As they watched, huddling into their cloaks for warmth, the indistinct shape gradually coalesced out of the fog and hardened into the predatory lines of a warship being propelled slowly across the harbour’s dark-green water by slow, careful strokes of its banked oars.
‘That will be what we’ve been waiting for, I presume?’
Sorex nodded in reply to the older man’s question.
‘I expect so. That, and the First Tungrian Cohort, or so the despatch said, with the Second Cohort to follow in a few days’ time. Bloody auxiliaries …’
The prefect’s smile became wry, and he turned to raise an eyebrow at his superior, a man a good twenty years younger than him and no more than a year into his military career.
‘I’d be careful not to take that tone with their commanding officer if I were you, Tribune. As I recall the man, he’s not the type to receive a slur of any nature without turning it around and ramming it straight back down your throat. He always was a headstrong type even in the days when he was little more than a boy in a man’s tunic, and he’s gained more than enough experience of battle since then to have worn his patience with less experienced men as thin as my third best pair of boots.’
Sorex pouted, not deigning to make any response as the crew shipped their oars neatly and allowed the vessel to coast gently up to the dock under the helmsman’s skilled control. Fully resolved out of the fog’s murk, the ship was revealed as a swift and deadly engine of maritime destruction, with bolt throwers mounted fore and aft and a crew of thirty marines standing to attention on the main deck. Men leapt smartly down onto the dock’s wooden planks and swiftly moored their vessel against the quay before reaching to grasp the gangplank being thrust out from the ship’s side. The captain was the first man down the narrow bridge, a hard-faced bearded man who threw Sorex a perfunctory salute and nodded to Castus as he waved a hand back at the docked warship.
‘Yes, Tribune Sorex, your cargo’s safe. There’s an imperial official who’s not taken his eyes off the chests all the way across from Germania, Procurator Avus, as dry and humourless a functionary as it’s ever been my misfortune to welcome aboard the Mercurius. The bloody fool even insisted on sleeping on the deck beside them, despite the fact that I had half a dozen of my marines standing guard on them at all times.’ He turned back to the ship and barked an order at his second in command. ‘Get those chests brought on deck and ready to unload, and make sure the marines stay with ’em to keep the soldiers at arm’s length until they’re off the ship and properly signed over to the army! Those thieving fuckers could be up one of Vesta’s virgins without the bitch knowing that she was no longer in possession of her cherry until the bulge started to show.’
A party of men was making their way down the plank behind him, led by a tall, angular man clad in the sculpted bronze armour of a senior officer, and Prefect Castus stepped forward to meet him as his feet touched the quayside, his hand thrust out in greeting.
‘Rutilius Scaurus! Few sights could give me more pleasure than to see you returning to this revolting excuse for a province!’
The newcomer stared down at him for a moment before a smile of recognition creased his face. Taking the older man’s hand he nodded slowly.
‘Artorius Castus! I’ve not seen you for the best part of ten years, when you were first spear of Twelfth Thunderbolt and I was a fresh-faced junior tribune, good for nothing more than running messages and annoying the senior centurions with my enthusiasm and ignorance. I thought you would long since have retired to enjoy the fruits of your service.’
Castus grinned back at him fondly.
‘Retirement’s not for me, young man. They made me Provost of the fleet at Misenum as a reward for long service, but you know as well as I do that all the Rome fleet’s sailors really do is stage mock sea battles in the Flavian arena and raise the awnings over the audience when the sun gets too hot to bear. That’s no life for a soldier, now is it?’ Scaurus shot him a knowing glance. ‘So, I used what little influence I had to get appointed as Sixth Victorius’s camp prefect, and here I am up to my arse in unfriendly natives once again. But I’m forgetting my manners …’
He waved a hand at his companion who was waiting with a look of barely restrained impatience.
‘This is my current commanding officer, Tribune Gnaeus Fulvius Sorex. Fulvius Sorex, allow me to introduce Tribune Gaius Rutilius Scaurus, the officer commanding the First and Second Tungrian cohorts.’
Scaurus turned to the legion tribune and bowed formally, although his expression was wary as he looked the other man up and down.
‘Tribune Sorex, I must confess myself slightly confused. When we left the province the Sixth Legion was under the command of Legatus Equitius, and the tribal rebellion was well on the way to being contained. Perhaps you could-’
Castus raised a hand to forestall any further discussion.
‘Indeed, we could elucidate on what has happened since then, but not here. Perhaps we might repair to the transit barracks for a more private discussion?’
He peered past Scaurus at the five men behind him, and the tribune turned and raised a hand to invite them forward.
‘My apologies, I was distracted by being greeted off the ship by a colleague of such distinction. Allow me to introduce the First Tungrian Cohort’s first spear, Julius, and my aide, Centurion Corvus. Julius is my intended temporary replacement in the event of any mishap, and Corvus would in turn step up into his boots as senior centurion should the need arise, which is why I tend to take them everywhere and make sure that they know everything I know. As to the others, this is Centurion Dubnus, the long-haired gentleman is my slave and bodyguard, Arminius, and the centurion bowing the gangplank under his weight is Titus, the commander of my pioneer century.’ He turned back to the mist-covered waters. ‘And since I’m guessing it will take several hours for my command to straggle into port, I’ll leave the last three here to make sure that our men are handled appropriately when they stagger off the transports. As you suggest, let us decamp to somewhere both private and a little warmer?’
Turning away from the dockside he shot a hard glance at the German, raising an eyebrow and staring significantly at the heavy chests that were being craned over the warship’s side with ostentatious care by the crew. As each one touched the quayside a party of six heavily built men attached thick ropes to its carrying rings and hauled it over to where another half-dozen marines were guarding those that had gone before it, their demeanour that of men who knew how painful life could get were they to fail in their duty, and all conducted under the watchful eye of the close-lipped official who had accompanied them across the ocean. The camp prefect led them across the dock and into the fortress that loomed over it, walking swiftly to a transit barrack from whose chimneys lines of grey smoke were rising. Once they had taken off their cloaks and gone through the usual ritual of warming their hands at the glowing stove while the camp prefect thrust another log into its cherry-red belly and bid them to take their seats, Scaurus addressed the subject that had been raised at the quayside with the same note of concern in his voice.
‘So tell me, gentlemen, now that we have our privacy, is your news bad? Legatus Equitius was both a colleague and a friend to all three of us, and a good man besides.’
Prefect Castus looked to his colleague, who merely shook his head and beckoned him to continue with the tale.
‘You’re wondering if the legatus has been killed? It’s nothing that simple …’ He took a seat before continuing, gesturing to the other men to make themselves comfortable. ‘This will take some telling. You’ve been away in Germania for what, a year or so?’