Saratos nodded his agreement.
‘You’ll use them all, without restraint and without mercy, until the other man’s on his back and has stopped trying to get up again. Won’t you?’
Sanga shrugged.
‘A man has to look after himself.’
Cotta smirked.
‘And you look after yourself so well you’ve been given to the hardest centurion in the cohort, eh? How’s serving under Otho working out for you?’
‘It’s alright. He’s hard, but he’s fair – most of the time.’
‘I’ll bet. Sure you don’t fancy a holiday from all that shouting and slapping he likes so much?’
The soldier shrugged again, a sly smile creeping onto his face despite his best efforts to keep it straight.
‘Look at the alternative. On the one hand you’re offering us the chance to ride a thousand miles, when I don’t know one end of a horse from the other until it blows out some apples to give me a clue, to do who knows what in Germania, of all places! We done Germania before you poled up, Centurion, and it was without a doubt the biggest shithole I’ve ever served in! And I’ve served in some right horrible places.’
He looked round at Saratos, grinning at the muscular Dacian.
‘Or, and here’s the difficult choice, we could be stuck here in the centre of the empire, the place where there’s whores everywhere, and they’ll all do it for the price of a loaf of bread, even some of the pretty ones. Even a half-witted Dacian bum-fucker like my mate here can see the choice for what it is, can’t you Saratos? Germania or Rome, eh?’ He spread his hands wide, a pleading note creeping into his voice. ‘Even you can see that choice for what it is, can’t you?’
Saratos nodded, pretending to consider the question.
‘Is easy.’
Sanga’s smile widened.
‘Is Germania.’
‘Eh?’
‘Is Germania, obvious. Is Germania because one week of whore enough for any man. Even you, Sanga. Is Germania because stay here while friends go fight is not—’
‘Right?’
The Dacian nodded at Cotta, who was grinning at Sanga, enjoying his discomfiture.
‘Yes, not right. And is Germania because Centurion Marcus go Germania, is true?’
Cotta nodded, his lips suddenly a tight line as he recalled Marcus’s troubled state of mind.
‘It’s true. And that young man needs all the protection he can get, over the next few months.’
The three men fell silent, all replaying the bloody events of two nights before, and the horrific revelation of Felicia’s death that had shocked every man in the cohort. Sanga put his head down until his forehead was touching the table, banging it against the wood and drawing a worried glance from the tavern owner. Cotta sat back in his chair with a smug smile.
‘It’s Germania then. But don’t worry, Sanga, you’re not the only man I’ve got my hooks into. Dubnus is breaking the bad news to a colleague of yours this very moment.’
‘Let’s face it comrades, we’re getting left behind this time.’ Morban smiled round at his usual circle of associates, half a dozen of the older sweats in the First Cohort, raising a cup of wine in salute. ‘Wherever it is that the tribune’s taking his picked men, I reckon they’re going to be away for months. Perhaps a year or more …’
He looked about him with an expression bordering on delight, laughing at their confusion.
‘Come on, the emperor’s not going to be sending our boys out to buy him some eggs, it’ll be another one of those dirty little jobs that means travelling to the far side of the empire …’
He drew breath, and one of his comrades interjected with the speed of a man who knew all too well just how much the standard bearer enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice.
‘But we’ve not been back from the east more than a day. Why bring us back, if—’
Morban cut him off with a dismissive wave.
‘There’s more to this empire than Britannia, Rome and Syria, mate! There’s dozens of provinces with hostile tribes next door, plenty of things the emperor wants but doesn’t actually own.’
He grinned round at them again.
‘For all we know they’re being sent south to bring back some nice dark-skinned girls for Commodus …’ He nodded acknowledgement of another man’s attempted interjection. ‘Yes, or boys. And it doesn’t matter what it is, just as long as they take their time finding it. We’ll just have to sit here and make the best of it, eh? Wine, games and lots and lots of whores. I can’t see any …’
He fell silent as the men around him transferred their attention from his beatific smile to a point behind him. Scrambling out of their chairs they snapped to attention, and Morban stood, turning on his heel and tightening his body into the brace position automatically.
‘Well now, Morban, I was told I’d find you here.’
‘Centurion.’
Dubnus looked around at the other men questioningly.
‘Could you men perhaps grant me a moment alone with my old friend the standard bearer here? Leave your wine where it is, I’ll be gone soon enough.’
Needing no second bidding in the face of the bearded officer’s request, the Tungrians slid past him to either side with forehead-touching gestures of respect. When they were gone his expression softened.
‘At ease, Morban.’
Morban relaxed slightly, putting his hands behind his back, staring intently at his former associate from the days when Dubnus had seemed stuck in the role of chosen man, before Marcus had found a way to have him promoted to centurion.
‘Doubtless you’re all speculating as to exactly where the tribune’s picked men might be going. Knowing your long history of illegal gambling it wouldn’t come as any surprise if you were already taking money on the outcome …’ Morban opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but closed it again when he saw the look on his officer’s face. ‘Wise, Morban. Perhaps you’re growing some wisdom in your old age. But I’m not here to warn you off. Far from it.’
He fell silent, watching the older man as Morban smiled hesitantly and then, as the full import of his words sank in, the expression slowly faded from his face.
‘But …’
The centurion raised an eyebrow,
‘But? But what, Morban?’
‘You can’t mean …’
Dubnus nodded slowly.
‘You have skills, Standard Bearer, abilities that will make you essential for the success of our venture. You’ve been requested, you specifically, to accompany the detachment that’s going north.’
The veteran frowned incomprehension.
‘Skills?’
‘Skills, Morban.’
Dubnus reached out a hand and tapped him on the forehead.
‘This, Standard Bearer, contains more guile and calculation than is possessed by any other man in the cohort. And, whether you believe it or not, those traits will be vital where we’re going. So pack your gear and report to the detachment’s barracks.’
The veteran soldier saluted tiredly.
‘Yes, Centurion.’
Dubnus turned away, then returned his attention to the older man.
‘Look on the bright side, Morban. Doubtless you’ll find a way to turn this to your advantage. Just as long as you don’t use your inside knowledge to make money before we leave for Germania.’
‘Germania? I thought—’
‘As intended. Trust me, Standard Bearer, where we’re going we really don’t want the slightest anticipation of our arrival, because that could only end very badly indeed. So if you don’t want to end up with a witch pawing through your innards you’ll keep your mouth shut. Won’t you?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
Arminius stared back into the boy’s eyes in the light of their solitary oil lamp, realising with a shock that the child whom he had looked down upon only a year before was suddenly a good deal closer to staring him in the face than before. He walked away to the barrack window, loo
king out across the dark parade ground on which the detachment would muster the next day before turning back to face the child, shaking his head, raising a hand to emphasise the point.
‘Not a chance. You’re too young.’
Lupus shook his head with a look that promised obduracy and a good deal more.
‘You left me behind the last time, and I was stuck here for a year without anyone to talk to except the women and babies. And then …’
The German resisted the urge to put his arms around the boy by force of will, watching in impotent anguish as Lupus’s eyes filled with tears.
‘I know. And if I had my time again I’d have been there.’
The boy looked at him with eyes as hard as any he’d seen on a man, and once again Arminius wondered at the change in him.
‘You would have died alongside Arabus. Nobody could have protected moth—’ He swallowed painfully. ‘Nobody could have pro-tected Felicia from those men. But given enough time someone will make them pay.’
The stone-hard stare lingered on the German for a moment, and in that instant Arminius knew he was seeing the man to come, implacable in his hatred, his view of the world around him forever tilted towards hard words and deeds by his childhood experiences.
‘Lupus … you shouldn’t—’
The boy shook his head flatly.
‘Not you, Arminius! The women can tell me that it’s not good to hate, but not you! You helped the Centurion to take revenge for his parents, you told me he was an honourable man for doing so!’
The German regarded him levelly for a moment before speaking.
‘So, ignoring the fact that you’re sworn to kill the emperor and half the praetorian guard, what do you expect to contribute to this task that the tribune’s been handed by the very man you’re determined to see dead?’
Lupus stuck his chin out.
‘My sword and shield. I’ve been practising with Centurion Cotta’s men ever since you left, and I’m as good as any of them except when they use their strength to push me over, when they get bored with not being able to beat me.’
Arminius smiled despite himself, recalling Cotta’s summary of the things the men he’d set to guard the two women while the cohort was in the east had told him about the boy’s progress with his weapons.
‘He’s fast alright. Faster than any of my boys, and someone’s taught him a halfway decent technique that I can probably get close to Marcus’s standard, given enough time.’ The veteran centurion had winked at the German’s wry smile, knowing full well that Arminius’s training had given the boy most of the sword skills he needed. ‘Once he’s grown another foot and filled out he’s going to be a right monster, you can see it in him already. It just amazes me that a squat little waddler like Morban can have sired the man who put that into a woman.’
His smile faded as he recalled Cotta’s other, less cheery comment.
‘Given you’re pretty much his father these days, there is something else for you to think about though. There’s something changed in the boy since the day Arabus was killed by the praetorians. Before it happened he was still a boy most of the time, when he wasn’t behind a shield and a sword, but from that day on my boys tell me they’ve not seen the child in him. He’s been brutalised, Arminius, had his childhood ripped away from him in a way that’s left him …’
‘Scarred?’
Cotta had nodded unhappily.
‘That’s as good a term as any other. I expect Marcus’s wife, the gods watch over her departed spirit, would have had a better term for it, but scarred covers it well enough. The boy’s gone, and what’s standing there is a man in a body that’s not quite ready to fight alongside men. But he will be, soon enough. And he’s going to need some help making the transition, if he’s not going to get himself killed before his time.’
Man and boy stared at each other in mutual unease for a moment before Arminius spoke again.
‘If you were to accompany us into Germania you’d be a boy among men. The tribune’s taking ten axes and ten bows, plus officers and a few hangers-on for skulking and thieving, every man with a purpose. Having you with us would be a distraction. You haven’t learned to fight with or against the spear yet, and that’s the weapon the tribes use for the most part.’
To his surprise the boy just shook his head, where a year before there would have been tears of frustration in his eyes.
‘So, you’re all going away again, only days after you came back. You, Centurion Marcus, my grandfather, all the people who promised to look after me. And what happens to me if you all get killed? I’ll be stuck here with no one to look out for me, other than Julius. Which means I’ll be a soldier soon enough and taking just the same risks, just without anyone to look after me.’ He stared the German in the eyes. ‘I’d rather die in Germany with you.’
3
Scaurus’s detachment paraded at dawn the next day ready to march, each man holding the reins of the horse he would ride north. The soldiers were wearing warm tunics and boots, their cloaks rolled up and strapped across saddlebags that contained everything they were likely to need during the march while a pair of doleful-looking mules were hitched to a cart containing their tents and cooking equipment. Every man had an oval shield strapped across his back and a long German-style spear in his hand, the Hamians’ bows and the Tenth Century’s axes carried in thick oiled leather cases attached to their mounts’ saddles.
‘Kit inspection! Open your packs and lay it all out!’
As Scaurus’s appointed senior centurion for the detachment, Dubnus was taking his duties sufficiently seriously to have already become the focus of a deal of disgruntlement, as he chivvied Tungrians through their preparations to march.
‘Packs on the ground and open! I want to see every item nice and clearly!’
Walking down the line of men with Cotta at his shoulder, the retired centurion relishing the spectacle of soldiers being inspected by a hard-eyed officer, he stopped in front of one of his own men, shooting the hulking pioneer a meaningful glance.
‘So, what have we here? Bowl, spoon, sewing kit, spare hobnails, spare tunics, blanket …’ Feeling something inside the blanket’s folds he pulled away the rough material to reveal three spiky iron objects. ‘What are these doing here? Why are you still carrying caltrops?’
The soldier stiffened his brace and shouted his answer in the time-approved manner.
‘Centurion sir! Because you ordered us to carry them sir!’
‘But that was …’
The Briton shook his head and turned to Cotta with a wry smile, picking up one of the caltrops and showing it to the veteran officer.
‘They were told to carry these nasty little surprises almost a year ago when we marched on the Parthians, and ever since then they’ve been packing them away without a second thought. We’ll be rid of those, I think, before some stupid bastard puts one through his hand and can’t hold his spear.’
Cotta stared at the evil pointed device for a moment.
‘Perhaps we should keep them. It’s not as if they’re any sort of burden, and who knows when they might come in handy.’
Dubnus shrugged.
‘If you think so.’ He turned back to the soldier. ‘Very well, carry on.’
He walked on down the line, looking into every man’s pack and pulling more than one of them up for the quality of his equipment. Picking up one man’s wooden eating bowl he snapped it in two with a swift twist.
‘It was cracked. If your bowl breaks in the field you’ve nothing to eat out of. Go and get another one. You, hold his horse for him. Move!’
At the end of the line he found Arminius and Lupus, the latter doing his best not to be cowed by actually parading with the Tungrians rather than watching them do so but still pale with nerves. Leaning closer and lowering his voice so as not to be heard by anyone other than the boy and his mentor, Dubnus stared Lupus straight in the face as he spoke.
‘When the tribune told me he’d agreed to bring you alo
ng I told him I thought he was mad. And I still do. But if you’re set on it, and the man who gives me the orders says you’re coming along for the ride, then so be it. But if I don’t see you practising with that spear every day, twice a day, then you and I will be having a serious disagreement. If you want to be a soldier then you’re going to have to become one. Quickly.’ He stared at Lupus for a moment longer. ‘If you ever need my help, if this German oaf isn’t to be found, come and talk to me. I know what you’re going to go through over the next few months.’ Stepping back, he hardened his face and raised his voice to be heard along the detachment’s line. ‘Now, show me your equipment.’
He stared down at the display, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Your bowl’s dirty, your tunics are dirty and your blanket looks like a dog’s had a shit on it. Do better. By tonight.’
Confused, Lupus looked up at Arminius, but found a broad finger prodding him in the chest, dimpling his mail shirt’s ringed surface.
‘And don’t go looking at him, he’s a slave with nothing to say on the subject. If you want to express an opinion on the matter, you talk to me. Well?’
‘Nothing.’
Dubnus exchanged an amused glance with Arminius, but his voice was a whiplash whose crack the assembled soldiers knew only too well.
‘Nothing, Centurion! You’re a soldier now, not some wet-nosed brat who can sit around taking the piss out of us all day. Say it!’
‘Yes Centurion!’
‘Louder!’
‘Yes Centurion!’
‘Acceptable. See me tonight with clean kit.’
With a barely perceptible wink at Arminius he turned away and walked back out in front of the small detachment, looking across the line of men with a grim face, shaking his head as he watched one of Qadir’s archers struggling to control his mount’s restless urge to be away.
Altar of Blood: Empire IX Page 8
