready for the two men. The slab of wood in front of him was devoid of any clutter, and only two objects marred its otherwise clear surface: an infantry gladius sheathed in a magnificently ornate scabbard and a small silver bell which had been polished to a brilliant shine. Once the tribunes were seated he answered Belletor’s statement, his face wreathed in a beneficent smile.
‘Indeed, Tribune, my beneficiarius arrived here two days ago with news of your impending arrival, and a detailed briefing as to the events around the successful defence of Alburnus Major. Well done gentlemen, I’m sure the governor will mention you both favourably in his next despatch to Rome.’
He paused, looking closely at Belletor to see how the tribune would react.
‘Both of us, Legatus? Since I am the commander of the detachment that defended the mine complex I would have expected . . .’
Albinus smiled again, putting up a hand to silence him.
‘All in good time, Tribune. I think that our first topic for discussion ought to be this disciplinary matter my clerk tells me you wish to register. I believe it is a matter of concern regarding Rutilius Scaurus’s conduct during your recent encounter with the Sarmatae? That is, I hardly need to point out to you, a serious accusation that might well cast a severe and possibly terminal blight upon a man’s career. Are you sure you wish to persist with this request?’
Belletor responded stiffly, his suspicion as to where Albinus’s sympathies might lie clearly aroused.
‘I feel it my duty to report Rutilius Scaurus’s insubordinate behaviour, Legatus, and to ensure that he receives the approp
riate penalty for his wilful ignorance of my orders.’
Albinus shrugged, holding out a hand.
‘I see. In that case perhaps I’d better have a look at that scroll in your hand, which my clerk informs me contains your orders from your legatus in Fortress Bonna. I believe it has direct relevance on the matter of who was granted command of the detachment in question.’
Belletor handed over the scroll, shooting a triumphant glance at Scaurus.
‘As you can see, Legatus, my own commanding officer’s instructions on the matter of my absolute power over the detachment are quite unequivocal.’
He waited patiently while Albinus digested the contents of the scroll.
‘I see. Well this is most edifying, Domitius Belletor. Perhaps more so than you realise.’ He looked up at the tribune with a look that redoubled Belletor’s suspicions that all was not going as he hoped. ‘Tell me, who was it that composed this order?’
The tribune frowned again, failing to see the point of the question.
‘It was Legatus Decula, the commander of the First Minervia at Fortress Bonna, as you can see from the name at the bottom of . . .’
Albinus shook his head with a look of sympathy.
‘You miss the point of my enquiry, Tribune.’ He sighed, his voice taking on a tone of weary patience. ‘In every organisation, Domitius Belletor, there is usually a small group of experienced professionals who understand all too well the empire’s requirements of whatever it is that they do, and how these might best be delivered, and who endeavour to ensure that their superiors’ instructions are issued in a manner likely to bring about success. And for better or worse, that’s doubly true in the army. I’ve got one, the man who showed you in here. Yes, he’s only a soldier, but he has fifteen years of experience in the framing and the writing of orders by senior officers. I make sure to ask his opinion as to every administrative matter that crosses my desk, as I did with this order I’m holding, once you’d shown it to him when requesting this interview. It was very clear to him that this order had been written by a fellow professional as an interpretation of the original verbal order given by Legatus Decula at Bonna. Which, of course, the idiot signed without a second thought.’
He smiled into Belletor’s incensed glare with complete equanimity for a moment, then shook his head in good-natured amusement.
‘Tribune, I’ve known Sextus Tullius Decula since the bad old days of the German Wars. He’s quite the most pompous and hidebound man I’ve ever served with, utterly convinced that only men of the senatorial class are capable of leading our legions to victory and at the same time somewhat more lax with the more mundane aspects of his command than might be wise. Doubtless he barked out a diatribe based on his ingrained prejudices, and then left his clerk to convert the sentiment of whatever it was he’d ranted on about into a written order for you to carry away, as your proof of superiority over your colleague here.’
Belletor shifted in his seat, while Scaurus’s face remained rigidly set, and Albinus looked down at the order again, pointing to the paper in his hand.
‘The first part of the order is clear enough, so I will paraphrase. You, Domitius Belletor, are to assume command of the detachment comprised of the units you detailed to me earlier, less the one thousand Sarmatae horsemen you’ve been brave enough to add to your command since then. Further, you are to exercise “absolute decision-making responsibility”, with the right to remove your colleague here from his subordinate command of the Tungrian cohorts should he provide you with adequate reason to do so. That was almost word for word with the legatus’s verbal instruction, I expect?’
Belletor nodded vigorously, sensing that his argument was easing itself away from the thin ice of the legatus’s relationship with his colleague, and onto the more certain ground of his clearly delegated authority over Scaurus.
‘Indeed so. And yet when I attempted to exercise that right to remove Rutilius Scaurus from his command he refused to accept my decision.’
Albinus nodded.
‘On the face of it then, Tribune Scaurus’s refusal to accept your command to relinquish control of his cohorts is a simple question of insubordination?’ Belletor nodded sanguinely. ‘I see. It is, of course, a matter which I am compelled to punish severely . . .’ He paused and fixed Belletor with a flat stare. ‘If, that is, I am unable to find any justification for Tribune Scaurus’s actions.’
The tribune recoiled in his seat as if he’d been stung.
‘Justification, Legatus?’
‘Justification, Domitius Belletor. By which I mean a good reason for your colleague to have ignored your instruction to relinquish his command.’ Albinus waved the order at Belletor, his smile now notably reduced in its friendliness. ‘And so we turn to the second part of this order, the part I suspect you read rather less well than the section we’ve already discussed, since it was perhaps less worthy of your interest. By which I mean it serves your interests somewhat less well. It is, after all, an afterthought, the usual standard order that headquarters’ clerks tack onto every set of instructions received by every detachment commander, and to which no legatus will ever take exception to since it all makes such good sense from the perspective of covering his backside.’
He flourished the order theatrically.
‘Let’s see what it says, shall we? He read from the scroll. ‘“You are commanded to fulfil the requirements of your orders with regard to the march from Germania Inferior to Dacia, and to conduct any necessary independent field operations with the required combination of necessary aggression whilst also exercising due regard for your command’s preservation.” Oh yes, this was definitely written by a professional administrator, since you are ordered to act both aggressively and in a cautious manner at the same time. The man’s covered every possible angle for his legatus, so that any disaster you might inflict upon your command is clearly your own fault and in no way capable of arriving on his desk. My man does much the same, and indeed I’m sure it’s a long-standing art passed from one clerk to the next.’
He smiled at Belletor again, but this time the expression was so thin as to be practically non-existent.
‘And so we come to the meat of the issue, Tribune Belletor. This last section, which I doubt Legatus Decula gave even so much as a second glance as he scribbled his name at the bottom of the paper, given he’ll have seen it so many times by now for it to be virtually invisible to him. “Should the requirement become obvious, you are to be replaced by your deputy until such time as you demonstrate your renewed ability to command the detachment in question.” An innocent little clause, isn’t it, and yet I fear it’s going to be the downfall of your argument for Rutilius Scaurus’s dismissal.’
Belletor’s mouth dropped open in amazement, and when he spoke again his words were an incensed gabble.
‘But there was never any need for Scaurus to replace me! I was always in complete control of the detachment, and at no time unfit to command!’ He glared at the legatus with undisguised fury. ‘This is outrageous, Legatus Albinus, I can see what you’re trying to do here and it won’t . . .’
He fell silent as Albinus picked up the silver bell and rang it, the high-pitched note summoning his clerk from the side office where he had clearly been waiting as instructed.
‘And that, Tribune, all depends on how we are to interpret fitness to command, doesn’t it? Ah, Julius. If you’d be so kind as to ask Beneficiarius Cattanius to join us? And perhaps you could take some notes for me? You know how the army likes this sort of thing to be properly documented.’
‘So what’s going on here, eh? What fuckin’ mischief are you apes up to now? And put those fuckin’ buckets down!’
Sanga and Scarface snapped to attention and stared fixedly at the fort’s wall while Quintus strode up to them with a furious look on his face, Marcus trailing in his wake with his eyes narrowed at the sight before him. Much to Scarface’s delight the two soldiers had been transferred from Qadir’s century to the Roman’s, along wi
th the remnants of their tent party after the cessation of hostilities with Galatas’s men, replacements for the losses that Marcus’s men had taken at the battle for the Saddle. Shortly thereafter their number had been reinforced by one of the warriors Balodi had offered as part of the agreement, and as the cohort’s officers had expected, the soldiers were finding ways to express their disdain for the hapless conscripts. The young centurion and his chosen man had rounded a corner to find the two veterans in the act of filling four buckets from one of the rainwater troughs that were positioned around the fort’s exterior. Their intended victim, a new soldier who Marcus recalled went by the name of Saratos, was standing stolidly by and watching the buckets being filled with an expression of faint dismay. Looking past him the young centurion spied Morban, having seemingly exercised his usual sixth sense with regard to the impending presence of officers, halfway down the line of tents and walking briskly with his attention ostentatiously elsewhere. Deciding to leave the standard bearer’s comeuppance until later in the day, Marcus stepped up behind his chosen man, pursing his lips as Quintus squared up to the veteran soldiers.
‘Think we’re clever, do we boys? Think we can have some fun with the new recruits while my back’s turned, eh? What were we doing then, loading him up with four buckets to see how many times around the camp he could carry them? A big strong lad like him? My money would be on ten, at least. What was your money on, eh lads?’
Sanga kept his mouth shut and his gaze locked on the fort’s wall, but Scarface lacked his mate’s ability to know when his mouth would be better kept closed.
‘You know how it is, Quintus, we was just seeing how tough the barbarian really is . . .’
The chosen man raised a finger to silence him, pointing at the buckets on the ground in front of the two soldiers. Sanga nodded minutely, his face taking on an expression that told Marcus he knew only too well what was coming next. Quintus patted the recruit on his shoulder, pointing in the direction in which Morban had vanished and gently telling him to be on his way, then turned back to the soldiers, his voice rising to parade-ground volume as he put his face less than an inch from Scarface’s.
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