Altar of Blood: Empire IX (36 page)

Dubnus frowned across the table.

‘How—’

‘How do I know these things? Because it is my job to know them, Centurion, because a man in my position needs to know every little fact that could make the difference between success and failure. Perhaps it would help if you understood my role here a little better? Let me explain it this way …’ He sipped the wine again, refilling his own and Dubnus’s cups before continuing. ‘There is, as a general rule, a lifespan for everything in this world. For everything and everyone and, for the purposes of this discussion, every family too. A great man arises, from nowhere, with a combination of ancestry that unlocks a genius, perhaps for warfare, perhaps for business, or perhaps simply for ruling other men. Sometimes, in the genuinely terrifying examples, for all three. His light burns brightly until he dies, revered by all, to be succeeded by his son who, everyone agrees, may not have quite his father’s brilliance, but who nevertheless performs his role well enough to bring honour to the great man’s legacy. But after him comes the third generation, with the founder of the dynasty’s genius so diluted by the introduction of other men’s blood to the mix that, unless by some quirk of fate or calculation new genius is introduced by marriage, he will be but a pale shadow of his grandfather. And so the dynasty crumbles into insignificance, or in the worst cases to ignominy and shame. Consider the fall of the first family, from the Emperor Augustus’s glorious forty-year reign to the disaster of his great-grandson Caligula’s short span of three years on the throne. Only a few decades later the Emperor Vespasian’s younger son managed to destroy his father’s inheritance in only a single generation. And so it goes. It is simply the way things are, Centurion.’

Dubnus nodded.

‘I have seen this for myself. But why are you telling me this?’

The other man leaned back in his chair, his face invisible in the office’s shadows.

‘The answer to that question is more straightforward than you might think, and concerns both the first and third generations of our hypothetical family. As I said a moment ago, the legions are commanded by Rome’s masters, the senatorial class who bow only to the emperor himself, and as a rule the provincial governors are for the most part chosen from among the ranks of successful legati, or those whose family have the most influence with the emperor. Which of course presents the emperor, or rather those men who make the decisions for him, with a limited choice of men from whom to choose, some of them brilliant, some rather less so. And, of course, even the smallest of frontier provinces will have legions, powerful tools in the wrong hands and even more so when, as has happened, two or three governors in adjoining provinces make the decision to join forces. So, what’s to be done if a province falls into the hands of another Julius Caesar, a man with the skills of a great general and the unmitigated bravery required to mount an assault on the throne? Or another Varus, with the abject lack of imagination and leadership required for another Teutoburg Forest? Whether in the hands of brilliant minds or fools, the use and the maintenance of such power needs to be assured by the presence of men with undoubted loyalty to the throne, if attempts to take the throne or military disasters are to be avoided. And so each major province has a man who can be trusted posted to a position of apparent mediocrity, men who can quietly steer around such potential disasters by means of a deft touch here, a swift bloodletting there. Men whose successes in avoiding either outcome can be ascribed to others, so that they can remain hidden in the shadows.’

‘Men like you?’

‘You have it, Centurion, I knew you were more than a scowl on a particularly muscular stick. Men like me. I watch over Clodius Albinus from the shadows, ensuring that everything he does is free from risk or, when I am unable to prevent him from acting in a manner more likely to further his own aims than those of the empire, I do whatever is needed to put right what would otherwise be wrong. Like sending a message to an enterprising young tribune to suggest that he might not want to risk boarding a naval vessel whose mission had been suborned by a man who considers him a mortal enemy.’

Dubnus’s eyes narrowed.

‘Dolfus is
your
man.’

The other man nodded.

‘Of course he is. All it ever takes is a short and meaningful discussion about potential future careers, and the display of my imperial warrant, for men like Dolfus to give me their unconditional loyalty. The decurion is a man of good family, and he knows full well that his first duty is to the empire and not to any individual, no matter how exalted.’

‘And it was your idea for my tribune to take the German woman to the north, rather than boarding the warships?’

Tiro nodded.

‘It was. I expect him to successfully evade any Bructeri pursuit, unlikely though such a pursuit may be given the quiet exit I hear the tribune and his party made before the Germans caught up with you. I plan to journey north tomorrow myself, and to meet Scaurus and his men on the northern border of the Bructeri lands, and ensure that the Angrivarii grant them safe passages. Perhaps you’d care to accompany me?’

The Briton drained his cup.

‘Of course I would. But my men and I are ordered to remain in barracks, pending a posting to some shithole or other.’

The freedman smiled beneficently.

‘Then it’s a good thing that I have the ability to make you and your men vanish into thin air, isn’t it? As far as Clodius Albinus will know, he’s had you posted to dig latrines in a fort so distant that he’ll never think to check on the veracity of the records. Have your men ready to ride at dawn. And draw yourself a vine stick and a helmet crest from the fortress stores, the time for your status to be concealed is long past. Where we’re going, the more imposing you both look, the better.’

Dubnus nodded, putting the cup down on the desk before him, then frowned as a thought struck him.

‘There is another problem.’

The other man smiled at him knowingly.

‘Young Gaius Vibius Varus and the governor’s message? There’s no problem there …’ He raised his voice. ‘Is there, Vibius Varus?’

The door behind him opened, and Varus stepped through it in a clean tunic and freshly polished boots.

‘No, Tiro, I don’t believe there is.’

‘But …’

Both men smiled at the bemused Briton.

‘The message?’ Tiro shook his head. ‘Opened, read, filed for future reference and forgotten. The governor will entertain fond imaginings as to what’s going to happen when his rather idiosyncratic version of events reaches Rome, and only in the fullness of time will it dawn on him that the lack of response indicates that it might not have arrived after all. I’ve taken the precaution of substituting a rather more factually based summary of events to date and ordered its delivery to Rome with all speed, just in case he has second thoughts as to the reliability of young Varus here and decides to send another.’

He stood, indicating the room’s door.

‘And now, gentlemen, there’s just one thing I need from you. Gold.’ The two men stared at him in bemusement, and he laughed, shaking his head. ‘Come now, you can hardly expect me not to have heard the governor’s frequent complaints about the amount of freshly minted coins that managed to get stuck to your tribune’s fingers in the process of it being used to enable the imperial chamberlain to make his bid for power? I know for a fact that Scaurus’s travel chest contains enough wealth to fund what I’ve got in mind with the Angrivarii, and their neighbours the Marsi to the east, whose lands we’ll have to travel through to reach the border with the Bructeri. So off you go and dig the chest out, and I’ll be along shortly with a smith to crack open the lock. I’m sure your superior won’t complain, given that without his money he might well end up exchanging death on a Bructeri altar for the same fate at the hands of another tribe!’

‘You’re sure?’

Husam shook his head.

‘No, Tribune, I am far from sure that these Germans have a prisoner, but I think it very likely. And I believe I know who it is.’

Scaurus stared at him in tired disbelief.

‘But they were what, half a mile from your position when they stopped to camp for the night? How could you know?’

The party had relocated another mile towards the river when it became clear that their pursuers had decided to camp on a small tributary of the Reed River, putting enough distance between them that the glow of their fires would be completely hidden by the trees. The Hamian inclined his head respectfully, but he wasn’t so deferential as to back down in the face of Scaurus’s scepticism.

‘Every other man in their party was wearing a helmet, Tribune. Only sufficient iron to cover the top of their heads, but every man wore this protection.’

Dolfus nodded.

‘It’s the distinguishing mark of Amalric’s household guard. They all wear it.’

‘But one man was not wearing such a helmet. Nor was he carrying a weapon, unlike the men around him. And when he dismounted, two of them stayed close to him. I could not see if they were using their spears to keep him subdued though.’

‘So, perhaps the Bructeri have one of our men. Perhaps. The more important thing is that …’ Husam raised his hand with a deferential expression, and Scaurus, clearly still in pain, restrained himself from the volcanic loss of his temper that he was aware was building within him as a reaction to stress and exhaustion.

‘Yes?’

‘Forgive me, Tribune, I do have one more observation to share with you.’ Scaurus waved his hand, looking at the man with an expression verging on the predatory. ‘When the man I have assumed to be a prisoner dismounted, his head was at the same height as the horses. This appeared to be a tall man.’

‘And? Our detachment contained several such men, more than half of us, in fact.’

The Hamian spread his hands in polite agreement, but continued despite the tribune’s obvious ire.

‘Just so, Tribune. But this man was not powerfully built, his stance was not that of an axeman. He was of a more normal build, although he did have broad shoulders. Perhaps from use of the bow.’

He fell silent and lowered his head in deference to the senior officer.

‘You’re telling me that the Bructeri have a prisoner, and that you think it’s Centurion Qadir?’

‘I cannot make such a bold assertion, Tribune. But the man I have seen was certainly a prisoner, in my view, and his build and stance were at once familiar to me. I have said enough, and wasted enough of your time. Forgive me for …’

Scaurus raised a hand.

‘No, you must forgive me for being short-tempered with you. I am tired and in pain, which is only a partial excuse. Now we must discuss your suggestion, and decide what we must do. Thank you.’

The Hamian chosen man bowed and turned away, Scaurus waiting until he was out of earshot before speaking again.

‘The centurion is a dead man, if Husam is correct in his identification. They have brought him along with them in order to torture him to death at the right time, hoping to unnerve us.’

‘Or to bargain for his life with hers?’

Dolfus looked over at the woman, busily tending the iron pot over her small fire.

‘We cannot make such a bargain. And they will know that, or at least suspect it. No, our main focus now must be on these pursuers. How is that they come to be so close behind us, and how did they even know that we didn’t board the warships?’

The decurion grimaced.

‘Perhaps they overcame your men before they could reach the river, or perhaps the ships didn’t arrive at the right time. Either way they would be able to count corpses, and look for the bodies they would have expected to find, those of the woman and myself. They will quickly have worked out that we must have run, fearing such a conclusion to the fight, and once that was their belief it wouldn’t need a genius to work out where we would be heading.’

‘Or perhaps a man who fell in battle with you lived while he seemed dead, and saw us ride north.’

They looked around at Gerhild, who was still tending her pot, dropping crushed herbs into the bubbling water.

‘But all the men who fell at the crossroads were dead. Not one of them moved with a knife stuck into his arm or leg.’

‘Indeed that is true, Tribune, for I watched your men perform their grisly test of life. And yet …’

‘And yet what?’

She smiled a quiet, private smile.

‘And yet who is to know what strangeness might have overcome a man who was thrown headlong into a tree?’

Dolfus looked at her for a moment and then shook his head.

‘Whatever the cause of their pursuit, putting some distance between us is my main concern. In the morning we must cross the Reed, and quickly, if we’re not to find ourselves staring down twice our strength in spears. What do you say, Gunda?’

The scout grimaced back at him.

‘I say that the Reed changes its course almost every year, as the marshes that fringe both banks grow and shrink, and become more solid or more liquid as if on a whim of the gods. We might find a workable ford before the sun has risen far enough to warm the day, or it might take all day. The morning will reveal our fate.’

‘In which case, gentlemen, I suggest that we eat and get some sleep. Post two men to watch, and make sure that they are changed regularly. I want everyone clear-headed tomorrow.’

Scaurus turned away only to find the woman standing behind him.

‘If
every
man is to be clear-headed then I will need you to drink this.’ She passed him a wooden cup, smiling as he looked down into it with a dubious expression. ‘It is a herbal tea, Tribune, lavender, sage and thyme, and the purple flower that we call The Healer, all boiled in water. It will soothe your mind, and help your body to make good the damage that the knife wrought on you. You will sleep well, and, with the blessing of Hertha, heal faster.’

He looked down into the cup again and then took a tentative sip, pulling a face at the slightly bitter taste.

‘It tastes …’

‘Natural. If I had a little honey I would sweeten it for you, but the bees will all be asleep by now and impossible to find, so the unsweetened version will have to do. Drink it. When the remainder has cooled I will use it to clean your wound, before I dress it with clean cloth.’