Frontinius shifted uncomfortably.
‘Centurion Corvus played a full part in the action…’
‘Despite only having gone along for the experience, eh? My man Arminius tells me that the rumour around the fort is that Corvus did in five hundred heartbeats what the legion cohorts might have toiled to achieve in five thousand, and with a good deal more losses, if the natives had managed to get their palisade gates closed. And that a certain legion tribune has had his nose put out of joint in a quite spectacular way by his inability to reward one of his own centurions for finishing off the campaign. Which would probably be just another war story for both of us, except that I’ve been reading the cohort’s war diary, First Spear Frontinius.’ He lapsed into silence for a moment, fixing Frontinius with a level gaze, his grey eyes unblinking in their scrutiny of his subordinate. ‘And in the record of this cohort’s war to date your man Corvus seems to have played a full part in just about everything that’s happened in the last six months. He must be quite the man with his colleagues, not to mention the troops.’
An uncomfortable silence played out for several seconds before the prefect spoke again. ‘As I read the story of your cohort’s actions early in the campaign I began to wonder two things, First Spear. I began to wonder just how one man could cause so much disruption to the enemy’s plans…’
‘He was commanding the scout century, Prefect, and so he was always going to…’
‘And more importantly, First Spear, I found myself wondering just how on earth he managed to avoid the eye of the succession of senior officers who must have heard of his exploits and decided that they wanted to know more about this remarkable young centurion of yours. I’m sure you can understand my pondering on these questions about this cohort of mine, given that it’s my responsibility to ensure its complete loyalty to the emperor.’
The first spear opened his mouth to reply, but found himself forestalled by the prefect’s raised hand.
‘Before you answer, First Spear Frontinius, I’ve got one more question that I’m pondering. And I would be very careful with your answer if you value your place here. Just why is it, I’m wondering, that I find myself commanding a cohort which has an officer who, as we speak, is still being hunted by the emperor’s secret police as a traitor to the throne?’
Frontinius sat in stunned silence for a moment, the prefect’s face darkening with his failure to reply.
‘Come on man, just how stupid do you think I am? The man’s obviously Roman. The name “Marcus Tribulus Corvus” shouts alias, and he’s blessed with skill and speed with arms that probably cost him ten years’ training with the best teachers. As it happens, I hear that the son of Senator Appius Valerius Aquila, a man of high position and reputation who was tortured and executed for treason earlier this year, is known to have spent most of his young life having fighting skills drilled into him by his father’s tame gladiators in preparation for service with the praetorians. He is known to have shipped out for Britannia on faked orders only weeks before his father’s death at the hands of the emperor’s investigators. And, First Spear, he is known to have vanished into thin air after two attempts to kill him, both of which ended with other men’s blood spilt, but not, apparently, that of their intended victim. This man Valerius
Aquila, who was more or less the age that your “Tribulus Corvus” appears to be, is believed to have benefited from the assistance of local troops, and the finger of suspicion was pointing squarely at the Sixth Legion’s former legatus until he was careless enough to leave both his legion’s eagle and his own head on the battlefield last spring. Perhaps Legatus Sollemnis was fortunate that his death was both quick and honourable…’
He paused, raking the first spear with a long, hard stare.
‘The man behind the throne, First Spear, remains convinced that the Aquila boy is sheltering with an army unit somewhere in northern Britannia. And if Praetorian Prefect Perennis ever lacked motivation to have him found and killed, the death of his own son in this province earlier this year, coupled with extraordinary rumours of the younger Perennis having been murdered while apparently executing an act of treason, will only have stiffened that resolve. The emperor’s ‘corn officers’ will be out in force across the northern frontier, with orders to kill not only the fugitive but the leaders of any military unit found sheltering him, and to exercise their discretion in further punishing the men of that unit. I think we both know that the dirty-jobs boys have never been backward when it comes to handing out summary justice, and I’d imagine that you for one would end up choking out your last breath on a cross, with every centurion in the cohort likely already dead in front of you. Your men would be decimated at the very least, and as for your previous prefect, now Legatus Equitius, I believe, well, I wouldn’t care to occupy his shoes either. So, First Spear, you’d better explain to me just why my cohort is sheltering an enemy of the empire, and why on earth I should tolerate the situation for a minute longer?
‘Start talking.’
The Hill’s officers’ mess steward was contentedly dozing off in his quiet corner when the door opened and a centurion stepped into the mess’s lamplight and looked about him, seeking out the steward. The newcomer was a grey-haired man with a stocky build, in late middle age to judge from his seamed face, and at first glance more likely to be a trader than a soldier, but the man behind the mess counter knew better.
‘Steward! Wine, four cups and make it something decent if you’ve any jars left fit for anything better than unstopping blocked arses. No doubt our brother officers have been throwing the stuff down their necks like Greek sailors while we’ve been away defending the cohort’s reputation.’
More officers were crowding the doorway behind him.
‘Shift your backside, Rufius, I’ve got a thirst that demands prompt service.’
Julius clapped a hand on Rufius’s shoulder and manoeuvred past him into the mess, dropping his cloak on to a table and stretching with genuine weariness. He was a head taller than the older man, his build both muscular and athletic while his grey-streaked heavy black beard reinforced the slightly piratical look of his face. Dubnus came through the door behind him, his physique if anything more magnificent, even if he looked less comfortable than his colleagues, still not quite at ease with his exalted status. Centurions, the steward knew from experience, were uncertain for their first few weeks with a vine stick in their hands, but very quickly never to be proved wrong in all the days that followed.
‘Come on, Dubnus, stop lurking, get in here and get your cloak off. You’re an officer now, so there’s no need to simper in the doorway like some bloody virgin invited to her first orgy.’
Dubnus favoured his brother officer with a dirty look and stepped inside, turning back to beckon Marcus in with a curiously deferential gesture as Rufius stepped up to the counter and slapped down a coin of a decent if not exceptional value.
‘If your wine is worthy of the name we’ll be drinking here all night and you, Steward, will earn this for keeping us well supplied. Come on, Marcus, let’s have you at the bar with your right arm ready for action.’
The steward nodded deferentially. This was the kind of officer he could cope with. Over the older man’s shoulder he watched the youngest man step into the lamplight. Gods, what a collection, he mused. Rufius, legion- trained and a seasoned blend of piss and vinegar; Julius, the supreme warrior in the prime of his fighting career, all muscles, scars and confidence; Dubnus, the former Chosen Man newly promoted into a dead man’s boots and still adapting to their fit; and the Roman, leaner than the others, lacking their obvious muscle but known to every man in the cohort by the respectful title ‘Two Knives’. The other three were all good enough centurions, respected and feared by their men in equal measure, but the Roman was the one officer in the fort that any man would follow into danger without ever needing an order.
Rufius passed a cup each to Julius and Dubnus, beckoning Marcus to join them.
‘Get a grip of one of these cups.’
Marcus fiddled for a moment with the pin holding his cloak together, and Rufius gave the heavy piece of jewellery a knowing look.
‘Still wearing that pin, eh? Don’t say I didn’t warn you if the bloody thing goes missing. Julius, let him through to the counter.’
Julius turned to look at the young centurion as he twisted the ornate badge to open its pin. He looked hard for a moment at the ornate replica of a round cavalry shield, decorated with an intricate engraving of Mars in full armour, sword raised to strike.
‘So that’s what the pair of you rode all that way to find. Very pretty…’
Rufius took the younger man’s cloak and tossed it on to the piled table.
‘It’s just about all he’s got to remind him of his father. There’s a personal inscription on the shield’s rear too, which makes it even more precious to him. That was all we could recover from the bundle we buried that morning Dubnus and I pulled his nuts out of the fire outside Yew Grove.’
The hulking young officer standing behind them laughed softly, his discomfort with the novelty of his status suddenly forgotten.
