Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

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

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

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

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

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

‘You know the legatus?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Isn’t that…?’

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

‘He looks like an ugly piece of work.’

Rufius frowned.

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

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

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

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

‘I will not drink with a Roman.’

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

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

The Briton’s face twisted at the question.

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

‘So why do you serve in our army?’

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

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

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

The man facing him smiled without mirth.

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

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

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

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