Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed coldly on the other man’s.
‘I thought so. You’re a replacement, from Gaul or Germany, I suppose, and so you weren’t here for the battle of Lost Eagle. But I was, and so was the legatus, or Prefect Equitius as I knew him at the time. I served with him after his promotion too, hunting your legion’s lost eagle through the northern hills while you were still on the road to this place. So, Centurion, all things being equal, I expect the legatus will be happy enough to see me.’
He settled into a comfortable parade rest and waited, while the officer stamped away and the headquarters sentries smirked quietly under their helmets. A few minutes later a soldier came to the door to fetch him inside the imposing building, leading him to the legatus’s office. Equitius was seated behind an impressive desk with a scroll open in front of him, one hand teasing at his thick brown beard as he read, but he got quickly to his feet when he saw the young officer and greeted him with a smile of genuine pleasure.
‘Centurion Corvus, you are quite literally a sight for sore eyes. Quintus!’
A uniformed clerk appeared at the door from an anteroom.
‘Legatus?’
‘That’s it for today, my eyes seem to be getting old before their time. Clear up those papers, we’ll make a fresh start tomorrow morning. And have some wine sent in please.’
Papers cleared and wine poured, the legatus raised his cup to Marcus. ‘Here’s to you, young man, and your apparent continued anonymity. Your false identity seems to be holding up well enough so far, for all the fact that the name Marcus Valerius Aquila hasn’t been entirely forgotten yet.’
Marcus nodded, sipping at his wine.
‘And you’re still in command of the Sixth then, sir? There’s no danger of the legion being cashiered for losing its eagle?’
Equitius frowned reflexively at the question.
‘Oh yes, I believe there’s been plenty of talk on the subject, but I think we’re past the worst of it. No legion has been disbanded in over a hundred years, not since First Germanica and Sixteenth Gallica were broken up for joining the Batavian revolt back in the Emperor Vespasian’s day. I’m told that some of the men around the throne were all for making an example of the Sixth, to “put some backbone in the other legions”, but we’ve been fortunate in having Avitus Macrinus in command in the absence of an effective governor. Not only did he rubbish the suggestion before it was even made, but he’s also got enough influence in Rome to squash the idea flat. The Sixth Legion may have been humbled by the deceptions of a traitor, but we’ll survive to take our revenge for the loss of our eagle the only way we know, on the battlefield.’
He tipped his cup back, savouring the wine for a moment.
‘So anyway, “Marcus Tribulus Corvus”, what brings you to this gloomy supply dump when you could be enjoying life on The Hill, or else be out in the field hunting down our old friend Calgus? I’ll warn you now that you won’t sleep a minute past dawn for the hammering of the armourers. My idiot of a camp prefect set their new forges up right next door to the transit barracks.’
Marcus told him the story of their day, getting a smile for his impression of Morban’s indignation on first seeing the Hamians.
‘… and then ten miles later he’s already trying to talk his way into my new chosen man’s purse.’
Equitius nodded sagely.
‘That sounds like the Morban I recall. How do you rate their chosen man?’
Marcus pulled a face.
‘He’s disappointed with his demotion, I’d say, but he’s hiding it well enough. Almost inscrutably, in fact.’
‘He’s a politician, then?’
The younger man shook his head slowly.
‘No, I’d say he’s something better than that. Call it maturity, or call it simple acceptance, he’ll serve happily enough until the time comes to take his position back.’
‘When you reclaim your Tungrians from the Second cohort?’
‘Something like that.’
Equitius raised an eyebrow, calling for his clerk again.
‘Ah, Quintus, I’d like any information we have on the Second Tungrian cohort’s new prefect, straight away please.’
The clerk saluted and left the room.
‘One of the privileges of senior command, access to rather more information than I’m used to. Another cup of wine?’
The clerk returned five minutes later with a record scroll.
‘Updated only today, sir. Prefect Furius has joined the Tungrians from the German frontier, from the First Minervia to be precise.’
‘I see. Anything else?’
‘No, sir, just the bare facts of his previous service. A spell with Twelfth Thunderbolt in Moesia some years ago, more recently six months with First Minervia, then over the sea to join us.’
‘Thank you, Quintus, that will be all.’
The clerk withdrew, and the legatus raised an eyebrow.
‘What my clerk is far too careful to say, at least in front of a man he doesn’t know, is that serving six months with a legion before being pushed off into auxiliary service is something of a kick in the teeth for a gentleman. It certainly wouldn’t have been a step for his former commanding officer to have taken lightly, given that Furius appears to have been sufficiently well connected to be favoured with a legion tribunate in the first place. And whether auxiliary or not, cohort commands weren’t growing on trees when I was looking for mine, so he must still have influential friends given that he’s probably been quite a naughty boy. He certainly must have some pull to have snagged a tribune’s posting with First Minervia in the first place.’ He gave Marcus a cautionary look. ‘Mark my words, Centurion, the Second Cohort’s new prefect might well have a colourful recent past, so I wouldn’t bet on getting those troops back any time soon, not until both cohorts are in the same place as a sympathetic senior officer. So, let’s get down to it, eh? You’ll be keeping those archers for a while, so what do you need to get them into the field with a half-decent chance of survival?’
3
Later, in the evening’s chill, Marcus left the headquarters and walked slowly through the flickering torchlight to the hospital. The soldier on guard duty saluted at the sight of his cross-crested helmet, and the young Roman returned the salute distractedly. Inside the building he paused for a long moment in a darkened corridor, lost in thought. Legatus Equitius had broached the subject of Felicia Clodia Drusilla with diplomatic care, mentioning as if in passing that the doctor, kept busier than ever she had been caring for a single cohort’s medical needs now that she had several thousand men to look after, might appreciate a visit from an old friend.
‘The legion’s lucky that she was on hand to step in when her predecessor got himself killed on the road from the Yew Grove fortress. Luckier still that her father took the trouble to impart his surgical skills to her rather than abandoning her intellect to preparation for marriage and motherhood. I’ve requested a pair of replacement surgeons, of course, but there’s no word on when they’ll be forthcoming. Until then it’s either the good lady or nothing. Not even the camp prefect can complain at her presence under those circumstances.’
While he had kept his face straight and his feelings to himself, in truth Marcus had thought of little else since their last meeting, or at least during those times when his mind had not been occupied by the duties of his command. Given both the circumstances of that brief encounter, and those of her husband’s death, he had been prey to a host of doubts in the intervening weeks. And so the young centurion lurked in stealthy indecision. He and Felicia had briefly been close, but that was before…
‘Centurion?’ Marcus jerked out of his reverie, realising that he had been close to dozing in the quiet warmth of the hospital. An orderly stood before him with a dim lamp, the oil almost exhausted. ‘Can I help you, sir? Do you require treatment?
‘Marcus shook his head, removing his helmet. ‘No, thank you, I have come to visit Doctor Clodia Drusilla. I’m told that she is here, and I would appreciate a moment of her time, if the hour is forgivable.’
