of your “few things”…’ Just over an hour later they marched through the fortress’s town, across the river bridge, and stopped in front of the massive main gate. Standing to one side to allow the wounded to be lifted groaning from their horses, Tiberius Rufius exchanged a few words with the gate guard, then took Marcus firmly by the arm.
‘You can’t report to the legatus yet, he’s out on manoeuvres with part of the legion. Why don’t we sort the horses out, then visit the bathhouse, get a decent meal and see how much the local food has improved since I was last here? On me, as celebration of our survival this afternoon. We’ll stay in an inn owned by an old friend of mine, like me discharged and unable to leave the place after so many years. He joined all the other poor bastards that have taken root here for want of anywhere better to be, and now he runs the best guest house in the Yew Grove vicus.’
He smiled easily with the memory.
‘Petronius Ennius was standard-bearer of the second cohort when I was First Spear, built like a fortress latrine, just like most statue-wavers. We made a fine pair when we could work a leave pass at the same time, had the women squirming in their seats when we passed by! I get the time to stay in his inn all too rarely these days. Come on, let’s go and get the blood washed off these chariot-pullers and see they’re fed and watered, I feel the sudden need for a bath and a drink.’ The innkeeper greeted Rufius warmly, clapping him on the back with a hand the size of a dinner plate.
‘Back already, Tiberius Rufius? Only a few days ago you were telling me that the quality of my wine was only fit for removing rust from armour, now you can’t stay away from the place. Although I can see from the state of your tunic that someone’s upset you recently. Well then, what’s the story?’
He listened intently to Rufius’s retelling of the ambush, laughing quietly when his friend recounted having to threaten the Sixth’s legionaries to keep them in line.
‘Nothing changes, does it? I remember you having to do much the same thing to keep one or two of our weaker-kneed sisters in their places when the blue-noses had their last little revolt.’
At the end of the story he pursed his lips, whistling to show his appreciation of their escape.
‘You were lucky, old friend, very lucky. If that tent party of auxiliaries hadn’t chanced on you…’
Rufius nodded sagely, a dark look in his eye.
‘I know. We were carrion. Mind you, if that was good fortune I still wonder just what chance put those tribesmen in our path.’
‘Yes… Well, enough of your boasting, you haven’t introduced me to your bloodstained young friend…’
‘This is Marcus Valerius Aquila. A fellow traveller from the south, and soon to be a brother in the service of Mars, all the way from Rome itself. And, despite the slightly travel-worn appearance of his clothes, not to mention the fine pattern of dried blood across his face, a man of influence, promised a position on the Sixth’s staff.’
The innkeeper turned back to Marcus with a gravely inclined head.
‘My apologies, a young gentleman. So, will you both be staying, sirs?’
Rufius pulled a mock grimace.
‘Despite the hideous expense of your lodging, the mediocre quality of your board and the watery nature of your wine, yes, we both need lodging for the night.’
‘Excellent. My man Justus will see to your horses and take the baggage to your rooms. You take a couple of hours to sweat out that blood, and I’ll have two of my very best roasted duck waiting for you, cooked in their own fat and served with a sauce of wild honey, red wine and herbs. And for you, Rufius, because I know your needs of old, I’ll crack open my last amphora of a rather special Iberian red. How does that sound?’ As the pair made their way through the town towards the fortress baths, clean tunics under their arms, the familiar sound of hobnailed boots clattering against the road’s surface swelled behind them, echoing through the narrow streets until the sound and its reverberations merged into a constant roar. The windows of the buildings to either side of the road, shutters closed against the cold, were quickly opened to allow the curious to look into the street. Several of the female onlookers obviously shared a keen professional interest in the arrival of a body of soldiers at the fortress to judge from the way that hair was hastily let down and, in at least one case, breasts placed on open display. The standard-bearer and leading century of a legion cohort swept around the corner behind them at the march, heading for the fortress gates in the dying light of dusk. Rufius pulled Marcus into a doorway and off the street as the leading troops poured past, rank after rank of soldiers pounding up the street with their heads back to suck air into their bursting lungs, belting out a bawdy marching song.
… 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.
