The Wolf's gold e-5

by Anthony Riches

  He stared up at the tent’s roof with a thoughtful expression.

  ‘So perhaps the time has come for me to stop dancing to the tune that was set out by the First Minervia’s legatus, and to start treading on Domitius Belletor’s toes.’

  5

  ‘What baffles me is how a hundred bored soldiers can keep control of that many tribesmen. Surely if they rushed their guards there’d be no way a single century could stop them?’

  By the time darkness had fallen across the valley a fine drizzle was drifting across the hills in curtains that found their way inside the soldiers’ armour and trickled down necks and backs with dispiriting ease. Dubnus was duty centurion, and since the Fifth Century had the duty of standing guard on the Sarmatae prisoners, Marcus had joined him as he made his rounds of the sentry positions. His friend grunted at the question, shrugging and then shivering in disgust as the gesture allowed another line of cold rainwater to run down his back.

  ‘They’re damp, cold and hungry, and every one of them looks at the guards’ spears and imagines ending his life here to no purpose. Besides, there are easily twice their number of troops within two hundred paces. They’ll offer us nothing worse than dirty looks, because any man that shows a sign of having any spirit left in him will be pulled out for a swift beating. Just look at them.’

  They paused at the side of the four-foot-deep ditch which had been dug around the prisoners’ enclosure, and whose bottom had already collected enough water to present a mirror for the blazing torches that burned every twenty paces. On the other side of the entrenchment the captured Sarmatae warriors were huddled into a space carefully laid out to be barely large enough to accommodate their numbers. Clustered around a few braziers whose contents glowed red through the sea of bodies, they were clearly far more concerned with keeping warm than with any attempt to escape. Dubnus shook his head in disgust.

  ‘They’ll be freezing cold after a day doing nothing in the open at this time of year, and there are only enough fires to keep them all warm if they’re constantly changing places to give everyone a turn in the heat, which of course never happens. And since they’re fed just enough to keep them quiet, some of them inevitably go hungry, which divides them against each other. Even if they did have the stones to have a crack at the guards, they’d still have to climb down into that. .’ He pointed down into the trench that had been dug to contain the prisoners. ‘And then they’d have to hoist themselves up on this side straight into the shields and spears of the guards. Not to mention the fact that half of them would have broken ankles from the leg-breaker Julius had cut into the floor of the ditch. No, we’re safe enough from. .’

  Dubnus paused, having realised that an armoured figure was approaching them down the entrenchment’s edge. Having apparently realised that his centurion was present, Marcus’s chosen man strode up to the officers with a determined look on his face, stamping to attention in front of the two men and saluting Marcus with his usual punctilious precision.

  ‘Centurion Corvus, sir!’

  Marcus returned the salute with as much gusto as he could muster.

  ‘Stand easy, Chosen Man Quintus, I trust we find all well with you?’

  Quintus nodded quickly.

  ‘Yes, sir, all’s well here. The prisoners are all behaving themselves quietly enough, although we did have one small problem earlier. Soon enough dealt with though.’

  He grinned at the two centurions, raising his fist and kissing the knuckles with a hard grin. For the sake of politeness, and in the hope of building some better relationship with the man by dint of finding something for which he might offer his deputy some praise, Marcus decided to show some interest.

  ‘A problem, Chosen? What sort of problem?’

  Quintus launched into his explanation, still stood rigidly to attention.

  ‘One of the prisoners approached a guard and asked to see the officer he heard had been over the turf wall and into the barbarian camp. Said he was the king’s brother or some such nonsense. I gave him a clout and sent him packing, the cheeky bastard.’

  Dubnus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘And how would he have heard about the centurion’s little adventure, eh Quintus, unless your lads have been fraternising with the prisoners? Has Morban been up to his old tricks with them perhaps, sniffing for gold?’

  The chosen man shook his head indignantly, his expression apparently genuinely scandalised.

  ‘Certainly not, Centurion! You know how it is though, the men do talk, and if a prisoner can speak Latin then he’s likely to overhear what-’

  Marcus snapped awake, bending to look into Quintus’s face with an expression that widened the chosen man’s eyes in alarm.

  ‘Latin? He spoke to you in Latin?’

  Quintus nodded slowly, his smug expression melting fast under the heat of his centurion’s intense scrutiny.

  ‘Yes, sir, as well as you or I. All the same, I wasn’t going to have him-’

  Marcus’s suspicion became incredulous anger in a heartbeat.

  ‘Get your arse back into that enclosure and find him, Chosen Man Quintus! And if you don’t find him alive then don’t bother coming out again! Move!’

  Quintus turned and fled, while a thoroughly incensed Marcus looked about him at the men guarding the prisoners, searching for any target on which to vent his spleen. Dubnus laughed softly at him, drawing his attention away from a pair of soldiers who were, he guessed, only barely holding onto their self-control.

  ‘Well if Quintus has been missing Julius and his rough and ready ways, I’d say you’ve probably just cured him of that particular yearning. That was just as hairy-arsed as our good friend ever managed when I was his chosen man, and you can take that as a compliment if you like.’

  Quintus returned after a tense wait with a bedraggled prisoner in tow, and his obvious sense of aggrievement was left unsalved by Marcus’s swift dismissal with instructions to find a plate of food and a hot drink for the man.

  ‘Hot food, mind you Quintus, I’m sure there’s a pot bubbling somewhere close to hand to feed the guards. We’ll be in the duty officer’s tent.’

  He led the way with Dubnus bringing up the rear in best menacing form, but the prisoner seemed untroubled by the potential for violence, looking about himself with an interest apparently undimmed by either a day in captivity or the lump beneath his right eye. Once inside the tent’s welcome warmth Marcus called for more lamps and sat the man down, placing his damp cloak close to the brazier that was heating the enclosed space.

  ‘While we wait for my deputy to bring you something to eat, perhaps it would be best to find out whether you’re going to earn it. Who are you?’

  The captive looked back at him with a steady gaze.

  ‘If it’s true that you met Prince Galatas Boraz today, then you already have a good idea of my identity, Centurion.’

  Marcus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest with his vine stick tapping impatiently at one shoulder.

  ‘We’re not playing party games here. Whoever you are, the outcome of this discussion is of far more concern to you than it is to me. If you turn out to be nothing more than a man with a gift for languages, then you’ll be back inside that ditch with your fellow captives before you even get a sniff of a bowl of stew. So I’ll ask you one more time, who are you?’

  The prisoner shrugged, apparently untroubled by the Roman’s impatience.

  ‘Galatas will have asked after his father, of course, and in the same breath I’d expect him to have wondered as to the fate of his brother and his uncle. I am Balodi Boraz, his uncle. I could have proved that statement yesterday, by showing you my gold chain, but I hid it on the battlefield before your men took me prisoner.’

  Dubnus nodded.

  ‘Very wise. It would either have been stolen or identified you as a noble, and worthy of special treatment. You can find it again?’

  Balodi shrugged.

  ‘We can only hope so.’ He shot a sideways look at
Marcus. ‘Is Asander still alive?’

  Marcus shook his head.

  ‘We’ll keep the questioning to this side of the discussion, Balodi, if that’s your real name. You asked to see me. Why?’

  The Sarmatae noble leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  ‘Because I was told you had been over that wall of yours, and gone down into our camp to attempt a negotiation with my brother’s son. I just wanted to meet the Roman who went face-to-face with my brother’s kinsman by marriage, Inarmaz, and lived.’

  He watched the expression on Marcus’s face closely while he was speaking, and on seeing the Roman’s reaction to the Sarmatae noble’s name his smile became a grin.

  ‘Oh yes, now we both have the proof we wanted. You know that I am who I claim to be, and the look on your face when I mentioned his name assures me that you did indeed speak with Galatas, because I’m sure Inarmaz would have been close to his shoulder. Most likely he was trying to work out where best in his nephew’s back to put the knife, when he inevitably seizes power for himself.’

  His wet cloak was starting to dry in the brazier’s relentless heat, tendrils of steam drifting up from the damp wool. Marcus stared at the prisoner for a moment before speaking.

  ‘You suspect that Inarmaz covets the throne?’

  The noble shook his head impatiently.

  ‘No, I suspect no such thing. I know it for a fact. My brother’s brother by marriage has always been the most fiercely opposed member of our tribe’s rulers to our having any truck with your empire, whereas our father always raised both of his sons to be realists in these matters. He once took both of us out onto the great plain, to the place where our tribe’s sacred sword juts proudly from our soil, and pointed to the east, then the south, and finally the west. Every time he pointed, he said just one word.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And that word was “Rome”. “My sons,” he told us both, “in every direction other than to the north, our peoples’ lands are bordered by Rome, a people so rich that they have armies of tens of thousands of men who do nothing but fight wars and practise for war, and whose leaders constantly scheme to increase their empire’s wealth. If we provide these men with sufficient reason they will slaughter our warriors, enslave our women and children and turn our grasslands into farms, which we will be forced to work for them. All my life I have sought to keep these people at a distance by means of guarded friendship backed by the promise of unremitting war should they venture north of the river Danubius, and when I die that task will fall on you both, may the sword help you.”’

  He glanced at the cloak, more moisture steaming out from those parts of the garment closest to the brazier.

  ‘But my father made one mistake, late in his reign when the light in his eyes was starting to dim. He married my older brother Asander to the daughter of a neighbouring king, a sweet little thing while she lived, but with her came her brother Inarmaz, and with Inarmaz came all the poison with which his father had been feeding to him all his life. My brother’s brother in marriage is, as you will have gathered, deeply hostile to your empire, and much of what he says on the subject finds an echo in my people’s hearts. Over the years, like the water leaving that cloak as steam, the heat of his hatred has burned out the good sense our father worked so hard to establish in the tribe’s thinking. His constant outpouring of hatred has made them ready to take arms against Rome once more.’

  ‘But your brother?’

  Balodi shook his head.

  ‘Asander’s wife died delivering Galatas into the world, and her brother has proven merciless in using her memory to drag the king toward his enmity with Rome. Asander Boraz was our father’s son in this matter, always more disposed towards what you might describe as an accommodation with Rome. But over the years Inarmaz’s influence slowly pulled his thinking away from any relationship with your empire, to the point where he was content to be goaded into this war by promises of easy victory while the Roman armies are preoccupied in the province’s north. Inarmaz also promised my brother a mountain of gold ripe for the taking. And in the last few months our people’s anger has been sharpened by the tales of rape and pillage from the settlements bordering your province, atrocities perpetrated by soldiers in the uniform of your empire.’

  Marcus and Dubnus exchanged glances while the Sarmatae noble continued.

  ‘But in all of these decisions, of course, he was always the man behind the throne, constantly seeking to advise and cajole the king, but taking great care never to expose himself as the real decision maker. As far as the tribe is concerned this was Asander’s war, and Inarmaz always took care to be seen as his faithful follower. When the sweet wine of victory that my people expect turns out to be a sour brew it will be the king’s decisions that are questioned, rather than the counsel on which they were founded.’

  He shook his head wearily and fell silent just as Quintus returned with a wooden bowl of steaming stew. Marcus took the food with a word of thanks to his deputy and passed it to Balodi, who took a bone spoon from his clothing and started eating. The two centurions watched as he ate the food with relish, and as he scooped the last of the stew into his mouth Marcus reached out for the bowl, raising an eyebrow in question.

  ‘So, what will happen now?’

  Balodi looked up at Marcus with an expression of resignation, chewing on the last piece of meat and swallowing before answering.

  ‘I am not gifted with the ability to see the future, Centurion, but a man doesn’t need the skills of a seer to know that with my brother and I unlikely ever to see our people again, my nephew is very much alone in a sea of enemies. He finds the easy prize that Inarmaz promised his father fiercely guarded, preventing him from giving the tribe a swift victory, and the huge wealth they have been promised will be theirs. And at his back lurks a man of infinite cunning whose sons, Amnoz and Alardy, give him an edge of terror over the tribe’s nobles. They are mad dogs, both of them, and neither of them would have either difficulty or scruple in killing my nephew “for the good of the tribe”. He will make his move in the morning, I would imagine, suggesting to Galatas that he must lead a fresh attack on your defences, and pledging his sons to fight on either side of their prince to ensure his safety. And at some point in whatever battle ensues, whether our warriors be winning or losing the day, one of Inarmaz’s sons will slip a small blade into my nephew’s armour and let his life run out, shielded from view by the press of the king’s bodyguards who, I strongly suspect, have already been turned to their service.’

  Dubnus nodded his understanding.

  ‘And you? If you were standing on the other side of that wall, what could you do to change this prediction?’

  Balodi got to his feet, taking a deep breath and eyeing the burly centurion with a gentle smile.

  ‘You take me for a beaten man, do you, resigned to the end of my father’s line? The blood that carved a kingdom out of the plains beyond these hills is strong in me, Centurion, and were I to stand against Inarmaz I would command the support of thousands of those spears you see camped before your walls. I would not stand by and watch my father’s legacy be stolen by the second son of a rival king, and neither would my nephew go to his grave with a knife in his back if I stood alongside him. He might still die, of course, but the wound would be in his front, and his defeat inflicted in a fair fight, not by deception and assassination.’ He shook his head with a bitter smile. ‘But since I stand here under your spear points that’s all of precious little import, wouldn’t you agree?’

  The tent’s flap parted, and a soldier put his head through the gap with a respectful salute.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Centurions, but I have a message for you from the hospital. The doctor gave me this for you and she said it was urgent.’

  Marcus took the tablet and read for a moment, then handed it to Dubnus, calling for Quintus.

  ‘Chosen Man, keep this man under guard. Centurion Dubnus and I must consult with the tribune.’

  ‘You really don’t have to do this
.’

  Marcus continued with the painstaking task of re-strapping the leg windings that secured the bottom of his leggings around his boots, working carefully, ensuring that nothing could flap loose in a fight.

  ‘I really do. I promised. .’

  ‘You promised to love and care for me, and for Appius, that was the promise I remember. What will we do if you climb down that wall and never come back? What if the next time I see your face it’s stuck on a spear point? What if the-’

  Marcus shook his head, retying the other legging and getting to his feet. Taking Felicia in his arms he pulled her close, wrapping both arms about her.

  ‘I promised to deliver the king’s body to his son if he died. And I am a man of my word.’

  She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

  ‘And his uncle promised to kill you if you were ever to cross paths again.’

  Shaking his head again, he smiled grimly.

  ‘That’s the last time I tell Julius anything I don’t want you to know.’

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘Yes. And I take him for a man of his word.’

  ‘So you’ll go unarmed into a barbarian camp in broad daylight without even wearing your swords?’

  He looked reflexively at the twin scabbards propped against his field chair.

  ‘There’s little point in provoking them by an ostentatious display of weaponry. I expect they’ll provide me with a blade if I’m called upon to defend the empire’s honour. Just make sure you get a good price for mine, if. .’

  Felicia snorted derisively.

  ‘You’re sure you haven’t promised them to one of your friends?’

  Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but the tent flap was abruptly pulled aside to reveal Julius waiting outside.

  ‘It’s time to do this thing, if you’re set on putting your head into the trap?’