Altar of Blood: Empire IX Page 10

  The burly centurion shot Qadir another sour glance.

  ‘And it’s why I walked here in bare feet and with a length of twine for a belt. I’ve been robbed enough times to trust nobody in these places. And no, I don’t want to start in the exercise room, given I’ve already ridden twenty miles today, and not forgetting the indisputable fact that it’ll be full of weightlifters all oiling themselves up and gurning at each other.’

  Grinning despite himself, Scaurus, who had gratefully but firmly resisted the suggestion that he might want to use the senior officers’ baths adjacent to the governor’s residence, led them into the warm room to get accustomed to the heat before braving the hot room. He flipped a coin to one of the boys waiting to provide the legion’s bathers with their requirements and the child scurried away, returning a few moments later bearing a tray loaded with a flask of wine and cups, while two more followed him in with a plate of honey cakes and a bottle of oil.

  Scaurus poured each of them a cup, raising his own in salute.

  ‘Gentlemen, let’s drink to the successful completion of this latest little jaunt over the empire’s frontier.’

  Seated across the room and feigning a dozing somnolence, having hurried to the bathhouse in time to have taken his place, the decurion called Dolfus watched the Tungrians through slitted eyes. Looking at each man in turn he muttered his comments on each to the men on his either side, two of them carefully oiling their limbs in evident preparation for the hot room, the other pair apparently engaged in a close game of dice. His words were clearly that of a man from the highest ranks of Roman society, clipped and precise.

  ‘Yes, they fit the descriptions perfectly. The tall one in the middle, hatchet face, black hair just starting to go grey, that’s Scaurus. Mark him well gentlemen, because if I’m not mistaken the governor bears a serious grudge towards the man. There’s bad blood there from something or other, and I don’t think it’s going to sort itself out without some kind of ugliness.’

  He yawned and stretched luxuriously.

  ‘The big one with the beard a bird could nest in, he’s called Dubnus. He looks like a bit of a handful to me, and the men on the gate told me he carries an axe big enough to hack a man’s thigh in half. Blasted barbarians …’ He grinned at the man with the oil to highlight the intentional hypocrisy of his humour. ‘You’re all the same, aren’t you, all sharp iron and mad eyes?’

  The trooper stared at him uncomprehendingly, and after a moment Dolfus shook his head and resumed his commentary.

  ‘Anyway, the Arab goes by the name of Qadir. Not worth much in a fight from the way he handles himself, but he’s a Hamian, so he could probably put an arrow into you from two hundred paces, if you were silly enough to stand still for him.’

  He paused for a moment, looking at Marcus with a slight feeling of bafflement.

  ‘And the thin-faced, wiry-looking man is Corvus, although I’m told that’s a false name. Apparently he was the son of Appius Valerius Aquila …’ He looked at the uncomprehending face and tried again. ‘The son of a renowned senator who was falsely accused of being a traitor and put to death, after which Corvus is supposed to have carved a bloody path all the way from Britannia to Rome, killed all the men involved and then vanished like a ghost. He’s supposed to be sudden death with a sword, and better with two, although I’m damned if I can see it in him from the look on his face. But then I suppose we’ll have plenty of chances to find out, given what we’re being paid to do. As to quite who the other man is, I have no idea. There was no mention of him in any of the communications from Rome.’

  He sat up, shaking off the torpor that was creeping over him in the warm room’s comfortable atmosphere.

  ‘And that’s enough exposure of our faces, I’d say. Give me that oil and we’ll go next door for a bit of a sweat while those gentlemen sit and drink their wine. They’ll be earning this moment of peace and quiet with their blood, soon enough.’

  Ushered into the governor’s private office by a brow-beaten clerk, Scaurus and his two companions found themselves face-to-face with a big, bearded man dressed in the full panoply of his office, beautifully sculpted bronze armour over a perfectly tailored fine woollen tunic. His beard was worn full, in the imperial fashion that no senator would dare to ignore no matter how straggly his own facial hair might be, but trimmed so neatly that it was evidently the subject of daily barbering.

  ‘Ah, Tribune! Thank you for responding to my invitation so quickly! It’s good to see you after all this time!’

  To his credit Scaurus didn’t miss a beat, stepping forward and saluting, while Marcus and his colleague Varus came to attention with impeccable precision.

  ‘Now gentlemen, please relax yourselves. Tribune, you, Centurion Corvus and I are old comrades in one of the most brutal wars of recent times, so we’ll not stand on ceremony. Steward, wine for my comrades and their colleague!

  The four men stood in silence as the wine was served, and when each of them held a cup the governor raised his in a toast.

  ‘Gentlemen – we drink to comrades no longer with us.’

  They raised their cups and drank, Scaurus eyeing the senior officer over the rim of his cup. The governor smiled back at him wryly.

  ‘I know, Rutilius Scaurus, harsh words were exchanged the last time we met. It would be fair for you to say that I’ve not behaved well towards you and your men of late, but I’ve had enough time to reflect on the matter to see that I was perhaps … hasty in my actions. I’m not too great a man to ask for your forgiveness, and a new start to our relationship, if you’re willing to allow a man to atone for his errors?’

  Scaurus nodded, his expression still composed.

  ‘Of course, Governor Albinus. Neither myself nor Centurion Corvus have ever been men to carry a grudge any further than necessary.’

  The patrician smiled broadly and held out a hand for Scaurus to clasp.

  ‘I’m so pleased. The terms under which we parted in Rome have troubled me more than a little. My bad temper might have caused so much harm, and so I was desperately relieved to discover that no harm had come to your wife and child, Centurion Corvus. I trust they’re in good health?’

  Marcus stared at him for a moment before replying, unable to find any trace of guile in the senator’s question.

  ‘My son is well enough, thank you Senator, although my wife died in childbirth quite recently.’

  Albinus’s face fell in what seemed to be genuine distress.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. The life of a soldier is hard enough without having to bear that sort of pain.’

  He looked at Varus, essaying a tentative smile of welcome.

  ‘And this gentleman is …?’

  ‘A colleague from our recent campaign in the east, Senator. May I present Gaius Vibius Varus?’

  Varus stepped forward and bowed respectfully, then took the hand that the governor offered.

  ‘Glad to meet you, Vibius Varus. Any relation to the Varus who commanded the emperor’s cavalry in the campaign against the Quadi?’

  ‘My uncle Julius, Senator.’

  Albinus nodded approvingly.

  ‘I was only a junior tribune at the time, but your uncle led his men from the front, and had achieved a considerable fame by the time the barbarians had been put back in their place. He was also, I’m told, somewhat instrumental in helping to ensure that certain of the tribes that face us across the river remained firmly allied to Rome, as much through his somewhat muscular style of diplomacy as the application of gold. If you’re only half the soldier he was then you’ve an illustrious career in front of you!’

  He sipped his wine again, turning his attention back to Scaurus.

  ‘So, Tribune, you’re clearly the emperor’s current favourite when it comes to performing the impossible, with your remarkable ability to summon the goddess Victoria to your side when all hope seems lost. I read your dispatch from Syria with great interest! And now here you are, with me none the wiser as to exactly what it
is that your orders might hold.’

  He fell quiet, waiting for the other man to fill the silence, but Scaurus’s tight smile of apology was no less of a rebuttal despite his reply being couched in the most diplomatic terms.

  ‘I’d be happy to share that information with you, Senator, if it weren’t for the fact that our mutual colleague the imperial chamberlain has absolutely forbidden me to do so. I am to procure whatever assistance I believe I need from you and then to proceed with my mission.’

  The governor’s face took on a rueful smile.

  ‘And my instructions are to provide you with any help you request of me and, in the most diplomatic of wording possible given the nature of the message from Chamberlain Cleander, to mind my own business!’ He laughed tersely. ‘Which order I will of course follow to the letter, being both a good servant of Rome and quite fond of my current rank. After all, this may not be much of a province in terms of size or population, but it’s a mark of trust that I’m granted the command of two legions and twice as many auxiliary soldiers, even if half my command is across the water in Britannia. And so, Tribune, perhaps you’d better tell me what it is that you’re going to need from me. If it’s within my power then it shall be yours.’

  Scaurus shrugged.

  ‘In truth, Governor, there’s not much that I need beyond rations and a day or two to prepare my men for what we have to do.’

  Albinus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘Really, Rutilius Scaurus? There’s nothing I can do to help you with this task that you’ve been ordered to perform? You don’t perhaps need me to write to one of the tribunes commanding the bridges across the Rhenus, to prepare the way for you? Or perhaps a guide with a good knowledge of the territories of the tribes who live on the far side of the water?’

  The tribune remained silent, and after a moment Albinus laughed heartily, clapping a broad hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Well done, Tribune! You’re not going to give me any clues and nor should you!’

  He raised his cup in salute.

  ‘I wish you good fortune in your endeavour, gentlemen! And I look forward to your safe and successful return!’

  Draining the last of his wine he placed the cup back on the table next to him.

  ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to be attending in the town. That’s the problem with this role, there’s always someone wanting some favour or other, and only too willing to subject me to a night of average food, barely acceptable wine and their appalling poetry! I’ll take my leave of you, gentlemen, but before you leave I suggest you finish the wine and listen to a briefing that I’ve asked my secretary to prepare for you. He collates all of the intelligence reports that we receive from the other side of the river, and some of it might be of relevance to your mission.’

  ‘Attack me!’

  Lupus was panting from the exertion of the exercises that Arminius was putting him through, the same routines that the German enforced every evening regardless of the weather or conditions underfoot. Lunging once more with his spear, thrusting the point forward as if stabbing at an enemy, he gasped as his mentor stepped inside the weapon’s reach, flicking out a foot and whipping it behind his leading leg to trip him, sending him sprawling headlong across the grassy riverside field that Arminius had selected for that evening’s practice ground.

  A month before the boy would have lain where he fell, the wind knocked out of him, but the German’s continual imposition of trips and falls on him had wrought a change in his resilience, not just in terms of stamina but his ability to ride each tumble and come back fighting. Knowing what was expected of him the young Briton rolled, coming to his feet and springing forward with the spear’s wood and leather protected head outstretched, forcing Arminius to dance away with a smile.

  ‘Better! Now we’ll practise the parry!’

  Making the most of the momentary breather, while the slave fetched his own weapon, Lupus looked glumly down at the mud that sullied his tunic and which would need to be washed off if it were to pass muster at Dubnus’s daily inspection of his kit.

  ‘Arminius! We’ve been practising lunges, underhand stances, overhand stances, parries and falls for a month now! When am I going to do some fighting!’

  The German shrugged, positioning himself ready to parry the boy’s attacks.

  ‘When your lunges, underhand stances, overhand stances, parries and falls are all second nature, that’s when. Now lunge at me and I’ll show you how it’s done once more. And this time let’s make it a bit more interesting, shall we? If you can get a thrust of your framea past my guard, and hit my body without taking more than one step forward, then I’ll polish the tribune’s boots tonight rather than making you do it!’

  The three officers stepped out into the torchlit street outside the governor’s residence an hour later, sentries on either side of the residence’s main door snapping to attention. Scaurus looked back up at the building with a shake of his head, then turned to his companions with a smile.

  ‘That must have been a little confusing for you, Vibius Varus, so you’re to be congratulated on the fact that you managed to keep a straight face while the governor was seeking forgiveness so very fulsomely.’

  The younger man shrugged.

  ‘I have to admit that I’m used to that sort of thing, Tribune. My father used to take me with him when he greeted his clients, and to the senate on occasion, and I soon learned to differentiate between his friends and those people who just wanted something from him. It’s in the eyes, I find.’

  ‘Yes. And for all that his words sounded sincere, my experience with that man has taught me that he’s dangerous when it comes to bearing a grudge. Although the intelligence he provided us with seemed straightforward enough.’

  With Albinus’s departure his secretary had entered the room, bowed to the officers and unrolled a map of the province, pointing first at the city’s location on the river’s western bank, and then at a point sixty miles or so to the north. A slight figure with receding hair, he had conducted the briefing with the diffident air of a man who was permanently on the verge of an apology for his own shortcomings, looking for the most part at the map rather than the men to whom he was talking.

  ‘This is a map of the province, sirs, and the land to the east of the river Rhenus. We’re here, in Claudius’s Colony, and the fortress further downriver to the north is Vetera, which houses the Thirtieth Ulpian Victorious. Together with the First Minervia at Fortress Bonna to our south, the two legions constitute a primary military strength of twenty cohorts at their full establishment which, along with their auxiliary cohorts of which there are eighteen, and cavalry wings, of which there are seven, form the army of Germania Inferior with a combined military establishment of almost thirty thousand men. Although in truth it’s a good deal less than that now, with a dozen cohorts having been detached to help deal with a rebellion in Britannia that took place a few years ago. Most of a legion was lost, apparently.’

  He’d looked up at the three officers with a tentative smile.

  ‘But of course there’s no threat from the tribes here these days, not really. Poor agricultural methods and the resulting lack of food keeps their population limited, and their relative poverty means that their weapons and armour will always be hugely inferior to ours, as is their military organisation. Their only tactics are the ambush and the massed charge, so we can usually outwit their tactical naivety, and they’ve never really managed to bond politically at any level above that of the tribe, which means that they find it impossible to band together and fight us as one people. It took a great leader like Arminius on one side and a lawyer like Varus on the other to put together the Varian disaster. Begging your pardon, Centurion.’

  The younger man’s smile had been reassuring, if a trifle frosty, wrapped around an answer he was clearly practised in delivering.

  ‘Publius Quinctilius Varus was an extremely distant relation, and so far back in family history that I might as well claim des
cent from the Divine Julius. Please do continue.’

  The secretary had bowed slightly with a look of relief.

  ‘And so, unable to compete with Rome militarily, they’re reduced to fighting the occasional war between themselves, usually with some form of encouragement from ourselves, as whatever weakens any one of them obviously makes us stronger. The local tribes have all got so used to trading with us that their brief and costly moment of glory in the days of the divine Augustus is long forgotten, and there’s no pressure on them from the east, which means they’ve no pressing need to get across the river. Add to that the fact that a good deal of the farming labour in Gaul comes from the tribes through emigration, which keeps their numbers down and brings money back over the river, and you can see that the province is in no real danger of attack any time soon. Not unless some strange combination of their idiocy and our own stupidity sets off a local rebellion.’

  He’d pointed to the land on the far side of the Rhine from the city, sketching a circle with his finger.

  ‘Not that it’s likely that such a thing could happen here, mind you. This land is occupied by the Marsi tribe. There’s no problem there, they’ve been clients of the empire since long before I worked for my first governor fifteen years ago. To the north of them, however …’

  His finger had moved to a section of the map bounded on the south by a range of hills that separated a river’s plain from the Marsi’s territory to the south.

  ‘This land has been settled by the Bructeri tribe, on either side of the river Lupia, for a hundred years or so. They used to live on better land, further to the north, but after the revolt of the Batavians and their allies in the Year of the Four Emperors, and the loss of the best part of two legions to the rebel tribes whose strength included the Bructeri, it was only a matter of time before we found a way to take our revenge. In the event it seems that a particularly cunning governor called Titus Vestricius Spurinna managed to foment a dispute between them and two neighbouring tribes, the Chamavi and the Angrivarii. Given a quiet nod and a wink from Rome, they allied and made a swift and decisive war on the Bructeri, forcing them off their traditional lands and almost annihilating the tribe’s people. They got the Bructeri’s prime land and Vestricius Spurinna cemented his place in history with a triumphal statue at the suggestion of a grateful emperor, which meant that everyone was happy with the exception of the Bructeri themselves. And given that sixty thousand of their population were slaughtered, with Roman observers to ensure “fair play”, it’s no wonder that they still harbour a sense of grievance towards us. I wouldn’t say they’re on the verge of rebellion, but they’re certainly no friends of ours, or the other tribes. And that works well, I’d say. The worst possible thing we could face would be a united German people.’