Thunder of the Gods

3

Scaurus looked over the parade ground with an appraising stare as the Third Gallic marched out into the wide open space, his eyes roaming over the marching ranks from the vantage point of his horse. With the benefit of a night in which to prepare for the parade, their equipment was every bit as well presented as he had expected, their armour and helmets gleaming in the winter sunlight. The legion’s centurions would have had a busy night of it.

‘Tidy drill, First Spear.’

The senior centurion nodded his head respectfully at the compliment.

‘We drill the men every day, Legatus. They practise battlefield manoeuvres for the first hour, just to get them warmed up, then we put them through all the usual practice: sword work, spear throwing, working on both distance and accuracy, defensive and offensive shield fighting, wrestling-’

‘Wrestling?’

The first spear nodded.

‘Wrestling, Legatus. For one thing, there’s a strong tradition of the sport in these parts, as you can imagine, and for another, I won’t have a man reduced to impotence when his shield’s been wrecked and his sword blade breaks.’

He shrugged at Julius’s raised eyebrow.

‘Yes, I know, if one hundred unarmed men face an enemy with a sword then perhaps only one of those one hundred has any hope of winning, and then only if he has divine providence on his side, but while they fight on they’re not running and making men who are still equipped look to their rear rather than engaging the enemy. We have regular competitions at all levels of the legion, from the centuries upwards.’

‘Perhaps your Tungrians would like to take part, Legatus?’

Scaurus turned in his saddle to address Tribune Umbrius, resplendent as ever in his gleaming breastplate and impeccably polished boots.

‘Indeed, perhaps they would, Tribune. Although we tend more towards simple bare-knuckle fighting. Tell me First Spear, how often do your men exercise their legs in the country?’

Quintinus looked back at him in bafflement.

‘I’m sorry, I ought to have been clearer. How often do they march any distance?’

Quintinus took on a regretful expression.

‘We don’t march in winter, Legatus. Legatus Lateranus said there was no point, since we were committed to the defence of the city. He wasn’t much for anything that would take him away from Antioch.’

The legion had paraded in its standard formation, the First Cohort at the right-hand end of the line with each succeeding cohort arrayed to its left. The soldiers appeared strong and well fed, and their equipment, while just as non-uniform as he had expected, with both mail and laminated armour in evidence, was well maintained to judge from the dull shine of oiled metal. Every man carried a shield protected by a leather cover in his left hand and a pair of practice javelins in his right, their swords having been replaced by heavy wooden practice weapons. Scaurus looked out across the open space, pursing his lips at the thinness of the ranks of men facing him.

‘How many men do you have available for duty today, First Spear?’

Quintinus consulted a writing tablet.

‘Two thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two, Legatus.’

‘I see. And the other two thousand soldiers?’

Another glance down at the tablet.

‘The majority of them are on leave in their hometowns and villages, Legatus. I took the opportunity of this period of relative quiet to send them away, as it was their turn.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Detached duty for the most part, although we do have a fair number hunting wild beasts.’

‘I see. So each of these centuries has fifty or so men on parade?’

The first spear nodded, and Scaurus held his gaze for a moment.

‘Carry on then, let’s see what the remaining two thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two are capable of, shall we?’

Quintinus waved his hand at the trumpeters to his left, and a blare of sound set the legion’s centurions into action. At their shouted commands, the odd-numbered centuries marched forward out of the line towards the review stand until they were thirty paces from their remaining comrades. Halting with a clatter of hobnailed boots they performed an impressively co-ordinated about-face that hinted at their foot drill being well practised. The even-numbered centuries had not been idle, each of them having quickly formed a protective testudo, their shields raised to provide them with the protection to their front and flanks, while the men inside the formation overlapped their shields to form a roof overhead.

The front ranks of the odd-numbered centuries stamped forward, a shower of practice javelins arcing from their line to hammer at the testudos’ shields with a rattle like hail on roof tiles. In one of the target centuries, a man in the front rank was unlucky enough to be hit on the foot by a lucky throw, hopping out of the formation in evident agony just as the second volley arrived. The wooden tip of another javelin thumped into his thigh, and as he started back in fresh agony a second weapon hit him squarely in the face, felling him with a boneless slump that told its own story. Quintinus looked at Scaurus, but the legatus shook his head solemnly.

‘Continue. The men will see much worse soon enough.’

With another peal of horns the opposing centuries reversed their roles, the odd numbers forming testudo with practised ease, while their counterparts hurled their own practice weapons across the gap between them, the rattle of their wooden heads testament to the shields’ robust defence. With all of their javelins thrown, the two lines reformed, still facing each other with the casualty lying between them, and the soldiers waited while a bandage carrier and his mates ran across the parade ground to where the comatose soldier lay. They gathered around the man for a moment, the stretcher bearers waiting while their leader knelt beside the man. After a moment, one of them staggered away from the huddle of men and vomited onto the parade ground’s surface, clearly unable to stomach the nature of the man’s injuries. Rolling his body onto the stretcher so that he was lying face down, the medical party carried him away, while the legion’s soldiers maintained a respectful silence. The first spear signalled again, and the two lines drew their practice swords.

‘I do so enjoy this part of the exercise!’

Scaurus nodded at his senior tribune’s enthusiasm, watching as the opposing centuries started their barritus, the war cry building slowly until they were bellowing at each other at the tops of their voices. Then, with a swift sweep of their vine sticks, the centurions on either side unleashed their men, the centuries dashing forward into a pitched mock battle that seemed to the legatus almost recklessly enthusiastic.

‘You trust your men to pull their blows, First Spear?’

Quintinus spoke without taking his eyes off the melee.

‘For the most part, Legatus. And I’ll admit that this scale of mock battle is a special treat for the Third, as a means of showing you that our men aren’t quite as effeminate as some commentators would have you believe.’

Scaurus shook his head brusquely.

‘You forget that I was the previous governor’s inspector of troops for two years. I wouldn’t have thought for a moment that your men were anything less than professional soldiers. And I suppose this sort of mass brawl does allow them to get rid of their excess energy …’

Scaurus paused, giving the senior centurion a knowing glance.

‘And a chance to even out any scores that might have been festering. Very well, I’ve seen enough.’

The horns sounded again, and the two sides separated and reformed their individual centuries, half a dozen men limping away from either side at the command of their centurions, some clutching their sides and one staggering, supported by another man. Tribune Umbrius leaned forward in his saddle, raising an eyebrow at Scaurus.

‘What a fine display! Don’t you think so, Legatus? Roman military prowess at its most impressive, and a fine advertisement for the superiority of the legion! Do your auxiliaries perform their drill that well, First Spear?’

Julius, who had watched the display in silence, replied with a commendably straight face.

‘I very much doubt it, Tribune. My men have been a little too preoccupied with fighting actual battles to spend much time working on the finer points of drill and hitting each other with bits of wood, sir.’

Umbrius frowned, taken aback by the subtle rebuttal.

‘You didn’t tell us that your men had combat experience, Legatus?’

Scaurus smiled thinly.

‘I don’t recall you asking the question, Tribune, but since the matter of my men’s combat experience has finally arisen, I’ll allow my first spear to list the Tungrian cohorts’ recent battle honours.’

Julius spoke without taking his eyes off the legion’s ranks.

‘We fought off ten thousand barbarians at the start of the recent revolt in Britannia …’ He nodded at his colleague Quintinus’s raised eyebrows. ‘We had some luck, and after that it was mostly down to carefully chosen ground, sound motivation …’

He smiled grimly.

‘That and the fact that there was nowhere to run. We’ve fought four other major engagements in Britannia, and a number of other skirmishes, sieges of barbarian fortresses, that sort of thing.’

He paused for a moment, and Umbrius drew breath to speak.

‘Then there was Germania, hunting bandits, dirty fighting for the most part although we did kill a few hundred of them once we got down to it. And Dacia, putting a Sarmatae tribe back in their place. And a small army of German auxiliaries too, when they decided to mutiny and take over a gold mine which the legatus here had been detailed to secure.’

He paused, pointing out across the parade ground.

‘It seems your horsemen are ready to perform.’

The legion first spear stared at him for a moment before turning to the trumpeter. At the signal the legion’s one-hundred-and-twenty-strong horsemen cantered proudly into the open space in front of the legion’s line of cohorts, and Julius grinned at the sight of half a dozen centurions wielding their vine sticks at men they suspected to be the source of clearly audible ribald comments aimed at the cavalry.

‘Your squadrons of horses seem to be pretty much up to strength.’

Tribune Umbrius nodded in silence, doing his best to ignore his new legatus’s questioning look. Julius stared out at the horsemen, nodding appreciatively.

‘And well drilled, from the look of things.’

Umbrius leaned forward again.

‘Indeed so, First Spear. They routinely train with our resident Phrygian cavalry wing, the governor’s own bodyguard. Their prefect is a proper Roman gentleman, and a master horseman to boot.’

‘And the governor has taken them under his wing, so to speak?’

Umbrius laughed at Scaurus’s joke.

‘Very good, Legatus, a wing under his wing. Yes indeed, and he takes a close interest in their being fully manned and equipped.’

Scaurus smiled back at him.

‘I’m sure he does.’

The cavalrymen were performing a flawless demonstration of horsemanship. Having expended their spears at a row of man-sized targets, with an accuracy that had Julius nodding appreciatively, they drew bows from the cases strapped to their saddles and proceeded to ride at the targets, one squadron at a time, loosing one arrow before turning their horses about, another shot loosed over each rider’s shoulder demonstrating the same expertise as the previous arrow.

‘The Phrygian’s prefect has had his men practising shooting from the saddle for most of the year. That last little trick is called-’

Scaurus spoke without taking his eyes off the cavalrymen.

‘A Parthian shot. The Phrygian’s wing’s prefect and I have clearly been reading the same books. Ah, it seems that the display is complete. Shall we go and inspect the men?’

Quintinus raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s more usual for the legatus simply to address them from his horse, Legatus.’

Scaurus shrugged.

‘Everything changes, First Spear. And I’m not much of a man for following rules whose point I struggle to comprehend.’

He dismounted and strode out onto the hard, sandy surface, heading straight for the cavalrymen in their place on the line’s right. Dismounted, each man stood by his beast’s head, their weapons and equipment as carefully presented as their infantry colleagues.

‘You put on an impressive show, Decurion.’

The senior squadron commander saluted crisply.

‘Thank you Sir. We practise daily with-’

‘The Phrygian wing. Yes, First Spear Quintinus mentioned it. I’ll have to meet with their prefect, he sounds like a good man.’

‘He is, sir, a real soldier if you take my meaning …’

He dried up under Quintinus’s scrutiny, but Scaurus nodded.

‘I take your meaning well enough, Decurion. My congratulations on your turnout.’

He walked along the line of infantrymen, looking hard at each cohort in turn with Quintinus following him in bemused silence. Once he had reached the Tenth Cohort’s place at the far end, he turned about without a word and made his way back to the point where the men of the missing Sixth Cohort would have stood, glancing at the First Spear.

‘Here will do.’

Clearing his throat, he raised his voice to be heard across the silent parade ground.

‘Soldiers of the Third Gallic! You have presented a flawless display of your martial prowess! Your testudo was swiftly formed, and resisted the attacks of the forces opposing you. Your formation-keeping was precise, and the manner in which you went about your mock battle was fearless and decisive. You are to be commended for living up to the high standards that have been set by your legion since it was formed by the Divine Julius Caesar himself, serving under such inspired generals as Marcus Antonius, Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo and the divine Titus Flavius Vespasian! Indeed it was this legion’s decisive role at the battle of Bedriacum that assured that most august emperor’s claim on the imperial throne!’

He paused, looking up and down the ranks of solemn-faced soldiers.

‘The Third Gallic has been an essential part of Roman rule in this province for almost two hundred years, and I have every expectation that you will continue to show our enemies that Rome is not to be treated with anything other than the greatest respect! Soon we will be marching east, tasked by our emperor with the responsibility to teach some uppity Parthian king or other that while our empire’s rule is beneficent, our anger when roused is truly a thing of terror. You men and I will put right a wrong that has been done to our brother soldiers, and in doing so make our borders safe for another hundred years! But for now …’

He paused again, forcing himself to grin wolfishly.

‘For now, you have earned a little free time!’

Men were nudging each other in the cohort’s front ranks in anticipation of the words they so badly wanted to hear.

‘The rest of the day will be treated as free time for anyone without essential duties to perform. Make sure that you’re in a fit state for sunrise tomorrow, but make the most of this reward for your excellent performance!’

He turned to Quintinus.

‘Dismiss your men, First Spear. And take the afternoon off yourself, along with your centurions. First Spear Julius and I will look after the guard rota.’

Julius walked across to join his superior officer once Quintinus had saluted and marched away, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘The Tungrian cohorts aren’t included in your generosity, Legatus?’

Scaurus nodded with a crooked smile.

‘I don’t think that would be wise. Antioch may be a big place, but the odds are good that our boys would end up nose to nose with those soldiers, and given that they know the city and our men don’t, it might very well get ugly. I don’t want to risk putting them together in the presence of drink and women until they all know each other a little better. And you might want to warn your men that tomorrow morning’s parade is likely to be followed by something a bit more strenuous than a morning’s sword drill and wrestling.’

Julius saluted and turned away to supervise the Tungrians back to their morning exercise, his place promptly being taken by the senior tribune who had been waiting behind him.

‘Well said, Legatus, if I might be allowed to offer a congratulation on your oration? I had no idea the legion’s reputation was so strong-’

Umbrius’s eyes narrowed with surprise as Scaurus shook an exasperated head.

‘Reading, Tribune, is a powerful way to find out things you don’t know. And the Third Gallic, for your more complete information, were indeed formed by the blessed Julius, in Gaul, logically enough, but they ended up on the wrong side in the wars that followed his death. Once Marcus Antonius had killed himself after Actium they were sent here by the emperor Augustus as punishment for taking the wrong side in the civil war. And the reason the legion was so instrumental at Bedriacum was that, being an eastern legion, they stopped fighting to greet the sunrise with a salute, which Vitellius’s men mistook as a signal to reinforcements from the east, causing them to lose the will to fight. The history of the Third Gallic, Tribune, is the same mixture of bravery, disaster, stupid mistakes and blind luck that every other legion parades as its claim to eternal glory. Including, on occasion, that old favourite …’

He turned away, barking his last words over his shoulder.

‘Pernicious fraud!’

‘Does everyone have a cup?’ Scaurus looked around his officers, raising his wine in salute. ‘Here’s to audacity, gentlemen.’

With the legion busy enjoying itself in the wine shops and brothels of the city, the legatus had gracefully accorded his senior officers the same privilege, knowing that he could count on them to indulge themselves in similar fashion to their men, thereby giving him the opportunity to meet with a select group of men he knew he could trust to plan their next steps. The officers sitting around him lifted their drinks and echoed the toast.

‘Audacity!’

Cotta sipped at his wine appreciatively.

‘Two of the reasons that I like you, Legatus, are because you serve damned good wine and because you know when to take risks. I presume our toast means that you have a little more risk taking in mind?’

Scaurus nodded, looking around him at the faces of his men.

‘It’s clear enough that the governor intends to thwart me in any way that presents itself to him. And if he knew the contents of the report I’m intending to send back to Rome regarding the state of the province’s defences, he would promptly redouble those efforts. If he has his way then we will march east with no hope other than that our deaths will be swift and honourable.’ He looked around at the gathered officers.

‘And speaking for myself, I have no plans to meet my ancestors for a good while yet. So, each of you is here for a reason, each man with a role to play in ensuring that when we march east we go equipped to conquer whatever it is that’s waiting for us beyond the Euphrates. Julius.’

‘Legatus?’

‘We don’t have time to turn the legion’s men into thirty-mile-a-day marching animals, but we do have time to find out which of them have the potential. And you don’t have the time to make them very much more proficient with their weapons, but you can assess who’ll be confident enough to use their spears and swords when the time comes. You’ve got a week, no more, and then we’ll make the decision as to who we take east and who we leave here for the governor to play at soldiers with.’

The first spear nodded, and Scaurus switched his gaze to Cotta.

‘You, Centurion, I need to find out which of the legion’s centurions can be trusted when the going turns nasty. I want a list, no more than a week from now, of who you believe we can trust to keep their nerve when the arrows start flying. And who we can trust, full stop. I’ve no intention of taking any of Domitius Dexter’s men with me, if I can avoid it.’

Cotta smiled back at him.

‘As you wish, Legatus. Although First Spear Quintinus isn’t going to like you picking and choosing from his officers.’

The legatus shrugged.

‘First Spear Quintinus isn’t going to have any choice in the matter. Dubnus …’

The hulking centurion stiffened in his seat.

‘Legatus.’

‘You, Centurion, I need for the sheer brute force possessed by your axe men. The Tenth Century will be the muscle power that drives our most effective weapons. And you, Qadir …’

‘Legatus?’

Where Dubnus’s voice was a bass growl, the Hamian’s lightly accented response was smooth, almost cultured.

‘You, and your archers, will take that muscle power and deliver it to the places where it will have the maximum impact.’

Qadir inclined his head in respectful acknowledgement.

‘Avidus.’

The African engineer nodded briskly.

‘You and your men are our experts at making things, or at least that was the story you told me when I was debating whether to agree to Julius’s brazen plan to bribe you and your century out of the transit barracks at Rome.’

He passed the centurion a wooden writing tablet, which Avidus opened and perused, his eyebrows rising at the list’s contents.

‘I need you to get me all of these items. Make them, or have them made in the city’s workshops, borrow them or steal them, I care little as long as they’re ready on time.’

‘In a week, Legatus?’

‘In a week, Centurion.’

The pioneer officer pursed his lips.

‘Ox hides by the thousand, linen by the mile, iron – a lot of iron – enough wood to build a battleship. It won’t be cheap, sir, and getting it done that quickly will just make the merchants and smiths greedier than they usually are.’

Scaurus pointed a hand at the chest that occupied one corner of his office, the reason why the Tungrians mounted a heavy guard around and inside the building both night and day.

‘I know. You’ll have all the gold you need.’

Avidus nodded and turned his attention back to the tablet, his mind clearly already preoccupied with how to meet his legatus’s requirements.

‘Tribune Corvus.’

Marcus looked up.

‘Legatus.’

‘You, Tribune, have two men with key roles to play, and I have a particular task in mind for you as well. This is what I need …’

Marcus rode his horse down the hill into Seleucia the next morning at the head of a long train of empty carts, looking out across the port at the praetorian warships that had been beached on the inner harbour’s shingle. Half a dozen remained afloat within the protection of the outer harbour’s thick walls, moored stem to stern along the northern mole. The morning guard directed him to the better of the port’s official guest houses so, ordering the carts to wait for him, and tethering the horse under their watchful eye, he walked the last few hundred paces to find the fleet’s procurator taking the morning air, leaning back in a wooden chair with the look of a man at his ease. The expression fled Ravilla’s face the instant he saw the younger man approaching.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to come back down that hill, Tribune. Not with any keen sense of anticipation, mind you.’

Marcus inclined his head in recognition of the naval officer’s irritation, having fully expected his appearance to confirm the man’s worst fears. Scaurus had warned him what to expect before he’d climbed into the saddle for the short ride to the port earlier that morning: ‘He’s not going to like it, Tribune. You’ll have to find a way to make it clear to him what’s going to happen if he doesn’t cooperate.’

He bowed respectfully.

‘I completely understand, Procurator. The Legatus asked me to convey to you his regret at having to make the request …’

‘But unfortunately he has no choice in the matter?’

‘Something very much like that, yes sir.’

The procurator scratched at his beard, shaking his head unhappily as he accepted the scroll that Marcus had produced from his belt, opening it to read Scaurus’s orders.

‘So he proposes to take my marines away with him into Parthia, where he will almost certainly get them all killed? I suppose I ought to be grateful he’s not ordering me to bring him a few cohorts of sailors as well?’

The younger man shook his head.

‘In the years I’ve known him it’s been my observation that while Legatus Scaurus can at times be pragmatic to the point of ruthlessness, I’ve never found him to be a sadist. And arming your crews would be sadism of the lowest type, given the enemy we’re marching to face. He believes that your marines will suffice.’

The procurator glowered at him in silence for a moment.

‘And what’s he going to do if I refuse, eh? March his legion down here and drag my men away? Tell me that, Tribune. What’s he going to do if I send you away with the hard word?’

‘Nothing, sir. But then it’s not what the legatus will do that should be troubling you.’

Ravilla looked at him, seeing the shadow of pain cross his face.

‘I was wondering why he sent you, rather than coming down here in person. I’d put it down to his not wanting to have to face me while he stripped my fleet of its men, but that’s not the reason, is it?’

Marcus shook his head impassively.

‘No, Procurator.’

‘Then why? Why you, and not Rutilius Scaurus in person.’

‘Because the legatus has no one to lose, sir. Whereas I do.’

Ravilla nodded slowly.

‘Wife? Children? Parents?’

‘My wife and child. They assure my complete commitment to the emperor’s cause, and my eventual return to Rome. And yourself, Prefect? Do you have family in the capital?’

The prefect looked back at him for a moment before replying.

‘I have children, and a wife I still love. My father lives with my family, to keep them from harm.’

‘Could your father fight off a dozen hardened killers? Imperial justice takes as violent a form these days as it did towards the end of the civil war, Prefect. Men of substance are torn from their families and murdered on the slightest pretext, their estates and property confiscated. All the men behind the throne need is a reason to come after you …’

‘And?’

‘Prefect, my legatus is an honourable man who has been put into a corner, and under such circumstances all he knows how to do is fight. If you fail to assist him then you will leave him no alternative but to report your non-compliance with the valid and rightful order of a superior officer. As a consequence you are likely to find yourself on the wrong end of imperial justice, I’d imagine, with all that implies. But then your death wouldn’t really be the worst of your problems, I’d imagine.’

First Spear Quintinus led the Third Gallic onto the parade ground the next morning with the air of a man compelled to hand his daughter over in marriage to a bridegroom with a known taste for domestic violence. The soldiers were quiet for the most part, their half-day off having for the most part been spent in pursuit of alcohol and Antioch’s notoriously large population of whores.

‘Fucking look at them, every one of them hanging from his chinstrap like the shithouse dogs they are!’

Saratos grinned at his comrade’s disgusted opinion.

‘Not every day Legatus tell soldier he part of proud tradition that go back to blessed Julius. Is funny.’

Sanga shook his head.

‘Problem is, you dozy Dacian prick puller, they’ll be honking up all that wine before they’ve done more than a mile. And given that we’re their new Sixth Cohort, we’re going to be ankle deep in last night’s pork before you know it.’

He wisely chose to fall silent before the vine-stick-wielding wrath of their new centurion reached them, spittle flying from the newly promoted officer’s lips as he raged theatrically at his men.

‘Shut the fuck up! The legatus is about to address the legion!’

Scaurus strolled out in front of his command, his uniform as impeccably turned out as the previous day, although the more astute of the Tungrians had already noted the fact that his best boots had been exchanged for the standard-issue infantry footwear, their soles studded with hobnails.

‘Here we go again.’

Quintus spun round from his fond contemplation of the man who had so recently fulfilled his life’s only remaining ambition, by promoting him from the rank of chosen man where, he had become convinced, he was doomed to languish for the remainder of his twenty-five years of service. Legatus Scaurus had made Quintus a centurion, and in turn Quintus was determined to spend the rest of those years living up to the trust placed in him. Faced with four ranks of impassive faces, none of whom showed the slightest sign of any guilt, he drew the inevitable conclusion, swinging his vine stick to land an expert blow into the space where the standard-issue helmet was deliberately cut away to allow its wearer to hear commands in the nightmarish din of battle.

‘Shut the fuck up, Sanga! And don’t try looking innocent on me, soldier, I’m too experienced to fall for your attempts at indig-’

‘Soldiers of the Third Gallic!’

The legatus was speaking, his voice floating across the parade round and echoing faintly from the distant barracks as he repeated each sentence in Greek.

‘I hear you did yourselves proud last night. No drop of wine left unconsumed! No whore left unpleasured! No song left unsung!’

The legionaries grinned smugly, a good number of those closest to the Tungrians cheering up sufficiently to nod and make obscene gestures that they knew would leave the northern barbarians in no doubt as to the prodigious nature of their evening’s entertainment, while others pointed and mimicked the only sexual release that their new fellow legionaries would have been enjoying.

‘And now, having demonstrated that you know how to put on a decent show on the parade ground, you will now demonstrate your prowess at the most essential skill a soldier must possess!’

The Tungrians waited with broadening smiles while Scaurus repeated the statement in Greek, nodding back at the Third’s men knowingly as the easterners frowned, trying to work out what this new challenge might be.

‘Your founder, the blessed Julius Caesar, was famed for his ability to appear out of nowhere at the head of his men, this proud legion included, and to seek battle where his presence was least expected! And do you know how he used to achieve that feat?’

‘Here it comes, you smug bastards!’

Scaurus glanced down the legion’s line to where the Tungrians stood impassively for the most part, his lips twitching in a slight smile at the shouted comment. Close enough to the man to see his lack of concern at the comment, Quintus, whilst clearly aware that Sanga had once more been unable to resist the urge to express his indignation, did no more than shrug and nod his head at the outburst.

‘Your forebears of two hundred years ago were men of iron! They could march twenty-five or thirty miles in a day and then offer their enemies battle, as fresh as if they had covered half the distance at a gentle stroll! You and I, legionaries, will soon take pride in just that same ability, for we will need to cover ground at a prodigious rate once we have crossed the Euphrates!’

The Tungrians were grinning back at their Syrian comrades now, nodding and smiling at the sick looks that were spreading across their ranks.

‘Today, soldiers, we will start gently, to allow the men who have recently sailed from Rome the chance to recover their fitness, and not to be embarrassed by your greater abilities!’

Scaurus’s grin was now open, as he laid down a challenge he knew full well would have his men straining at their collars.

‘Today we will march no more than fifteen miles! Not even a full day’s march at the standard pace!’

He turned to find Quintinus and the assembled tribunes staring at him with expressions ranging from discomfort to outright horror, while Julius stood to one side with an impassive face.

‘Ready gentlemen? Since there are nine of you, I suggest you each take a cohort. First Spear Quintinus, please lead the legion for me today. I intend to march with my Tungrians, and to ensure by my example that they don’t shame themselves too badly after such a long time on board ship.’

He strode away to the Tungrians, nodding to Julius as the Tungrian first spear shook his head in dark amusement.

‘Ready for a run, Julius?’

The older man nodded.

‘A good deal better prepared than these poor bastards.’

Scaurus shrugged.

‘War has a way of teaching bloody lessons to the unprepared. And I need soldiers who can cover ground when needed, not barrack-room slugs.’

He waved to Quintinus in his position at the head of the legion’s long column.

‘Ready, First Spear!’

The legion jerked into motion one cohort at a time, each of the divisions obeying the command of their senior centurions and striding out bravely enough while their wind was still fresh. Quintinus led them out of the fortress and onto the road to the north, setting a brisk pace in the fresh breeze that was blowing from the west.

‘Bloody winter, and it’s still warmer than most summer days back at The Hill!’

Saratos nodded at his comrade’s comment, putting his head back to gulp down the cool air.

‘Is no rain neither. I like.’

‘When we going to start running, sir?’

Sanga ignored both the muttered curses from the men around him and the hard looks that his centurion was shooting at him, grinning broadly at the legatus to indicate that his question was genuine.

‘Soon enough, soldier. I thought a gentle pace might be better for the first two miles, to give you time to stretch out those muscles before we start to speed up.’

He led them along the broad road in pursuit of the cohort ahead of them, quickly closing the hundred-pace gap that had separated the two units, until the Fifth Cohort’s rear rankers were looking over their shoulders in dismay at the grim-faced northerners hard on their heels. After a short while the legion trumpeters blew their horns at the column’s head, and, cohort by cohort, the Syrians upped their pace to the quick march. Already sweating heavily, as their exertions of the previous evening began to take their toll, the legionaries quickly began to labour as the increased pace began to punish their legs and lungs. The Fifth Cohort were soon barely managing to keep up the pace, and Scaurus exchanged a glance with Julius, who simply nodded.

‘Tungrians! Follow me!’

The legatus stepped smartly to his right and began to lengthen his stride, pulling his men along behind him, all sweating freely despite the cooling breeze, but not a single man failed to keep up.

‘Does nobody have a song to offer us?’

Sanga laughed at his legatus’s challenge, putting back his head to bellow out the first line.

‘Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!’

The whole cohort followed his cue, roaring out the verse with sufficient gusto to turn heads up and down the column.

‘Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!

Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!

And he’s going to ram the bastard where the sun don’t shine!’

To the dismay of the men alongside them, the Tungrians were slowly accelerating, gradually progressing up the Fifth Cohort’s six-century length as the northerners found their stride, grinning across at the struggling legionaries as they passed despite their own pain.

‘Our centurion’s got a bigger dick than yours!’

Our centurion’s got a bigger dick than yours!

Our centurion’s got a bigger dick than yours!

And he’s going to ram the bastard where the sun don’t shine!’

As if on cue, the trumpets blared again, and the legion’s column lurched from a quick march that was slower than it could have been to a run that was no better than a shambling trot. Scaurus turned momentarily to face his men, raising his hand and then pointing it forward in a sweeping gesture.

‘Tungrians … at the run … RUN!’

When the Tungrians staggered back onto the legion’s parade ground later that morning, they were surprised to find a cohort’s strength of armed and armoured men waiting for them, their dark-blue tunics the only clue the soldiers needed as to their identity. While the exhausted soldiers mustered their energy, Scaurus walked across to where Marcus stood talking to Procurator Ravilla, offering his hand to the fleet’s commander.

‘Greetings, Cassius Ravilla, and my thanks for your quick response to my request for assistance.’

The other man looked down at his hand pointedly before saluting with a punctilious precision that raised the legatus’s eyebrows.

‘I had no choice but to do my duty, Legatus. That was made very clear to me.’

Scaurus nodded his understanding gravely.

‘And for all your understandable reluctance, your marines may be the difference between success and failure. I promise you they won’t be misused.’

He stopped speaking as the procurator put a finger on his breastplate.

‘I know. Because wherever you take them you’ll find me at their head. Legatus you may be, but we’re men of the same class, so if you want these men in your ranks you’ll have to settle for me leading them.’

Scaurus smiled slowly, his eyes stonelike.

‘You commanded a cohort before taking to the sea, I presume.’

Ravilla nodded, his lips tight.

‘In Germania. At the tail end of the war with the Marcomanni. I saw a little fighting.’

‘I see. Very well, Cassius Ravilla, you’ll lead your cohort as a tribune. Which means that the the legion has ten such men where I’m supposed to have six. Did you bring the equipment I detailed in my message?’

Ravilla nodded.

‘I did. Although quite how you expect them to work without a deck to bolt them to is beyond me.’

The legatus grinned wolfishly.

‘Let me worry about that. I know a man who’ll put that right in no time.’

After a frugal lunch, taken in the open under the shade of their shields, the legion paraded again, and Scaurus walked down the line of cohorts with pursed lips, looking closely at the condition of his men and clearly finding himself unimpressed by what he saw.

‘Our men took over five hours to cover fifteen miles, First Spear Quintinus, and yet despite posting that rather mediocre time for a distance which is somewhat less than the usual daily march, half of them look as if they’ve gone a dozen rounds with the legion’s champion wrestler. You may have been teaching them to fight, but their marching skills are sadly underdeveloped. Nothing that can’t be rectified by a week or two of hard training though, is it?’

Quintinus inclined his head respectfully.

‘Indeed not, Legatus.’

‘Indeed not. I’m half tempted to send them around the circuit again, to accelerate the process of hardening them up, but that might be a little much for the first day, so I think we’ll concentrate on the further development of their fighting skills, shall we? Sword drills, I think.’

The senior centurion saluted and turned to his officers, who swiftly set about putting the men to work with wooden swords and heavy practice shields while the tribunes watched with expressions that in a few cases were little better than idle curiosity.

‘You too, gentlemen. Doubtless there are some well-trained swords among you who can teach the remainder a thing or two about the finer points of wielding a blade?’

Calling for practice weapons, they paired off at Umbrius’s suggestion.

‘Let’s have some sport from this, shall we? There are a dozen of us, so we’ll fight in pairs until we’re down to the last three and then they can fight each other in turn for the title of best sword. I’ll put up a jar of wine for the winner to share among us and toast his victory.’

Pairing up with his first opponent, a man barely out of his teens who had completely failed to make any impression on him until that moment, Marcus waved away the offer of a shield and picked up a second sword instead.

‘You do fight like a dimachaerus then?’

He nodded, raising the twin weapons.

‘Ready?’

The younger man nodded and stepped forward to fight with an almost comical look of determination. A simple feint low and to his right put him off balance sufficiently for Marcus to spring onto his other foot and snake the point of his right-hand sword over the top of the tribune’s shield, accommodatingly lowered to deal with the initial attack. The rough wooden weapon’s tip puckered the man’s neck at the point where the veins that ran to his brain were closest to the surface, making him jump back with a surprised expression. He dropped his sword to rub furiously at the sore spot, and Marcus turned away, shaking his head at the ease with which he had taken the victory.

‘You’re dead. When you fight a man with two swords you need to watch his weapons, not his eyes.’

He stood and watched while Umbrius and Flamininus both won their bouts effortlessly, and smiled quietly as Ravilla, theoretically at a disadvantage given he was ten years older than his opponent, dismantled the younger man’s defences with swift and economic ease. Barely breathing hard, he strolled away from his victim, left sprawling on the parade ground’s hard surface by a trip which he had instantly followed up with a sword jab to his exposed thigh. He raised the weapon in ironic salute to Marcus.

‘I’ll see you in the next round, perhaps?’

It was not to be. When the lots were drawn for the last six, Ravilla found himself paired off against Umbrius, while Flamininus grinned evilly at his man, one of the better-trained tribunes. Marcus was matched against Varus, and the two were soon facing each other with their weapons raised while the other officers gathered around them to watch. Varus raised his shield to the textbook position, staring at Marcus over the brass rim with a grim smile.

‘So, Britannia, Germania and Dacia, I’ve been practising what you told me-’

He lunged forward without warning, the attack so swift that Marcus had to step back sharply and parry the sword thrust away from his face. He spun away from the brutal swing that followed rather than block it, then avoided the weapon’s blurred arc again, content to evade the tribune’s strikes rather than parry them, while Varus came after him with the speed and determination of a man who knew that nothing less would have any chance of success. Flamininus folded his arms with a sneer, calling to Umbrius loudly enough for everyone in the group to hear his words.

‘I told you the man was a fraud. Look at him ducking away from poor little Varus’s attacks!’

Marcus looked across at Flamininus briefly, noting the man’s twisted smile. He swayed back to allow Varus’s sword to hiss past his nose with an inch to spare, then stepped in to attack with an abrupt violence that put him face-to-face with the young tribune, pushing his right sword out wide to pin the other man’s blade against his shoulder and putting out a knee to prevent him from punching out with his shield.

‘That was better, Tribune. Good aggression with the blade, tidy defence with the shield. Now let’s see how well you cope with an attack. Ready?’

Varus nodded and fell back, waiting with his sword and shield positioned in readiness for his opponent’s attack. Flamininus snorted his disgust behind Marcus.

‘Gods below, this isn’t some sort of glorified training session! Either fight or get the fuck out of the ring and let some real men have a go!’

Marcus replied without turning his gaze from Varus.

‘Let me know when you find a real man, Tribune Flamininus, and I’ll be delighted to spar with him. Until then I suggest you keep your mouth shut unless you want it shutting for you …’

He waited a beat for the insult to sink in.

‘Again.’

The evil-tempered tribune stormed forward, raising his sword and shield.

‘Get out of the way, Varus, I’m going to teach this upstart bastard a lesson!’

Varus straightened up from his defensive pose with a look of confusion, and Umbrius beckoned him over.

‘There’s no reasoning with the man in this mood. He won’t be happy until he’s faced this man and proved himself to be the better of them.’

‘Prove myself the better of him?’

Flamininus raised a disgusted eyebrow.

‘I do that simply by standing here. I’m going to teach this fool what it means to face a trained swordsman. By the time I left Rome there wasn’t an instructor in the city I couldn’t beat.’

He sprang forward, lunging with his wooden sword’s point, repeating the move twice more as Marcus calmly stepped back with his swords held ready, not deigning to block or parry.

‘You fucking coward! You’re no better than Varus!’

Abandoning his fencing style, Flamininus attacked again with a swing of his sword, the blade skating harmlessly down a sloping sword raised in effortless defence. Stamping forward to punch at his opponent with his shield’s heavy iron boss, his strike found only empty air as Marcus span away to the left, jabbing his sword’s blunt and splintered point into the bicep of Flamininus’s right arm.

‘Fuck!’

Stepping back, Marcus waited while his opponent grimaced at the pain, barely managing to maintain his trembling grip of the heavy practice sword’s hilt.

‘You’re too slow. Too predictable. And you make threats that your skill can’t deliver.’

The tribune’s face twisted in anger, the pain in his arm forgotten as he squared up to his tormentor.

‘I’ll have you, you f-’

Marcus was upon him in a whirl of blades, forcing his hapless opponent back half a dozen steps before Flamininus’s mind had caught up with the havoc that the Tungrian was playing with his defence. A wooden sword point snaked through his guard to jab into his thigh, and while he was still reeling, another smashed the shield from his hand. Umbrius nodded decisively.

‘That’s enough! Give it up, Flamininus, he has you at his mercy!’

The tribune recovered himself enough to look down the length of the wooden sword point only inches from his face.

‘Nothing to say, Flamininus?’

The response was growled between gritted teeth.

‘This isn’t over.’

Marcus smiled equably back at him.

‘I’m afraid it is. Your skill at arms is no better than average, no matter how many instructors took your gold and told you that you were a second Achilles. This bout is over.’

He turned away, tossing the wooden swords aside for the next man, only to stiffen in pain as Flamininus slammed his weapon’s wooden blade into his right thigh with enough force to leave a line of blood oozing where the sword’s ragged wooden edge had pierced the flesh. The enraged Flamininus drew his sword back again, his eyes pinned wide with the need to do harm, and as Marcus turned to face him, he whipped the weapon in at head height in a vicious swing clearly intended to strike him in the face.

Ducking under the attack, Marcus fell back, twisting sideways to evade a furious lunge.

‘Stop this idiocy, or I’ll-’

The sword swung high into the air, his assailant clearly aiming to deliver a knockout blow, and Marcus stepped swiftly in, butting his opponent hard with the brow guard of his helmet and sending him staggering backwards with blood running down his face, clearly dazed.

‘Umbrius, call this fool off before I’m forced to put him down hard!’

The senior tribune shrugged with a half-smile.

‘You’ve enraged him past the point that I can control him, Tribune Corvus. I suggest you make yourself scarce before he regains his wits.’

Flamininus shook his head and roared back into the fight, swinging the wooden sword extravagantly and forcing Marcus to retreat in the face of its whistling arcs.

‘This is how a Roman gentleman deals with a piece of shit like you!’

He raised the sword and stepped in fast, once more clearly going for the blow that would finish Marcus, but in the split second that the blade was raised to its highest point the Tungrian stopped retreating and stood his ground, suddenly face-to-face with the enraged tribune. Stabbing out with a half-fisted punch, he lunged at Flamininus, twisting to put the full strength of his body behind the blow. Seeing the punch coming, and with no way to avoid it, Flamininus instinctively reared back, taking the full force of Marcus’s knuckles not in his face, as had been the intention, but squarely in the throat. He staggered back, his eyes bulging as he fought for breath that would not come through his traumatised windpipe. An attempt to speak resulted in nothing more than a strangled grunt, his gestures becoming increasingly frantic as he beckoned for help with imploring eyes.

Umbrius stepped forward with a look of concern.

‘Very well, you’ve stopped him, now help him-’

Flamininus fell to his knees, his lips turning blue as he stared helplessly at the men around him. Marcus shook his head as he looked down at his stricken colleague.

‘I’ve seen this before, I’m afraid. He’s already dead.’

Umbrius turned to stare at Marcus, his face suddenly aghast as the Tungrian’s words sank in. Before he could speak, the tribune toppled full length into the parade ground’s dust, writhing as his body contorted in its death throes.

‘You’ve killed him.’

Umbrius dragged his gaze away from the twitching corpse, shaking his head in amazement.

‘You’ve killed a brother officer!’

Scaurus sat back in his chair, looking at his senior tribune with an expression of disbelief.

‘You want what?’

Umbrius’s face was set hard.

‘Justice, Legatus.’

‘Justice? And what measure of justice am I supposed to indulge you in, when a man who was clearly a lunatic provokes another who is far more skilled, and then through his own ineptitude suffers the consequences?’

Umbrius nodded, his face hard.

‘There! You say it yourself! Your man Corvus has fought in a dozen battles! He is a consummate killer, and when poor Flamininus provoked him he responded with immediate deadly retaliation. No warning, no attempt to disarm his opponent, just a straight punch to the throat. A punch he knew would kill Flamininus.’

He folded his arms, his face set in lines of defiance. Scaurus pursed his lips, his expression a combination of amusement and irritation.

‘Don’t think I don’t know the game you’re playing, Tribune.’

The silence stretched out until Umbrius decided to ask the inevitable question.

‘Game, Legatus? A Roman gentleman is dead, murdered in cold blood by your man. Why would I be playing games under such a circumstance?’

‘Please, give me credit for a little intelligence. I’d imagine you’re delighted to have Flamininus off your back, given that he was little better than a mad dog. But you know that the governor has taken a violent dislike to me, mainly because I was the messenger of his removal from the post from which he’s made so much money. You know that if you make a formal complaint to Domitius Dexter then he’ll be delighted to overrule me, and declare a formal investigation into Flamininus’s death. Doubtless he’ll call in one of his cronies from another legion, and between them they’ll manage to find Tribune Corvus guilty of murder. So let me make this very clear to you, Tribune, you can go running to higher authority if it pleases you, but if you do you’ll be inviting him to victimise a man who is guilty of nothing more than defending himself against a lunatic.’

Umbrius shrugged.

‘I can only ask for the justice I feel-’

Scaurus rode over him in a tone that brooked no argument.

‘But if you do seek to take advantage of my strained relationship with the governor then I warn you, beware of the consequences.’

Umbrius gaped at him.

‘Are you threatening me, Legatus?’

Scaurus shook his head with a tight smile.

‘I would never do any such thing, Tribune, not given our respective social statuses. But I warn you, Tribune Corvus has been to war with my Tungrians, and they feel a fierce affinity with him. If you challenge him then you challenge them. And my Tungrians, Tribune, are not the sort of men to take a challenge lying down.’

‘You can’t do this.’

Scaurus looked up at Marcus, turning his attention from the paper on his desk to the incredulous tribune.

‘I most certainly can. And I will. And you, Tribune, will obey my lawfully issued orders.’

‘The governor will hold you responsible! He’ll-’

‘Not immediately he won’t. The first thing he’ll do is send men to bring you back. Which will take time.’

‘But that-’

‘Will be days from now. Whereas if I don’t send you away immediately you’ll be arrested within hours and dead soon after. So stop arguing and start listening.’

He folded the paper, securing it with thin ribbon and then dripping a thick blob of candle wax onto the spot where the fabric strips crossed, pressing a waiting seal into the hot globule.

‘There.’

He passed it to Marcus.

‘You have your orders. Execute them, Tribune, and leave the worrying about the consequences to me.’

The younger man saluted and turned on his heel, leaving the headquarters to find Martos waiting for him.

‘Who told you?’

The Briton’s one eye was bright with the joy of the moment.

‘Your first spear. He thinks you might appreciate some company. I have horses saddled and ready, your cloak, provisions for a week. I even found your socks and packed them. Lugos will stay and look after the rest of your gear.’

Marcus smiled, despite the seriousness of what they were about to do.

‘I doubt there’s a horse in the stables that could bear his weight.’

Martos grinned back at him.

‘I doubt such a beast exists in the whole of this city. So, Tribune, where is it that we’re headed?’

Governor Dexter swept into the fortress in his full pomp the next morning, his ceremonial escort of six lictors preceding him into Scaurus’s office, their leader announcing Dexter’s presence while he lurked in the corridor.

‘Gaius Domitius Dexter, Proconsul Legatus of his imperial majesty’s province of Syria Palestina, commander of the imperial legions!’

The governor stalked into the office, looking about him with an air of dissatisfaction before fixing his attention on Scaurus, who now stood to attention awaiting his superior’s command.

‘Legatus.’

Scaurus saluted.

‘Governor. If I’d known we were to be honoured by your presence I would have arranged for some refreshment.’

Dexter shook his head, waving the lictors from the room now that their intimidatory purpose was done with.

‘No need, Rutilius Scaurus. As you may have guessed from my official escort, this is no social visit. I am here to transact official state business in my role as commander in chief of the Syrian legions.’

Scaurus bowed, gesturing to one of the chairs set out before his desk, but the governor shook his head with a thunderous expression.

‘I’ll stand. I have received word from within your legion that a crime has been committed against a senior military tribune, a man of the senatorial class. A crime of murder.’

He stared intently at his junior, but Scaurus wasn’t prepared to be intimidated.

‘I’m aware of the source of your information, Governor. Tribune Umbrius made it perfectly clear that he intended to report Tribune Flamininus’s death.’

‘I should think so!’

The governor’s brow lowered over his eyes, an apparent sign of his fury over the matter.

‘Young Flamininus was the son of a close friend, and was serving here at the express request of his father, in the hope that he would return a better man. Instead of which he lies rotting in the earth …’

He paused, shaking his head at Scaurus.

‘How am I to explain this to his father? Tell me that!’

The legatus waited a moment to be sure that the outburst was over before replying.

‘I suggest you tell Flamininus senior that his son was a bully, with the twin curses of delusions as to his own competence with weapons and a temper that should have been dealt with in the nursery.’

‘What?!’

‘Further, Governor, I suggest that you tell him his son was foolish enough to attempt serious harm to a fellow officer who also happened to be a veteran of several bloody campaigns, and who was recently appointed to his tribunate by the emperor himself.’

Dexter shook his head, refusing to be put off his indignant stride.

‘Your man Corvus killed him!’

‘Indeed so, in a freak accident of the type which will happen when one man attempts to physically damage another who is by far his master with the weapons to hand. Flamininus had already attempted one physical attack upon his colleague, with nothing better to show for it than a badly bruised face. He tried the same trick with a practice sword, forcing Corvus to put him down, made a mess of his defence and took Corvus’s blow in the throat. I have several witnesses to the event, officers who-’

‘Who will retract, when they realise the seriousness of the charges facing your man.’

‘Charges, Governor?’

‘Charges, Legatus. Murder, for the most part. I will not tolerate such a thing. Have him delivered to my presence for judgement. Today.’

Scaurus stared at him for a moment before speaking again.

‘Unfortunately, Governor, I sent him away last night.’

Dexter stared back, his eyes narrowing.

‘You … sent him away?’

‘Indeed. I have many and varied needs if I am to take my legion, my mistake, my half-legion, into Parthia, some of which I cannot satisfy with purely local resources. Tribune Corvus has travelled south to Hama, in order to procure some of that province’s excellent archers to serve alongside my legionaries.’

‘Has he indeed? In that case, Legatus, I shall detail a man of impeccable character to fetch him back!’

He turned on his heel, calling over his shoulder as he exited the room in high dudgeon.

‘I’ll have your man Corvus in front of me before the week’s out! This transparent attempt to delay imperial justice won’t save him from the fate that’s waiting for him!’

‘Gentlemen, my apologies for not receiving your debrief from the night of the legion’s festivities in the city a little earlier. I’ve been somewhat preoccupied. I’ve now had time to read Centurion Qadir’s written report, which makes for interesting reading.’

Scaurus looked up from the scroll, raising his eyebrows at the two soldiers who were standing to attention before him.

‘You’re quite sure about this?’

Sanga nodded confidently, while Saratos stared at the wall behind the legatus and let his comrade do the talking.

‘There’s no doubt about it, Legatus.’

Leaning back in his chair, the legatus looked at the two men thoughtfully.

‘And you’ve shared this information with whom exactly?’

Sanga shook his head.

‘No one outside this room, sir. I ain’t that stupid, and Saratos here tends not to say much at the best of times.’

‘Good. In which case you’re both dismissed to get on with that other matter we discussed. I don’t know how you’re going to find him, but doing so is of the greatest importance. I have a description of the man …’

He handed Sanga a tablet, then looked down at the papers on his desk, and Julius tipped his head to the door.

‘Dismissed. Back to work with the pair of you.’

Once the two soldiers had marched from the room, Scaurus’s clerk entered.

‘Sir, there’s a prefect to see you from the Phrygian cavalry wing. Says he’s on the governor’s business.’

Scaurus pulled a face.

‘I’m sure he is. On your way, First Spear, I don’t want you involved in this.’

The prefect walked into Scaurus’s office and saluted briskly, his masked helmet dangling from its chinstrap as the two men looked at each other for a moment before the visitor spoke, apologetically waving a hand at the thick film of dust on his otherwise spotless armour.

‘Greetings Legatus. I was planning to come across and pay my respects to you this afternoon in any case, although as you can see from the state of my bronze, I was still on the training field when the order from Governor Dexter to take a certain matter in hand arrived.’

His accent was pure Roman aristocrat, but the tone in which the statement was delivered was suitably respectful of the two men’s ranks, and Scaurus waved the cavalry officer to a seat with an encouraging smile.

‘And I’ve been intending to send you an invitation to dinner with my officers, Prefect. It’s a pity we couldn’t have had this meeting under happier circumstances.’

The younger man grimaced.

‘I can concur with that sentiment, sir. You’ll have to forgive me for the formality of this meeting, but I’m left with little choice.’

‘I understand, Prefect. Shall we get down to business?’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The officer straightened in his chair. ‘You will be aware, Legatus, that I am ordered to ride for Hama, and to apprehend and return to Antioch a narrow stripe tribune by the name of …’

He made a show of consulting his tablet.

‘Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Apparently this man Corvus is guilty of the murder of your broad stripe Tribune Lucius Quinctius Flamininus?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘The governor and my senior tribune both call it murder. I’m more inclined to the term “self-defence”.’

He smiled thinly.

‘But then I would be, wouldn’t I?’

The prefect nodded, his face set hard.

‘Nevertheless, Legatus, as a loyal officer of Rome you are, I presume, willing to assist me in the pursuance of my orders?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you, sir. So, is this man Corvus accompanied?’

Scaurus smiled.

‘Yes. He has with him a one-eyed Briton of the Votadini tribe who should be considered extremely dangerous.’

The cavalryman nodded.

‘I see. And they’ve ridden for Hama?’

‘He left via the Oriental gate late yesterday afternoon.’

‘So there’s no point my despatching riders to any other of the province’s forts?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘I know my duty, Tribune. And I am only a loyal servant of the emperor. Tribune Corvus is to be found in Hama, I can assure you of that.’