Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

The young officer smiled down at him without mirth, his jaw set hard.

‘So you see feelings are running high. Soldier Trajan is already feeling the wrath of his former subordinates by all accounts, although I suspect that a protracted revenge holds more savour for the troops than anything hasty. Of course, he was only the dupe of your man, from the relatively small amount of money he handed over to us…’

An opening?

‘I could… pay you… to keep my clerk out of trouble?’

The four men stared at him in silence, waiting. He plunged on.

‘I could take the man’s profits, give them to you, for use in making amends with your unit, of course. Gods, the fool might have made as much as five hundred from his ill-advised swindle…’

Rufius leant across the counter, putting his face close to Annius’s.

‘Three thousand. Now. You can reclaim the money from your man at your leisure.’

Annius stared at the officer aghast. That was almost twice as much as they’d actually raked off…

‘Perhaps we could…’

‘Suit yourself. Pay now or I’ll put the matter in the hands of less forgiving judges. You know the story: new officer finds evidence of fraud and feels compelled to take the proof to his superior officer. Frontinius might turn a blind eye to your profit-making activities; I never yet met a senior centurion who didn’t, as long as there was a healthy contribution to the burial club every month. My last camp prefect used to call it “balancing the books”, said some men were born to make money, some to lose it, and this way at least he could guarantee every man a decent funeral. What he couldn’t ignore, though, would be the brand-new, “wet behind the ears” centurion who had discovered how his men were being fleeced, and who would of course be filled with righteous anger. So the price is three thousand — pay up or suffer the consequences. You can think while my young friend buckles on that nice new sword. I’ve seen him take a man’s head off at six feet with one just like it.’

Annius hesitated, weighing up the alternatives he saw in Rufius’s pitiless stare. A simple death sentence was his only choice apart from cooperating without question; none of his men would hesitate to lay out everything they knew of his various business activities if required to do so by Frontinius, no matter how well they had been paid to take part.

‘Of course, to spare a good, if misguided, member of my department, I could probably find the money…’

Rufius flipped the hinged section of the counter and walked round behind him.

‘Get the money. I’ll come with you.’

Unable to argue without running the risk that he’d end up face down in the deep forest with a spear between his shoulder blades, Annius huffed into his office, prising up the floorboard beneath which he kept his money. Three of the five leather bags went into the centurion’s waiting hands, the other man sneering his disgust into Annius’s face. Out in the storeroom, he was alarmed to find that Marcus and Antenoch were on the wrong side of the counter, and were examining his inventory with considerable interest. The centurion lifted a mail shirt from its hanger, holding the rings up to a window’s meagre light and rubbing the soft leather undershirt between his thumb and forefinger.

‘You’re right, Chosen Man, this is very nice mail. Much better than the standard-issue rubbish. Annius, you must have enough here to equip a whole century.’

‘I… I have to keep enough stock to supply each new intake of troops, and spares.’

Dubnus loomed over his shoulder.

‘He keeps the stock all right, but only sells good mail shirts to men who don’t want to repair their own, or want softer leather.’

‘I see. How much?’

The businessman in the stores officer took over, not seeing the trap into which he was running.

‘One hundred each.’

‘Hmm… A fair price would be… sixty, Antenoch?’

‘Fifty.’

‘Very well, Annius, let’s call them forty sesterces apiece, as my discount for bulk purchase. I’ll take your whole stock. And tunics, let’s say two apiece for my century at five apiece. Now, what else do you have for sale, before we discuss how you’re going to make sure that my men eat like prize gladiators from now on?’

He turned away from the dazed quartermaster, threading his way deeper into the darker recesses of the store. Regaining his equilibrium, Annius weaved after him, panting his petulant outrage.

‘Oh no, Centurion, you’re not going to steal my stock as well as my money! That’s just not fair…’

And quailed back against a rack of spears as the Roman spun, his sword flashing from his waist and arcing up to rest against his neck. Marcus’s face scared him more than the weapon’s fierce bite against his flabby throat. Even Rufius’s eyes widened momentarily, before a wolfish grin crept across his face.

‘Not fair, storeman? Not much is in these days. My men probably weren’t too impressed at the way you and Trajan fed them shit every day for the last three months. Your choice, one you’re lucky to have, is to bite on the leather and take your punishment. Of course, you could go to the prefect, and see if he’ll accept your word against mine. Shall we go to him now? It might be entertaining to see which of us appears the more credible.’

Annius shrank farther into the forest of wooden poles, his face red with fear, but said nothing. The sword swung away from its harsh grip on his life, dropping back into its place on Marcus’s belt. Rufius pushed him out of the way, the smile on his face broadening as he headed for the rear of the store.

‘I spy amphorae back here! How much for the wine, storekeeper…?’

Annius smiled through the pain, knowing he lacked any choice in the matter. If the young bastard chose to shit on the store floor and then ordered him to clean it up with his tunic, he would have to do as he was told. Later, however, he promised himself, when the new centurions had taken their leave of him, probably in possession of half his stock, bought at knock-down prices with his own money, he would sit silently in his office, brooding over his revenge. That, and the ways in which he might learn more of the enigmatic new arrival’s past. Rufius opened the door of the centurions’ mess an hour later, meeting the stares of the officers present with a careful smile.

‘Gentlemen…’

He waited in the doorway. Marcus stood in view behind him, both of them acutely aware that they had to be invited in for their first visit. The shortest of the cohort’s centurions, a bristly-haired man whom Marcus recognised as the least unfriendly of the gathering for morning report, had apparently just reached the punchline of the joke he was telling. He turned back to the others.

‘So the centurion says, “Well, Prefect, normally we just ride the horse to the whorehouse!”’

He turned back to Rufius.

‘Come on then, Grandfather, in you come.’

Rufius winced, giving Marcus a dirty look as the younger man hid a smile behind his hand. The speaker beckoned again, looking over Rufius’s shoulder.

‘And you, young Two Knives, and let’s have a proper look at you.’

One of the speaker’s companions snorted derisively, turning away to study the wine jug behind the serving counter, one hand teasing at a knot in his heavy beard. The man next to him appraised Rufius and Marcus through eyes that seemed permanently half closed, peering down a nose that had clearly seen better times. Their host smiled openly, showing a selection of crooked teeth in the bristly thicket of his beard.

‘Don’t worry about our colleagues here. Otho’s wondering whether he could take either of you in a fair fight, as opposed to the knife-in-the-dark methods that got him to where he is today…’