She turned to see Lupus stretching up to pick a dark-purple berry from an overhanging bush.
‘Leave that, Lupus dear, it’s quite the most poisonous fruit known to man.’ She turned to the soldier. ‘I’ll have a helmet full of those berries though, if you could pick them for me without breaking them please? After every battle there are men whose injuries are too terrible for them to live, and who nevertheless cling on to life for hours or even days of suffering. Even a few drops of the juice of that berry are usually enough to send them on their way without further suffering.’
Tullo sat back and sipped at his beer again, looking with what Marcus took for calculation at the three men facing him.
‘So now you know what we’ve been through perhaps you’ll find it in you to recognise that in our shoes you might be looking just as shagged out and pathetic as we do now.’
Dubnus held out his beaker and tapped brims with the legion centurion.
‘Here’s to you. I don’t reckon our men would have reacted any better if we’d ordered them to sack the villages around our fort on the wall.’
Julius nodded reluctantly, and Tullo leaned forward again, slipping a wooden tablet out of his tunic and putting it on the table next to his beaker. When he spoke, his words were pitched so low that the Tungrians had to strain to hear them.
‘The rumours have it that you’re marching north to get our eagle back.’
He sat in silence, staring intently at Julius and waiting for the first spear to reply. After a long pause the burly centurion sat forward and narrowed his eyes in question.
‘That’s supposed to be a secret. Who the fuck told you?’
Tullo smiled tightly back at him.
‘My first spear. And don’t worry, I know how to keep my mouth shut.’ He pointed to the tablet with a meaningful expression. ‘As it happens I’d say he had good reason for letting me in on that little secret, since he knows what’s written in here.’
The first spear’s face set in sceptical lines and he shook his head.
‘I’ll be the judge of that, if it’s all the same to you.’
Tullo shrugged, picking up the tablet.
‘Suit yourself. Hear me out for just a little longer and then tell me to “fuck off and die quietly” if you like.’ He leaned close again. ‘It wasn’t just me that joined up, all those years ago. My brother Harus came to present himself to the recruiting centurion alongside me, two years younger than me and about twice as good at soldiering as ever I managed. He could’ve done the job of centurion without breaking a sweat, and I reckon he’d have made a bloody good cohort first spear, perhaps even got the big man’s job at the head of the legion’s first century with a little bit of luck. But all of that command stuff wasn’t for him …’ He paused for a moment and looked up at the roof, shaking his head with a smile. ‘No, all Harus ever wanted to be was the man carrying the emperor’s eagle round, the daft sod, and bugger me if he didn’t manage to get himself the job not soon after I made centurion. He was the senior officers’ golden boy you see, as honest as the day is long, deadly with a sword, the sort of strong-jawed man they take out into the villages to impress the young lads on recruiting tours, and did he love that eagle? He must have spent an hour a day polishing the bastard, and I swear he used to take it to the latrine with him to make sure nobody got the chance to put their dirty fingerprints on it.’
‘This is all very touching, but I’m starting to lose the will to live here. What’s your point?’
Tullo raised an eyebrow at the frowning first spear.
‘See this?’ He pointed to a dark stain in the tablet’s wooden casing. ‘It’s his blood. He stopped an arrow in the throat at the battle of the Lost Eagle and choked to death. I found him later that afternoon, after we’d pulled your knackers out of the fire …’ His smile hardened momentarily as he leaned across the table. ‘Oh yes, I remember that all right, how you lot had been left to fight the barbarians to the death, and how that crusty old cavalry tribune Licinius led what was left of the Sixth down that forest path to save your arses. Anyway, I knew where to go and look for him, right in the middle of the circles of dead legionaries that were all that was left of the six cohorts that Legatus Sollemnis led into that ambush. There was a sword hidden beneath his body, with a beautifully made pommel that looked just like an eagle’s head. A lot like that one, as it happens …’
He pointed at the swords resting against the wall where Marcus had left them.
‘When I saw you unfastening them earlier I wondered if that weapon looked familiar, and now I see it up close it’s clearly the same sword. And why, I wonder, does a centurion end up wearing a sword that I was told had probably belonged to Legatus Sollemnis, hidden under Harus’s body to keep it from the barbarians? None of my business, I suppose …’
‘Bloody right it’s not.’
He ignored Julius and continued.
‘So why did I go and find my brother, when there were barbarians to be taking revenge upon? Partly to be sure that he was dead, and that he’d not been taken captive by the bluenoses, and partly to see what I could salvage from his body to remember him by. The blue-nosed bastards hadn’t had the time to strip him clean, else you wouldn’t be wearing that pretty sword, Centurion, but they had taken his bearskin which was the only thing he was carrying that wasn’t standard legion issue. And they left this …’ He raised the tablet again. ‘None of them could read, I suppose. And even if they could, who could ever make sense of it?’
He opened the slim wooden box, presenting the Tungrian officers with the wax writing surface. Dubnus peered at the tightly packed words, struggling to make sense of them.
‘Not me. It’s impossible to read.’
Tullo smiled at him, tapping his nose.
‘Not if you know what you’re looking at. Allow me to explain …’
‘I’m done for the day. Come back tomorrow.’
The stone mason turned away from the two soldiers, closing the door to his workshop and fishing in his purse for the key with which to lock it firmly shut. Sanga and Saratos exchanged glances, the former reaching into his own purse to fish out an impressive handful of coins. Jingling them noisily he shrugged, speaking loudly as he turned away.
‘Come on then, Saratos, let’s go and find a mason who’s bright enough not to turn away customers who want to pay extra for excellent fast work. We’ll just take all this silver to a man who doesn’t turn good money away …’
The mason shot out an arm and grabbed the soldier’s sleeve, quickly releasing the hold when he saw the look on Sanga’s face.
‘Not so hasty, sir, I only meant to say that my normal business hours are at an end. For customers such as your good selves I’m always available to discuss commissions for fine stonework. Statues, gravestones-’
‘An altar. A nice big one with a carving of a soldier.’
The mason smiled broadly.
‘Altars are my speciality, gentlemen. What wording were you thinking of having inscribed onto the stone?’
Sanga nodded to Saratos, who passed over a tablet in which Morban had painstakingly written out the words that Sanga and his tent mates had agreed.
‘For the ghost gods …’
The mason beamed at the two men.
‘A nice traditional start, if I might say so, gentlemen. So many men seem to omit it these days just to save money, and I’ve always thought it’s a false economy not to give the appropriate reverence to the shades of the departed. I …’
He saw a look of impatience creeping onto Sanga’s face and returned his attention to the tablet.
‘… dedicated to the memory of the soldier Scarface …’
He looked up at Sanga with a look of confusion.
‘Did he not have a proper name?’
Saratos snorted.
‘Yes, have proper name, but he call Scarface by men he fight and die with. So Scarface is he name for altar.’