Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘The Hill,’ Dubnus confirmed.

At the gate he was greeted with the same mixture of respect and deference that Marcus had noted on the road, and told the sentries to call for the officer of the watch. The centurion arrived quickly, listened to Dubnus for a moment, and then, apparently expecting the arrival, led Marcus away to the headquarters building in the centre of the fort. Dubnus nodded farewell, turning away to rejoin his own unit without any show of emotion. At the entrance to the headquarters, Marcus was delighted and relieved to find Rufius waiting for him.

‘Well, young Corvus, here you are, then! Looking a little thinner if that’s possible, although it suits you well enough. Makes you look more determined, and that’s no bad thing in your situation.’

He dragged the younger man into the entrance hall, away from the sentry’s straining ears, pulling a wax tablet from his tunic.

‘I have a formal request from Legatus Sollemnis to the prefect here, backed up by a quite astonishing amount of gold for the cohort’s burial fund, asking him to take you in… no, don’t smile yet, man, that’s only a start. Even if he says yes, which I believe unlikely, I expect his First Spear will fight the idea tooth and nail. I know I would in his place. So, before we go in to see the prefect, here are the two rules that you must follow if we are to see you safe. One, keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking as much as possible. I know these people and you do not. Two, if you’re asked a question, keep your answer direct and simple. If you strike them as anything other than what I’ve described, you won’t get past the door. Understand?’

The cohort’s prefect was a dark-faced man, from the north coast of Africa by Marcus’s best guess, and looked to be in his early thirties. He kept a remarkably straight face when Rufius handed over his message from Sollemnis, scanning the tablet for a long moment before tossing it back on the desk in front of the retired officer, one hand distractedly teasing his thick brown beard. Rufius stood impassively in an unconsciously adopted parade rest, uncomfortably aware of both the man’s stare and his unquestioned power inside the garrison’s small world. He made no move to retrieve the message. After a long pause the prefect shifted his gaze from Rufius, sizing up Marcus in a single glance of his dark brown eyes before speaking in a well-educated and reasonable tone.

‘So, it’s better if I don’t know his real name, he’s officially declared traitor, his family are either all dead or in hiding, and yet the commanding officer of the Sixth still sees fit to send him into my care and invites me to betray the empire alongside him. He looks like all the other failures my First Spear rejects each year during recruitment, and yet Gaius Calidius Sollemnis commends him as “intelligent and resourceful” and asks me to take him under my wing. As a centurion! I’m not sure I have sufficient education to express my amazement…’

Rufius, having taken pains to convince Marcus to remain silent, no matter what the provocation, had the luxury of time in which to draw out a carefully calculated silence of his own before responding.

‘Prefect Equitius, this man is a trained praetorian centurion. He and I fought together on the road outside Yew Grove, when tribesmen surprised our party, and I saw no lack of courage in his eyes on that day. He also wounded an armed horseman in mounted combat during his escape from an ambush outside Yew Grove. He also marched from Yew Grove to this fort in nine days, thirty miles a day. Yes, he is tired, dirty and footsore, but he has courage and determination that you and I should be grateful to call our own. With the right guidance he…’

The prefect’s calm voice trampled over his sentence, used to being heard with deference under most circumstances.

‘Guidance? And that would be imparted by whom, in your opinion? I’ve got a civil war brewing to both north and south of my sector of the Wall and only four of my centurions with recent combat experience. I’ve got problems enough without having to nursemaid an untrained officer. Besides, my First Spear would laugh in my face — just as you would in his place.’

Rufius shifted his position slightly, weighing his last weapon of persuasion before throwing it.

‘Your chosen man Dubnus seems to think reasonably well of him…’

Equitius’s eyes narrowed at the name. He stood and walked around the desk, stopping in front of Rufius to speak softly into the retired officer’s right ear.

‘Dubnus? Now you do trouble me. What part does our very own Brigantian warrior prince play in this tale?’

Rufius thought quickly, praying that Marcus would remain silent.

‘Dubnus and his tent party intervened to save our lives when the barbarians attacked us on the road. Then he chanced upon me and the young man as we were being hunted through a murky dawn, by killers hired by the imperial appointee at Yew Grove. Only his impressive skills in combat saved us both from swift and ignominious death at the hands of those heartless mercenaries…’

‘I was coming to that. And you can keep the fancy language for the next time you want to overcharge Annius for a consignment of fish pickle. As I’ve received the news, a decurion of cavalry from the Second Asturian Horse at Cauldron Pool and two of his men, part of a detachment serving with the Sixth on attachment, were ambushed by this man and his cronies. Murdered before they had time to arm themselves. All three of them were left dead at the roadside, apparently, and to add insult to injury two of their horses were butchered for their meat. You’re telling me that Dubnus was a part of that?’

Rufius allowed himself to bridle slightly.

‘That he defended our lives at the risk of his own, taking us for innocent travellers beset by robbers, yes. That he attacked defenceless cavalrymen, no. These men were without uniform or insignia, and attacked us without hesitation. Your excellent chosen man saved both of our lives.’

Equitius stared hard at the retired officer, his face set hard.

‘The decurion, in the reports I received, showed signs of torture. A small blade had been used to inflict severe pain upon him as he lay trapped and dying underneath his dead horse. The Asturians have sworn bloody revenge on their altar to Mars. You wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose?’

Rufius shrugged, his face remaining impassive.

‘More robbers would be my guess, Prefect. Desperate to have the decurion’s money perhaps? He made the mistake of abandoning his uniform and, since he looked like any other traveller, he paid a severe price.’

The other man turned away, his face shadowed by disbelief.

‘Hmmm. And Dubnus brought him here.’

‘Only as the result of a request from Legatus Sollemnis, passed on by me. I work for him in a minor capacity…’

The prefect spun back to face Rufius, speaking into his ear so quietly that Marcus could barely pick out the angry tone of his voice.

‘I know the capacity in which you work, Tiberius Rufius, assessing the Wall units’ readiness and reporting on the situation beyond the frontier to Northern Command. Don’t assume that everyone this side of the Wall is simple minded enough to mistake you for a trader. You should beware your secret reaching the wrong ears on the far side.’

He paced away to stare out of the room’s open window, his hair ruffled by the fresh breeze.

‘Very well, I’ll accept your version of these unfortunate events, despite the fact I don’t trust a single word. I’ll also try to accept Gaius Calidius Sollemnis’s request of me, since I do trust his judgement, and since I still owe him a very substantial debt of gratitude. As for the money he sent you to offer… I’ll use that to buy my men some decent equipment, if those incompetents over at Noisy Valley still have anything worth bribing out of their stores. Quite how I am to discharge this responsibility is at the moment, however, beyond me…’