nodded gratefully, dropping a coin on the counter. He sat at the bar and sipped at the wine, watching as the two whores jollied their elderly customer along to keep his money flowing.
‘Have you come to drink, or was there something more you wanted?’
He turned to the staircase that led up to the rooms where the establishment’s entertainment was conducted, his heart jumping at the sight of Annia halfway down the wooden steps. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown that did little to conceal her body, and he shifted uncomfortably while she smiled down at him archly.
‘I came… for you. I mean…’
She shook her head in apparent despair, beckoning him up the stairs.
‘I told you this isn’t going to work, Julius, but for old time’s sake I’ll take your money just this once. You do have money?’ The look on her face was enough to have him on his feet without conscious thought, just the way it always had in days when they were little more than children discovering each other in the secret places where they’d taken refuge from the world around them. Draining his cup, he walked up the stairs to meet her, raising his eyebrows at her outstretched hand.
‘How much.’
Her face softened into something close to sadness.
‘I’m the most expensive woman you’ll ever enjoy, Centurion. A gold aureus for one hour, but it’ll be an hour to live in your memory for a long time. I’ve had a lot of practice since you took my virginity.’ He handed her the coin and she tossed it down to the waiting barman, who dropped it into the cash box beneath the bar. ‘Good, now that we’ve got that slightly sordid transaction out of the way, let’s see what we can manage by way of entertainment.’ Taking him by the hand she led him up the stairs and through one of the doors around the first-floor landing, closing it behind him and putting a finger to his lips, whispering in his ear almost inaudibly as she nuzzled at his neck. ‘Don’t say anything; these rooms are watched by my associate’s men. Touch my breasts like a man who wants to get his money’s worth… that’s it. Once you’re on top of me put your hand under the pillows and you’ll find a key for a secret door on the east side of the building. The lock’s hidden behind the shrine to Venus Erycina set into the wall. It leads to my private quarters, but you must only use it after dark. Come tomorrow night.’
She pulled away from him, opening her gown to reveal her naked body and running her hands over nipples that were already stiff from his attentions before dropping to her knees in front of him. Her voice was loud when she spoke, loud enough to be heard by any hidden watcher.
‘Now lift that tunic and let me give you pleasure. Let’s make sure you get your money’s worth.’
‘It’s nice stuff, all right, I’ll give you that.’
Arminius was holding a mail shirt up to the morning light that was falling through a thin window, examining its thick iron rings with a critical eye. The armourer came out from behind his counter and folded his meaty arms; they rippled with knots of muscle and were criss-crossed with the burns and scars of decades spent working with hot metal and sharp iron. He raised an eyebrow at the barbarian’s apparently lacklustre praise.
‘I told you when you came here yesterday that it’s better than nice; it’s the best you’ll find this side of the River Mosa. Even the legion smiths up on the Rhenus don’t make their gear to my standards. Look at that mail coat properly. The best leather backing, cut from top-quality hide and not split to make the leather go further, mind you. The rings are twice as thick as the ones in your standard-issue mail, thick enough to stop a thrown spear, and there isn’t a sword blade made that could cut them, with only two exceptions. You put the boy in my gear, you’re providing him with the best protection there is.’ Arminius raised an eyebrow at the man’s sales pitch, and the armourer spread his arms. ‘I’m just saying that you have to pay for quality. Look, here’s the deal we discussed: four hundred sestertii to arm and armour the boy here. Look at this.’ He fished under the shop’s counter, pulling out a bundle of equipment. ‘See, a mail shirt made for a lad not much bigger than the boy, made to my usual standard and with room for him to grow into it, and a helmet, and a two-thirds size sword. Look at the sword’s quality.’ He passed Arminius the weapon, and the German held it up to the light. ‘Don’t touch the blade, it-’
The German gave him an amused look.
‘I know. Sweat will make the blade rust. It’s nice work though. Look at this, Marcus.’
He passed the sword to the Roman, who looked up and down its length with an approving eye, testing its weight with an expression of surprise.
‘Very nice, armourer. How did you make this?’
The smith smiled knowingly.
‘Ah now, you can’t be expecting me to reveal the secrets of my trade to two men I barely know, can you? But I can see you have an eye for a blade, Centurion, so I’ll let you see something even better.’
He ducked behind the counter and came up with a full-sized weapon in a dull metal scabbard, pulling out the weapon to reveal its blade. Marcus reached out and took the sword from him, looking closely at the sword’s edge while the smith proudly watched in silence.
‘This pattern…’
The armourer nodded.
‘The pattern reveals the secret of the blade’s strength. It is made from a mixture of finest-quality steel from Noricum on the River Danubius, combined with good iron. They are heated together to make them workable and then folded together time after time after time until the resulting sword has many layers of the two. This weapon took me more hours than I’d care to count, heating and cooling, and always forging the two metals together, and then I spent another week polishing it to bring out the pattern you can see along the blade. It will cleave an iron sword in two if you swing it hard enough, and there is no mail made that can resist its blade. It is my masterpiece.’
Marcus looked at the sword, and instantly knew he had to possess the weapon.
‘And your price for this sword?’
The smith started.
‘In truth I’ve never thought to sell it. It is of incalculable value to me.’
The Roman raised an eyebrow.
‘That would be a first, a tradesman unwilling to sell his work.’
The armourer protested, raising his hands and shaking his head.
‘It is my finest work, Centurion, the perfect blade. I could never-’
‘And you’ll keep it behind that counter for the rest of your days, rather than allowing it to be used for the purpose for which it was forged? Name your price.’
The other man’s face furrowed as he thought for a moment.
‘The price, Centurion? For a month of my life, for the best materials to be had, even if their expense was ruinous? For my life’s labour and experience poured into one blade? I couldn’t take less than fifty gold aurei…’
Marcus smiled. The price was astounding for a sword, and was more than likely intended to scare him away.
‘Done.’ The smith’s eyes widened in amazement that the Roman was willing to spend so much money on a weapon. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon with the money. I’m assuming that you’ll throw in the child’s equipment as a gesture of good will at that price?’
The armourer dithered.
‘I’ll halve the price, Centurion. Two aurei for the child’s gear will close the deal.’
Marcus nodded, then pointed to a shelf above the man’s head.
‘Before I leave, I’d like to see that helmet you have there, if I may?’
The smith reached up and pulled down a gleaming cavalry helmet. He passed it to Marcus, who looked with interest at its finely tinned face mask.
‘Sixteen layers of iron and steel, Centurion, each one hammered so flat that the mask is still as light as a feather, but it’ll stop an arrow loosed from twenty paces. Should I name a price for you?’
Marcus shook his head with a smile.
‘I’m probably in enough trouble with my wife already, thank you. It’s a nice piece though.’ He turned to leave, only to find Dubnus and a jaded-looking Julius in the shop’s doorway. They walked in, and Julius looked with a professional interest at the racks of weapons around him.
‘Qadir said we’d find you here. We’re under orders from Uncle Sextus to find you and then go to the bathhouse and get cleaned up. We’ve got an interview with the tribune this afternoon, and he doesn’t want us smelling like a pack of badgers when we turn up, apparently.’
He turned back to the door, only to find Dubnus indicating a small item on one of the shelves behind the
