The Wolf's Gold (6 page)

‘In my tent, with Annia and that little monster you insisted on dedicating to your father with a name no-one else has used for three hundred years. Come and see me later, and perhaps Annia will sit with the baby and give us a chance for a quiet moment together, once you’ve had a chance to wash away the mud you’re doubtless about to plaster all over yourself. I may not be
entirely
off-limits to a determined approach . . .’

‘More wine for you, Tribune?’

Scaurus shook his head, raising a hand to indicate the tent’s door flap.

‘No thank you Arminius, I can cope well enough. You have a child to be training, I believe.’

The big German bowed slightly, and exited the tent with the same purposeful manner he did everything, closing the flap behind him to afford his master some degree of peace. The tribune poured himself a cup of wine, and another for his first spear, then set the spare cup down on the campaign chest that doubled as his desk. He sat down on his camp chair with the air of a man who had seen better times. Unlacing his boots he eased them off, sighing with the pleasure of putting his bare feet onto the tent’s grass floor, then stood and walked to the door, pushing the flap aside to stare out at the camp’s bustling scene. His Tungrians were hard at work digging out turf blocks for the customary earth fortifications that a commander ignored at his peril with an unknown enemy in the field. The four-foot-high wall rising around their tents was as ever arranged in a precise rectangle with only one opening, and high enough to slow an enemy’s charge and render them vulnerable to the defenders’ spears.

‘It doesn’t ever get any easier to watch our lads labouring while the legion cohort sits on its collective fat backside.’

He started, finding Julius standing at his shoulder with a look of distaste on his face.

‘No, First Spear, it certainly does not. Wine?’

The big man nodded his grateful acquiescence, and stepped into the tent behind his tribune, putting his helmet down and running a spadelike hand through his thick black hair. Both men had long since mastered their amazement at their situation, but neither had yet managed to swallow his deep dissatisfaction.

‘Do we have any orders beyond setting up camp, sir?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘Tribune Belletor was as unforthcoming as ever, apart from telling me that he’ll be sending for the mine’s procurator once he’s settled in properly. I find myself gratefully surprised to have been invited to join the meeting at all.’ He shared a knowing look with the other man. ‘I’ll be taking you as my deputy and Centurion Corvus to carry my cloak. He can act as another pair of eyes and ears for us both, and look for anything that we might miss.’

Julius sipped at his wine, watching his senior officer over the rim of the cup and seeing the same pain in his eyes as the day their revised circumstances had become painfully clear to them both. Having marched his cohorts east to the First Minervia’s headquarters at Fortress Bonna on the river Rhenus, now over a thousand miles behind them, Scaurus had emerged from a meeting with the legion’s legatus with a thunderous expression. Knowing his tribune’s implacable temper once roused, Julius had guessed that his superior had restrained himself from ripping into the legion’s commanding officer by the narrowest of margins. Scaurus had stalked out of the headquarters building with Julius trailing in his wake before sharing the news in the street outside, his jaw clenched tight with anger.

‘We’re to march for Dacia, First Spear, under the command of a cohort of the First Minervia. In point of fact, I am subordinated to Tribune Belletor, who is to act as my superior officer in all matters.’

Julius could still remember his amazement at the news, and the blazing anger in his tribune’s responses to his disbelieving questions.

‘My orders from Governor Marcellus not to become subordinated to any other officer? Tossed aside without even being read. One of the legion’s equestrian tribunes, a man from my own social class if you like, took me aside before the meeting and quietly warned me that the legatus doesn’t care much for the governor of Britannia, having served under him during Ulpius Marcellus’s first spell in command of that miserable island. It was just as well he gave me that small clue as to what was coming, and therefore time to compose myself, or I might have taken my fists to the damned fool. And then where would we all be?’

After a moment’s pause to further calm himself, Scaurus had related the meeting’s events to his first spear through gritted teeth, shaking his head at the situation that had played out before him.

‘The bastard took a long leisurely piss all over our achievements in Tungrorum, Julius, and I had no choice but to keep my mouth shut and listen to his bullshit. He noted our victory over the bandit leader Obduro, in passing mind you, and then spent far longer decrying the destruction of Tungrorum’s grain store. “Levelled to the ground” was the phrase he used, while my halfwit colleague Belletor stood in silence with that shit-eating grin on his face. Never a word of commendation for the fortune in gold we recovered, or any recognition of the fact that the granaries we torched were largely repaired by the time we left, in fact quite the contrary. It was “disgraceful that imperial property and enough grain to feed this legion for a year” had been destroyed. Clearly I wasn’t fit for independent command, and would have to operate under the control of a “more measured officer and a man with better breeding”.’

He’d spat out the last words, drawing interested stares from the guards on duty outside the legion’s headquarters and the soldiers passing them in the fortress’s street. Julius had found the presence of mind, despite his respect for both the man’s rank and his fearsome temper once roused, to take him gently by the arm and lead him out of their earshot.

‘We are to be commanded, Julius, by a member of the senatorial class, a man from an impeccable family. In short, we are to be commanded by that buffoon Belletor. The man who couldn’t even make it to the battle outside Tungrorum for sore feet and lack of wind is now my superior.’ He’d laughed at the anger in Julius’s face, shaking his head in dark amusement. ‘Oh yes,
now
you know why I nearly went across the man’s desk and took him by the throat. But there’s more. Our orders from Governor Marcellus, to return home to Britannia once we’ve dealt with the bandit threat to Tungrorum, are out of the window I’m afraid. We’re to march for Dacia in company with Belletor’s cohort as reinforcement for the two legions holding the line there. Apparently some tribe or other is getting uppity and needs slapping down, so we get to march twenty miles a day for the next two months in the wrong direction to provide them with more spears. I asked about the chances of being transported by river, but
apparently
the fleet is tied up watching the northern bank of the Rhenus in case the German tribes choose to take the opportunity to renew their attack on the province.’

Julius had grimaced, shaking his head in dismay.

‘The men won’t be happy marching east.’

Scaurus had laughed sardonically.

‘What, they won’t like not going home? Wait until they’ve endured a few weeks of Belletor’s leadership! He is, as the legatus took great pleasure in telling him in my presence, to keep me on a “very tight rope indeed”. If I show any signs of failing to accept my situation with the appropriate deference to his rank, he is authorised and indeed
encouraged
to replace me with a young man of equally good family who is to come along for the ride. Lucius Carius Sigilis, another young tribune from the senatorial class, still wet behind the ears and already driving the senior centurions to distraction, I expect. It’s an opportunity for the legatus to rid himself of a pair of daddy’s boys who are no practical use to him, and to gain favour with their fathers for giving them their chance for glory and advancement. If I don’t like it then Belletor can remove me from command and send me home with a snap of his fingers, put this boy soldier in my place and, of course, impose a pair of new first spears from his own cohort on our soldiers, just to make sure they do what they’re told. I’d imagine the only thing that will stop him from doing so the moment we’re out of camp will be the sweet anticipation of my humiliation, and after that my happy acceptance of whatever indignity he chooses to throw at me. And if I go, First Spear, then you’ll find yourself back in command of a century with a legion man in control of the cohort. If you or any other of our officers make their feelings on the subject clear then the outcome’s likely to be your dismissal from the service on whatever charge of misconduct Belletor feels like inventing for the purpose, without either citizenship or pension. So we’re all going to have to learn to bite our tongues and wait for the big wheel to turn, aren’t we? Just make sure that your officers are perfectly clear on my expectation that we can all display sufficient maturity to see this temporary inconvenience through . . .’

In the event, Scaurus’s good reputation with his officers and men had resulted in a conspiracy of silence across both of the cohorts under his command, and the soldiers had contented themselves with bringing a particular gusto to those of their marching songs with any relevance to the legionaries marching alongside them. Julius walked to the door, cup in hand, and looked out at the toiling soldiers for a moment before turning back to his tribune with a shrug.

‘If it’s of any consolation, Tribune, my colleague Sergius is as embarrassed as ever at being told to sit on his hands while we do all the work.’

Scaurus nodded his understanding.

‘I can imagine. But any soldier sharp enough to reach the rank of first spear in a legion cohort knows very well when to keep his mouth shut. He’s of far more value to us as a friend in Belletor’s camp than for any brief excitement he might whip up by protesting our case. And in any case, I think the worst part of our ordeal is over. Now that we don’t have to dig out a marching camp every night we can get back to some real soldiering. There’s a decent fight waiting for us somewhere out there, and I don’t intend for my men to be found wanting.’

Marcus walked wearily into the Fifth Century’s lines as the sun was falling toward the western horizon, finding Arminius and Morban’s grandson Lupus waiting for him outside his tent, the child still wet with the sweat of his evening lesson with sword and shield. The big German got to his feet and pointed to the tent’s door.

‘Inside if you will, Centurion, and get that gear off so that the boy can get to work with his brushes. It’s all very well you working on the turf rampart alongside your men, but we can’t have you covered in mud on parade tomorrow morning. The boots too. We’ve laid out a clean tunic and your soft shoes, and there’s a bowl of warm water in there for you to wash your face. The doctor came to see us a while ago and asked me to pass on the message that she would indeed be delighted to take a cup of wine with you before bed, if you can tear yourself away from your usual feats of military engineering.’

Marcus washed, taking pleasure from the sensation of the clean water drying on his skin after a full day’s labour, then pulled on the clean tunic and belted it so that the hem was above his knees in the approved military fashion. Re-emerging into the evening sun he found Lupus hard at work on his boots, buffing them back to their customary morning shine. He squatted next to the boy, noting that the sword he and Arminius had purchased for him in Tungrorum was laid alongside him in the grass in its battered metal scabbard.

‘We haven’t spoken much recently, Lupus . . .’ He paused, struggling for words as the boy continued his polishing without looking up. ‘I’ve been really busy, and little Appius, well . . .’

Lupus rescued him, still intent on his work as he spoke into the silence, his voice still high and clear.

‘Arminius told me that my job is to keep your equipment clean and to learn to fight as well as he can. And that nothing else matters. When I can fight well enough he says I can be a soldier, and serve in your century like my daddy did.’

Abashed at the boy’s matter-of-fact acceptance of the harsh facts, Marcus thought for a moment before replying.

‘Your father was a brave man, and when you can hold your own in a fight with Arminius I’ll be proud to serve alongside you. But you do know that your grandfather loves you too, don’t you?’

Lupus grimaced at the boot.

‘My grandfather loves me well enough, but he also loves drink, and ladies, and most of all he loves to gamble. But all I love is this . . .’

He lifted the metal scabbard, and Marcus thought his heart was going to break.

‘Give me the boot, Lupus.’ The child frowned and handed it to him, and Marcus looked down at the shining leather with a quick nod. ‘Perfect.’ He tossed it into the tent behind him, then reached over for the other, still streaked with mud, and repeated the act.

‘But it’s not clean . . .’

Lupus fell silent as he realised that the centurion’s hand was held out palm upwards.

‘Now give me the sword.’

The boy’s face crumpled, on the verge of tears.

‘But . . .’

Marcus took the weapon from his hands, forcing a smile onto his face.

‘You can have it back later, I promise.’ He reached over and plucked the weapon from Lupus’s unresisting hands. ‘It can sit alongside mine while we’re away. Nobody’s going to risk taking liberties with a pair of dangerous swordsmen like you and me.’

He leaned back into the tent, and laid the scabbard down next to his blades, shaking his head at the stark simplicity of the weapons’ purpose.

‘Now then, come with me. We’ll worry about the boots and the armour in the morning, eh? Tonight you can join Felicia and me for our meal, and little Appius too, if he’s awake.’ He squatted onto his haunches, looking up at the boy’s mystified face. ‘Lupus, you’re going to make a perfect soldier, when the time comes. By the time you’re fifteen you’ll probably be able to do more with a sword than I can now, but we’re making you into a soldier before your time, and it’s not fair.’ He put a finger under the boy’s chin, lifting it until the boy met his eyes, his voice soft with the memories of his own younger brother. ‘There’s another life you need to live before you take the oath, Lupus, you need to be a boy for just a while longer, and have as much of a family as we can make for you. Come on, let’s go and see which one of us can get little Appius to give him a smile first . . .’