The Wolf's Gold: Empire V

by Anthony Riches

  ‘My orders from Governor Marcellus not to become subordinated to any other officer? Tossed aside without even being read. One of the legion’s equestrian tribunes, a man from my own social class if you like, took me aside before the meeting and quietly warned me that the legatus doesn’t care much for the governor of Britannia, having served under him during Ulpius Marcellus’s first spell in command of that miserable island. It was just as well he gave me that small clue as to what was coming, and therefore time to compose myself, or I might have taken my fists to the damned fool. And then where would we all be?’

  After a moment’s pause to further calm himself, Scaurus had related the meeting’s events to his first spear through gritted teeth, shaking his head at the situation that had played out before him.

  ‘The bastard took a long leisurely piss all over our achievements in Tungrorum, Julius, and I had no choice but to keep my mouth shut and listen to his bullshit. He noted our victory over the bandit leader Obduro, in passing mind you, and then spent far longer decrying the destruction of Tungrorum’s grain store. “Levelled to the ground” was the phrase he used, while my halfwit colleague Belletor stood in silence with that shit-eating grin on his face. Never a word of commendation for the fortune in gold we recovered, or any recognition of the fact that the granaries we torched were largely repaired by the time we left, in fact quite the contrary. It was “disgraceful that imperial property and enough grain to feed this legion for a year” had been destroyed. Clearly I wasn’t fit for independent command, and would have to operate under the control of a “more measured officer and a man with better breeding”.’

  He’d spat out the last words, drawing interested stares from the guards on duty outside the legion’s headquarters and the soldiers passing them in the fortress’s street. Julius had found the presence of mind, despite his respect for both the man’s rank and his fearsome temper once roused, to take him gently by the arm and lead him out of their earshot.

  ‘We are to be commanded, Julius, by a member of the senatorial class, a man from an impeccable family. In short, we are to be commanded by that buffoon Belletor. The man who couldn’t even make it to the battle outside Tungrorum for sore feet and lack of wind is now my superior.’ He’d laughed at the anger in Julius’s face, shaking his head in dark amusement. ‘Oh yes, now you know why I nearly went across the man’s desk and took him by the throat. But there’s more. Our orders from Governor Marcellus, to return home to Britannia once we’ve dealt with the bandit threat to Tungrorum, are out of the window I’m afraid. We’re to march for Dacia in company with Belletor’s cohort as reinforcement for the two legions holding the line there. Apparently some tribe or other is getting uppity and needs slapping down, so we get to march twenty miles a day for the next two months in the wrong direction to provide them with more spears. I asked about the chances of being transported by river, but apparently the fleet is tied up watching the northern bank of the Rhenus in case the German tribes choose to take the opportunity to renew their attack on the province.’

  Julius had grimaced, shaking his head in dismay.

  ‘The men won’t be happy marching east.’

  Scaurus had laughed sardonically.

  ‘What, they won’t like not going home? Wait until they’ve endured a few weeks of Belletor’s leadership! He is, as the legatus took great pleasure in telling him in my presence, to keep me on a “very tight rope indeed”. If I show any signs of failing to accept my situation with the appropriate deference to his rank, he is authorised and indeed encouraged to replace me with a young man of equally good family who is to come along for the ride. Lucius Carius Sigilis, another young tribune from the senatorial class, still wet behind the ears and already driving the senior centurions to distraction, I expect. It’s an opportunity for the legatus to rid himself of a pair of daddy’s boys who are no practical use to him, and to gain favour with their fathers for giving them their chance for glory and advancement. If I don’t like it then Belletor can remove me from command and send me home with a snap of his fingers, put this boy soldier in my place and, of course, impose a pair of new first spears from his own cohort on our soldiers, just to make sure they do what they’re told. I’d imagine the only thing that will stop him from doing so the moment we’re out of camp will be the sweet anticipation of my humiliation, and after that my happy acceptance of whatever indignity he chooses to throw at me. And if I go, First Spear, then you’ll find yourself back in command of a century with a legion man in control of the cohort. If you or any other of our officers make their feelings on the subject clear then the outcome’s likely to be your dismissal from the service on whatever charge of misconduct Belletor feels like inventing for the purpose, without either citizenship or pension. So we’re all going to have to learn to bite our tongues and wait for the big wheel to turn, aren’t we? Just make sure that your officers are perfectly clear on my expectation that we can all display sufficient maturity to see this temporary inconvenience through . . .’

  In the event, Scaurus’s good reputation with his officers and men had resulted in a conspiracy of silence across both of the cohorts under his command, and the soldiers had contented themselves with bringing a particular gusto to those of their marching songs with any relevance to the legionaries marching alongside them. Julius walked to the door, cup in hand, and looked out at the toiling soldiers for a moment before turning back to his tribune with a shrug.

  ‘If it’s of any consolation, Tribune, my colleague Sergius is as embarrassed as ever at being told to sit on his hands while we do all the work.’

  Scaurus nodded his understanding.

  ‘I can imagine. But any soldier sharp enough to reach the rank of first spear in a legion cohort knows very well when to keep his mouth shut. He’s of far more value to us as a friend in Belletor’s camp than for any brief excitement he might whip up by protesting our case. And in any case, I think the worst part of our ordeal is over. Now that we don’t have to dig out a marching camp every night we can get back to some real soldiering. There’s a decent fight waiting for us somewhere out there, and I don’t intend for my men to be found wanting.’

  Marcus walked wearily into the Fifth Century’s lines as the sun was falling toward the western horizon, finding Arminius and Morban’s grandson Lupus waiting for him outside his tent, the child still wet with the sweat of his evening lesson with sword and shield. The big German got to his feet and pointed to the tent’s door.

  ‘Inside if you will, Centurion, and get that gear off so that the boy can get to work with his brushes. It’s all very well you working on the turf rampart alongside your men, but we can’t have you covered in mud on parade tomorrow morning. The boots too. We’ve laid out a clean tunic and your soft shoes, and there’s a bowl of warm water in there for you to wash your face. The doctor came to see us a while ago and asked me to pass on the message that she would indeed be delighted to take a cup of wine with you before bed, if you can tear yourself away from your usual feats of military engineering.’

  Marcus washed, taking pleasure from the sensation of the clean water drying on his skin after a full day’s labour, then pulled on the clean tunic and belted it so that the hem was above his knees in the approved military fashion. Re-emerging into the evening sun he found Lupus hard at work on his boots, buffing them back to their customary morning shine. He squatted next to the boy, noting that the sword he and Arminius had purchased for him in Tungrorum was laid alongside him in the grass in its battered metal scabbard.

  ‘We haven’t spoken much recently, Lupus . . .’ He paused, struggling for words as the boy continued his polishing without looking up. ‘I’ve been really busy, and little Appius, well . . .’

  Lupus rescued him, still intent on his work as he spoke into the silence, his voice still high and clear.

  ‘Arminius told me that my job is to keep your equipment clean and to learn to fight as well as he can. And that nothing else matters. When I can fight well enough he says I can be a soldie
r, and serve in your century like my daddy did.’

  Abashed at the boy’s matter-of-fact acceptance of the harsh facts, Marcus thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘Your father was a brave man, and when you can hold your own in a fight with Arminius I’ll be proud to serve alongside you. But you do know that your grandfather loves you too, don’t you?’

  Lupus grimaced at the boot.

  ‘My grandfather loves me well enough, but he also loves drink, and ladies, and most of all he loves to gamble. But all I love is this . . .’

  He lifted the metal scabbard, and Marcus thought his heart was going to break.

  ‘Give me the boot, Lupus.’ The child frowned and handed it to him, and Marcus looked down at the shining leather with a quick nod. ‘Perfect.’ He tossed it into the tent behind him, then reached over for the other, still streaked with mud, and repeated the act.

  ‘But it’s not clean . . .’

  Lupus fell silent as he realised that the centurion’s hand was held out palm upwards.

  ‘Now give me the sword.’

  The boy’s face crumpled, on the verge of tears.

  ‘But . . .’

  Marcus took the weapon from his hands, forcing a smile onto his face.

  ‘You can have it back later, I promise.’ He reached over and plucked the weapon from Lupus’s unresisting hands. ‘It can sit alongside mine while we’re away. Nobody’s going to risk taking liberties with a pair of dangerous swordsmen like you and me.’

  He leaned back into the tent, and laid the scabbard down next to his blades, shaking his head at the stark simplicity of the weapons’ purpose.

  ‘Now then, come with me. We’ll worry about the boots and the armour in the morning, eh? Tonight you can join Felicia and me for our meal, and little Appius too, if he’s awake.’ He squatted onto his haunches, looking up at the boy’s mystified face. ‘Lupus, you’re going to make a perfect soldier, when the time comes. By the time you’re fifteen you’ll probably be able to do more with a sword than I can now, but we’re making you into a soldier before your time, and it’s not fair.’ He put a finger under the boy’s chin, lifting it until the boy met his eyes, his voice soft with the memories of his own younger brother. ‘There’s another life you need to live before you take the oath, Lupus, you need to be a boy for just a while longer, and have as much of a family as we can make for you. Come on, let’s go and see which one of us can get little Appius to give him a smile first . . .’

  Tribune Scaurus was busy with a long-overdue review of the cohort’s records when the beneficiarius appeared at the door of his tent with an apologetic salute.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Tribune, but you did ask me to find you again when I had the chance.’

  The tribune sat back from the table and nodded to his clerk, running a hand through his hair.

  ‘That will be all for the time being, there’s nothing much wrong with it all from what I can see. Do come in, Beneficiarius.’

  Cattanius stepped inside the tent, and the two men waited in silence while the clerk gathered his scrolls and left. Scaurus gestured to the chair that the administrator had vacated, and allowed the soldier to take a seat before speaking.

  ‘Where are you from, Soldier Cattanius?’

  ‘The province of Noricum, Tribune, from a little village in the mountains above Virunum.’

  ‘And you’re how old?’

  ‘Twenty-four, Tribune, I joined the legion when I was sixteen.’

  Scaurus raised an eyebrow in recognition of the younger man’s achievement. Whilst his failure to progress beyond the rank of soldier might be considered disappointing for a bright young man in some quarters, Cattanius was clearly far better suited to the careful calculation frequently required of a legatus’s representative than the casual brutality needed to rule a century as a watch officer or chosen man. As if reading his mind, the beneficiarius smiled knowingly.

  ‘I’d have been a soldier for the rest of my life if not for Legatus Albinus, and not a particularly good one either.’

  He fell silent, waiting while Scaurus appraised him more closely. After a long pause the tribune sat back in his chair with an inquisitorial air.

  ‘So who is it?’

  ‘Tribune?’

  ‘Don’t play it coy with me, Soldier Cattanius. Beneficiarius or not, I outrank you quite severely, and I’m not a pleasant man when I believe I’m being played for a fool. You’re bright enough to understand the question, and quite possibly devious enough to know the answer too. So, in your opinion, who is it?’

  Cattanius shifted uneasily.

  ‘I don’t know, Tribune.’

  ‘You do think there’s an insider though, don’t you? In fact I’d bet all the gold waiting for shipment down the road to Apulum that you believe there’s a traitor somewhere in the mine’s hierarchy. Come on man, either give me the truth or your recent run of good luck will very likely take a turn for the worse.’

  The beneficiarius shrugged.

  ‘There was a time when we thought there might be someone inside the mine organisation with a line of communication to the Sarmatae, which is why the legatus had me spend so much time here over the last few months, but if such an individual exists I am yet to discover any trace of them. Besides that, we have a spy deep in Sarmatae territory; a former soldier turned merchant who has spent the last five years working his way into a position of trust. He curses the empire that enslaved him in the service with every opportunity he gets, and poses as a man that has turned his back on his past. He sends intelligence out to us with the traders that work both sides of the frontier, and his most recent message stated that the tribesmen are getting ready to attack into Dacia. He tells us that there are two war leaders, Boraz and Purta, tribal kings who are both unwilling to subordinate to the other, but who have reached an agreement as to their joint plan of campaign. One of them will attack Porolissum, the most important of the forts that defends the north-west of the province, aiming to smash through our defensive line before raiding deeper into the province, while the other will take advantage of the confusion caused to capture Alburnus Major at a time calculated to ensure that there is a full shipment of gold ready for transport to Rome.’

  Scaurus digested the information for a moment.

  ‘Which I presume is currently the case?’

  ‘It will be in a week or so, Tribune. We tend to ship the gold down to Apulum once a month, three thousand pounds or so in each shipment.’

  Scaurus thought for a moment.

  ‘I see. And how can you tell that this man’s messages are really from him, if he never leaves Sarmatae territory?’

  ‘We have a means of knowing whether the men who bring his despatches are genuine. He sends messages out to us every few months, using a different trader every time to avoid developing any pattern that might betray him. The men he uses are given sealed containers to carry across the border in return for a significant amount of gold, most of which is not paid until they have made delivery with the message tube’s seal intact. The message warning of the coming attack arrived in Apulum last week, carried by a horse trader who described our man’s identifying feature in perfect detail.’

  ‘He described the man’s face?’

  Cattanius shook his head, smiling at the senior officer’s innocence.

  ‘Oh no, Tribune, he’s very careful never to let his face be seen, so that the men he chooses can never link the message back to him if they are caught in the act. What he shows the traders to whom he entrusts his messages is a finely made gold ring in which is mounted a large and beautifully finished garnet. They describe it to us, and so we know that the message is genuine.’

  Scaurus raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And so when this intelligence of a Sarmatae attack was received, Legatus Albinus decided to beat them to the punch in the north, didn’t he?’

  The beneficiarius nodded.

  ‘Yes. The withdrawal of the mine’s guard cohort wasn’t just a response to
the threat to Porolissum, although the Thirteenth Gemina is marching there to join up with the Fifth Macedonica, ready to repel the northern attack. Knowing that your cohorts were only a few days away, and having a good idea as to how long it would take the Sarmatae to make their attack on the mine, the legatus gambled that—’

  ‘Sacred Father, he gambled with the richest goldmine in the empire!’ Scaurus shook his head in disbelief. ‘It just goes to prove what his centurions always used to say about him during the German wars. There’s bold, there’s downright reckless, and then there’s Decimus Clodius Albinus.’

  Marcus walked back down the line of his century’s tents later that night to find a small brazier set up outside the entrance to his own tent, and several men sitting in its cherry-red glow, talking quietly. The nearest of them got to his feet and nodded a greeting, a leather boot held in one hand and a polishing rag in the other. The Roman shook his head in mock amusement.

  ‘You appear to be cleaning my boots, Arminius?’

  The German flicked his long hair away from his face, having released it from his customary heavy topknot.

  ‘And a good thing too, I’d say. You’d either have lost precious time cleaning it yourself in the morning, or else appeared on parade with one boot gleaming and the other still covered in mud. I came to get the boy for dinner, knowing that his grandfather had managed to find a jar of wine and was happily pouring it down his neck without a care in the world, only to be told that you’d walked him down to your wife’s tent. It was clear enough that your gear would need some attention, and so . . .’

  The one-eyed warrior who had been sitting next to him stood up and joined them, stretching extravagantly in the fire’s warmth and gesturing for his bodyguard to stay in their places by the fire. A prince of the Votadini tribe,which dwelled in Britannia’s northern mountains beyond the Roman wall, Martos had gone into voluntary exile with the Tungrians after his people’s ill-fated participation in the tribal revolt that still wracked the province.

  ‘And so we decided to make a party of it. The German here and I found the standard bearer and took possession of his wine before he managed to get through all of it. We told him to view it as the fee to be paid for leaving his grandson to the care of others.’