‘I hope that these meet with your approval, centurions, and solve the problem. You’ll understand that errors sometimes occur, but that’s soon amended. I’ll have to discipline that blasted clerk, issuing such shoddy gear to an officer.’
He reached a hand out to take the bundle of rejected kit, only to find Marcus’s hand there first, closing over his podgy fingers in a firm grip. Rufius leant on the counter, resting his chin on a bunched fist, a half-smile playing on his lips, his eyes boring into Annius’s. Behind them, Antenoch lounged against the wall, pointedly studying his fingernails for dirt, while Dubnus prowled around the room, casting dark glances at the stores officer. The younger man spoke again, his voice quiet and yet shot through with steel.
‘If only it were that simple. You see, when I discovered the poor quality of my own equipment issue, I was prompted to check on the welfare of my men. You’ll be as surprised as I was to learn that I found many of them apparently undernourished. Their food is both insufficient and of a disgusting quality, and has been so, I’m told, since Soldier Trajan was appointed temporary centurion several months ago. Interestingly, when my chosen man offered to take Trajan out over the Wall for a short patrol into the forest last evening, he insisted that this purse of gold be a contribution to the century’s funeral club.’
He released the other man’s hand, pulling a leather bag from his tunic and spilling its contents carelessly across the counter, watching the fear grow in the other man’s eyes. The coins rattled on to the wood, each spinning gold disc reflecting tiny flickers of yellow light as it sank into stillness across the flat surface. A long silence stretched out, as both men stared at the small fortune lying across the counter.
‘Apparently, he wanted to make amends for his previous greed. It seems he was foolish enough to have participated in a scheme to make money by supplying his men with substandard rations, and sharing the profits with somebody in your department…’
Annius shifted uncomfortably, opening his mouth to deny any knowledge.
‘I…’
‘No, don’t tell me, you don’t want to incriminate any of your staff. We understand completely, any good officer would wish to protect his men from bad fortune, even that of being caught committing a capital offence. Of course, if I were to discover the identity of that person, I’d have them in front of the First Spear the same hour, and see them pay the maximum penalty possible. Don’t you agree, Chosen Man?’
Dubnus spoke over his shoulder while he leaned over the counter to examine a mail shirt hanging from a rack close to the wide desk, fingering the leather jerkin to which the rings were fastened.
‘No, it’d be too quick just to have his head lopped off. I’d take him into the great forest, give him a one-hundred-count start and then hunt him down through the shadows. I’d pin him to a tree with my throwing axe and leave him there to die.’
Annius looked from Marcus to his men, realising with horror the game they were playing with him, not doubting for a second any of the commitment behind their words.
‘That’s still too good,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I’d just break the bastard’s arms and legs and leave him out there for the animals. The wild pigs would make a mess of him before he finally died.’
Antenoch flipped the heavy axe handle as he spoke, juggling the three-foot length of wood with impressive nonchalance as he shot a hard stare at the stores officer. Annius had heard about the way the young officer had turned the man’s rage to his own advantage on the parade ground, and suspected that he had a good deal of frustration to unleash upon the first convenient target. He looked away, attempting to feign an indifference that he was far from feeling.
The young officer smiled down at him without mirth, his jaw set hard.
‘So you see feelings are running high. Soldier Trajan is already feeling the wrath of his former subordinates by all accounts, although I suspect that a protracted revenge holds more savour for the troops than anything hasty. Of course, he was only the dupe of your man, from the relatively small amount of money he handed over to us…’
An opening?
‘I could… pay you… to keep my clerk out of trouble?’
The four men stared at him in silence, waiting. He plunged on.
‘I could take the man’s profits, give them to you, for use in making amends with your unit, of course. Gods, the fool might have made as much as five hundred from his ill-advised swindle…’
Rufius leant across the counter, putting his face close to Annius’s.
‘Three thousand. Now. You can reclaim the money from your man at your leisure.’
Annius stared at the officer aghast. That was almost twice as much as they’d actually raked off…
‘Perhaps we could…’
‘Suit yourself. Pay now or I’ll put the matter in the hands of less forgiving judges. You know the story: new officer finds evidence of fraud and feels compelled to take the proof to his superior officer. Frontinius might turn a blind eye to your profit-making activities; I never yet met a senior centurion who didn’t, as long as there was a healthy contribution to the burial club every month. My last camp prefect used to call it “balancing the books”, said some men were born to make money, some to lose it, and this way at least he could guarantee every man a decent funeral. What he couldn’t ignore, though, would be the brand-new, “wet behind the ears” centurion who had discovered how his men were being fleeced, and who would of course be filled with righteous anger. So the price is three thousand — pay up or suffer the consequences. You can think while my young friend buckles on that nice new sword. I’ve seen him take a man’s head off at six feet with one just like it.’
Annius hesitated, weighing up the alternatives he saw in Rufius’s pitiless stare. A simple death sentence was his only choice apart from cooperating without question; none of his men would hesitate to lay out everything they knew of his various business activities if required to do so by Frontinius, no matter how well they had been paid to take part.
‘Of course, to spare a good, if misguided, member of my department, I could probably find the money…’
Rufius flipped the hinged section of the counter and walked round behind him.
‘Get the money. I’ll come with you.’
Unable to argue without running the risk that he’d end up face down in the deep forest with a spear between his shoulder blades, Annius huffed into his office, prising up the floorboard beneath which he kept his money. Three of the five leather bags went into the centurion’s waiting hands, the other man sneering his disgust into Annius’s face. Out in the storeroom, he was alarmed to find that Marcus and Antenoch were on the wrong side of the counter, and were examining his inventory with considerable interest. The centurion lifted a mail shirt from its hanger, holding the rings up to a window’s meagre light and rubbing the soft leather undershirt between his thumb and forefinger.
‘You’re right, Chosen Man, this is very nice mail. Much better than the standard-issue rubbish. Annius, you must have enough here to equip a whole century.’
‘I… I have to keep enough stock to supply each new intake of troops, and spares.’
Dubnus loomed over his shoulder.
‘He keeps the stock all right, but only sells good mail shirts to men who don’t want to repair their own, or want softer leather.’
‘I see. How much?’
The businessman in the stores officer took over, not seeing the trap into which he was running.
‘One hundred each.’
‘Hmm… A fair price would be… sixty, Antenoch?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Very well, Annius, let’s call them forty sesterces apiece, as my discount for bulk purchase. I’ll take your whole stock. And tunics, let’s say two apiece for my century at five apiece. Now, what else do you have for sale, before we discuss how you’re going to make sure that my men eat like prize gladiators from now on?’