‘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.
‘Rufius… you said that Mercury was a good hous’hold god for a merchan’. I didn’t tell you Father was a merchan’…’
The fact that he got no answer seemed to be of little importance at the time.
After putting the drunken Marcus to bed, Rufius, having deliberately rationed his wine intake to keep his wits intact, slipped back down the stairs. He handed Ennius a coin and left, strapping on his sword and taking up his pack. He walked through the torchlit streets to the river bridge and across, to the fortress’s main gate. Challenged by the gate guards, he stood his ground confidently in the teeth of their levelled spears.
‘You’d better fetch the duty centurion, boys, and look lively about it. I’ve got an appointment inside, and it doesn’t pay to keep Calidius Sollemnis waiting.’
The duty officer marched up, took a look at the veteran and waved him through the gate, raising a sardonic eyebrow to his deputy. At the entrance to the headquarters building he was brought up short at the main entrance by a tall blond man dressed in mud-spattered armour coming out past the sentries, his plumed helmet dangling by its chinstrap. Rufius stepped back, inclining his head with careful respect.
‘Tribune Perennis, salutations. You’ve had a full day on the road, it appears.’
The other man dropped his hands to his hips in a confident stance.
‘Tiberius Rufius. Well, don’t you always manage to turn up when things get interesting? Doubtless merely coincidence, just as always seems to be the case. And yet we never see you out in the countryside, no matter how carefully we look.’
Rufius smiled gently, keeping his face neutral.
‘Yes, Tribune, well, I like to move around with a degree of caution. You can never be sure just who’s waiting to jump out on you in these troubled times. Only today I heard a man with a surprisingly German accent exhorting a bunch of drunken Brits to carve out my liver.’
The officer laughed quietly, with a faint smile that failed to touch his eyes.
‘German, eh? How very interesting. Well, never fear, senior centurion, my Asturians will take care to look out for you on the road. Our paths will cross one day soon, of that I’m quite certain. Goodnight.’
Rufius watched him walk away with hard bright eyes, muttering so quietly under his breath that even the sentries’ straining ears were frustrated.
‘Not if I see you coming first, you cocky young bastard.’
*
A beaker of water in the face served well enough to wake Marcus from a seemingly endless nightmare of roads and hills. Rough hands pulled him from the bed, still dressed in the tunic and leggings he’d worn the previous night, putting him on his feet and holding him upright while his head swam. A disgusted voice cut through his daze.
‘Pissed! Throw some more of that water over him.’
The sudden cold sting shocked him into a degree of consciousness. A pair of armoured and armed legionaries were holding an arm apiece to keep him vertical, while a centurion watched impatiently from the doorway, an oil lamp in one hand throwing unsteady shadows against the walls. He considered vomiting, but fought the impulse down after a moment of awful physical indecision.
‘Waking up, are you, you little shit? Good, you’ve got two minutes to pack. After that, anything you haven’t stowed gets left behind. You, take that sword and make sure he doesn’t get a chance to grab it off you, he’s dangerous behind a blade from what I’ve heard.’
The marble-hard face left no room for argument. Stuffing his travel clothes, left dirty on the room’s chair for washing in the morning, into his saddlebag, Marcus checked that his purse was still in place at his belt.
‘Ready? Right…’
His voice returned, hoarse from the wine’s bite.
‘Wait… where are you taking me?’
The centurion stepped across the tiny room to put his face close to Marcus’s, close enough for his sour breath to register, and for grey whiskers to stand out of the black of his beard. He reached out a hand and, with cold, hard fingers, took the younger man’s jaw in a firm grip.
‘For a short and painful interview with the legatus, cumstain. After which I’d be happy to go a round or two with you in a closed room, you fucking traitor!’
‘What!?’
‘Shut your face! Bring him!’
The innkeeper was waiting grim faced outside the room. The centurion nodded to him.
‘Pay your bill.’
Marcus numbly dropped coins into the outstretched palm.
‘Petronius Ennius… my friend Rufius…?’
Ennius shot him a hard stare, his mouth set in a grim line.
