‘You haven’t stretched them enough today?’ the optio asked with a smile. They had covered twenty miles since dawn, over steep roads from Longovicium.
‘That was only a stroll,’ Castus said.
Passing between the lounging sentries at the gate of the military compound, he walked out into the muddy central street of the civilian settlement. Dogs ran in the gutters, and light spilled from the open doors of the taverns. Grubby children begged for copper coins in the portico of the market building. It was starting to rain again.
Coria had once been a proper fort, but the ramparts had been torn down years ago and now it was a trading settlement and supply town for the Wall garrison. Beyond the military enclosure with its armouries and storehouses the town straggled along the road in both directions, the home of provisions merchants, craftsmen and prostitutes. Not a cultured or genteel place, but Castus liked the look of it well enough. He paced slowly along the street wrapped in his cape, only his swagger and his army boots marking him out as a soldier. He should check on his men, he thought to himself; there were off-duty cavalry troopers from the Wall forts in town, and plenty of potential for trouble.
By the time he reached the limit of the settlement it was fully dark, and the rain was thin and steady. He turned and looked back along the street. The massive grain warehouses by the market rose up black against the dull glow of the town. He was getting wet, and felt the first waves of fatigue in his blood. Back up the street towards the compound, he passed a group of his own men gathered in the lighted door of a tavern – Atrectus and Genialis laughing as they tipped back their cups, Culchianus playing dice with a group of cavalry troopers just inside – but he kept to the shadows and they did not notice him.
He was almost back at the compound gate when he saw the hooded figure on the far side of the street. There was nothing immediately significant about him – just another local tradesman in a waterproof cape, hurrying home – and Castus might have ignored the man, but there was something familiar about his build and the way he walked. A moment, and he recognised him: it was Strabo. Without thinking, Castus had stepped back into the deeper darkness under the buttresses of the grain warehouse. Where was the secretary going? His quarters had baths, a dining room, and there were slaves to run errands. There was no reason at all for Strabo to venture out into the town alone in the rain. Did he have some strange desire to go drinking with the soldiers, perhaps? Castus considered that he might be on his way to a brothel, but doubted that the dapper secretary would relish an encounter with the sort of hardbitten ladies available in a frontier town like Coria.
Already he was moving, tracing his way along the side of the street. The idea of following Strabo, skulking about after him like an informer, was repugnant; what the man did in his own time was his own business. But Castus had his duty to his own men to consider: if the secretary was doing something suspicious then he had to know, or the thought of it would eat away at him, and in time the men would notice his unease.
He shrank back into the timber portico of a tavern as the secretary crossed the street ahead of him. When he stepped out again the man was gone, but Castus saw the narrow opening of an alleyway. He paced quickly along the wall and peered around the corner. A stink of stale urine met him: the patrons of the tavern had been using the alley as a latrine. But there was the figure of Strabo, briefly visible where the alley widened at the far end.
Treading carefully, steadying himself against a crumbling wall, Castus moved along the alleyway. He had left his sword and staff in the barracks, and the only weapon he carried was a small knife in his belt; in street fights he preferred to trust his fists and physical bulk, but he doubted that Strabo was leading him into that kind of trouble.
He slowed as he reached the end of the alleyway. It opened into a wide courtyard, greasy with slops and ringed with low wooden buildings. At the far side, he could make out the figure of the secretary waiting at a door. A moment passed, and then the door opened: a brief gleam of lamplight as Strabo stepped inside, and then the door closed again behind him.
Castus leaned back against the mossy bricks. If the place was a brothel, it was a very unusual one. Perhaps the sort of establishment that catered for strange tastes? He had heard of such places, in Antioch and even in some of the western cities. But surely not in a rough frontier settlement like Coria? He belched quietly, tasting pea soup.
Crossing the muddy yard in six long strides, he stood before the door. There was no sound from inside, and he gave the planks a careful shove. Bolted, it seemed. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw two symbols scratched into the wood of the doorframe: something that looked like a ship, and below it an X with a line through it, like a solar wheel. He stood breathing quietly, one hand on the door. Strabo might easily spend hours in there, and Castus did not care for the idea of loitering outside in the rain. He could barge the door down and demand to know what was going on, but that would involve crossing a dangerous line. So far, he had just been strolling in the public street. No, he thought, there was no more he could do, and he was feeling very weary now.
He pushed himself away from the door, negotiated the stinking alleyway and headed back towards the military compound, thinking only of the pleasures of sleep.
By the time he found Marcellinus it was the following afternoon. From the door of the storehouse, where Evagrius was arguing with the commissary about a consignment of hardtack, Castus spotted the envoy leaving the depot commander’s residence. Abandoning the standard-bearer to his negotiations, he crossed the gravelled courtyard.
‘Centurion,’ Marcellinus said as Castus dropped into step beside him. Together they walked away from the storehouse into the open ground before the depot gates. Now that he had located the envoy, Castus found it hard to phrase what he meant to ask. Even to admit his suspicions seemed dishonourable, somehow unmanly: he would have felt more comfortable confronting Strabo directly. This kind of subterfuge felt alien to him, but his duty was to the security of the mission. He was just about to speak when Marcellinus cut him off.
‘Are your men prepared to resume the march tomorrow?’
Castus gave a curt nod. Clearly the envoy had other things on his mind.
‘Good. We’ll be crossing the Wall then. First time beyond the frontier for most of them, eh?’
‘There’s a matter I need to discuss with you, dominus.’
Marcellinus paused, laid a hand on Castus’s shoulder and steered him towards the gate of the compound. ‘Very well, we’ll cut the idle chat,’ he said, and something in his tone told Castus that the man had merely been stalling – he knew very well what the question would be.
‘What you make of the secretary, Strabo?’
Marcellinus’s hand tightened on his shoulder, then dropped. ‘I’ve been studying him these last few days,’ the envoy said quietly. ‘But I’m not convinced by what he says. What are your impressions of him?’
‘Not much. He keeps himself to himself.’ Then again, Castus thought, so do you. He did not wish to mention his brief espionage the night before, at least not unless he had to.
‘He’s strange, don’t you think?’ Marcellinus went on in a musing tone. ‘Why was such a man sent on an assignment like this? He’s not a native and he’s only been in the province for a short time.’
Castus was not fooled. The envoy clearly knew more than he pretended, but he wanted to probe for a response without giving away his own position. Castus remained silent. Marcellinus waited a moment more, before turning suddenly, drawing himself up and tipping his head back.
‘Centurion, I’m glad you came to me with your concerns. I wasn’t sure, I confess, whether you knew about our friend Strabo or not… whether you were, shall we say… one of his familiars…’