The young officer smiled down at him without mirth, his jaw set hard.
‘So you see feelings are running high. Soldier Trajan is already feeling the wrath of his former subordinates by all accounts, although I suspect that a protracted revenge holds more savour for the troops than anything hasty. Of course, he was only the dupe of your man, from the relatively small amount of money he handed over to us…’
An opening?
‘I could… pay you… to keep my clerk out of trouble?’
The four men stared at him in silence, waiting. He plunged on.
‘I could take the man’s profits, give them to you, for use in making amends with your unit, of course. Gods, the fool might have made as much as five hundred from his ill-advised swindle…’
Rufius leant across the counter, putting his face close to Annius’s.
‘Three thousand. Now. You can reclaim the money from your man at your leisure.’
Annius stared at the officer aghast. That was almost twice as much as they’d actually raked off…
‘Perhaps we could…’
‘Suit yourself. Pay now or I’ll put the matter in the hands of less forgiving judges. You know the story: new officer finds evidence of fraud and feels compelled to take the proof to his superior officer. Frontinius might turn a blind eye to your profit-making activities; I never yet met a senior centurion who didn’t, as long as there was a healthy contribution to the burial club every month. My last camp prefect used to call it “balancing the books”, said some men were born to make money, some to lose it, and this way at least he could guarantee every man a decent funeral. What he couldn’t ignore, though, would be the brand-new, “wet behind the ears” centurion who had discovered how his men were being fleeced, and who would of course be filled with righteous anger. So the price is three thousand — pay up or suffer the consequences. You can think while my young friend buckles on that nice new sword. I’ve seen him take a man’s head off at six feet with one just like it.’
Annius hesitated, weighing up the alternatives he saw in Rufius’s pitiless stare. A simple death sentence was his only choice apart from cooperating without question; none of his men would hesitate to lay out everything they knew of his various business activities if required to do so by Frontinius, no matter how well they had been paid to take part.
‘Of course, to spare a good, if misguided, member of my department, I could probably find the money…’
Rufius flipped the hinged section of the counter and walked round behind him.
‘Get the money. I’ll come with you.’
Unable to argue without running the risk that he’d end up face down in the deep forest with a spear between his shoulder blades, Annius huffed into his office, prising up the floorboard beneath which he kept his money. Three of the five leather bags went into the centurion’s waiting hands, the other man sneering his disgust into Annius’s face. Out in the storeroom, he was alarmed to find that Marcus and Antenoch were on the wrong side of the counter, and were examining his inventory with considerable interest. The centurion lifted a mail shirt from its hanger, holding the rings up to a window’s meagre light and rubbing the soft leather undershirt between his thumb and forefinger.
‘You’re right, Chosen Man, this is very nice mail. Much better than the standard-issue rubbish. Annius, you must have enough here to equip a whole century.’
‘I… I have to keep enough stock to supply each new intake of troops, and spares.’
Dubnus loomed over his shoulder.
‘He keeps the stock all right, but only sells good mail shirts to men who don’t want to repair their own, or want softer leather.’
‘I see. How much?’
The businessman in the stores officer took over, not seeing the trap into which he was running.
‘One hundred each.’
‘Hmm… A fair price would be… sixty, Antenoch?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Very well, Annius, let’s call them forty sesterces apiece, as my discount for bulk purchase. I’ll take your whole stock. And tunics, let’s say two apiece for my century at five apiece. Now, what else do you have for sale, before we discuss how you’re going to make sure that my men eat like prize gladiators from now on?’
He turned away from the dazed quartermaster, threading his way deeper into the darker recesses of the store. Regaining his equilibrium, Annius weaved after him, panting his petulant outrage.
‘Oh no, Centurion, you’re not going to steal my stock as well as my money! That’s just not fair…’
And quailed back against a rack of spears as the Roman spun, his sword flashing from his waist and arcing up to rest against his neck. Marcus’s face scared him more than the weapon’s fierce bite against his flabby throat. Even Rufius’s eyes widened momentarily, before a wolfish grin crept across his face.
‘Not fair, storeman? Not much is in these days. My men probably weren’t too impressed at the way you and Trajan fed them shit every day for the last three months. Your choice, one you’re lucky to have, is to bite on the leather and take your punishment. Of course, you could go to the prefect, and see if he’ll accept your word against mine. Shall we go to him now? It might be entertaining to see which of us appears the more credible.’
Annius shrank farther into the forest of wooden poles, his face red with fear, but said nothing. The sword swung away from its harsh grip on his life, dropping back into its place on Marcus’s belt. Rufius pushed him out of the way, the smile on his face broadening as he headed for the rear of the store.
‘I spy amphorae back here! How much for the wine, storekeeper…?’
Annius smiled through the pain, knowing he lacked any choice in the matter. If the young bastard chose to shit on the store floor and then ordered him to clean it up with his tunic, he would have to do as he was told. Later, however, he promised himself, when the new centurions had taken their leave of him, probably in possession of half his stock, bought at knock-down prices with his own money, he would sit silently in his office, brooding over his revenge. That, and the ways in which he might learn more of the enigmatic new arrival’s past. Rufius opened the door of the centurions’ mess an hour later, meeting the stares of the officers present with a careful smile.
‘Gentlemen…’
He waited in the doorway. Marcus stood in view behind him, both of them acutely aware that they had to be invited in for their first visit. The shortest of the cohort’s centurions, a bristly-haired man whom Marcus recognised as the least unfriendly of the gathering for morning report, had apparently just reached the punchline of the joke he was telling. He turned back to the others.
‘So the centurion says, “Well, Prefect, normally we just ride the horse to the whorehouse!”’
He turned back to Rufius.
‘Come on then, Grandfather, in you come.’
Rufius winced, giving Marcus a dirty look as the younger man hid a smile behind his hand. The speaker beckoned again, looking over Rufius’s shoulder.
‘And you, young Two Knives, and let’s have a proper look at you.’
One of the speaker’s companions snorted derisively, turning away to study the wine jug behind the serving counter, one hand teasing at a knot in his heavy beard. The man next to him appraised Rufius and Marcus through eyes that seemed permanently half closed, peering down a nose that had clearly seen better times. Their host smiled openly, showing a selection of crooked teeth in the bristly thicket of his beard.
‘Don’t worry about our colleagues here. Otho’s wondering whether he could take either of you in a fair fight, as opposed to the knife-in-the-dark methods that got him to where he is today…’
The battered face split into a happy grin.
‘While my good friend Julius already knows from your performance this morning that he’d have no more chance against you than I would.’
His good friend Julius snorted his disgust again, peering disdainfully down his nose.
‘Pretty swordsmen don’t nece
ssarily make good officers. Especially when they have no idea about soldiering. He’ll give up soon enough, once the Ninth sees through him.’
He sized Rufius up with a swift up-and-down glance, nodding with some measure of respect.
‘I hear you’ve done your time with the legions — come and see me in my quarter if you’d like to talk soldier to soldier.’
He strode from the mess, slamming the door behind him. Marcus swallowed his anger, forcing himself to smile again.
‘This morning…? I was lucky that Antenoch was stupid enough give me a warning. I’m still rusty from too long on the road.’
The bristly-haired officer raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Still rusty, eh? In that case old Otho had best jump you while you’re still polishing up! I’m Caelius, by the way, centurion of the Fourth Century, although my men call me “Hedgehog” when they think I’m not listening…’ He paused and stroked his prickly scalp for effect. ‘… can’t imagine why! Otho here, also known as “Knuckles”, although you might have guessed that from the state of his face, has the Eighth. Julius, not unreasonably known as “Latrine” since he is, as you can see, built like the cohort shithouse, has the Fifth. Your chosen man was his chosen man until you arrived, hence his sulking demeanour. He’s having to work for a living now, instead of lounging around here and letting the Prince get on with doing the hard work for him.’
He waved an arm around the other centurions.
‘As for the rest of your colleagues, there’s Milo, or “Hungry”, since he’s forever eating and still skinny as a spear, he’s got the Second, and Clodius the “Badger”, both for his hair and his temper. He keeps the Third in a permanent state of terror.’
The centurion Marcus and Dubnus had encountered earlier on the road inclined his head in an impassive nod.
‘Brutus has the Seventh, and has seen more action than the rest of us put together with never a scratch on his baby-soft skin, which is why he answers to “Lucky”. Lastly there’s Titus, or “Bear”, he’s got the Tenth, which is our century of axemen. When we’re in the field they specialise in tree-felling and field defences, and they fight with their axes like barbarians, so they all have to be great big brutes like him. “Uncle Sextus” has the First Century, but you already know that. Anyway, introductions made, will you join us in a drink?’
Wine was procured by the steward, which Rufius tasted and instantly judged to have come off second best to the long journey from its birthplace.
‘Actually, it was wine I came to discuss with you, apart from making our introductions. You see, we made a deal with your deeply unpleasant storeman just now, included in which were a dozen large jars of a rather nice red from Hispania. Perhaps the mess could use them? As a gift from the new boys, you understand.’
Caelius smiled at them with renewed warmth, knocking back a large swig from his own beaker and wiping his moustache with the palm of his hand.
‘Well, after six months of drinking this issue filth, your gift would be as welcome as bread to a starving man. That slimy bastard Annius never even told us he had anything of the sort. Now, one good turn deserves another, so here’s a word of friendly advice for you, young Two Knives…’
He paused significantly.
‘If you want to keep the cold out up here, and look like an officer…’
He paused again portentously, making it clear that he was about to do his new colleague a great favour. Rufius raised a cautionary eyebrow over the man’s shoulder.
‘What you need to do is grow yourself a nice thick curly beard. You can grow a beard…?’
6
The cohort’s long stay in winter quarters began to draw to a close a fortnight after their arrival. The onset of warmer weather heralded the opening of spring’s campaign to revitalise the land. The change was much to the relief of officers at their wits’ end with containing the fallout of boredom and indiscipline that the winter’s long inactivity had bred in their troops. Marcus had already had one case to deal with from within the 9th, a tall, darkly surly, one-eyed soldier who went under the official name of Augustus and the unofficial title of ‘Cyclops’. It seemed that the name had as much to do with his poor temper as any more obvious reason.
Called out in the early hours by the duty officer, he found the man slumped, bruised and still bleeding from his nostrils, in a headquarters holding cell. The duty centurion, with some good fortune Caelius, who, Rufius excepted, was still his only real friend among the officers, shook his head more in sorrow than anger.
‘He’s known for it, I’m afraid. All it takes is for someone to find the right lever to tug at, the right jibe to set him off, and he goes off like a siege catapult. He’s been warned, fined, beaten, put on punishment details for weeks… nothing works. If this goes to Uncle Sextus he’ll get another beating, a really bad one this time, perhaps dishonourable dismissal too…’
Marcus looked in through the thick bars, weighing up the man slumped before him. While he’d learned a few names, and the characters behind them, the man was no more than an imperfectly remembered face in the cohort’s second rank on parade.
‘And what was the lever this time?’
‘We don’t know. He won’t say, and the men that beat the snot out of him are sticking to a story that he jumped them in the street outside the tavern they’d been drinking in, without warning or reason. Which is probably at least half true. You might not be surprised to learn that they’re both Latrine’s men.’
‘Hmmm. Open the door and leave me with him.’
Caelius shot him a surprised look.
‘Are you sure? He broke a man’s arm the last time he was in this state.’
‘And you think I couldn’t handle him?’
A sheepish grin spread over the other man’s face. He took a lead-weighted rod from his belt, tapping the heavy head significantly against his palm.
‘No, well, when you put it that way… Just shout if he gets naughty, and I’ll come and reintroduce him to the night officer’s best friend.’
He opened the door, drawing no reaction from the prisoner. Marcus leant against the door frame, waiting until Caelius was out of earshot in his tiny cubicle. In the guardroom next to the office a dozen men were dozing, sitting up on their bench, packed in tight like peas in a pod. The building was quiet, eerily so when it was usually so vibrant with activity during the day.
‘Soldier Augustus?’
The words met with no reaction.
‘Cyclops!’
The soldier started at the name, looking up at his officer. He stared for a moment and snorted before putting his head down again.
‘How many times is this, soldier? Three? Four?’
‘Six.’
‘Six, Centurion. What punishments have you suffered as a consequence?’
The recitation was mechanical, the question often answered.
‘Ten strokes, twenty strokes, twenty-five strokes and two weeks’ pay, thirty strokes and two weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, fifty strokes and three weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, a month’s pay and a month’s free time… Centurion.’
His head came up while he recited the litany of punishment, his one eye, previously dulled by pain, seeming to regain some of its spark.
‘None of which has stopped you from fighting… So, then, Cyclops, why do you fight?’
The other man shrugged without expression, almost seeming not to comprehend the question.
‘I take no shit from no one.’
‘From what I’ve heard, you take “shit” from almost anyone. You let them get under your skin and goad you to the point of starting a fight, at which point you usually get both a beating and a place at the punishment table for starting the fight.’
Marcus shook his head in exasperation.
‘So what was it this time?’
Augustus’s eye clouded with pain again, and for a moment Marcus thought he was going to cry.
‘Phyllida.’
‘A woman?’
/>
‘My woman. She left me, went to a soldier from the Fifth. Him and his mates took the piss out of me…’
‘Mainly because it gives them an excuse to batter you, I’d say. Did you give some back?’
‘I hit them a few times.’
‘Want to hurt them some more?’
Cyclops looked up at him again, suspicion in his good eye.
‘How?’
‘Simple. Just tell me who else witnessed these men baiting you.’
‘I won’t speak against them.’
‘I guessed that already. I’ll deal with this my way, unofficially, but I need a name to start with.’
Cyclops paused for thought, as much to consider the request as to recall any detail. At length he spoke.
‘Manius, of the Fourth, he was in the tavern. He’s from my village.’
Marcus went to wake up Dubnus, waiting until the man had splashed cold water on his face before detailing the problem. The Briton’s response was simple.
‘Leave him to rot. Let Uncle Sextus deal with him. The man’s a liability, bad for discipline.’
Marcus leant back against the small room’s wall, rubbing his stubble wearily.
‘No. Leaving him to the First Spear’s discipline says we have no ideas of our own. That we don’t look after our own. How well do you know this man “Cyclops”?’
‘Well enough. His heart is poisoned, full of anger.’
‘Is he a warrior?’
‘He’s fierce enough in a fight, but he lacks… self-control.’
‘So if we could make him behave, he’d make a good soldier?’
‘Ye-es.’
Marcus ignored the grudging tone of agreement.
‘Good. In that case I need your help. Let’s give him a real chance to change his ways this time.’
The Briton looked at him with a calculating expression.
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 13
