assume that my prefecture has been compromised by Obduro’s spies.’
Marcus sat, gesturing to the prefect to continue.
‘My first, and most obvious target, is clearly Obduro himself. I have my scouts out in Arduenna, hunting for their hiding place, for our first concern must be to find that encampment’s location. You were there, Centurion Corvus, even if you were blindfolded and injured. Can you give me any better idea of where to look?’
Marcus wrote on his tablet for a moment, then handed it across the desk. The prefect looked at it, nodded his understanding and passed it back.
‘I understand. You were knocked half-conscious, your jaw was broken, and doubtless they did everything possible to disorientate you. I can see how you say that you might have been walking for one hour or three. Nevertheless, there may be some small clue you can provide? Look at the map. If you had to take a guess as to where it might be, where would you place the location?’
Marcus stood, walked over to the map-covered wall and, after a moment of deliberation, pointed at a spot to the south-east of the submerged bridge. He shrugged helplessly, turning back to Caninus, who inclined his head with a grave smile.
‘I understand. Nevertheless your guess is better informed than any that we might make. I’ll have my scouts thoroughly explore that part of Arduenna.’
Marcus nodded, opening his hands in a gesture for Caninus to continue.
‘I mentioned a second task. In truth it’s something I’ve not shared with a soul outside this office.’ He leaned across the desk, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. ‘If any hint of my suspicions with regard to the matter I’m about to outline to you were to become generally known before the time is right then I have no doubt that the evidence would be lost within hours, and the man I suspect of gross fraud against the imperial treasury would have me in his power.’ He sat back in his chair with a speculative eye on the man facing him. ‘But I suspect you know what I’m talking about. Perhaps you and I can form an alliance in this matter. You might just make the perfect investigator.’
After concluding his session with Caninus, Marcus explained that he had a personal task to attend to and left the prefecture, walking briskly down the street to the food shop where Scaurus had purchased his soup the previous evening. A brief negotiation carried out in sign language, and the exchange of enough money to pay for a week’s supply of food, quickly persuaded the proprietress that her new best customer was to be provided with two pots of soup a day, and the flavours were to be varied as much as possible.
His next stop was the smith from whom he’d purchased his new spatha. Unlike the food shop’s owner, the sword maker had his letters and was able to read Marcus’s handwritten instructions, albeit in a slow, laboured manner.
‘So you want a new helmet, Centurion? Did you lose the old one when you got that lump on your face, eh?’ Marcus nodded patiently. ‘You want an exact copy of the one you lost, but made in the same way as that cavalry helmet I showed you? Ah, you want the iron layered, do you? You’re a clever man, Centurion; you won’t get any better protection than one of my helmets. Now, what else…?’ He squinted at the tablet, frowning at the next item. ‘A shield?’ He frowned at the Roman. ‘I didn’t think you officers carried shields?’ Marcus raised an eyebrow and tapped the tablet. ‘Yes, sir. And you want it..’ The smith’s frown deepened as he read on. ‘What use will that be, Centurion? It’ll be the wrong shape for a start.’
Marcus took the tablet out of his hand and held it up, pointing at the lines inscribed on the wax with a meaningful look before tapping his purse. The smith shrugged, nodding his agreement.
‘You’re the customer, Centurion. If you want a shield that’ll make you look like a throwback to antiquity and be a complete bastard to use, who am I to argue? So, a spear, a helmet and a shield all made to your very particular specifications… shall we call it ten in gold?’ Marcus scratched a fresh line onto his tablet and passed it over the counter for the smith to read. ‘“Yes, but only if…”’ The smith shook his head ruefully. ‘For a man I had down as my best customer in years you’re driving a very hard bargain, Centurion.’ Marcus shrugged, took the tablet from his hand and turned for the door, prompting the smith to hurry around the counter to block his exit with a speed that belied his size. ‘I didn’t say it was an impossible bargain though. Here, have a seat. Are you allowed to drink wine with that bandage round your face?’
With the deal agreed and toasted with a cup of the smith’s rather watery wine, Marcus walked back to the hospital with a thoughtful look on his face, collecting a fresh pot of soup on the way. He kissed his wife, then walked down the corridor until he found the room he was looking for, occupied by a single man in a centurion’s uniform. The patient got painfully to his feet when he saw Marcus in the door’s frame, and put out a hand in greeting.
‘Centurion Corvus! It’s been a long time since we had the chance to talk. I saw you lying in the room next door when they brought me in, but I’ve not been able to walk until today, and even now it’s a bit ugly.’ He turned up the sole of his left foot for Marcus to examine, and the younger man winced at the huge black blisters. ‘They don’t hurt all that much, and I’m allowed to walk on them if they’re bandaged up, but I won’t be fit for duty for at least a week.’
Marcus looked back at him with a smile of genuine affection, and went through his now practised mime of tapping his swollen jaw and handing over his tablet for the other man to read. While Tertius deciphered the lines of closely packed script, his lips moving as he read, Marcus’s mind went back to their first meeting in the officer’s mess at the port of Arab Town at the eastern end of the Wall, and Tertius’s swift discovery of his true identity and fugitive status. The 2nd cohort centurion had had ample opportunity to profit from the knowledge, but had chosen instead to work against his prefect’s plans for Marcus’s exposure and execution. Rumours had circulated among the men of the Tungrian cohorts for months after Prefect Furius’s mysterious death, despite the official opinion at the time being that it had been the result of natural causes. Furius, it was speculated, had been the subject of a revenge plot, murdered by a 2nd cohort centurion whose soldier brother had been crucified on his orders. No proof had been forthcoming, however, and Tertius, as the centurion in question, had stoically ignored all invitations to comment.
He looked up from the tablet with a thoughtful expression.
‘You want me to do some work for you, something connected with the hunt for this Obduro bastard. It needs doing quickly, and it might be dangerous.’ He grinned confidently at Marcus. ‘I’m your man, and you can forget that…’ He waved his friend’s hand away from his purse. ‘That bastard Furius crucified my brother, and you gave me my revenge. May Cocidius praise you long and loudly for it. Whatever it is that you need doing can be considered a part payment of my blood debt to you. And if there’s fighting involved, so much the better.’ He reached for his sword and patted the battered metal scabbard. ‘Although from what you’ve written here, I may have more need of my other sword.’
‘Your business is all done, Centurion Corvus?’
Marcus nodded, writing on his tablet and then passing it across the desk with a rueful look.
‘That much? For a helmet? Gods, but that smith knows how to charge a man! For that much coin he should be making you a helmet from gold.’ He shook his head, passing the tablet back across the table. ‘So, let’s discuss the lesser of my two targets. I’m pretty sure you’ve guessed who I have in mind, but for the avoidance of any doubts I’ll spell out my suspicions. Procurator Albanus was appointed to his post by Governor Julianus a good time after I arrived, and so I have been able to watch and listen as he has subtly changed the mechanisms by which the grain supply to the legions on the Rhenus is managed. His remit, or so he tells anyone that will listen, is to maximise the supply of grain to the army, although I’ve seen no more than a small increase in the number of carts going east to the Rhenus fortresses. What I have noticed, however, is an increase in the number coming in from the various estates across the province. And if more grain comes in, but the same quantity as ever goes out to feed the soldiers, something doesn’t quite add up. Either some good grain simply isn’t being shipped, which is unlikely as that would stick out in the records like a bridegroom’s prick, or he’s accepting grain into the store that shouldn’t be getting into the supply system and using it to pad out the decent stuff.’
Marcus wrote on his tablet, turning it over to reveal two words.
‘“Mouldy grain”. Exactly, Centurion! I knew you were a sharp one. I think the procurator is encouraging farmers to send him grain that by rights isn’t fit to eat, and paying them a small percentage of the price they’d get for the good stuff. Let’s face it; ten per cent of market price is a long way better than nothing at all for something that’s only fit for burning. He’ll dress it up under some pretext or other, food for animals, or some such, but I’ll bet good money that he’s mixing it in with the good stuff. If he slips only a couple of bags of the mouldy stuff in with every hundred, he’s still putting ninety per cent of the value of that many good sacks into his own purse. Doesn’t
