women.
‘What’ll you have?’
Lunaris had said the inn was owned by a retired legionary veteran who had sold up in Colonia and moved to Londinium. ‘I’m with the Twentieth,’ he said, as he’d been instructed.
‘I don’t give a bugger if you’re with the camel-humpers,’ the barman laughed. ‘What’ll you have?’
Oh well, it looked as if the place was under new ownership. ‘Whatever’s good.’
‘Now you’re talking. We had a shipment in from Sardinia last week. Cost you a couple of sestertii more for a jug, but you won’t regret it.’ He turned to go, but Valerius grabbed his sleeve.
‘If I do, I won’t be the only one.’
The man laughed, unconcerned at the threat. ‘Suit yourself. You’ll get a seat over there.’ He pointed to a darkened corner. ‘I’ll get the slave to bring it over.’
Valerius pushed his way to the corner and sat down with his back to a doorway which, from the smell, led to either the kitchen or the latrine — or possibly both. A young man with a cast in one eye brought him a jug filled to overflowing with dark liquid and placed a chipped cup beside it. The slave reached to pour the wine, but Valerius waved him away. He studied his surroundings, already regretting the impulse that had brought him through the door. The noise and the smoke after his hours at the baths made his head spin slightly. He’d just resolved to leave after a single drink when a slight commotion erupted behind him as two drinkers collided in the doorway with a muttered curse.
The sound of one of the voices rang a warning bell in his head and he half stood, reaching for the knife on his belt. Too late! An arm wrapped itself round his throat and he felt a calloused hand on the back of his head in a classic wrestling hold that he knew could snap his neck as if it were a dry twig. He tore at the arm with both hands, trying to break the iron grip that was already choking him, but the pressure on the back of his skull increased and his vision began to go. I’m dead, he thought. In the same instant, the grip slackened and as he gasped for breath a roar of laughter assaulted his ears. A tall figure in a red tunic stumbled into the seat opposite him and stared across the table with peering, reddened eyes.
‘Got a drink for an old pal, pretty boy? I’m just about out of cash. SLAVE! Slave! Another cup, and bring another jug while you’re at it.’
Crespo.
‘Thought I had you there, eh? Just one twist and — crack — you were a goner.’ The Sicilian chuckled. ‘Killed a man like that once. Looked as if he had his head on backwards. SLAVE! About time.’ The boy arrived with a second cup and another overflowing jug and retreated with a scared glance at Crespo as the Roman poured the wine carefully into the two cups.
‘ Ave! ’ He raised his cup in salute. ‘The Twentieth and victory.’ Reluctantly, Valerius picked up his own vessel and repeated the toast. ‘The Twentieth.’
‘And damnation to the Brits, and all their disease-ridden sluts.’
Valerius stared, but the grin on Crespo’s face never wavered.
‘Maybe I should have killed you. Caused nothing but trouble for old Crespo, you did, pretty boy. Had the legate on my back for a month. Might have been kicked out. But Crespo’s too clever for them.’ He tapped his nose. Valerius noted that it hadn’t set well; the axe blade now had a distinct notch in it. ‘Too clever. Got myself a transfer.’ For a second, the eyes glazed over and the centurion rocked back and forward from the waist, his head wobbling gently on his long neck. Crespo had clearly been in the bar for some time, possibly all night judging by the crumpled state of his clothing and the dark shadow on his chin. Valerius recalled the scene in the Silurian hut. It was as well he’d come across Crespo cheerfully drunk and in daylight.
The same thought had evidently occurred to his unwanted companion.
‘Maybe I should kill you,’ he growled, pulling a dagger from inside his tunic and stabbing it into the already scarred table top. The noise attracted the attention of everyone in the bar and Valerius saw the barman reach below his counter where he undoubtedly kept a large cudgel specifically for situations like this. He caught the man’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. An unspoken question. You sure? Valerius answered by pinning Crespo with the friendliest grin he was capable of.
‘Why would you want to kill me? We had a little misunderstanding, that’s all. Things like that happen all the time in the heat of battle.’ He remembered the Silurian girl’s terrified eyes staring at him over Crespo’s shoulder. In one movement he could take the dagger by the hilt and put the blade through Crespo’s right eye. The centurion would be dead before he could blink. Everybody in the bar had seen Crespo pull the knife. There might be a few awkward questions but he’d worry about that later.
Crespo frowned. He had both hands on the table top and Valerius decided that if the right hand moved towards the knife he would kill him.
‘Misunderstanding? Sure. Heat of battle.’ The hand moved. But only as far as his cup. He took a deep draught and wiped the back of his hand across his lips.
‘Tell me about the transfer,’ Valerius suggested, hoping it was somewhere far away and very dangerous. Germania, or even Armenia would do. A couple of seasons playing tag with the Alamanni was just what Crespo needed.
‘Secret,’ Crespo said, tapping his nose again.
‘Old tent-mates don’t have secrets, Crespo. You know that. We’ve fought in the same shield line and shared a latrine bench. How could we have secrets?’
‘Procurator’s office. On his staff. He’s a miserable little shit, Catus Decianus, but he’s got the right idea. Squeeze them until they bleed.’ He paused and Valerius watched his brain fight the wine in his system. ‘You won’t tell anybody I said that?’
Valerius tried not to show his disappointment. The procurator’s office meant Londinium. Much too close. ‘What, that he’s a miserable little shit?’
‘Not that, the other thing. Squeeze them. It’s a secret.’
‘Squeeze who?’
‘Squeeze the Celts,’ Crespo said, as if the answer was obvious. ‘They’ve been feeding off Rome for years. Subsidies and tax breaks. While me and you were sweating and bleeding, they’ve been rolling in it. Now they want it back.’
‘Who wants it back?’
‘Big people.’ The centurion winked. ‘Powerful people. Subsidies and tax breaks. Only now they’re all loans.’
Big people? Powerful people? Just like Crespo to talk up his new job. He knew as much about subsidies and tax breaks as Valerius did, which was precious little. It sounded as if he’d got out of the Twentieth just in time and he seemed inordinately proud of his appointment. But what was he? Just another blood-sucking debt collector. So a few Britons had got behind with their tax payments? Maybe someone would have their farm taken away from them. Well, Crespo was just the man for that. But what really mattered at the moment was that he was drunk enough to be harmless and Valerius decided it would be better to keep him that way, at least until Lunaris arrived. He poured wine from the jug into the two cups, ensuring Crespo’s was full to the brim.
‘Tell me about Glevum…’
It was dusk when he left the bar, with Crespo staggering in his wake, banging from one side of the doorway to the other and muttering about vengeance. He still had his knife and Valerius considered taking him down towards the river and finding out whether he could swim with a bellyful of wine, but all he really wanted to do was get away from the man. Proximity to Crespo had left him feeling dirty. Every soldier had his dark places, but Crespo’s went to the very centre of Hades itself. The rape of the Silurian girl evidently hadn’t been the first. Not by a long way. And there were hints of even more terrible crimes.
‘Who’s the drunk?’ He looked up to see Lunaris lounging in the doorway of an apartment block opposite the bar.
‘An old friend. Don’t you recognize Centurion Crespo? And aren’t you supposed to salute an officer?’
‘Sir!’ Lunaris rapped his arm against his chest armour with elaborate ceremony.
‘I thought we were going to meet inside?’ Crespo had slumped against the wall of the tavern and Valerius removed the knife from his hand and threw it into an alleyway.
‘Didn’t fancy the company… sir.’
‘Mine or his?’
