Sergius nodded to Julius’s request, and before resuming the conversation he sent one of his colleagues to deal with the matter of getting the Tungrian cohorts inside the city’s walls. The two civilians were keeping themselves to themselves in one corner of the entrance hall. The taller of the two, well built and with a haughty look about him, was talking intently with his colleague, a leaner man with a look of sharp intelligence.
‘Our boy’s got a bit of a temper, I’m afraid.’
Sergius’s knowing smile betrayed his feelings on the subject, and Julius found himself warming to the legion officer.
‘Ours too, but we hardly ever see it.’
Sergius chuckled quietly, his voice low to avoid it being carried in the lobby’s quiet to the men at the door.
‘Which makes you pay attention when he displays it, eh? Whereas we’re all worn down by Tribune Belletor’s incessant rages, to the point where he’s become something of an amusement to the cohort.’
Julius frowned.
‘So what’s he doing here?’
‘Can’t you guess? Tribune Belletor’s daddy is very well connected, and very rich. That’s how his lad got a legion tribunate, and that’s why our legatus has to tolerate him, if he knows what’s good for him. The orders to send a cohort down here provided the big man with the perfect excuse to get a bit of peace and quiet.’
Julius’s face took on a pained expression.
‘But the Seventh Cohort? Surely this isn’t a job for raw troops?’
‘I couldn’t agree more, but you wouldn’t find the legatus signing up to that point of view. First Minervia’s still under strength, what with all the men that died of the plague and the lack of young lads to replace them, given the number of civilians that died at the same time. We’ve already had to send three cohorts off to reinforce the army in Britannia after some idiot managed to lose the best part of a legion…’ The look on Julius’s face stopped him in mid-flow. ‘What?’
‘We were there, First Spear. And it wasn’t pretty.’
Sergius shrugged.
‘It never is. I was a green centurion when the last war with the Chauci started, and it took a lot less than a year for me to go from being desperate to get into the fight to being happy if I never saw another dead barbarian, as long as I didn’t have to watch any more of my men die. Anyway, three cohorts to Britannia, another two sent to the coast to help the “scribblers” keep our boot on the Chauci’s throat…’
‘Scribblers?’
‘The Thirtieth Legion, Ulpia Victorious. Our sister legion in this province. When the call goes out for men to help with manual work it usually gets directed our way, whereas they seem to get all the reading and writing work. If the governor’s office needs twenty clerks to sit around scratching their arses they get the job, and if there’s a forest that needs cutting down they call for us. They call us “grunts”, and we call them “scribblers”, and it’s been that way for as long as I’ve served. So, we’re five cohorts down before we consider upkeep on the fortress, men on leave and the usual long list of malingerers, which means that a cohort was all our legatus could spare. Even with that small a loss of manpower the legion will be deep in the shit if the hairy boys that live on the other side of the Rhenus decide to come across in any numbers. So he sent us, as fine a collection of half-trained soldiery as ever hid behind a shield, and he was probably happy to see the back of us. And Tribune Belletor.’
Julius conceded the point.
‘Understandable. But surely five hundred of you ought to be able to scare the bandits back into their holes?’
Sergius glanced at his brother officers, a wry smile lighting up his face.
‘And that’s exactly what we thought when we got here six weeks ago. Send a couple of centuries out to garrison the roads and they’ll soon enough wind their necks in, but…’
The doors to the chamber opened and Scaurus pushed his way through the curtain.
‘Right, gentlemen, let’s go and get our soldiers bedded down for the night.’ Pausing to fasten his cloak about him before stepping back into the cold air, he spoke to the civilians in passing. ‘My apologies, gentlemen, for rushing off so quickly, but it seems the available barracks are all full of the legion’s men, and so I must find a spot inside your walls to pitch my cohorts’ tents. I’ll be back here early tomorrow morning though, and then we can discuss how to start dealing with the thieves that have made life so awkward for you these past few months. That and what I’ll need from you to feed and shelter fourteen hundred fighting men.’
‘How long can we keep the men in these conditions? In this weather?’ First Spear Frontinius pulled a thoughtful face. ‘Days. A week at best. The tents have taken a bit of a beating already, and with this much moisture in the air they’ll start falling to pieces sooner rather than later. We need to get the men into proper barracks, stone built for preference, but wood will do if there’s nothing better. Perhaps the legion will help us? After all, aren’t First Minervia supposed to be good at that sort of thing? Their tribune may not be cut from the finest cloth, but the officers sound experienced enough, from what Julius told me earlier.’
Scaurus took a sip of his wine before answering his first spear’s musing. He made a point of consulting the older man most nights, having found him a source of sound advice in the months since taking command of the Tungrians. His thin face was set in contemplative lines.
‘Perhaps they will help us, but I won’t be pinning my hopes on it. As for the officers, this Tribune Belletor is an idiot, pure and simple, the sort of man that gives the aristocracy a bad name. His centurions seem a decent enough lot, but I don’t see much fire in their guts. They’ve seen battle, but not any time recently. I don’t know about you, but I’ve found that combat experience has a tendency to make or break the man. It can make him stronger, and bring his best points to the fore, or it can just as easily blunt his edge. The First Minervia hasn’t seen a decent fight in ten years now, and that’s a long time for a man to brood on the things he’s seen and done. I think I’d be a bit happier if Tribune Belletor was commanding a few centurions with less friendliness but more recent scars, if you know what I mean. Anyway, it is what it is, so we’d better make the best of it. At least the governor managed to send us to a place where the name Aquila isn’t on every man’s lips. With a little luck it’ll have thrown any more imperial agents off the scent for the time being, and we can forget about that particular risk.’
The first spear raised his cup.
‘I’ll drink to that. As, I’d imagine, would Centurion Corvus.’
Scaurus drank, and then sat back in his chair, stretching wearily in the light of a pair of oil lamps.
‘Speaking of Corvus, did the doctor manage to keep alive those bandits we captured?’
‘She managed to keep some of them breathing, four at the last count. Another two died from their wounds on the way here.’
The tribune’s gloomy expression lightened a little.
‘Good. That’ll give me something to lighten the mood when I upset the municipal authorities in the morning.’
‘This is simply outrageous, Tribune Scaurus! You have absolutely no right to commandeer private property in this way! I shall be writing to the governor about this, and when I’ve finished he won’t be in any doubt as to the sort of officer with which the authorities in Britannia have saddled Tungrorum. You are rapacious, unprincipled, and no better than the bandits who are bleeding us dry from outside our walls. At least we can keep them out! This city is only just getting off its knees after the plague killed a third of its inhabitants, we’re still not taking enough in tax to satisfy the empire’s requirements of my office, and now you march up demanding that a civilian population of seven thousand people should feed nearly two thousand soldiers. All of whom seem to eat like gladiators, if I’m to judge from this supply requirement of yours! No! I simply cannot agree to these demands!’