There were plenty of legionaries from the patrol about. Some were lighting fires to cook their evening meal. Others had kit to repair and were doing it outside, where the light was better. Two men were playing dice in the dirt, watched by their friends. A pair with more energy than most were wrestling together, grappling and trying to throw the other to the ground. Wagers were being made on which of them would go down first. Piso was tempted to watch, even to gamble, but his thirst won out. ‘Anyone found a place to buy wine?’ he asked.
‘Try the avenues around the garrison’s barracks,’ advised a legionary. ‘There’ll be someone flogging it around there.’
Muttering his thanks, Piso walked towards the main gate, where the resident soldiers lived. As he rounded the corner on to the via praetoria, an optio passed by. The man wasn’t from Piso’s unit; nonetheless, he averted his gaze and breathed easier when the officer had gone. Piso had always been a little clumsy, perhaps because he was so tall, but it had never mattered much until he had joined the army. Everything had to be done just so, and if it wasn’t, officers like Fenestela and Tullus let him know about it in no uncertain terms. Still, he seemed to be getting the hang of most things at last. Keeping his clothing and equipment clean and ready for use, wearing his uniform in the correct manner, marching in step and weapons training were all routine tasks now.
In the event, it didn’t take Piso long to find some wine. A white-haired Phoenician with deep brown skin – ‘The only one of my race to trade in Germania,’ he boasted at the top of his voice – was hawking an assortment of goods from a portable stall near the camp’s entrance. He had fish sauce and olive oil in little pots, aromatic herbs, and exotic spices wrapped in twists of fabric – black pepper, coriander and cumin. What he was selling most of, however, was wine. Piso listened as the Phoenician recommended half a dozen vintages, all of which cost more than he could afford, before plumping for a skinful of the cheapest variety. Even that cost a deal more than it did in Vetera, but when he protested, the Phoenician gave an eloquent shrug. ‘The stuff didn’t walk here on its own. Travel costs, you know. Do you see anyone else offering wine of any quality, let alone the divine flavours I have?’
Piso snorted. The wine’s resemblance to pure vinegar was astonishing, but the merchant was right. There was no one else to buy the stuff from – this centrally, anyway. The rogue must have an arrangement with one of the garrison’s offers, he thought, handing over the coins.
‘Can I tempt you to some pepper?’ The Phoenician swept a handful of the spice under Piso’s nose. His nostrils filled with the pungent, heady aroma that he hadn’t been able to afford for months.
‘Not this time.’
The pepper was withdrawn at once, as if he would steal it, and the Phoenician’s toothy smile shrank. ‘When you need it, my friend, I’ll be here.’
Piso headed for his barracks, trying and failing not to think about the wonderful foods that had been available in the neighbourhood where he’d grown up. Spiced lentils, smoked ham, fresh fish, breads of every type imaginable, pastries and sweetmeats, and a dozen times as many spices as the Phoenician had had. The signature dish of one local restaurant had been veal escalope with raisins – Piso had only been able to afford it once, but his mouth watered at the thought of it. Distracted by the fantasy, he didn’t see the burly legionary in his path. With a clash of heads, they collided. Piso stumbled back, clutching the throbbing lump on his skull; the other let out a string of oaths. ‘Clumsy bastard! Watch where you’re going!’
‘My apologies. I wasn’t looking.’ Piso’s heart sank as he saw that the soldier – one of the garrison – had two friends with him. As if on cue, they stepped to either side of their comrade, blocking the avenue.
‘Damn right, you weren’t,’ retorted the legionary. ‘You must have been thinking about your centurion shoving his cock up your arse.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Piso, wishing that Tullus were close enough to have heard. But he was nowhere to be seen. Neither were his tent mates, or any of his unit. ‘I said it was my fault. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t care what you said, maggot.’ The legionary leered. ‘Me and my mates don’t like you. Walking around here like you own the damn place, buying up all the wine.’ Quick as lightning, he snatched the leather bag. Shaking it, he grinned. ‘It’s just been filled up, boys. Our luck’s in, eh?’
‘Give that back.’ Piso reached out, but the legionary tossed the skin to one of his friends. Piso turned to the man but, like bullies who’ve taken a child’s toy, he threw to the next one. ‘I paid for that,’ said Piso, his temper rising. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Regard it as payment for being such a fool.’ The big legionary spun on his heel with a chuckle, and Piso closed his eyes, wondering what to do. Trying to get the skin back would get him beaten up, but if he let the men walk away, his comrades – in particular Vitellius – would remind him of the humiliation for days to come.
He waited until the trio had all turned away before he charged. Arms outstretched, he managed to knock the legionary’s comrades aside, but in the process slammed into the man’s back faster than he’d meant to. Down they both went, Piso landing on top. There was an oomph of pain from beneath him. Surprised and relieved that he hadn’t been injured, Piso grabbed the skin and clambered to his feet. One of the soldiers that he’d pushed sideways swung a wild punch; Piso ducked and it whistled over his head. ‘Get him! Get the whoreson!’ roared the big legionary from the ground.
He couldn’t hang about. Piso darted forward, in the direction of his barracks. Eyes fixed on the middle distance, he didn’t see the foot that had been stuck in his path. The dirt came up to meet him with sickening speed. His left shoulder was the first to hit it; next was the side of his face. Starbursts of agony went off in his brain. Half-stunned, he lay helpless as his enemies closed in. Piso knew the pain would be bad, but the shock of the first studded sandal connecting with his head was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Another followed, and then it was kick after kick to the ribs and belly. Nausea swamped him, and he retched.
‘Beat the shit out of the maggot, but do it quick,’ said the man he’d walked into. ‘Otherwise an officer will catch us.’
‘Or I will,’ said a voice that Piso, confused, couldn’t quite place.
‘One of his mates, are you? Fuck off, or we’ll give you a hammering as well,’ the big legionary retorted.
‘Will you now?’ The speaker laughed. ‘Piso? Can you get up?’
The urgency in his saviour’s voice penetrated the fog encasing Piso’s brain. With an effort, he sat up, then stood. Dumbfounded, he stared at Vitellius, who was facing up, alone, to the three legionaries. The dagger in his hand explained their hesitancy; only one of them, the weediest-looking, was armed. Piso picked up the wine skin – he wasn’t going to leave that behind – and scrambled away from his assailants, to Vitellius’ side.
‘Draw your blade,’ Vitellius hissed.
Piso obeyed.
‘Listen, you sewer rats! Me and my friend are going to walk away, with our wine. You are going to stay put, unless you want to end your days with a knife in your belly.’ Vitellius edged a step backward and, taking the hint, so did Piso.
The big legionary glanced at his friends. ‘Come on! We can take them.’
‘Off you go,’ the weedy one said. ‘I’m not dying for a skin of wine.’
‘Me neither,’ said the third soldier.
‘Screw the both of you!’ shouted the big legionary at Piso and Vitellius. ‘Don’t let me catch either of you round here again, or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Fuck you too.’ Vitellius shuffled backwards a dozen steps and more, all the while facing the legionaries. Piso did the same, waves of relief washing over him. A little further, and they’d be safe.