‘Yes, I thought the number would be something like that. I was a tribune with II Adiutrix and the older officers talked of the shock caused when they had to discharge all the men enlisted when it was formed by Nero.’
Turbo almost sighed, and instead made a sign to ward off the evil eye, holding his hand under his desk so that no one else could see. It seemed unlucky to mention a second damned emperor in as many minutes.
Hadrian could not have seen, and yet he glanced at the centurion and gave a brief smile before he continued. ‘Meant we lost a lot of experience in a very short time, although things were pretty much back to normal by the time I was posted to them. So someone realised that Minervia had more than its fair share of veterani, far more than could be attached to cohors I, so decided to send the poor devils off as garrisons? Wonder how your brother and the rest feel about that?’
‘They’re soldiers, under discipline, and will do their duty.’ Turbo’s tone was almost defiant, for he was not about to see one of his men tricked into indiscretion by some aristocrat.
‘Pia fidelis, sir,’ Celer added, shoulders stiffening back to attention.
‘Of course.’ Hadrian’s smile was open, apparently without malice, but unable to conceal the conceit of a man who knew himself to be smarter than others. ‘Pius’ and ‘faithful’, he thought to himself. The titles had been awarded to the legion by Domitian, because they quickly abandoned a provincial legate who had rebelled against him. They were also named Domitiana, but had quietly forgotten that after his fall and it would be impolite to mention it now.
‘Of course,’ he said again. ‘I did not mean to imply anything less. Legio I Minervia will always do its duty and more, I know that. That’s why I am so proud to become its legatus. It is just…’ He gave an earthy laugh. ‘Well all the best legionaries I have ever known have bitched like mad. Moan, moan, all the time, and then they fight like heroes and endure more than Hercules.’
Celer smiled, until Turbo glared at him. The praetor was speaking the truth, but that did not mean they had to admit it.
Hadrian stood up. ‘To be frank, I have always felt that with senators in charge, our lads have plenty to bitch about!’
Celer’s face was rigid, although his eyes were sparkling, and Turbo struggled to keep his own features as blank. With well-mannered apologies for disturbing them both, and thanks for their assistance, the praetor left. Both sentiments insincere and unconvincing when combined with the immense self-assurance of an aristocrat, but then what else were manners for save to conceal otherwise unpalatable truths. Turbo was glad to see the man gone. He did not believe that he had compromised himself in any way or done anything improper. Still, he dictated an account of the meeting to a clerk and had it copied and filed just in case.
III
A BLIND MAN could have followed the tracks left by the horses, not that it mattered. The fugitives were well mounted, had two spare horses, and far too much of a lead. A month or so earlier, when the snow was deeper, they might not have made it up the valley to the pass at all, but Ferox reckoned that they would get there during the night if they pressed hard or at the latest tomorrow morning.
The pursuers did their best for two hours and did not see the quarry once, only the hoof prints in the snow. There was also a spear, point driven into the hard ground so that it stood upright, and surely a sign rather than an accident, but it was not one that Ferox had ever seen before.
He was disappointed by the cavalrymen provided by the garrison, or strictly speaking by their mounts, although that was really the riders’ responsibility. It was always hard to keep horses in condition during the winter, when they had to spend so many hours in their boxes and the chances to exercise were so few. Yet even allowing for that, these were in poor shape. Several looked old, almost as old as their elderly riders, and it was obvious that no one had ridden far or often even in the last few weeks when the paths were slowly becoming easier. There was a flabbiness about men and animals, infecting spirit as well as body. Not that it mattered, because he had known that the pursuit was hopeless from the start, but it was a bad sign. Even on the tour of the fort he had sensed so much that was wrong with the garrison. This was an odd place, the men stationed here bored, angry and frustrated, and none of that would help him in his task.
Ferox turned back before night started to fall, and at least the men rode with far more enthusiasm and even a little more speed on the way back to Piroboridava. The horses knew their way, knew they were going back to warmth and food and it was an effort to keep them together in a group when all were itching to race.
The Brigantes had escaped. No doubt they had heard that Decebalus was ignoring the treaty and once again welcoming army deserters into his own army, giving them rich rewards and promotion. If they played it well, then in a few months each of the fugitives could have rank, a farmstead and a pretty grey-eyed wife. That might be enough for contentment, and was better than the punishment awaiting them if ever the army caught up. Yet there was still the oath, pressing around each man’s soul. Ferox was relieved not to have to kill any more Brigantes today. Let them run, and hope never to see them again.
‘They’ll be back,’ Vindex said, breaking a silence that was unusual for him. The fort was in sight, a dark shape against the glow of the snow. ‘You know Ivonercus.’
Ferox grunted in reply, sure that his friend was right, but not wanting to talk about it. He had enough on his mind without thinking about the future. So much seemed wrong, which just meant that he was not looking at everything in the right way. There was design behind all of this, and he had to hope that he could see the truth before what he did not understand killed all of them.
Latinius Macer sighed, and only in part because he found Ferox irritating. As the current commander of the garrison, he had naturally invited the centurion to dine with him, and given the shocking events earlier in the day, a conference was all the more important.
Macer had a tidy mind, decades of experience in the army with its regulations and routine, and this was neither tidy nor very military. Instead it had the makings of a scandal, perhaps even a disaster, all caused by a succession of foolish decisions. Those choices were not his, and by the time the worst happened he should be far from this place, but the crassness of it all offended him. He was too old to expect fairness from the world any more than sense from the army, so the risk that his name would become associated with it all simply because he had handed over the command was just how the world worked. Still, he would make sure that he had done all that he could.
‘So, please help me to understand,’ he said, trying again. ‘Your own men want to kill you?’
‘Some of them.’
Macer had planned to leave Piroboridava as soon as his successor arrived, and was wondering whether or not he could still do this in the circumstances. If his health had been better he might have jumped at the excuse to stay on. Forty-three years in the army was a long, long time, and he wondered about life as a civilian.