Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 3

  ‘Brown eyes, black hair, a nice suntan ... I’d say you were Roman born and bred, and yet here you are in Britannia getting cold, wet and bloody with the rest of us. Your name again?’

  ‘Marcus Valerius Aquila. And yours?’

  ‘Quintus Tiberius Rufius, once a soldier, now simply a supplier of fine food and superior-quality equipment to the Northern Command. Soon enough you’ll be chewing on an especially nasty piece of salted pork and thinking to yourself, “Jupiter, I wish I had a jar of Rufius’s spicy fish pickle in front of me right now.” Anyway, now we’re introduced ... ?’

  He raised a questioning eyebrow. The younger man shrugged in apparent self-deprecation.

  ‘There’s not much to tell in all truth. I’m travelling to Yew Grove to join the Sixth Legion for my period of military service.’

  Rufius smiled wryly.

  ‘Exciting stuff for a man of your age, I’d imagine. Cut free from the tedium of your life at home to travel across the empire to the edge of civilisation, and the chance to serve with the best legion in the army to boot? You’ll look back on these as the best days of your life, I can promise you that much.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. What I know for a fact right now is how much I’m looking forward to my first proper bath since we left Dark Pool. This country has altogether too much rain for my liking, and the wind chills the bones no matter how a man wraps his cloak.’

  Rufius nodded.

  ‘No one knows that better than I. Twenty-five years I humped up and down this damp armpit of a country in the service of the emperor, getting wet and freezing cold, living in draughty barracks and kicking disgruntled native recruits into shape for the legion. I should mention that I served with the Sixth, second cohort, first century.’

  The younger man inclined his head respectfully.

  ‘First century. You were the cohort’s First Spear?’

  ‘I was. They were the happiest four years of my life, all things considered. I had six hundred spears under my command, and absolutely no one to stop me turning them into the best troops in the whole of this miserable country. I was master of my chosen trade, and no one got in my way. No tribune or quartermaster had the balls to disagree with me, that’s the truth.’

  He tapped the younger man on the shoulder to reinforce his point.

  ‘But let me warn you, this country grows on a man like fungus on a tree, slowly, stealthily, until suddenly you can’t imagine life anywhere else. I had the chance to head back home when my term was up, but I just couldn’t see the point of having to adapt to a place without a perpetual covering of cloud and a population of blue-painted savages. This place has become my home, and if you’re here long enough it’ll be the same with you. Perhaps your family has a history of service hereabouts?’

  ‘My father has ...’

  Rufius raised an eyebrow, smiling.

  ‘Connections?’

  ‘... history in this part of the world. My grandfather commanded the legion for three years before he came back to Rome, and my father was a broad stripe tribune on the Sixth’s staff. Military service runs in the family, all the way back to the Republic. Although my father wasn’t really a military man, even by his own admission, and much to my grandfather’s disappointment. He’s a man of words, not action. Mind you, I’ve heard that he can reduce a man to silence without even raising his voice when he speaks on the floor of the Senate. I wish I had the same eloquence.’

  Rufius nodded sagely.

  ‘Two senior officers in the family, and both of them served with the best legion in the empire. You’re a young man of even greater privilege than was at first apparent. Which reminds me ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I caught a glimpse or two of you back there, in between fighting off pissed-up barbarians who were convinced I was still under the eagle. I’m still curious as to where you learned to throw your blade around like that?’

  Marcus blushed slightly.

  ‘When it was decided that I would serve with the Sixth, almost before I can remember, my father decided to make sure I wouldn’t make a fool of myself with a sword in my hand. He paid a freed gladiator to teach me a few things ...’

  Rufius gave him a sardonic look.

  ‘A few things, eh? Well, new friend, if we get any time to spare in Yew Grove, you can teach me one or two of your “few things” ...’

  Just over an hour later they marched through the fortress’s town, across the river bridge, and stopped in front of the massive main gate. Standing to one side to allow the wounded to be lifted groaning from their horses, Tiberius Rufius exchanged a few words with the gate guard, then took Marcus firmly by the arm.

  ‘You can’t report to the legatus yet, he’s out on manoeuvres with part of the legion. Why don’t we sort the horses out, then visit the bathhouse, get a decent meal and see how much the local food has improved since I was last here? On me, as celebration of our survival this afternoon. We’ll stay in an inn owned by an old friend of mine, like me discharged and unable to leave the place after so many years. He joined all the other poor bastards that have taken root here for want of anywhere better to be, and now he runs the best guest house in the Yew Grove vicus.’

  He smiled easily with the memory.

  ‘Petronius Ennius was standard-bearer of the second cohort when I was First Spear, built like a fortress latrine, just like most statue-wavers. We made a fine pair when we could work a leave pass at the same time, had the women squirming in their seats when we passed by! I get the time to stay in his inn all too rarely these days. Come on, let’s go and get the blood washed off these chariot-pullers and see they’re fed and watered, I feel the sudden need for a bath and a drink.’

  The innkeeper greeted Rufius warmly, clapping him on the back with a hand the size of a dinner plate.

  ‘Back already, Tiberius Rufius? Only a few days ago you were telling me that the quality of my wine was only fit for removing rust from armour, now you can’t stay away from the place. Although I can see from the state of your tunic that someone’s upset you recently. Well then, what’s the story?’

  He listened intently to Rufius’s retelling of the ambush, laughing quietly when his friend recounted having to threaten the Sixth’s legionaries to keep them in line.

  ‘Nothing changes, does it? I remember you having to do much the same thing to keep one or two of our weaker-kneed sisters in their places when the blue-noses had their last little revolt.’

  At the end of the story he pursed his lips, whistling to show his appreciation of their escape.

  ‘You were lucky, old friend, very lucky. If that tent party of auxiliaries hadn’t chanced on you ...’

  Rufius nodded sagely, a dark look in his eye.

  ‘I know. We were carrion. Mind you, if that was good fortune I still wonder just what chance put those tribesmen in our path.’

  ‘Yes ... Well, enough of your boasting, you haven’t introduced me to your bloodstained young friend ...’

  ‘This is Marcus Valerius Aquila. A fellow traveller from the south, and soon to be a brother in the service of Mars, all the way from Rome itself. And, despite the slightly travel-worn appearance of his clothes, not to mention the fine pattern of dried blood across his face, a man of influence, promised a position on the Sixth’s staff.’

  The innkeeper turned back to Marcus with a gravely inclined head.

  ‘My apologies, a young gentleman. So, will you both be staying, sirs?’

  Rufius pulled a mock grimace.

  ‘Despite the hideous expense of your lodging, the mediocre quality of your board and the watery nature of your wine, yes, we both need lodging for the night.’

  ‘Excellent. My man Justus will see to your horses and take the baggage to your rooms. You take a couple of hours to sweat out that blood, and I’ll have two of my very best roasted duck waiting for you, cooked in their own fat and served with a sauce of wild honey, red wine and herbs. And for you, Rufius, because I know your needs of old, I’ll crack
open my last amphora of a rather special Iberian red. How does that sound?’

  As the pair made their way through the town towards the fortress baths, clean tunics under their arms, the familiar sound of hobnailed boots clattering against the road’s surface swelled behind them, echoing through the narrow streets until the sound and its reverberations merged into a constant roar. The windows of the buildings to either side of the road, shutters closed against the cold, were quickly opened to allow the curious to look into the street. Several of the female onlookers obviously shared a keen professional interest in the arrival of a body of soldiers at the fortress to judge from the way that hair was hastily let down and, in at least one case, breasts placed on open display. The standard-bearer and leading century of a legion cohort swept around the corner behind them at the march, heading for the fortress gates in the dying light of dusk. Rufius pulled Marcus into a doorway and off the street as the leading troops poured past, rank after rank of soldiers pounding up the street with their heads back to suck air into their bursting lungs, belting out a bawdy marching song.

  ... my brother keeps a restaurant with bedrooms up the stairs, but none of them will talk to me ’cause I’m a legionnaire!

  Rufius smiled with fond memories, his lips moving to the song as the legionaries kept coming in a seemingly unending column. Centurions and chosen men stalked alongside their centuries, shouting commands at their men to carry their fucking spears straighter and stop eyeing the bloody prostitutes, while century after century pounded past. As had been the case with the troops who had escorted him up the road from Dark Pool, Marcus found their appearance disappointing after the spit and polish he’d got used to in the Guard. Shields were clean, but not shining, armour and weapons lacked the finely detailed workmanship to which he was accustomed, and their clothing was utilitarian – rough leather boots, heavy woollen tunics and coarse woven leggings all spattered with mud from the road.

  His eye was caught by a group of horsemen, however, whose equipment looked every bit as fine as that he was used to, their polished cuirasses tied together with clean ribbon. Tiberius Rufius pointed at them and put his mouth close to Marcus’s ear to shout over the din, coughing at the dust kicked up by the units’ passing.

  ‘It must be at least half of the Sixth, out for fitness training. That’s the legatus and his staff, with an escort from the legion’s cavalry. They’re drafted in from an Asturian cohort from up north on the Wall, but most of them are German. Funny how the roughest barbarians always look the smartest once they’re given uniforms ...’

  Marcus nodded distractedly, watching the legion’s commander ride past in the midst of his staff tribunes, grim-faced cavalrymen to their front and rear. The man’s head turned as his horse passed the doorway, and he nodded recognition at Tiberius Rufius as he passed out of sight. Marcus looked at the older man, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘You know the legatus?’

  ‘I’ve sold the Sixth locally bred cattle, and given him a little information about the border region. What else can an old soldier do but help out his former mates?’

  They stood in silence as the rest of the column ground past, waiting until the last century had passed over the bridge and into the fortress before leaving their doorway and stepping out into the near-dark street and continuing on their way. The garrison’s bathhouse was as large as was necessary to cope with the cleansing and leisure needs of several thousand legionary infantry, the imposing halls lit with hundreds of large torches.

  Changed out of their battle-stained clothes, the two men oiled their naked bodies and slipped on wooden-soled bath shoes to protect their feet from the hot floors. They went through the chilly frigidarium and into the steam room, finding seats among the dozens of soldiers who sat perspiring in the clammy heat. Tiberius Rufius pointed to a floor mosaic depicting Mars in full armour, and brandishing an infantry sword.

  ‘That’s your first god for the next few years! Who were you brought up to respect the most?’

  ‘The household shrine is dedicated to Mercury, so that’s who I always prayed to first.’

  ‘A good choice in a merchant’s house. Mercury won’t begrudge Mars your attention while you’re in the service, though. Always be sure to seek his blessings before you embark on any course that may end in battle. Jupiter, it’s hot. I can feel the dirt being forced out of me. Scraper! Over here, boy!’

  They endured the clammy heat for another fifteen minutes, luxuriating in the pleasure of a good sweat, and the chance to get the last of the barbarian blood out of their skins. Climbing into the hot bath for a moment to remove any residue, they went through to the hot room and settled down again. Tiberius Rufius bought them a small flask of wine and a small cake apiece, ‘just to get our appetites up’, and they sat in companionable silence, watching off-duty soldiers, some lifting weights in one corner of the room, others content just to play dice and drink wine, each man loudly invoking Fortuna’s divine help before tossing the bone cubes. Almost dozing in the oppressive heat, Marcus opened an eye lazily as a magnificently muscled black-bearded man walked across the room, settling on to the bench opposite their resting place. He nudged Rufius with his elbow.

  ‘Isn’t that ... ?’

  ‘Yes, our saviour from this afternoon. Dubnus, wasn’t it?’

  ‘He looks like an ugly piece of work.’

  Rufius frowned.

  ‘I suspect there’s more to the man than you’d guess from his outward appearance. You might find a chat with him educational. Perhaps he’ll join us for a cup.’

  He beckoned the other man to come across and join them. The Briton rose, padded across the floor and settled on his haunches facing the two, his thick black eyebrows raised in question above hard grey eyes. Marcus estimated his age to be about twenty-five years. The Briton nodded to Rufius, acknowledging his presence, but gave no sign of greeting to the younger man. Rufius returned the compliment, gesturing to the wine flask alongside him on the bench.

  ‘Chosen, we were wondering if you would be willing to join us in a cup of wine, as recognition of your actions of this afternoon?’

  The Briton regarded the pair with a level gaze before replying.

  ‘I will not drink with a Roman.’

  To Marcus’s surprise, Tiberius Rufius’s face muscles did not move as much as a twitch.

  ‘You disappoint me, but it is your choice. Tell me, what is it that you have against my friend’s illustrious city?’

  The Briton’s face twisted at the question.

  ‘Your question surprises me. You’ve been here a while, to judge by your appearance. Surely you can see what they’ve done to this country – taken our lands, killed our forefathers and fucked our women.’

  ‘So why do you serve in our army?’

  The words were out of Marcus’s mouth before he could control his reaction. The Briton swivelled his head to face him.

  ‘I serve in the First Tungrian Cohort, not in your army. I defend my people from attack by the northern tribes. My people have no defence against them without the presence of the auxiliary cohorts.’

  ‘No defence? With three legions within a few days’ march?’

  The man facing him smiled without mirth.

  ‘Your legions defend Rome’s interests – your mines, your farms, everything which makes your people rich. My people have grown soft in the time since you conquered us, and become used to living on the scraps from your table. Without men like me on the Wall, the northern tribes would raid our settlements many times in each year. Your legions wouldn’t lift a sword until Roman interests were in danger. My thanks, Tiberius Rufius, but I will not drink with you today.’

  Rising smoothly from his squatting position, the Briton walked back to his former seat, settled on to the bench and closed his eyes. Tiberius Rufius watched him for a long moment, cocking an eyebrow at Marcus’s pale, angry face.

  ‘Hmmm. That is an interesting man, and I think we can now officially discount any possibility that he’s stupid.
Come on, let’s drown that irritation in another cup of wine ...’

  Their bath complete, the two men dressed in their clean tunics and walked back to the inn for dinner. The duck promised by Ennius was brought to their table roasted to perfection and coated with a delicious sauce, and the red wine he poured for them was of the quality Marcus had become used to drinking at his father’s table. Rufius poured cup after cup for him until, with a belated realisation that his face was suddenly feeling numb, and that he was losing the power to string together a coherent sentence, the younger man decided it was time he was in bed. As he staggered unsteadily up to his room, half carried by his new friend, he recalled, with the needle-sharp random insight of the truly drunk, a comment his companion had made hours before.

  ‘Rufius ... you said that Mercury was a good hous’hold god for a merchan’. I didn’t tell you Father was a merchan’ ...’

  The fact that he got no answer seemed to be of little importance at the time.

  After putting the drunken Marcus to bed, Rufius, having deliberately rationed his wine intake to keep his wits intact, slipped back down the stairs. He handed Ennius a coin and left, strapping on his sword and taking up his pack. He walked through the torchlit streets to the river bridge and across, to the fortress’s main gate. Challenged by the gate guards, he stood his ground confidently in the teeth of their levelled spears.

  ‘You’d better fetch the duty centurion, boys, and look lively about it. I’ve got an appointment inside, and it doesn’t pay to keep Calidius Sollemnis waiting.’

  The duty officer marched up, took a look at the veteran and waved him through the gate, raising a sardonic eyebrow to his deputy. At the entrance to the headquarters building he was brought up short at the main entrance by a tall blond man dressed in mud-spattered armour coming out past the sentries, his plumed helmet dangling by its chinstrap. Rufius stepped back, inclining his head with careful respect.