He shut up and waited for Marcus to speak.
‘Scarface …’ The Roman put a hand over his eyes and shook his head slowly before lowering his arm and nodding at the men standing before him. ‘May Mithras above us forgive me, but to my great shame I must admit that I’ve not thought of him lately. Thank you for the reminder, Soldier Sanga.’
Sanga smiled.
‘I can still hear his voice in my head, when it’s quiet in the tent and the rest of the lads are all snoring and farting. “Are you still keeping an eye on that young gentleman like you said you would, Sanga?” or “Don’t you forget our agreement, Sanga. If he won’t look after himself we’ll just have to be there to stop him getting hurt, won’t we?”’
Marcus nodded soberly.
‘He always did seem to believe it was some sort of sacred duty he had to keep me from harm. There was a time when I couldn’t turn around without finding him lurking about close at hand, looking in another direction and trying to avoid my eye. Which is how he got himself killed, of course.’ He fished in his purse, pulling out a handful of silver coins. ‘Whatever Morban’s spared you from the burial club for the altar, add this to it, and make sure there’s a good carving at the top of the stone. Morban has given you some money?’
Sanga grinned back at his officer, raising one hand to display his scarred knuckles.
‘Yes sir, and there was never a danger that he wouldn’t come up with the coin. Morban knows when to take liberties and when he’s safer just putting his toes on the line rather than risking getting them stamped flat.’
The gold convoy halted for the night some twenty miles down the road south from Arab Town, in a spot that had clearly been the point which the day’s march had been intended to reach. Leaving the road at the leading centurion’s pointing signal, eschewing the blare of horns that usually accompanied tactical manoeuvres in favour of a more stealthy approach, the column moved up a rough track that sloped away from the cobbled surface and wound around the base of the hill that overlooked the route south, gradually climbing until it opened out onto the flat summit.
‘Another night, another turf wall.’
Felicia nodded at Annia’s words, pulling on the horse’s reins to halt the cart, as the three centuries’ officers issued a flurry of orders to their men. The orderly ranks dissolved into what at first glance seemed like barely organised chaos, although the two women, long used to the routines of marching camps, watched with experienced eyes as some of the soldiers dug turfs and quickly built a four-foot-high wall around the clustered tents that were being erected by their fellows, while others stood guard with purposeful stares at the landscape around them. Work details were heading away from the camp to fetch water and firewood, the foragers all still fully armed and armoured, and the men working to build the camp all had their spears and shields close to hand in what both women knew was the prescribed routine for camping in hostile territory. Lupus popped up from the place in the cart’s bed where he had been sulking for most of the day, his eyes bright as he watched the legionaries go about their duties to build a defensible camp out of a bare hilltop, one hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. Prefect Castus strolled down the line of carts, his eyes roaming along the line of armoured men set to stand guard on the gold wagons, before coming to a halt alongside the women’s cart.
‘Good evening ladies. I trust that your day’s ride was pleasant, or at least not too unpleasant …’ Finding Annia’s eyes upon him in a cold stare he coughed and turned away, gesturing to the camp with a raised arm. ‘Please don’t be alarmed by the fact that the men are all still in their hard kit, it’s just routine given recent circumstances. Once the tents are raised the wagons in front of you will be driven into the open space that’s been left in the middle, so that we can put three centuries’ worth of spears between them and any unfriendly natives. Just follow them in and we’ll have your equally valuable cargo just as safe as the emperor’s gold, eh?’
Felicia watched as he marched briskly back down the line of wagons, turning to look at Annia.
‘I’d say that the Prefect is one man we ought to be cultivating, wouldn’t you?’
Her heavily pregnant companion snorted, shaking her head in disagreement.
‘It’s thanks to the Prefect that I’ll more than likely be giving birth to this child in a legion fortress while my man is freed to go adventuring without a care in the world.’
Felicia smiled gently, putting a hand on her friend’s arm.
‘You must have seen a fair few babies being born over the years, given that you ran an establishment that catered to the entertainment of men?’ Annia nodded. ‘And tell me, in all those deliveries of helpless little scraps of humanity, when your women were puffing and groaning to push their children out into the world, did you ever see a man add any value to the proceedings?’
The other woman nodded reluctantly, and Felicia reached behind them to rub the boy’s head affectionately.
‘And besides, we have all the male assistance we need right here with us, don’t we, Lupus?’ She turned back to the camp before them, pointing a finger at the first of the gold wagons as it started to roll forward behind the paired horses that were straining to shift its dead weight. ‘Let’s go and take our place in the camp and then work out what we’re going to eat tonight. Perhaps the Prefect will detail us an escort and allow us to pick herbs for a stew?’
‘That was cruel, having to lead the cohort far enough to the west that they could practically smell home, then turning them north at The Rock and thrashing them up the road for another ten miles.’
Dubnus raised a jaundiced eyebrow at his friend, looking around at the roughly finished surroundings of the hastily rebuilt Fort Habitus officers’ mess in which they were sitting.
‘Not as cruel as camping here for the night. Of all the places that we could have pitched up it had to be this one, the place where I told my half century of former legionaries the story that turned them from cowards into men. Now they’re walking round like they own the place, bumping fists and muttering “Habitus” to each other as if they’re some sort of secret society. If they find out that I made up the whole thing about this place being named for a centurion who died in defence of his men then I’ll have some excitement to deal with, that’s for certain. And after all, I only did it as a way to wake up their sense of pride when they were hanging from their chinstraps.’ Dubnus took a deep swig at his beaker, wiping the excess from his moustache. ‘Ah, proper beer. That wine you lot are always sipping is all very well, but it’s not a drink for a man, is it?’
Marcus smiled and raised his wine cup in salute.
‘I thought you might appreciate it, although I don’t think I’ll ever really get a taste for the stuff.’
His friend emptied the beaker, slamming it down onto the table before him exuberantly and grinning happily at his friend.
‘Appreciate it? You have no idea how good that tastes after a year of that sour German muck.’
Marcus stared off into space, his expression wistful.
‘I think you’ll find I can do a fairly good job of imagining just how good it feels. Probably about as good as a cup of my father’s best Falernian would taste to me if I were sipping it in his garden after having spent a couple of hours bathing away dust and the smell of horses.’
‘Yes …’ The big Briton raised his refilled beaker, tapping it to the Roman’s cup. ‘I’m sorry, that was-’
Marcus shook his head.
‘Tactless? Not at all. Why shouldn’t you enjoy being home?’ He raised his cup in return. ‘I’ll drink a toast with you. To home …’ They drank. ‘And we’ll drink it again, on the day that my boots tread the Forum’s flagstones again. And here’s Julius. Pour him a beer, he’ll probably be in need of a drink.’