‘Well, there you go, then, that’s a nice clean two hundred apiece, two years’ wages and none of the usual deductions. A man can do a lot with that much coin. What do you say?’
The soldier’s face darkened, but he knew he was left with little alternative.
‘Go on, then. Give me the cash and I’ll be away.’
The other man shook his head quickly.
‘No can do, I’m afraid. I’ve only got a few hundred on me, and I’ll have to borrow the rest from an associate. Leave the piece with me and I’ll make sure the balance gets to you…’
The Tungrian shook his head disbelievingly.
‘Right, that’ll be easy with you not knowing my name.’ He stuffed the torc back into his tunic, turning for the tent’s flap. ‘I’ll come back to you tomorrow night, so you have the money ready and we’ll have a deal. Any delay and the price doubles, to compensate me for my risk in holding it for you.’
He ducked out of the tent and into the night, starting his cautious passage through the camp to his own cohort’s lines. The supply officer, once he was sure that the soldier was really gone, smiled broadly to himself as he reached for his cloak.
*
With the senior centurions away to their cohorts, eager to start their preparations for the next day’s march north, Scaurus stretched his weary frame and opened the tent’s door to find Arminius waiting for him.
‘Go and get some rest, my friend. We’re marching north tomorrow, and I’ll need you fresh for the fight. Now, which way to the First Cohort’s lines?’
The massively built German crossed his scarred arms and fixed the tribune with a level stare.
‘You want me to go and rest? Look at the state of you.’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow, and took a breath, preparing to speak, but closed his mouth as the German bent slightly to speak quietly into his face.
‘You will recall the day you took me prisoner? The day Thunaraz looked down from the clouds and threw his lightning bolts to gift you victory at the moment of your defeat, and condemn my people to defeat and slavery, curse him. I told you then, and I tell you again now, that I will fight for you, I will die for you, and I will worship your god Mithras alongside you, but I will never spare you my opinion. And it is my opinion that you do need sleep, and that you do not need to take any part in preparing your men for war tonight.’
The tribune’s reply was quiet, but equally firm.
‘There’s one particular man that needs my help, Arminius.’
The German shook his head.
‘No. You represent authority, and Centurion Corvus will surely never bow to authority while he has his best friend’s head staring at him. Leave the boy to me, and get your head down. If I fail to reawaken his interest in life, then you can take your turn at persuading him later. Although if what I plan fails, Mithras alone knows what will be required to bring him back to life.’
Scaurus nodded wearily, patting the big man’s shoulder with something approaching affection, then turned and closed the tent’s door flap. Arminius stared at the canvas in silence for a long moment, then turned and walked swiftly for the 1st Cohort’s section of the camp. As he approached the first of the cohort’s sentry points, two men stepped forward with raised spears, the weapons’ points glinting in the torchlight.
‘Halt! What’s the watchword?’
The German laughed, advancing until the spearheads were almost touching the mail shirt that covered his massive chest.
‘Watchword? How the fuck would I know the watchword, you stupid bastards, I’ve been keeping guard outside the tribune’s tent for the last hour, without the time to play your little soldier games. Now shift your arses out of my way or I’ll put those spears where they’ll never see the light of day again.’
The soldiers looked at each other uncertainly, but were saved from their dithering by the appearance of Julius walking briskly towards them.
‘Let him through. He’s too stupid to remember the watchword even if he’d bothered to find out what it was.’
Arminius stepped past the soldiers, clasping hands with their officer.
‘Julius, it’s good to see that you came through today’s madness unscratched.’
The big centurion turned his right arm over to reveal a long shallow slice into the flesh of his forearm.
‘Not quite unmarked. This will make a nice addition to my scar collection, even if I have a way to go before I can match yours. The warrior that did it is currently considering his lot from the roof of my tent, or at least his head is. Cheeky blue-nosed bastard. And to what do we owe the honour of your visit so late in the day?’
The German grimaced.
‘There is a young officer who has taken to his tent, I believe, and refuses to consider leaving it for fear of causing the deaths of more of his friends?’
The smile vanished from Julius’s face.
‘Yes. His century is sitting shivering in their tents with their chins wobbling, and when I went to reason with him he nearly took my head off. We’ve got until dawn to get him back on his feet, or else he’ll have to be left behind when we march…’
Arminius nodded.
‘Leave him to me.’
Julius watched the German head off down the line of tents with tired eyes, then turned back to the sentries with a dismissive sneer.
‘And the next man that turns up here without the watchword and shouting the odds, remember the golden rule. If in doubt, spears first and questions later. You call yourselves soldiers…?
Arminius found the man he was looking for without too many problems. Where the Tungrians had their tents laid out in straight lines, their Votadini allies’ shelters were gathered around their leader’s tent in a tight circle. He stopped at the perimeter of the huddle of tents and shouted across them, his voice a commanding bark.
‘Martos!’
After a moment’s pause a warrior that Arminius recognised as one of the prince’s bodyguard strolled out to meet him, eyeing the German flatly and keeping his hands close to a pair of fighting knives tucked in his belt.
‘Why do you call upon a prince of the Votadini and a free man as if you were his master, rather than addressing him with the respect that your slavery to the Romans demands?’
The German chuckled darkly, putting his hands on his hips with supreme self-confidence.
‘Free men? You and your prince submitted to Roman rule just as completely as I, once you were betrayed by Calgus and defeated by these soldiers camped around you. And you are not the man I wish to speak with. Tell your master I need his help with Centurion Corvus.’
The Votadini warrior stared hard at him for a long moment, then turned on his heel and walked back into the cluster of tents. After a moment Martos stepped out of his tent and beckoned the German to join him. He took a lungful of the cold night air and stared up at the blazing stars in the coal-black sky above them, waiting for Arminius to negotiate his way through the tents. When the German stood before him he continued to stare upwards, speaking without looking at the other man.
‘My kinsman tells me that you wish to speak with me. He told me that I had only to say the word and he would gut you like a rabbit, and I told him that taking his knives to you would be a very good way to die before his time. He is frustrated, like all of my men, not to have been turned loose to hunt down Calgus once his warriors were beaten, although I suppose that we will get over the disappointment. Especially as we expect he has run to the last of his men who currently hold our capital. So, you have my attention. What can I do for you that will not wait for daylight?’
His gaze came to rest on Arminius, who inclined his head respectfully.
‘Prince Martos, our friend Centurion Corvus has taken to his tent and will not come out. Instead he sits hunched over the head of his colleague Rufius, terrified of leading any more of his comrades to bloody death. I think we’ve seen this before, you and I, and I think we both understand what will happen if he cannot be persuaded to change his mind.’
Martos nodded.
‘He is a fugitive from their justice. Without the shelter provided by the Tungrians, he will soon be discovered. And when that happens, riders will be sent to this cohort to arrest the tribune and first spear, and take them to
