Rufius, having taken pains to convince Marcus to remain silent, no matter what the provocation, had the luxury of time in which to draw out a carefully calculated silence of his own before responding.
‘Prefect Equitius, this man is a trained praetorian centurion. He and I fought together on the road outside Yew Grove, when tribesmen surprised our party, and I saw no lack of courage in his eyes on that day. He also wounded an armed horseman in mounted combat during his escape from an ambush outside Yew Grove. He also marched from Yew Grove to this fort in nine days, thirty miles a day. Yes, he is tired, dirty and footsore, but he has courage and determination that you and I should be grateful to call our own. With the right guidance he…’
The prefect’s calm voice trampled over his sentence, used to being heard with deference under most circumstances.
‘Guidance? And that would be imparted by whom, in your opinion? I’ve got a civil war brewing to both north and south of my sector of the Wall and only four of my centurions with recent combat experience. I’ve got problems enough without having to nursemaid an untrained officer. Besides, my First Spear would laugh in my face — just as you would in his place.’
Rufius shifted his position slightly, weighing his last weapon of persuasion before throwing it.
‘Your chosen man Dubnus seems to think reasonably well of him…’
Equitius’s eyes narrowed at the name. He stood and walked around the desk, stopping in front of Rufius to speak softly into the retired officer’s right ear.
‘Dubnus? Now you do trouble me. What part does our very own Brigantian warrior prince play in this tale?’
Rufius thought quickly, praying that Marcus would remain silent.
‘Dubnus and his tent party intervened to save our lives when the barbarians attacked us on the road. Then he chanced upon me and the young man as we were being hunted through a murky dawn, by killers hired by the imperial appointee at Yew Grove. Only his impressive skills in combat saved us both from swift and ignominious death at the hands of those heartless mercenaries…’
‘I was coming to that. And you can keep the fancy language for the next time you want to overcharge Annius for a consignment of fish pickle. As I’ve received the news, a decurion of cavalry from the Second Asturian Horse at Cauldron Pool and two of his men, part of a detachment serving with the Sixth on attachment, were ambushed by this man and his cronies. Murdered before they had time to arm themselves. All three of them were left dead at the roadside, apparently, and to add insult to injury two of their horses were butchered for their meat. You’re telling me that Dubnus was a part of that?’
Rufius allowed himself to bridle slightly.
‘That he defended our lives at the risk of his own, taking us for innocent travellers beset by robbers, yes. That he attacked defenceless cavalrymen, no. These men were without uniform or insignia, and attacked us without hesitation. Your excellent chosen man saved both of our lives.’
Equitius stared hard at the retired officer, his face set hard.
‘The decurion, in the reports I received, showed signs of torture. A small blade had been used to inflict severe pain upon him as he lay trapped and dying underneath his dead horse. The Asturians have sworn bloody revenge on their altar to Mars. You wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose?’
Rufius shrugged, his face remaining impassive.
‘More robbers would be my guess, Prefect. Desperate to have the decurion’s money perhaps? He made the mistake of abandoning his uniform and, since he looked like any other traveller, he paid a severe price.’
The other man turned away, his face shadowed by disbelief.
‘Hmmm. And Dubnus brought him here.’
‘Only as the result of a request from Legatus Sollemnis, passed on by me. I work for him in a minor capacity…’
The prefect spun back to face Rufius, speaking into his ear so quietly that Marcus could barely pick out the angry tone of his voice.
‘I know the capacity in which you work, Tiberius Rufius, assessing the Wall units’ readiness and reporting on the situation beyond the frontier to Northern Command. Don’t assume that everyone this side of the Wall is simple minded enough to mistake you for a trader. You should beware your secret reaching the wrong ears on the far side.’
He paced away to stare out of the room’s open window, his hair ruffled by the fresh breeze.
‘Very well, I’ll accept your version of these unfortunate events, despite the fact I don’t trust a single word. I’ll also try to accept Gaius Calidius Sollemnis’s request of me, since I do trust his judgement, and since I still owe him a very substantial debt of gratitude. As for the money he sent you to offer… I’ll use that to buy my men some decent equipment, if those incompetents over at Noisy Valley still have anything worth bribing out of their stores. Quite how I am to discharge this responsibility is at the moment, however, beyond me…’
He sat down behind his desk, surrendering to thought, idly pulling at his beard again. Rufius craned his head around, giving Marcus another warning stare of instruction to remain silent. At length the prefect spoke again, his sharp eyes boring into Marcus’s.
‘I presume that you are an educated young man?’
‘Yes, Prefect.’
‘And I presume that you speak little or none of the local language?’
‘Very little, Prefect.’
‘What weapons training have you received?’
‘Ten years’ training with the sword and general skill at arms, six years’ horsemanship, and seven months’ as a praetorian centurion, Prefect.’
The officer got out of his chair again and walked round the desk to look yet more closely into Marcus’s eyes.
‘Young man, while I respect the Guard’s renowned abilities on the battlefield, I’m not stupid enough to suppose that you actually learnt any of the art of modern warfare during your time in their ranks. I hear that it is the practice these days for a certain number of the sons of the aristocracy to be bought positions as praetorian officers each year. I hear that they serve with the Guard for a period, usually in ceremonial roles, and are shepherded at all times by experienced subordinates. Shepherded, young man, to ensure that they do nothing to degrade their unit’s fighting capabilities.’
Marcus winced inwardly at the memory of his clashes with his former chosen man Apicius, who he had often accused of being too harsh a disciplinarian.
‘In return they earn the right to enter the army as senior centurions, usually over the heads of men with much greater experience and ability, and can then return to Rome after a short period of service. Lucrative positions are open to such men, in the urban vigiles or even as praetorian tribunes. Often, it is said, such young men do more harm than good in their first years of command, and keep more capable men out of the positions they have earned by their efforts and successes.
‘To be blunt, Marcus Tribulus Corvus — and trust me, I really don’t want to know your true name — you have been trained to perform the tasks of a ceremonial officer. You know how to ensure that your men look smart on parade; you know the etiquette to be observed on palace duty. Doubtless you know how to address the emperor’s favourite mistress should you chance upon her being serviced by a gladiator during your rounds of the palace. I doubt very much, however, that you have the first idea as to the requirements of an officer on active service. Hmm?’
To Rufius’s relief, Marcus kept his eyes firmly fixed on the wall in front of him, and said nothing.
‘Do you really want to make the attempt to gain a centurion’s rank in this unit? Do you want it badly enough to accept any terms I place upon allowing you to convince my First Spear to accept your candidature?’
Marcus hesitated for a moment, sought Rufius’s eye and, receiving a nod from his friend, took a breath before speaking.
‘Prefect, my family is destroyed, my honour stolen, and I am declared traitor. This is my last chance to save myself and be of service to Rome. If I fail to convince you to let me have this chance, I will have little option except that of suicide.’