Anthony Riches - Arrows of Fury

Even with the wine’s effects, Rufius was instantly alert, despite his apparent torpor. He nudged Marcus’s foot beneath the table to warn him, raising a curious eyebrow and smiling slyly up at the two men.

‘We did hear the rumours. It’s true, then? Prefect Bassus really stopped a friendly spear?’

Tertius grimaced, but his colleague Appius kept talking without any apparent concern.

‘Well now, if you ask the question that way I’ve got no idea what happened. But if you were to speculate that Bassus had pissed off the wrong men one time too many, I’d have to agree that there’s a certain kind of officer who takes a risk when he turns his back on his own men in a battle.

‘Anyway, enough said. Good luck with your recruits. And watch out for those bloody archers.’

He scooped up his helmet and reached for his cloak, dragging it across the pile of garments and pulling loose the pin from Marcus’s in the process. He bent and picked up the gold shield from the floor, giving its intricate workmanship an appreciative glance and turning it over and noting the words engraved on the obverse before he held it up with an apologetic face.

‘Sorry, I’ve pulled this loose from someone’s cloak.’

Marcus put a hand out with a tight smile and tucked the pin away in his pocket, ignoring a pointed look from Rufius.

Outside the mess, pulling his cloak tighter about him in the evening’s cold as they headed for the guest house, Appius nudged his colleague.

‘Did you see that quiet lad’s sword? Not the long cavalry blade, the other one with the eagle’s-head pommel? Prettier than a whore’s make-up box, proper flash. I’ll bet you he’s the one they’re saying got left a blade by the dead legatus, and you have to wonder why that would be, eh? And that cloak pin, that’d make big money from the right buyer, and it had an interesting inscription too. ‘Keep warm, my son’, and an aquila carved beneath the words. No way he’s local, that’s for certain — in fact I’ll bet he’s the same one that was supposed to be putting it to Bassus’s wife before the lads in the Third Century perforated his back.’

Tertius shook his head, his face thoughtful.

‘No idea. Not that I’d blame the boy if he was, there’s no denying she’s a tasty little piece. Right, here we are. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.’

They entered the town’s official guest house and were shown into the back room. A massively built man sat picking at the remains of a chicken in the light of several lamps, his thick brown beard slick with the bird’s fat. He reached for a towel and wiped his hands and face.

‘Sit down, gentlemen. Wine?’

Tertius took a chair, motioning to his colleague to do the same.

‘Thank you, Prefect, a cup would be nice.’

The senior officer waited until the wine was poured and the housekeeper had withdrawn before speaking again, raising his cup in salute before drinking. His voice was hard edged, clearly accustomed to being heard without interruption.

‘Second Tungrians, eh? I was told you’re a battle-tested cohort. I was told that I’m lucky to be getting a cohort here, at this time, with the barbarians still in the field and plenty of glory left to be had. And I was told lots of things about the Second Tungrians that should make for an interesting discussion once we’re north of the wall with some time to spare. In the meanwhile there are a few things I’d like to know.’

Tertius put his cup down and sat up straight.

‘We’ll do our best, Prefect…’

‘Furius. Gracilus Furius. First things first. Cohort strength?’

‘Seven hundred and twenty-four men fit for duty, sir.’

The prefect pursed his lips.

‘Under strength, then. Casualties?’

‘Yes, sir, all from the battle of Lost Eagle.’

‘Almost a century. So, it’s a good thing I’ve already found a century of prime replacements. Tungrians too.’

Tertius exchanged glances with Appius.

‘That’s good news, sir. I’d heard the only replacements left in town were already spoken for.’

Furius smirked at his circumspection.

‘No need to be coy with me, Centurion, of course they’re supposed to go to our sister cohort. I sought out the officer responsible for replacements and helped him to reconsider his priorities earlier this afternoon. He hummed and hawed a bit, but he soon changed his mind when he saw some coin.’

Tertius frowned unconsciously.

‘There’s a bit of a relationship between us and the First Cohort, Prefect. I’m not sure…’

‘I think you’re more than not sure, Centurion, you think that taking a century of replacements from under the First’s noses would be unfortunate. Dishonourable, even?’

The centurion, sensing that a trap lay before him, trod carefully.

‘Not at all, sir. All I was thinking was that the First Cohort is almost two hundred and fifty men down, that’s all. Their first spear’s going to be pretty unhappy if we have it away with half his replacements.’

Furius’s face took on a sly look.

‘You fought at the battle of the Lost Eagle, Centurion?’

‘Yes, sir,’

‘And that was where my cohort took the casualties for which we need these replacements?’

‘Yes sir,’

‘And, I’ve heard, it was only the intervention of the Second Cohort that saved the First from being overrun by barbarians?’

Tertius realised where the prefect was taking the discussion.

‘Absolutely true, Prefect, we saved their skins all right. One of their centurions said as much to me not an hour ago. Of course, it was the First Cohort that did most of the damage to the barb…’

Furius spread his hands and shrugged.

‘Well, there you are. We take a century’s worth of damage saving our sister cohort from the mess they’d managed to get into, and they get all the replacements. That can hardly be right, now, can it? Eh, Centurion?’

Tertius knew which side to be on in this discussion.

‘Of course not, sir. In which case we ought to be up and away no later than dawn, or run the risk of an unpleasant argument on the subject. I’ve met the officers who’re here to collect those men, and I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong end of their unhappiness.’

Furius smiled knowingly.

‘Yes, I guessed as much. The replacements’ centurion has promised to have our century paraded and ready to go at first light, so let’s get some sleep. Dismissed, gentlemen. Ah… one more question.’

The officers paused expectantly.

‘Another story I’ve heard a few times is that there’s a fugitive believed to be sheltering with one of the wall cohorts. Apparently this fellow is the last living member of a family that the emperor chose to liquidate, but his father sent him away to the northern frontier before the axe fell. There would be great imperial favour for the man that turned him in, perhaps a promotion. So spread the word, the man that identifies this traitor to me will be handsomely rewarded. Very handsomely.’

The First Tungrian officers rose early, and made the short walk to the transit barracks just as the sun was inching clear of the horizon. Expecting to find the barrack office empty, they were surprised to find the transit centurion already on duty. Rufius sized the man up with a swift glance, looking around the white-walled office with apparent indifference.

‘Greetings, Centurion. We’re here for two centuries of Tungrian infantry, reserved for collection by the First Tungrian cohort by order of Legatus Equitius, Sixth Imperial Legion. Point us at them and we’ll get them off your ration strength.’

The transit officer was a sparsely haired man of about forty, his uniform clearly legion issue. He rose from his chair with an apologetic expression and crossed the small room with two limping paces.