‘Yes, and therein lies the problem with inaction, eh, Quintus? If we go home empty handed, having paused here for the legions to regain control and make it safe for us to proceed, I wouldn’t expect all that happy a welcome when we get there. So no, the problem isn’t military, it’s more about balancing the uncertain risk of being killed or captured by the rebels against the absolute certainty of what will happen to us both if we go back without the prize. I say we go north tomorrow, and use your undoubted skills to avoid the barbarians and get us through to the Wall in one piece.’
Rapax grimaced, nodding his head reluctantly.
‘In that case you’d better go and see the centurion of the guard, and get us some better directions than “out of the north gate and don’t stop riding until you see the Wall”, and I’ll go and break the good news to my lads. They’re going to love this…’
‘You there! Who’s that sneaking round the camp after dark?’
Soldier Manius very nearly lost control of his bowels as he recognised the voice challenging him from the shadows of a pair of tents, the familiar sound of a gladius being pulled from its scabbard freezing him where he stood.
‘It’s me, Centurion, Manius!’
Otho stepped forward from the shadows, his familiar, ruined face creased into a frown.
‘What in Hades are you doing out here? I was just about to put my bloody iron through you.’
Manius caught a whiff of wine on the centurion’s breath and breathed a little more easily.
‘I couldn’t sleep, Centurion, so I came out here to avoid waking my mates up, and to get some air…’
To his surprise the officer nodded sagely, puffing a snort of recognition from his flattened nose.
‘Can’t sleep? Nor can I. Too many good men dead… too many men…’
He staggered, and Manius put out a hand to steady him, pulling it back hastily as the drunken officer started at the gesture.
‘Get your fucking hands off me! Get back to your tent and go to sleep!’
‘Yes, sir!’
Saluting, the wary soldier turned away and walked back towards his tent, then slid into the cover of the shadows and watched while Otho weaved unsteadily away to his own bed, blowing out a long, slow breath of relief. Somewhere close by a man whimpered in his sleep, reliving some horror or other from the dawn’s desperate fighting. Waiting until Otho was safely out of sight, Manius resumed his progress through the camp, using the rows of canvas tents for cover. His armour exchanged for a clean tunic and his cloak, with only his dagger for protection, he worked his way from the 1st Tungrian Cohort’s section of the camp, through the 2nd Cohort’s tents and on into the area reserved for the Petriana’s cavalrymen. Skirting round the tethered horses, well aware that any one of them could kick him unconscious if he were unwise enough to present them with an unexpected presence in their midst, he made his way slowly and stealthily into the heart of the cavalry wing’s lines, until he came upon the tent he was seeking. Several times the size of those around it, bigger even than that in which the wing’s tribune worked and slept, it contained every stores item required to keep the wing in the field for an extended period. Loosening his dagger in the sheath hidden under his cloak, he stepped through the tent’s flap to find its single occupant hunched over a scroll at his desk, his lips moving silently as he totted up the day’s consumption of his precious equipment. Without looking up from his task, he spoke in an irritated tone, shaking his head slightly.
‘And what might you be needing? A new sword? A couple of spears? Perhaps you lost your boots in the fighting today, eh? I swear I’ve not met a bigger bunch of robbers than…’
His voice tailed off as he glanced up to find the infantryman waiting silently before him, one hand sliding beneath the table’s surface to reach for the handle of a club he kept there to discourage anyone with the idea that his equipment might be available without the necessary permissions and formal records. The soldier held up his empty hands in reassurance, reaching into his tunic despite the now openly wielded club and fishing out a piece of jewellery of quite abnormal proportions. The yellow light from the storeman’s lamps shone from its ornate surface in a manner guaranteed to beguile a man whose entire life had been devoted to the pursuit of gold, and the club clattered unheeded to the floor as the supply officer advanced round his desk and stared dumbfounded at the heavy torc gripped in the unknown soldier’s hand. Rediscovering his voice, he spoke again, his tone softer than before, as if he knew that this was a prize to be pursued with delicate care.
‘Quite… amazing…’ He coughed, clearing his throat before continuing, adopting a more businesslike tone as the torc’s initial impact on him began to subside. ‘And so, soldier…?’
Manius shook his head, his face tense.
‘I’m not that stupid. If we’re going to do business I need to be sure that my piece of the bargain will be between the two of us. If anyone outside of my tent party discovers I’m carrying the sort of coin this will earn they’ll have it off me quicker than you could rob a new recruit of half a year’s pay for his gear. And this little beauty is our retirement, me and my mates.’
The supply officer kept a straight face, nodding his under -standing.
‘There are thieves all around, my friend, and so I completely understand your need to remain nameless. Might I ask how you came by this… interesting… spoil of battle? It was my understanding that such a precious ornament would most likely decorate the neck of a tribal chief, and yet no such head is reported as having been taken today. How can I be sure that this is what it seems?’
The Tungrian snorted, smiling with little humour in his face.
‘Oh, it’s real, I can guarantee you that. We were first into the barbarian camp, once the fence came down, and when the blue-noses finally broke and ran it was my cohort that swept up the hillside, ripping through their tents and capturing those men that were trying to hide from us in them, taking them to be slaves. I found a barbarian hunched over this with the missile from a bolt thrower stuck clean through him. He was probably supposed to be looking after it when the artillery boys got lucky, but it was me and my mates that struck the gold they uncovered. So now then, what will you offer me for this pretty little trinket?’
The supply officer held out a hand for the torc, smiling at the reluctance with which the nameless soldier handed across the heavy ornament. Examining it closely under the light of one of his lamps, he nodded his head in appreciation.
‘Quite lovely. Beautifully engraved, clearly authentic and once a suitable provenance has been dreamed up with a little more romance than some poor bugger getting an accidental bolt in the back, it’ll be worth a small fortune from the right collector. I can’t offer you any more than five hundred for it, though…’ He handed the torc back to the open-mouthed soldier, shrugging at the other man’s obvious outrage. ‘What were you expecting? Ten thousand denarii and a night alone with the prettiest horse in the cohort…?’ He sighed wearily, as if explaining the mechanics of fencing stolen tribal jewellery were a routine topic of conversation, and Manius narrowed his eyes at the storeman’s well-practised act without the ability to gainsay his words. ‘Look, whatever your name is, this stuff doesn’t just sell itself. I’ll sell it to a man in the south of the province, for a profit of course. He’ll move it to Rome, to a businessman he knows, for a profit. He in turn will know the right dealer in such precious and risky items, a man who knows where the discreet and wealthy customers are found for this sort of rather specialised merchandise. And he in turn will take a profit.’
Realising that the Tungrian still didn’t understand, he shook his head with a gentle smile.
‘What you’re doing right now is illegal. You should have handed this in to your centurion when you found it, and he should then have passed it up to your first spear, and so on. By now this little trinket should be on the governor’s desk, with him feeling rather smug about being able to send it to the Emperor with his compliments. Instead of which you’re sneaking around the camp and trying to find a buyer for it, and inviting me to join you in your crime. The dealer in Rome will have his wind stopped for good if he’s caught trading this, since in reality he’s robbing the throne of a nice heavy bag of gold. Oh yes, we all do it, but getting caught with this little beauty would be a death sentence to anyone in the chain I’ve described, and they’re all going to want a nice big slice of it to take the risk. That’s why fifty thousand paid to the dealer in Rome becomes twenty-five thousand paid to the man that takes it to him, which becomes ten thousand to my man in the south, which becomes five thousand to me – if I’m lucky. And I’ve got the worst risk of all, since I have to find the money to pay you here on the edge of the world, and I have to get the item in question across a country that just won’t stop rebelling to my man in the south. That’ll cost me at least a thousand, and probably more.’ He sighed, shaking his head and raising both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. ‘All right, and against all my commercial instincts, I’ll give you a thousand. How many of you are there left alive in your tent party?’
‘Five.’
