Thunder of the Gods

2

Legatus and tribune found Cotta standing outside the Third Gallic’s fortress, alongside a tall, thin man who was equipped in an almost identical version of his centurion’s uniform. His long faced was heavily lined, and his hair completely grey, but his demeanour seemed steady enough at first glance. The legion officer seemed to be remonstrating with their colleague in a lively manner, but both men snapped to attention on noticing the approach of senior officers.

Cotta strode forward, speaking quickly to Scaurus in low tones calculated not to carry to the legion officer.

‘The legion’s records are as they should be, Legatus, properly maintained and fully detailed. Apart from the fact that there’s a lot of men away on leave, it looks clean enough.’

He extended a hand to introduce his colleague.

‘Legatus, this is First Spear Quintinus. We served together in the last war with Parthia.’

The legion man snapped to attention and saluted.

‘Legatus! First Spear Gaius Quintinus at your disposal! We will do what is ordered and at every command we will be ready!’

Scaurus and Marcus returned the salute, the legatus choosing to acknowledge the first spear’s obvious look of disgruntlement when it was suggested that Cotta might be best employed finding barracks to accommodate the Tungrian cohorts, waiting until the veteran officer was out of earshot before turning to his new senior centurion.

‘Is there a problem, First Spear Quintinus?’

Quintinus shook his head.

‘It’s not right, Legatus, not when we didn’t even know that Legatus Lateranus was being replaced. Cotta and your Decurion simply barged into the camp and made their way to the headquarters building, and when they were challenged by the duty centurion they simply handed him your written orders and refused to take any more notice of him. You’re lucky that none of my officers decided to push the issue.’

Scaurus considered him levelly for a moment before replying.

‘But they didn’t, did they? Which speaks volumes for both my men and your officers. But it’s just as well.’

He lowered his voice, forcing the first spear to lean closer to hear his words.

‘Any man who chooses to disregard my orders can expect to find himself roped to a post with his back hanging off. Any man. It would have made for an interesting fight though. I believe Centurion Cotta’s famously short temper would have gone up like a signal fire doused with naphtha if he’d felt that his long service with this very legion wasn’t being accorded the right degree of respect.’

The first spear nodded angrily, clearly holding onto his own temper by a narrow margin.

‘And that’s another thing, sir. In this legion appointments to the rank of centurion are approved by a committee of centurions. Cotta may well have done his time wielding a vine stick, but he left the Gauls ten years ago, and under a cloud of suspicion to do with the death of an emperor. An emperor, Legatus. Under the circumstances I don’t think that the centurions will-’

Scaurus shook his head, his eyes narrowing with anger, raising a finger to forestall any further complaint.

‘Two points, First Spear. Firstly, the emperor you’re talking about was no more an emperor than you are. This legion acclaimed Gaius Avidius Cassius as ruler for the simple reason that the officers of the day expected to be handsomely rewarded for their loyalty. In removing Cassius’s threat to the legitimate emperor, Centurion Cotta did no more than was his duty, and he did it under the command of a tribune who had been placed in his role by Marcus Aurelius himself, and for precisely that purpose. A wise emperor knows where threats to his rule will come from, and positions the right men in the right places to deal with them as required. And Marcus Aurelius was no fool.

‘Furthermore, First Spear, Cotta’s suspected role in Cassius’s death will remain no more than suspicion, if you’re still keen to be carrying your vine stick for the rest of your career.’

He stared at Quintinus for a moment before continuing. ‘And secondly, First Spear, to whom exactly do you imagine that this legion belongs? To you and your brother officers, or to the people and the senate of Rome?’

Quintinus looked at his superior for a moment before replying.

‘To the people and the senate of Rome, Legatus.’

Scaurus nodded.

‘Exactly, First Spear. The people’s will is enacted by the senate, among whom the emperor is primus inter pares, First Spear, very much the first among equals. And when the emperor awarded me the singular privilege of commanding this legion, he made no mention of having to run any of my decisions past committees of centurions!’

He spat the words out with a vehemence that made the first spear flinch minutely despite his attempt at portraying iron self-control.

‘Centurion Cotta is an experienced officer who, as you know all too well, has seen combat on numerous occasions in the course of his career. On top of which, he’s already commanded men of this legion, and in consequence he will be of great value to me as I get to grips with my new command. If you and your fellow centurions have any complaint with that decision I will be happy to hear that concern, and any recommendations you may have for me, in due course and in the time-honoured manner. I will not, to be very clear, be setting any store by an informal and highly irregular decision-making process that only serves to illustrate the sort of man my predecessor here seems to have been.’

He looked about him, staring with apparent curiosity at the rows of barrack buildings on either side of the street that ran to the headquarters building.

‘Now, to business. How many men do you have here in Antioch?’

Quintinus opened the tablet that had been sitting in his left hand.

‘Nine cohorts, Legatus. We’ve a large number of men on leave and on detached duties of various sorts, but this is the heart of the Third Gallic, with two thousand, nine hundred and sixty-four men available for duty.’

‘Nine cohorts, First Spear?’

Quintinus turned to Marcus, who had stepped forward alongside Scaurus with a look of incomprehension.

‘Yes Tribune …’

‘My name is Corvus. Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Where is the tenth cohort?’

Quintinus looked at Marcus for a moment before answering, a shadow of pain creasing his face.

‘We lost the Sixth on the other side of the Euphrates months ago, Tribune. They were killed to the last man, except for a few local scouts and a tribune who managed to evade the Parthians to bring the story of their deaths back.’

The younger man frowned.

‘He ran, rather than facing the enemy with his men?’

Quintinus shook his head.

‘Not really sir. I’d suggest you meet the young gentleman and draw your conclusions once you’ve looked into his eyes.’

Marcus nodded.

‘Fair enough, First Spear. And where might I find this man?’

The senior centurion pursed his lips.

‘In Daphne, Tribune, with the rest of the legion’s senior officers, yourself and the legatus here accepted. The legatus, Legatus Lateranus that is, arranged for himself and his young gentlemen to be quartered there when the legion’s not in the field.’

‘Daphne. I see. The place does have a certain … reputation.’

Scaurus smiled at Quintinus’s almost imperceptible flinch as a look of disgust crossed his tribune’s face.

‘Why don’t you take yourself off to Daphne, Tribune Corvus, and deliver an invitation to a briefing with their new legatus on my behalf? I’m sure you’ll find a way to make the point to them that any failure to attend this evening will result in their new legatus taking a positively violent exception to their continued occupation of their current positions.’

Marcus saluted and turned away. Quintinus was silent until he was out of earshot.

‘I can’t see our officers being all that happy to have their evening spoilt, Legatus. I believe they’ve recently become rather fond of dinner parties …’

He fell silent as Scaurus smiled and shook his head.

‘And just how many young gentlemen does my new legion have on its books, First Spear?’

Quintinus sighed.

‘Nine, Legatus. Two broad stripe tribunes and seven of the equestrian class.’

‘Nine. I see. And we are supposed to have how many exactly?’

‘Six, Legatus. One broad stripe tribune who has the role of your deputy, and five narrow stripe tribunes who are-’

‘Who should be competent military men, respected equestrian officers each with a cohort command under their belts and therefore respected by the legion’s centurions. They should be capable of performing the full range of administration for a pair of cohorts, and providing leadership in battle. Is that what they are, First Spear?’

Quintinus shook his head.

‘Our narrow stripe tribunes are for the most part serving for the first time. As, to be fair, are both of the broad stripe men.’

Scaurus looked at him.

‘Two senior tribunes?’

‘The legatus believes – believed - that a backup for his deputy would be a positive thing.’

The legatus shot him a derisive look.

‘So, they should be experienced soldiers, instead of which they all seem to be neophytes. We should have six, and instead we have nine of them. They are the sons of rich men, I presume, sent here purely because Antioch is something of a backwater where they will be at little risk of anything as vulgar as actually having to go to war. After all, the Parthians haven’t threatened the border for twenty years after the battering we gave them the last time they tried it on, so why not send their boys to Syria, and let them spend their time chasing girls in Daphne, eh?’

He stretched.

‘And now, First Spear, I think I’ll go and inspect my quarters. After that I’ll be going to my office to examine the Third’s records, and see what sort of legion it is that I’ve been bequeathed by Legatus Lateranus. You, no doubt, will be keen to greet my cohorts into camp; they should be here soon enough now under the command of my first spear. You’ll know him easily enough, he’s a little older than me, black hair and beard with more than a little grey, and spectacularly bad tempered even for a centurion. He’s in command of two full cohorts of Tungrian auxiliaries who the emperor has seen fit to second to this legion while it’s under my command. You might want to warn your officers that my Tungrians are battle hardened, and won’t take kindly to any of the usual games that tend to get played when new units arrive in a camp. So don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

He turned away, then spun on his heel.

‘I almost forgot. Doubtless you’ll also want to arrange for the traditional demonstration of your men’s abilities? Let me know what time tomorrow morning you’ll be parading the men, I’m looking forward to seeing if my new command has the skills to deal with what it’s going to be facing a few weeks from now.’

He walked away up the street, leaving the first spear staring at his back with a disquieted expression.

Marcus walked his horse through Antioch’s teeming crowds with a watchful group of legionaries detailed to escort him through the busy streets by Quintinus, men well accustomed to the variety of tricks and ruses employed by the city’s thieves and pickpockets. Hemmed in by the mass of humanity brought so close together by the lure of the city’s sophistication, he allowed himself to progress at the pace of the street, his senses still reeling at the rich smells of the taverns and spice shops after so long at sea, exotic scents underlaid by the deeper, richer stench of too many men and beasts packed into a confined space.

As the group of soldiers neared the southern wall, the city’s magnificent agora opened out to his left with the gaudily painted bulk of an amphitheatre rising behind it, the wide open space thronged with men gathered around a troupe of gladiators who were demonstrating their abilities to the admiring crowd. Halting his escort, Marcus mounted the horse so as to get a better view of the scene, watching through the colonnade that lined the street as matched pairs of fighters went through their mock-antagonistic routines to enthusiastic applause from the watching multitude. Most of them were no better than average, but among them were a few men who moved with crisp purpose, the arena killers against whom their hapless fellows were dead meat.

‘You like the games, do you, sir?’

The question broke his reverie, and the young tribune looked down at the soldier holding his horse’s bridle with a faint smile.

‘I was trained to fight by a man like that.’

The man’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

‘Gladiator, was he, sir?’

Marcus nodded, feeling an almost physical pain at the sudden, brutal reminder of the events that had led to the Tungrians being posted to Syria.

‘He was the finest gladiator ever to fight in the Flavian Arena, some say. To me he was more like a second father …’

He dismounted, gesturing to the gate rising over the crowd, two blocks distant.

‘Shall we?’

The soldier nodded, turning to the people nearest to them with a sudden flash of anger as a man stretched out a finger to touch Marcus’s sculpted breastplate with a look of awe.

‘Oi, get your fucking hands off the officer, unless you want me to cut them off and stuff them up your arse!’

The man looked at him uncomprehendingly, and with a sigh of irritation the soldier switched from Greek to Aramaic, backing up the threat with the highly polished blade of his dagger. ‘Fucking peasants. Anyone’d think you was Achilles himself from the looks they’re giving you.’ The soldier shot him a swift apologetic glance. ‘Not that you don’t look proper hard, Tribune. Be nice to have some men with scars and hard faces leading the legion for a change.’

The young tribune reflexively put a hand to the freshly healed cut across the bridge of his nose, the legacy of a frantic escape from the heart of a barbarian fortress, and the ensuing hunt across northern Britannia’s lethally treacherous marshes. At the Daphne Gate he ordered the men to wait for him, smiling as they immediately gathered around in the wall’s shadow and started a game of dice. Trotting the beast down the road to the south, he mused on the contrast between the teeming city thoroughfares and the lightly trafficked street that ran along the mountain’s shoulder. After five miles or so, the reason for the road’s relative emptiness became apparent, as he rode around a bend to find his way barred by a wooden gate, a military checkpoint manned by legionaries.

Seeing his lavishly decorated equipment, the soldiers jumped to attention, saluting at the detachment commander’s barked order while Marcus climbed down from the horse’s saddle.

‘Tribune Sir! We will do what is ordered and at every command we will be ready!’

Marcus looked round at the men of the detachment.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m looking for the Third Legion’s officers. Do you know where I might find them?’

The detachment’s chosen man, a heavily built man with the look of a pugilist, stepped forward and nodded vigorously.

‘Yes Tribune, I’ll have one of the men walk you up there.’

‘Up?’

The big man smiled.

‘Nothing but the best for our young gentlemen, sir. They’ve rented a villa on the mountain slopes, high up, with a view for miles around.’

The soldier gestured to one of his men.

‘You, take the officer here up to the Honeypot.’

Marcus raised an eyebrow in question.

‘Honeypot?’

The chosen man smiled knowingly.

‘You’ll see why we call it that soon enough sir. I presume you’ll be moving in with the other gentlemen?’

Marcus held his gaze for a moment, reading the man’s barely hidden cynicism as to the legion officers’ professionalism, and by association his own.

‘Thank you, Chosen.’

He turned away, leaving the soldiers staring after him, and followed his guide along the road’s path as it ran through a further belt of forest until it branched into three, one running straight on, a second climbing gently away to its left, and another taking the steepest path up into the foothills.

‘This way sir.’

The soldier indicated the steepest of the three roads, and after a moment’s walk Marcus found his calves aching at the sudden and unaccustomed exercise after so long at sea. The soldier turned back, and, seeing the pained expression on the officer’s face, slowed his pace.

‘Keep walking,’ said Marcus. ‘I’m just unfit from too long on a ship coming here from Rome.’

The road ran out of the forest and on up the slope into a wide open area in which a dozen or so palatial villas had been built on the hillside, high above the groves of bay laurels that had given the city’s richest and most decadent suburb its name.

‘Are these the largest houses in Daphne?’

The soldier shook his head.

‘No sir. Some of the villas lower down the hill are bigger, but the young gentlemen say they like to be above the town, for the privacy.’

Marcus nodded, turning to take in the view over the ranks of trees across the valley, the mountains five miles distant on the far side a misty grey in the afternoon’s haze. When they reached the house in question he dismissed the man to rejoin his fellows, striding through the open gate into a well-maintained garden clearly designed around several mature trees, which had been left in place when others around them had been felled to make way for the house’s construction. A lone red-haired figure in a sweat-soaked tunic was exercising with sword and shield in one corner, repetitively cutting and stabbing at a wooden post with a blunt practice weapon, stepping back into a defensive shield brace after every strike, before stamping forward to repeat the attack. As Marcus strolled towards him the man spotted him from the corner of his eye and nodded, but continued his exercise with undiminished vigour.

‘You’re opening your body up for too long when you lunge.’

The labouring man, clearly no older than Marcus himself, shot him a sideways glance.

‘You speak from experience?’

His voice was taut, that of a driven man, as he stabbed the sword at the post again. Marcus shrugged.

‘Enough not to have any strong desire to see any more. Britannia, mostly, plus enough experience in Germania and Dacia to make me appreciate the protection to be had from a well-made shield. You must be Varus?’

The exercising man stopped in mid-thrust, slowly straightening out of the lunge with a look of resignation.

‘You mean I must be the man who rode away when his cohort was ambushed and massacred by the Parthians?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Why else would you be pushing yourself so hard in the heat of the day, when your fellow officers are probably all indulging in rather more relaxed pastimes given the stories the soldiers at the road gate told me?’

Varus propped the shield against the wooden post, crossing his arms with the blunt sword blade pointing back over one shoulder.

‘I know what you’re thinking. I see it in every man’s face, when they realise who I am. I’m the officer who ran from battle, and left his men to die. The man who saved his own life on the pretext of bringing the news of the Parthian attack back to the legion.’

‘Whereas …?’

Varus snorted.

‘Whereas what? You want to hear my side of the story? You want me to tell you how my senior centurion implored me to bring the story of their glorious fight to the death back to the legion? I’m tired of the sound of my own voice, and of trying to convince myself that I didn’t just run for my life.’

He stared at Marcus, his expression close to pleading.

‘That I didn’t agree to his request simply because I’m a coward. So why would I waste my time on you, when you’re not going to believe it either?’

Marcus shrugged again.

‘So what’s the truth of it?’

Varus stared back at him.

‘The truth of it? The truth of it is that I was ready to die, friend, ready in an instant. And yes, I know it would have been a hard death if they’d managed to take me alive, but I would have fallen on my own sword if it came to that. And then the first spear asked me to leave, and showed me a way to avoid that ignominious death, and I took it, like a … like a fucking coward! I grabbed it and I ran for my life. Can you imagine that, you with your scars, and your two swords, and your Britannia, Germania and Dacia?’

Marcus smiled wryly.

‘Of course I can. Any soldier who says he hasn’t considered running at some point or other is nothing more than a liar. So now you wish you’d stayed and shared that glorious death with your fellow soldiers, do you?’

Varus nodded mutely, and Marcus smiled at him without humour.

‘In that case, Tribune, you may have your wish granted soon enough.’

He turned away and walked towards the house with Varus following. In the villa’s airy atrium a servant hurried up with a bowl of water.

‘He wants to take your equipment, and wash your feet.’

Marcus waved the man away with a reassuring smile.

‘I’m not staying that long, thank you.’

He followed the sound of voices into the house’s central courtyard, stopping at the sight of a swimming pool with seven men in their twenties reclining on benches around the edge, their attention fixed on a trio of naked women floating in the pool’s crystal-clear water.

‘What’s this, Varus? Have you found yet another new pair of ears for your story of how you ran away when the Parthians came knocking? And who’s this oaf without the good manners even to disarm himself before coming into the house, never mind take his boots off?’

The speaker had risen to a sitting position and was eying Marcus with a look of disparagement. The man reclining to his left, his tunic marked with an identical broad purple stripe to his comrade’s, spoke without looking up from his study of the girls’ naked bodies as the pool’s rippling water caressed their pale flesh.

‘Control yourself, Flamininus. Whoever you are, state your business and be on your way.’

Marcus looked at them each in turn, unconsciously taking stock of each man with a swift, ruthless assessment, as his gladiator mentor had taught him a decade before:

‘Some men will fight, young Marcus, and some men won’t. Some will fight just for the hell of it, while others will have to be looking down the blade of a sword before they’ll raise their own weapons. And the secret to knowing which is which, who’ll come at you and who’ll run from you, is all in the eyes. Oh yes, a man’s willingness to offer you violence can sometimes be understood by the set of his body, or the way that he moves, but the truth is always there to be seen in an instant, there in the middle of his face. Just look in a man’s eyes, and you’ll see everything you need to know about him, when you’ve looked at enough men and done enough fighting.’

The man called Flamininus was on the verge of springing to his feet, his stare filled with hostility and the need to do harm.

‘Tribune Umbrius told you to state your business! And you can salute, while you’re at it!’

Marcus looked back at him with a face set in hard lines, unable to control his reaction to the man’s arrogance and need for violence.

‘I’ll salute, when I see someone worthy of the respect.’

The eyes fixed on him around the pool snapped wide with shock at the flat statement, and Flamininus surged to his feet.

‘Hold!’

The broad stripe tribune had raised his head to look at Marcus with a calculating gaze, the female bather momentarily forgotten. He waved a hand at his colleague, and Flamininus slowly sank back onto his bench with the look of a man whose grip on his temper was tenuous at best.

‘Who are you, stranger? It might be useful to know your name before I turn this animal loose on you.’

Flamininus grinned at him with his teeth bared in a half-snarl.

‘You’d be well advised to keep him restrained, unless you want blood in your swimming pool. My name is Tribulus Corvus, Tribune, Third Gallic.’

The broad stripe shook his head in obvious amusement.

‘Oh no you’re not. These men around this swimming pool represent the entire senior officer strength of the Third, us and the legatus.’

Marcus allowed the smile to spread slowly across his face.

‘Then I seem to be the bearer of news, gentlemen. Legatus Lateranus has been replaced with immediate effect. We arrived together by ship from Rome this morning to take up our positions, your new legatus and I, with orders to take the legion north to deal with the threat to the empire’s frontier with Parthia. And on behalf of your new commanding officer, since the last man to hold the position seems to have made a very swift exit, I have been sent to summon you to a command meeting this evening. You will attend the legion’s headquarters building in Antioch by the time the lamps have been lit, and any man failing to do so will be making a prompt return to Rome, dismissed from his position.’

He turned to leave, weighed the moment for an instant, and then turned back.

‘Speaking personally, I think it might well be for the best if none of you were to attend.’

With a growl of anger Flamininus leapt to his feet and strode around the pool, raising one big fist with the clear intention of knocking the newcomer to the floor. Marcus waited for him, stepping forward while his opponent stormed around the pool’s narrow side, moving so close to the water’s edge that his would-be assailant was forced to turn step around the pool’s corner to confront him, momentarily throwing out an arm to retain his balance.

‘I’ll have your f-’

He staggered back as Marcus struck a lightning-fast jab into his face, using the heel of his hand to deliver a crushing blow to the tribune’s nose and then, as his victim’s momentum made him stagger forward another pace, kicked his feet from under him and swept him into the pool, sending a wave of sparkling droplets over the reclining tribunes. The naked women squealed in horror, flinching away from the flailing tribune.

‘Anybody else?’

Marcus waited for a moment, then shook his head with a look of disappointment, as Flamininus dragged himself from the water with a stream of blood dripping from his broken nose.

‘Do you want to try again?’

The soaked, bleeding man shook his head with a look of venomous hatred.

‘I thought not. As I said, all you have to do if you want to avoid facing battle against the Parthians is to stay here and give your new legatus a reason to dismiss you. Then again, it might be entertaining for Varus here to see how you react to facing the enemy, rather than being forced to tolerate your jibes on a subject he understands a good deal better than you.’

He turned and left, leaving the group staring after him. At length one of them spoke.

‘Who the fuck was that?’

Varus turned back to face them with a hard smile, patting his practice sword and turning away.

‘That, you bastards, was Britannia, Germania and Dacia. And unless I’m much mistaken, he’ll very shortly be Parthia too. As will we all.’

The tent party, of which Sanga was the defacto leader, found their new quarters much as expected, given that barracks buildings were constructed to the same pattern all over the empire. Four bunk beds for the eight men more or less filled the space, while a smaller room was walled off from the living space to allow for the storage of weapons. The veteran soldier looked around the cramped room, then pointed at the closed wooden shutters.

‘Different province, same shitty barracks. Get that fucking window open, it smells like a donkey took a shit in here.’

Daylight did little to improve the picture.

‘Not donkey shit. Look more like soldier.’

Sanga shook his head.

‘Dirty bastards. You, get your spade out and carry that turd down to the latrines. You, fetch a bucket of water and wash away whatever’s left.’ He stuck his head through the open window, drawing in a lungful of clean air before bellowing his anger into the afternoon’s comparative warmth.

‘You bastards had better watch out or you won’t see me coming!’

Saratos shook his head.

‘You waste breathe. Local soldier no speak Latin, he speak Greek. And you no speak Greek.’

His friend wrinkled his nose again, as the freshly laid faeces assaulted his sense of smell with renewed vigour.

‘I’ll teach the bastards some fucking Latin. Starting with the words “good”, “fucking” and “kicking”.’

He turned to the rest of the tent party.

‘Right, we’ve all seen a turd before, so stop looking like you want to honk up your biscuits. Get your fucking kit stowed and we’ll go for a look around and see if we can’t scare up something to drink or screw. Except for you …’

He pointed at the tent party’s newest recruit.

‘You can stay here and make sure the locals don’t take a shine to our kit. Don’t wash that shit off that spade once you’ve dumped it in the log cabin, and if anyone comes poking round just wipe it down their face as hard as you like. That ought to do the trick.’

The legion’s tribunes gathered late that afternoon, Flamininus among them with his face bruised and his eyes boring into Marcus at every opportunity. The object of his ire, for his part, chose to ignore the challenging stare, smiling quietly to himself at some private joke, or so it seemed. After a few moments, Scaurus swept into the room, looking around the gathering with apparent surprise.

‘All nine of you? That’s gratifying. I had wondered if a few of you might have chosen to ignore my message.’

‘Legatus, if I might make some intro-’

‘Introductions? Not just now, thank you Tribune Umbrius. There’ll be plenty of time for getting to know each other later, when we’ve worked out which of you will be staying with the legion.’

He looked around at them, waiting for someone to break the silence.

‘Staying with the legion, Legatus?’

The broad stripe tribune had spoken again, clearly intent on playing to his role as the most senior of the group, and his legatus’s deputy.

‘Indeed, Tribune. Which of you will be considered fit to remain in your positions, and which of you I will be forced to dismiss from imperial service. As of now this legion is under wartime conditions. We will be marching for the border within a few weeks, with the intention of finding, challenging and destroying the Parthian force that has been harassing our outposts in Adiabene.’

‘But surely it’s too early in the year for a campaign of any duration. The weather …’

Scaurus shook his head at the attempted intervention.

‘The worst of the winter is over, Tribune. The weather from this point onwards, from my previous experience of the province, won’t ever get cold enough to freeze water. Compared to northern Britannia, or Dacia, that’s positively comfortable for a well-equipped infantryman kept warm by sufficient food, thick clothing and plenty of exercise. I think we’ll be safe enough making a swift march from the Euphrates to Nisibis. And when I say swift, gentlemen, you should take my words at face value.’

They looked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘The route I plan to take is, I’ll admit, a little risky. There will be times when we have no option but to double pace the legion for ten or twenty miles at a time.’

He waited for a moment for the real meaning of his words to dawn upon the officers gathered around him, but none of them showed any sign of comprehension.

‘I see that I shall have to make this very clear indeed. When I say that the legion will be forced to march at the double pace, I was speaking literally. Every man in the Third is going to have to learn to cover twenty miles in five hours with full equipment.’

Still the officers failed to react with any sign of understanding.

‘Every man, gentlemen. Including all of you.’

‘But …’

‘Yes, Tribune?’

Umbrius’s face was creased in a frown.

‘Legatus, the legion’s gentlemen ride to war. We do not march like the common soldiery.’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow, apparently intrigued by the idea.

‘I see. How very … gentlemanly. And tell me, Tribune, what will you do if your horse goes lame?’

‘I’ll get on my spare, Legatus.’

Scaurus nodded, conceding the point with a knowing smile.

‘And if a Parthian raid makes off with your horses – all three of them, obviously – what then?’

Umbrius looked back at his commanding officer with dawning horror.

‘I’ll … march?’

Scaurus nodded slowly.

‘Indeed you will. The purposes of an officer’s horse, gentlemen, are several. The horse provides a vantage point over the heads of the men around the officer, allowing him to see and be seen. The horse provides its rider with speed over the ground for the swift delivery of messages, and allows him to move quickly to points where his presence is essential. It provides a means of following up behind a retreating enemy, in order to guide in the pursuers and be sure that no ambush has been set by the rearguard. It is most emphatically not intended to enable him to avoid undertaking the same hardships we expect of our men. And gentlemen, I expect every man in this room to be capable of matching our soldiers stride for stride over any distance and at any speed of march. While we train for war you will therefore march alongside your men, all of whom will be carrying a good deal more weight than you since your possessions are carried in carts while they have to hoist everything they own onto a pack pole.’

He looked around at their horrified faces.

‘You may not like it, but there it is. You all volunteered to be officers, and in my legion officers don’t sit around all day allowing their centurions to run the show. Your days of indolent luxury in Daphne are over, as from the moment you walked into this office. This legion needs officers. Your soldiers need leaders, men they can see sharing their hardships, living alongside them, fighting alongside them and if necessary, dying alongside them too. You will all, every one of you, learn to march very quickly indeed, and brush up on your weapons skills too, if you don’t want to be left behind when the legion marches.’

He looked about him again with a hard smile.

‘Oh yes, there’s a threat that some of you will be considering with an inner smirk, isn’t there? To be left behind in Antioch, while the rest of us march off to provide the Parthians with a little light target practice, doomed to die in the desert at the hands of eastern barbarians? That doesn’t sound so bad an alternative, I’d imagine. Except, gentlemen, consider this.’

He pinched the wool of his tunic, emphasising the garment’s thin stripe.

‘I’m sure you noticed it the moment I walked in. I’m just an equestrian! An upstart! A man with everything to prove, which is probably why the freedman who’s currently running the empire gave me command of this legion. He knows that I’ll beat you all into prime condition, and give the enemy more to think about than they’re expecting, given just how dissolute their spies will have been telling them you are.’

He grinned at them without a trace of humour.

‘But while I may only be an equestrian, I’m nobody’s fool, gentlemen. I accepted this command from the imperial chamberlain in return for one simple promise. He guaranteed me that any man I choose to send home, any of you judged to be unfit to hold the position of tribune in my legion for the reason of failing to make sufficient effort in his training, would have his family’s affairs investigated most thoroughly.’

He smiled at them knowingly.

‘It was a promise he was delighted to make. You’re all the sons of rich men, by comparison with the poor bastards you’re supposed to be leading. Can you all say with absolute certainty that your fathers came by that wealth fairly? That they’ve all paid their taxes on time and in full? That none of them has ever bribed an imperial official? I wouldn’t have thought that even the most scrupulous of men would relish Cleander’s investigators picking apart the seams of their lives, looking for hidden gold. And that, I promise you, would be the least of it.’

‘I have nothing to fear. My family’s wealth is honestly come by, and so vast that fraud really isn’t necessary.’

Scaurus smiled back at Umbrius.

‘On the contrary. The empire, by which of course I mean the emperor, has an insatiable thirst for gold. Anyone’s gold, whether fairly taken or not. I’d imagine that the prospect of turning his men loose on your father’s great fortune would make Cleander’s mouth water. Even the smallest of financial irregularities, the most innocent of mistakes by a scribe, would be enough to redouble their interest in your father’s doings. Few men’s affairs can stand up to such thorough scrutiny.’

He smiled at them, seeing the realisation that their lives were about to change irrevocably dawning upon the brighter among them.

‘So here it is, gentlemen. If you’re invalided out of the legion while genuinely trying to prove your fitness to come with us, then I’ll allow you to take passage back to Rome by merchant ship, after the winter, when the seas are open again. But if you fail to display the zeal I’m looking for, or try to count yourself out with some imagined ailment, then I’ll put you on a praetorian warship that’s waiting in the harbour at Seleucia for just the purpose, ready to sail immediately. Cleander’s waiting for that ship, gentlemen, and the men that walk off it in Misenum can be assured that their families’ lives are about to get a good deal more interesting than might be considered healthy. You choose. It’s really all the same to me.’

‘So, Vibius Varus, tell us about the destruction of the Sixth cohort.’

The tribune looked about him, uncertainly, and Scaurus smiled reassuringly.

‘I know, you’ve told the tale a hundred times already, I’ve read the record. Your previous legatus called you a coward for not dying with your command, despite not having set foot over the Euphrates in all his time in command of this legion.’

Varus nodded warily.

‘I hear the insult a dozen times a day. They call me coward behind my back, loudly enough to be sure I’ll hear, men with no idea what it was that we faced.’

Scaurus spread his hands in agreement.

‘Exactly. But we understand. We’ve all seen the same terrible face that battle wears.’

He gestured to the men gathered around his desk. Marcus, Julius, Dubnus, and Cotta.

‘Varus, it’s clear to me that your First Spear sent you away to make sure that the manner of his cohort’s destruction reached his legatus. None of us is going to judge you, and if your failure to have died alongside the men of the Sixth Cohort troubles you, then you’ll have the chance to prove yourself soon enough, if that’s what you want.’

Varus nodded slowly.

‘When the cohort’s first spear sent me away, I rode far enough to see the whole thing without becoming a target. I took refuge in a fold in the land, a slightly elevated position from which to watch the battle, as the first spear had requested.’

He shook his head at the memory.

‘It was like a scene from one of the arches in the forum, our men in a four-deep line and crouching behind their shields, with the rear two ranks protecting their heads.’

Scaurus shook his head grimly.

‘All very well in the assault, but not the best choice if you find yourself trapped under the bows of the Parthians with no cover to be had. How many archers were there?’

‘At least five thousand, Legatus, all mounted. Once the cohort had formed a square they rode around it, just shooting volley after volley of arrows in from all sides. When their arrows were spent they rode to meet men on camels laden with spares, then came back and started the whole horrible thing again. Some of the legionaries died instantly, hit by arrows that found a gap in the shields, or simply punched straight through the wood at close range.’

He grimaced at the memory.

‘They were the lucky ones. Others were only wounded, unable to hold their shields up against the constant rain of arrows. I saw one man crawl out into the middle of the square, to get out from under his comrades’ feet, I suppose. I watched him jerk as each successive arrow hit him, until he just stopped moving.’

‘How long did they keep this up?’

Varus turned to face Marcus.

‘Two hours? Perhaps three …’

‘And then?’

The tribune shook his head.

‘I thought that watching five hundred legionaries being picked apart one man at a time was the worst thing I’d ever seen. But then, as the afternoon heat really started to tell on the men left standing-’

‘How many were still able to fight?’

The tribune pursed his lips in thought.

‘Perhaps two hundred. They were still huddled together around the dead and wounded in the double line, facing both ways. Their shields were black with the shafts of arrows by this point, and many of them were already wounded. I knew their time had come when the cataphracts mounted their horses. They had sat on the ground watching as the archers killed our men, talking amongst themselves and waiting for the right moment to make their attack. I remember one man losing his wits under that unrelenting rain of death, and charging out of the line with his spear ready to throw. He only managed twenty paces, of course, before they shot him down with half a dozen arrows clean through his shield, and the cataphracts stood up and applauded his bravery. But eventually they mounted their horses and rode forward to finish the job.’

The men sitting around him waited patiently while he took a deep breath.

‘Even now the thought of it terrifies me. The archers rode back to either side, leaving those men that were still alive to stand and stare as the heavy cavalry formed up. They mounted without any noise or shouting, seemingly without urgency, as if they were simply parading for inspection. Their leader rode out in front of them, spoke a few words of encouragement, then started trotting his horse towards what was left of our men with the rest of them following him.’

‘How many where they?’

‘A thousand, all fully armoured. The horses too.’

Dubnus shook his head in disbelief.

‘Armoured horses?’

Varus nodded grimly.

‘Scale armour, hundreds of pieces of iron plate the size of a small child’s palm sewn onto heavy coats, and overlapped until the resulting defence is thick enough to stop a thrown spear. The plates were silvered, to make them shine like the sun itself, and when they started to move it was like a wall of light crossing the desert. They went from a trot to a canter when they were two hundred paces or so from our line, and the noise …

‘My family has an estate on Sicily, on the slopes of Etna, and when I was young the volcano erupted for several days before the gods saw fit to calm its anger. I’ve never forgotten the grinding, bone-shaking fury of the mountain’s rage, and the sound of their hoofs was the closest thing to it I’ve heard in all those years, a constant growling thunder even from a mile away, as if the gods themselves were fighting. What it must have been like for the men standing helplessly waiting for them to attack is beyond my imagination, but only two of them ran. How they can have imagined they were going to escape from an army of mounted men baffles me, but I don’t suppose they were thinking all that clearly. The rest of the legionaries just stood and waited while the cataphracts rode up to them and started into them with their lances, stabbing down from out of sword reach. A few men threw their spears in reply, but they didn’t seem to have much effect. Then a horn sounded, and the riders dropped their spears and rode in closer with what looked like maces.’

Varus put his face into his hands, his next words muffled but still distinguishable.

‘It was a slaughter. Every time a cataphract’s arm rose and fell, one of our men went down. It was that simple. The fight was over within fifty heartbeats, and all that was left were the two men who had run. The cataphracts played with them for a short time, riding at them and turning away at the last moment, and then a man wearing black armour trotted his horse up and killed them both with two sweeps of his mace, as quick as it takes to tell you.’

‘What did they do with the bodies?’

Varus looked at Cotta with blank eyes.

‘Left them where they lay. They will not defile the purity of the fire they worship with human flesh, and I doubt enough wood could have been found in any case. For all I know their bodies still rot where they fell.’

‘And that was it?’

The young tribune shook his head at Dubnus.

‘Not quite. The man in the black armour climbed down from his horse and made sure that both of the soldiers he had killed were truly dead, then raised the mace in his hand and shouted up at the hills, as if he knew I was watching. His Latin was perfect, but his voice was a cold as the dagger at your belt.’

‘What did he say, Tribune?’

The young man turned to Scaurus.

‘He said “Let this be a warning to all whose boots disturb the blessed soil of our motherland! Rome’s presence will no longer be tolerated! I, Narsai of Adiabene swear this!” And then he mounted, turned his horse and rode away without once looking back.’

Scaurus nodded.

‘Thank you, Tribune, for your honesty. A lesser man would have been more bombastic, whereas your humility in the face of such a trial does you great honour. I look forward to marching to confront this enemy with you at my side.’

Varus saluted and left the friends in silence. Once the door was shut, Scaurus looked around at his officers.

‘As I feared, the enemy we will be facing is indeed Parthian, almost certainly drawn from the provinces that abut Adiabene and Osrhoene. The action he describes is straight out of the history books too, clouds of horse archers pinning an enemy where they stand, shooting their arrows and then running away faster than any infantryman can pursue, gradually weakening their enemy to the point of collapse. And then they unleash the finest heavy cavalry in the world, their cataphracts. Armed with lances, swords and maces, the mere sound and threat of their advance can be enough to break an already demoralised army before any contact, while in combat their armour makes them almost impervious to any attack. They are dangerous beyond belief, gentlemen, and I doubt very much that the numbers described by our colleague Varus represent their full strength, given that he made no mention of the infantry I’m sure they will have levied from their peasantry. Fighting our way past them to relieve Nisibis is going to prove difficult, especially with only half a legion.’

‘Why bother, Legatus?’

The men turned to look at Dubnus, but the big man simply shrugged.

‘What’s so important about a town in the middle of the desert? It seems to me that the only reason for caring about the place is to be able to draw a line on a map.’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow at Cotta, who nodded back at him and turned to address the question.

‘I had much the same point of view until the first time I marched east from Zeugma. Why cross three hundred miles of desolate, barren ground to go and stand garrison duty on a city in the middle of nowhere? Why go to the bother of taking it from Adiabene in the first place, and holding it in the face of the locals’ anger at our boots dishonouring their soil? It’s only when you get there that you realise why such a city should have come into being in that place, where there’s nothing much of any value apart from the timber from the mountains to the north and whatever can be grown on the margins of the river that runs past it to the south, eventually flowing into the Euphrates but navigable only in the spring, when the mountain snows melt.’

He fell silent, and Dubnus raised an eyebrow.

‘And …?’

‘The secret, my friend, lies in the city’s placement, almost equidistant between the Parthian capital of Ctesiphon and the borders of the empire. You see, there is a place very faraway to the east of Parthia, across a desert of enormous size, where a race of people quite different to us live. I saw some of them in Nisibis once, a trading party on their way to Rome. They have different-coloured skin to us, more yellow than pink, and their eyes are different too, less round than ours. And in this faraway place they grow and make things that the rich citizens of Rome want to buy, expensive fabrics so fine and smooth to the hand that a woman dressed in them might as well be naked, and exotic spices found nowhere in the empire. They bring these goods across the desert to Parthia, and then barter some of their cargo for the right to cross the empire and sell their goods to our merchants.’

‘Who in turn add their own markup when they get the stuff to Rome?’

‘Exactly. It’s a long road from this distant land in the east, and at every stop the traders must give up some small part of their profit in order to be allowed to progress which, of course, means that the price to the end customer in Rome is that little bit higher.’

Dubnus nodded knowingly.

‘So Nisibis is owned by the emperor, right?’

Marcus nodded.

‘As my Greek tutors laboured long and hard to make me understand, the history of this part of the world is both long and complex. Rome has been fighting Parthia for control of the region for at least two hundred years, and the lines on this particular map have moved around quite vigorously, depending on who has had the upper hand in the constant battle of wills. The current Parthian king attacked us, back in the joint reign of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, and was so soundly beaten by a general by the name of Avidius Cassius …’

He raised an eyebrow at Cotta, who gave him an emotionless return stare.

‘… that he hasn’t moved against us in all of the thirty years since. Rome established a client kingdom adjoining Syria, Osrhoene, and pursued the usual policy of putting a forward base right in the middle of Adiabene, the next-door kingdom. Nisibis was the natural choice, the main trading city in Adiabene, the perfect place for a customs post out past the empire’s edge, where goods can be taxed before they get into the hands of men who are rather better skilled at avoiding payment.’

‘So when these eastern traders reach Nisibis, they have to pay a toll, which goes straight to Commodus?’

Marcus nodded at his friend’s question.

‘Exactly. If we lose Nisibis then we lose a source of wealth to whoever it is that has decided to take it off our hands. Wealth which will then be used to bolster their ability to repel any attempt to recapture the place.’

Cotta raised a hand.

‘If I might comment on the odds of taking the city back, once we’ve lost it?’

Scaurus nodded, staring hard at the map painted onto the office’s wall.

‘A tour of duty in Nisibis was the most boring tour of duty you can imagine, but if that place was one thing above all, it was strong. Two circular walls, a mile long, both over thirty feet tall, with a twenty-five foot-wide dry moat between them. In time of peace the moat is bridged, but when there’s a threat to the city the bridges are dismantled. The Parthians don’t have any siege machinery, so all they can hope to achieve is to take the outer wall, at a huge cost in dead and wounded, after which they have precisely nothing because there’s no way across to the other wall until the moat is filled in, with bowmen and bolt throwers on the inner wall – which is taller, of course – busy killing anyone foolish enough to venture out onto the outer wall. Oh, and the city has its own fresh water springs, and grain stores big enough to feed the population and a legion for six months if need be. If they manage to starve the garrison out we’ll never take it back again without a full-scale war like the one thirty years ago. Nisibis can be taken by defeating the Parthians in battle and humiliating them into surrendering the fortress, but not by direct assault.’

The legatus nodded.

‘Quite so. The legatus who manages to rescue the city from this threat will be judged to have done his job effectively, while the man who presides over its loss will return to Rome in disgrace. No wonder the governor’s reaction to my thin stripe was to starve my command of men, he knows enough to understand that it’s the simplest way he can see off Cleander’s little experiment in allowing a man of my class to command a legion.’

Julius cleared his throat, looking at Scaurus with a questioning expression.

‘First Spear?’

‘I’m less interested in why they want to take this desert city and rather more in how you think we’re going to stop them. And how you think we’ll even be able to reach the place, given you think that the force that destroyed Varus’s cohort was only part of their strength.’

Scaurus nodded with a knowing look.

‘I thought you might be, so I prepared a list of the things that we’re going to need if we’re to stand a chance of putting them back in their place.’

He opened a tablet.

‘I’ll take you all through them tomorrow, since you’re going to be doing most of the work to procure them, in some cases by means of subterfuge and probably even theft. Some of them are simple enough, and merely require the expenditure of gold, albeit that we might have to exercise a little wit to avoid overpaying. Others will require the exercise of a little of that senatorial authority we’ve heard so much about. And one, gentlemen, the most important factor of all if we have to face the Parthians in battle, will cost us nothing whatsoever – but only if we’re in the right place at the right time.’

Marcus came out of the headquarters building to find the two Britons who had travelled with the Tungrians from Rome waiting for him, the giant Lugos looming over his one-eyed companion with whom a fierce initial enmity, born of their different tribal origins, had evolved into firm friendship over the years of their service with the Tungrians.

‘Tribune. We find ourselves with nowhere to sleep, unless we …’

Martos fell silent as Marcus put his hands on his hips and stared back at him with a jaundiced eye.

‘This was Dubnus’s idea, wasn’t it?’

The Briton shrugged.

‘He might have mentioned it. It seems that all you important men will sleep in a barracks block, with one tent party room apiece.’

The Roman nodded, unable to resist a smile at his memory of tribune Umbrius’s horrified reaction to the revised billeting.

‘We have to sleep in a barracks? Like the soldiers?’

Scaurus had been unmoved by his officers’ collective amazement.

‘Give me one good reason why not? But make it a good one, Tribune, or my admittedly generous offer might just slide off the table to be replaced by something less luxurious.’

‘Less …’

‘Luxurious. I’m offering you young gentlemen as much space as is usually occupied by an eight-man tent party, with an additional room for your equipment and space enough for your servant to sleep in besides. If I were you I’d take me up on the offer, or you might find yourselves sharing.’

Umbrius had stared at him for a moment.

‘You want to tell me that I can’t do this. You want to go to the governor and have him overrule me. But you’re worried as to what I might do if you were to do so. And you’re right to be concerned.’

Umbrius had nodded, reluctantly agreeing to the drastic revision of their living arrangements, and the tribunes had trooped out to discover just how appalling their new quarters were.

‘Dubnus think you make enemy. Ask we to sleep with you.’

Marcus sighed at Lugos’s blunt statement of the facts.

‘He may be right. And the company might help me to stop brooding about my wife and child. Come on.’

They found the barrack easily enough, grinning at the loud complaints issuing from within several of the rooms as the sons of Rome’s aristocracy discovered their new living conditions. Flamininus was standing outside his room with a cup of wine, and his bemused expression became a sneer when he saw Marcus approaching.

‘Here he is. This was your idea, wasn’t it, Thin Stripe? And what are these, your barbarian catamites?’

Martos, who had removed his eye patch during the walk from the headquarters building, grinned evilly and stepped in front of the nonplussed tribune.

‘This barbarian speaks your language, so mind just how hard you push or you might find that I oblige your apparent need to fight. I only have one eye, boy, but I can recognise a fool when I see one.’

‘He can’t speak to me like that!’

Marcus nodded, his face lit up with amusement.

‘I think you’ll find that he can. That, Flamininus, is a genuine example of British tribal aristocracy. He’s a king, and kings speak to anyone they like, any way they like.’

‘And yet he’s following you round like a-’

He flinched back as the Briton leaned forward.

‘Say the word, Roman. Give me a reason to stop your wind.’

He stepped back, looking the tribune up and down.

‘I was captured in battle by this Roman, as was my companion here.’

He waved a hand at Lugos, who stepped forward, forcing Flamininus to incline his head to look at him as he stared down at the tribune dispassionately.

‘We could both have been executed, but Tribune Corvus not only treated us both fairly, he refused to enslave us. And so we follow him, in the hope of repaying our life debts. And beware, Roman …’

He leaned close to Flamininus again, lowering his voice.

‘Lugos here makes me look like a priest when he decides that the time to fight has come. If he catches any of you people in the Tribune’s quarters I imagine he will tear that man’s arms off.’

Marcus walked on, and the two Britons made to follow, but Flamininus fired a parting jibe at Martos’s back.

‘If you’re such a great warrior, how do you come to be missing an eye?’

The Briton turned to stare back at him, and Marcus stepped between them.

‘He lost the eye storming his tribal capital, after he was betrayed by an ally who sought to take his kingdom. By the time we were in control of the fortress he’d killed a score of the enemy tribesmen, most of them by the simple but direct method of cutting off their genitals. Think on that before you provoke him again, because this is the last time I’ll stand between you.’

They found the barrack much as expected, but the floor was dry, and Lugos made swift work of the detritus that littered the room once Martos had taken a lamp from his pack and lit it, bringing a glow of warmth to the room.

‘Have sleep in worse.’

Martos nodded at the giant’s observation.

‘Not in these beds you haven’t. I doubt they’ll hold your weight.’

Lugos shrugged.

‘I sleep floor. Is dry.’

Marcus untied the ribbon around his chest that denoted his rank and took off the heavy front and back plates, stretching luxuriously before rolling himself into his blanket in one of the four bunks that filled the room.

‘We’ll get rid of two of these beds tomorrow, but all I want now is to enjoy the feeling of not carrying all that bronze around on my back.’

Martos, having shrugged out of his chain mail, chose another bed and emulated the tribune’s example.

‘You’re lucky. You might think that a man of my age would be used to the weight, but it only gets worse as the years go by.’

A note of curiosity crept into the Roman’s sleepy voice.

‘So why didn’t you return to your own people when the cohorts marched for Rome last year? You could have chosen to live quietly, filling your days with hunting, instead of accompanying us to this distant part of the world to fight for an emperor you can only despise?

The Briton was silent for a moment.

‘I could never have returned to the Dinpaladyr for any longer than a few days. Even during my brief return I was aware of the tensions building around me. I gave the throne up, Marcus, and named my nephew as my successor. My presence anywhere in his kingdom would have been a provocation, one way or another. The young king’s advisers would have seen me as a threat, and those who were unhappy with their rule would have sought to make me their champion. No good could have come of it. And …’

He fell quiet, wrestling with memories of his time as king. Lugos’s voice growled a single word from where he lay on the floor.

‘Family.’

Martos was silent for a moment.

‘Yes. My family.’

His voice had sunk to a whisper.

‘My wife and children died as the result of my stupidity in believing Calgus when he told me that we would share power, once you Romans had been driven off our land. My home holds memories that I do not wish to recall. My life as a king is finished, and now I am simply a man. Wherever you go, my friends, I will go too.’

He laughed softly in the near darkness.

‘And after all, without your companionship how else would I have travelled so far, and in such luxury?’

‘Legionary Sanga! Get your lazy arse out here now and bring your mate Saratos with you!’

Having only just laid down on his bed after a fruitless hunt for either alcohol or female company, the veteran soldier groaned, rolled to his feet and stepped out of the barrack into the cool night air wearing nothing but a fixed grin, followed a moment later by his friend who had yet to strip off his tunic.

‘Evening, Centurion.’

Quintus shook his head with an expression of disgust.

‘Put something on, you ape!’

Rolling his eyes at the change in his orders, the veteran stepped back into the stone room, pulled a sock from his boot and rolled it over his genitals before stepping out into the chill again, snapping to attention in front of the two centurions who stood waiting for him. Quintus thrust his vine stick up under Sanga’s scrotum, forcing the soldier up onto his toes.

‘Think you’re funny, do you Sanga?’

Knowing that any answer he could make would only worsen his officer’s already volatile temper, the soldier stared at the wall of the barrack opposite until the furious centurion pulled the stick away and paced around him.

‘Are you sure this is the soldier you want, Qadir? Surely there are men with more discipline and better attitudes that you could use instead?’

The Hamian centurion facing the two men shook his head with a slight smile.

‘Much as I hate to disappoint you, I am obliged to disagree. My need is for a man with exactly the blend of guile, sly wits and, when the need arises, ruthlessness that this man possesses in such abundance. Not to mention the equally important abilities with which Saratos compensates for his shortcomings.’

Outlining what it was that was required of the two men, he handed Sanga a sack, ignoring the veteran’s wounded expression.

‘Tunics. One for each of you. You’ll need them tomorrow if you’re going to blend in.’

Knowing better than to ask the question as to exactly what it was that would be expected of them in front of their own centurion, Sanga went straight for the practicalities.

‘This is a street job, right Centurion?’

Qadir nodded.

‘In that case sir, we’ll need-’

‘The money is in the bag. A leather purse.’

The veteran’s smile broadened.

‘Thank you Centurion. We won’t let you down.’

Quintus shook his head wearily.

‘Only I could get promoted to Centurion to a century that was home to both you and Morban. It’s either him fleecing my soldiers by getting them to gamble on which horse has the bigger dick, or you vanishing off for days at a time to drink and whore at the legatus’s expense. If I didn’t know better I’d ask what the-’

‘But you do know better, colleague.’

Qadir leaned close to Quintus.

‘That’s the reason why the first spear selected you to replace Tribune Corvus upon his promotion. He knows that you can be counted on not to ask that question, or to speculate as to the answer when, really and truly, you know you’re much better knowing as little as possible.’

Quintus nodded glumly, then turned his ire on the waiting soldiers.

‘Get out of my sight Sanga, you revolting animal. And don’t come back pissed up or I’ll take the greatest of pleasure in beasting you round this camp until your legs are so short that you’ll need a sock over your prick to stop it rubbing on the fucking ground! Dismissed!’