Scaurus pointed to a ship that was crawling slowly upstream to the south.
‘It might not be as wide as the Euphrates, but it’s certainly wide enough to act as a natural frontier for the empire in combination with the river fleet. That ship will almost certainly have sailed from the fleet base south of Claudius’s Colony, which is where we’re heading.’ He spurred his beast to walk on. ‘Come, gentlemen, I have no desire to approach a frontier city after dark, whether in times of peace or not. It would only take one jumpy centurion and a lucky bolt-thrower shot to ruin a man’s entire day.’
The guard centurion commanding the city’s southern gate snapped off a crisp salute to Scaurus as soon as the tribune had identified himself, calling for one of the twin doorways that controlled entrance to the legion’s base to be opened. He was immaculately dressed, his mail and boots gleaming with the evident application of a great deal of polishing, his beard neatly trimmed, and those of his men who were in evidence were equally smartly turned out.
‘You’re expected, Tribune, you and your men. If you follow my chosen man he’ll take you to the bridge fort, and show you where the stables are. Our prefect’s allocated a spare barrack to you, not that space is hard to come by with half the cohort away in Britannia. Oh, and the governor asked to be informed as soon as you arrive sir, so I expect you’ll be receiving an invitation to his residence once you’ve had time to bathe and put on your best uniform.’
Scaurus nodded with a faint smile.
‘He’s keen on appearances, the governor?’
The centurion nodded briskly.
‘Exceptionally keen, Tribune.’
He looked as if there was more he might have ventured, but chose instead to indicate his second in command, waiting for the Tungrians by the twin gateways.
‘Festus will take you to your barrack, and show you where to draw rations for yourselves and the horses.’
He watched as the Tungrians marched away, clicking his fingers to summon his runner.
‘Give my regards to Decurion Dolfus, and tell him they’re here. You’ll find him at the cavalry barracks. Go!’
The detachment followed the chosen man down a long wide street, turning right once they were past the open expanse of a large forum and exiting the city by another gate. A wooden bridge stretched out before them, crossing the river’s wide expanse on a series of twenty or so stone pillars, and on the far bank the familiar shape of a cohort-sized fortress dominated the otherwise empty landscape, its walls surrounded by a three-sided moat filled with water from the Rhenus which itself provided the fourth side of its defence. Walking alongside the chosen man, Dubnus looked down the bridge’s length at the forested land on the eastern side of the river, empty apart from the stoutly constructed fort.
‘I expected the other bank to be built up, with a city of this size on our side, or at least farmed.’
The other man shook his head.
‘That’s the buffer zone. Tribes ain’t allowed to build there, nor farm. Military land …’
He fell silent, and the centurion looked about himself in interest as they strode out onto the bridge, watching as a flat-bottomed warship approached the bridge from their left, its sail and oars driving it upstream against the river’s flow.
‘How the fuck are they going to get that under this?’
The chosen man grinned at Sanga’s bemused question.
‘Everyone asks that the first time they see a ship go under the bridge.’
The detachment’s progress slowed to a dawdle as every man stared in unashamed amazement at the oncoming warship, its crew seemingly unconcerned with the impending disaster that loomed ever more likely with every foot the vessel progressed toward the bridge, the sail and mast looming over the heavy structure. Finally, when all hope of avoiding a collision between immovable stone and the warship’s delicate mast seemed lost, the captain barked out a series of commands that saw the billowing sail swiftly furled. Then, less than twenty paces from the bridge, heavy wooden pins were struck from the mast’s base, allowing it to pivot down on a massive metal hinge and lie flat against the deck, lowered into place by sailors straining at heavy ropes to prevent it crashing down.
‘Fuck me …’
The chosen man grinned at Dubnus with the confidence of a man who had seen it all before.
‘They do it all the time, going up and down the river, and as far as we can tell they all have some sort of obsession with lowering the mast at the last possible moment. Only a few months ago one of them got it wrong and waited just a moment too long. Took his mast clean off and tore a hole the size of a mule in the ship’s deck. Our trumpeter was on duty, and the first spear told him to sound the retreat as loud as he could.’
Nodding in recognition of yet another scarcely believable feat, the Briton waved his men on.
‘Get moving! Has none of you ever seen a warship with a collapsible mast before?’
Crossing the bridge they marched into the fort, finding themselves housed in a barrack of the usual design, a long run of rooms designed to house an eight-man tent party with an officer’s room at one end of the building.
‘I suggest we put five men into each room and the officers can share the last two.’ The tribune turned to Arminius and pointed toward the block’s far end.
‘We’ll take the centurion’s room. I’ll need you to unpack my bronze and get it polished, make sure my best tunic’s clean and put a shine on my boots that would bring tears to a senior centurion’s eyes. I’m going to sweat the dirt out of my skin, and I’m going to take my officers with me, since these two young gentlemen …’ he indicated Marcus and Varus ‘… will doubtless be included in the governor’s invitation if only to assuage his curiosity. And since we’ll need Dubnus to act as a decoy for all the wretched thieves that breed in all frontier cities, Qadir and Cotta might as well come along too.’
The German nodded.
‘Yes Tribune.’ His eyes narrowed as he spotted Lupus easing back through the Tungrian ranks. ‘No you don’t, boy! Your centurion needs his boots polished, and I’m sure Centurion Varus would appreciate a similar service. Just because you’re a soldier now you’re not getting out of your duties that easily!’
Qadir hung his tunic on a wooden peg, placing his boots neatly beneath the garment and looking around the empty changing room with an expression that was almost fond.
‘A proper military bathhouse. I’ve not seen one of these for a while.’
Dubnus shot him a dubious glance, eyeing the attendants with suspicion.
‘I’ll be happy if I never see one again. Every time I set foot in these bloody places I end up losing something to the light-fingered bastards that run them.’
‘Which is why I suggested that we leave everything of value under the watchful eye of your men and walked here with nothing more than our tunics, belts and boots.’
The burly centurion shot Qadir another sour glance.
‘And it’s why I walked here in bare feet and with a length of twine for a belt. I’ve been robbed enough times to trust nobody in these places. And no, I don’t want to start in the exercise room, given I’ve already ridden twenty miles today, and not forgetting the indisputable fact that it’ll be full of weightlifters all oiling themselves up and gurning at each other.’
Grinning despite himself, Scaurus, who had gratefully but firmly resisted the suggestion that he might want to use the senior officers’ baths adjacent to the governor’s residence, led them into the warm room to get accustomed to the heat before braving the hot room. He flipped a coin to one of the boys waiting to provide the legion’s bathers with their requirements and the child scurried away, returning a few moments later bearing a tray loaded with a flask of wine and cups, while two more followed him in with a plate of honey cakes and a bottle of oil.