‘If it’s all got to be done on tiptoes then why would you be asking me to recruit thugs to bring along, given that we both know that thugs usually operate in a manner that’s the direct opposite of either subtle or restrained? Not that I would ever have thought to describe Lugos in those terms.’
Scaurus raised a knowing eyebrow.
‘The why, Cotta, is something that I shall keep to myself for the time being, so I suggest you concentrate on what I’ve asked for, and who would be best selected to deliver it. Suffice to say that I need a few soldiers along for the ride who can pass for the sort of men one sees outside the rougher sort of brothel after dark. Men who can quite clearly handle themselves, and who, when the need arises, punch first, punch again and only then give even the most fleeting consideration to explaining to the man on the end of their knuckles exactly why it is that they’re punching them.’
Cotta looked at him for a moment.
‘And whatever it is that you think you’re going to achieve by unleashing the ugliest men in the cohort, you want me to select them. Which also means that whatever it is you plan for them to do, I’ll probably be right in the middle of it. Am I right?’
‘Almost. Yes, I want you to be their leader in that part of the plan I have in mind for you. And you can thank Julius for that, this was his idea. But I didn’t say I wanted the ugliest men in the cohort, but rather the most criminally minded and, if need be, the most violent. I want thinkers, Centurion, men who’ll be working out the odds before they raise their fists and not after, when it’s too late.’
‘You’re asking me to find the cleverest, most brutal bastards in the whole cohort and then keep them under control until the time comes to let them loose?’
Scaurus’s smile deepened, and the veteran officer rubbed his face wearily with the palm of his hand, puffing out his lips in an exaggerated exhalation of breath.
‘Whatever it was I did to deserve this, it wasn’t worth the punishment.’
‘Why us?’
Cotta stared back across the tavern table at the soldier called Sanga with an expression verging on disbelief.
‘Why you? I tell you that I’m looking for a pair of men to do dangerous and dirty work, men who know which end of a dagger does the damage, men who can talk their way out of trouble but know when to stop talking and start fighting, and you ask me “why us”?
Sanga stared at him, apparently uncomprehendingly, and the veteran centurion sighed wearily.
‘If I must …’ Without warning he lunged across the table, putting a finger in Sanga’s face and smiling as the soldier visibly suppressed his urge to take the hand and break the wrist attached to it. ‘There, that’s why you. Your first spear tells me that you, Sanga, are without a doubt the most violent man in your century, possibly in the entire cohort. Not a pretty fighter like your mate there …’ The Dacian Saratos grinned at the description. ‘But nasty as a week-old latrine trench once you’ve decided to put a man down. Fists, elbows, feet, teeth …’
Saratos nodded his agreement.
‘You’ll use them all, without restraint and without mercy, until the other man’s on his back and has stopped trying to get up again. Won’t you?’
Sanga shrugged.
‘A man has to look after himself.’
Cotta smirked.
‘And you look after yourself so well you’ve been given to the hardest centurion in the cohort, eh? How’s serving under Otho working out for you?’
‘It’s alright. He’s hard, but he’s fair — most of the time.’
‘I’ll bet. Sure you don’t fancy a holiday from all that shouting and slapping he likes so much?’
The soldier shrugged again, a sly smile creeping onto his face despite his best efforts to keep it straight.
‘Look at the alternative. On the one hand you’re offering us the chance to ride a thousand miles, when I don’t know one end of a horse from the other until it blows out some apples to give me a clue, to do who knows what in Germania, of all places! We done Germania before you poled up, Centurion, and it was without a doubt the biggest shithole I’ve ever served in! And I’ve served in some right horrible places.’
He looked round at Saratos, grinning at the muscular Dacian.
‘Or, and here’s the difficult choice, we could be stuck here in the centre of the empire, the place where there’s whores everywhere, and they’ll all do it for the price of a loaf of bread, even some of the pretty ones. Even a half-witted Dacian bum-fucker like my mate here can see the choice for what it is, can’t you Saratos? Germania or Rome, eh?’ He spread his hands wide, a pleading note creeping into his voice. ‘Even you can see that choice for what it is, can’t you?’
Saratos nodded, pretending to consider the question.
‘Is easy.’
Sanga’s smile widened.
‘Is Germania.’
‘Eh?’
‘Is Germania, obvious. Is Germania because one week of whore enough for any man. Even you, Sanga. Is Germania because stay here while friends go fight is not-’
‘Right?’
The Dacian nodded at Cotta, who was grinning at Sanga, enjoying his discomfiture.
‘Yes, not right. And is Germania because Centurion Marcus go Germania, is true?’
Cotta nodded, his lips suddenly a tight line as he recalled Marcus’s troubled state of mind.
‘It’s true. And that young man needs all the protection he can get, over the next few months.’
The three men fell silent, all replaying the bloody events of two nights before, and the horrific revelation of Felicia’s death that had shocked every man in the cohort. Sanga put his head down until his forehead was touching the table, banging it against the wood and drawing a worried glance from the tavern owner. Cotta sat back in his chair with a smug smile.
‘It’s Germania then. But don’t worry, Sanga, you’re not the only man I’ve got my hooks into. Dubnus is breaking the bad news to a colleague of yours this very moment.’
‘Let’s face it comrades, we’re getting left behind this time.’ Morban smiled round at his usual circle of associates, half a dozen of the older sweats in the First Cohort, raising a cup of wine in salute. ‘Wherever it is that the tribune’s taking his picked men, I reckon they’re going to be away for months. Perhaps a year or more …’
He looked about him with an expression bordering on delight, laughing at their confusion.
‘Come on, the emperor’s not going to be sending our boys out to buy him some eggs, it’ll be another one of those dirty little jobs that means travelling to the far side of the empire …’
He drew breath, and one of his comrades interjected with the speed of a man who knew all too well just how much the standard bearer enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice.
‘But we’ve not been back from the east more than a day. Why bring us back, if-’
Morban cut him off with a dismissive wave.
‘There’s more to this empire than Britannia, Rome and Syria, mate! There’s dozens of provinces with hostile tribes next door, plenty of things the emperor wants but doesn’t actually own.’
He grinned round at them again.
‘For all we know they’re being sent south to bring back some nice dark-skinned girls for Commodus …’ He nodded acknowledgement of another man’s attempted interjection. ‘Yes, or boys. And it doesn’t matter what it is, just as long as they take their time finding it. We’ll just have to sit here and make the best of it, eh? Wine, games and lots and lots of whores. I can’t see any …’
He fell silent as the men around him transferred their attention from his beatific smile to a point behind him. Scrambling out of their chairs they snapped to attention, and Morban stood, turning on his heel and tightening his body into the brace position automatically.
‘Well now, Morban, I was told I’d find you here.’
‘Centurion.’
Dubnus looked around at the other men questioningly.
‘Could you men perhaps grant me a moment alone with my old friend the standard bearer here? Leave your wine where it is, I’ll be gone soon enough.’