He turned away from the dazed quartermaster, threading his way deeper into the darker recesses of the store. Regaining his equilibrium, Annius weaved after him, panting his petulant outrage.
‘Oh no, Centurion, you’re not going to steal my stock as well as my money! That’s just not fair…’
And quailed back against a rack of spears as the Roman spun, his sword flashing from his waist and arcing up to rest against his neck. Marcus’s face scared him more than the weapon’s fierce bite against his flabby throat. Even Rufius’s eyes widened momentarily, before a wolfish grin crept across his face.
‘Not fair, storeman? Not much is in these days. My men probably weren’t too impressed at the way you and Trajan fed them shit every day for the last three months. Your choice, one you’re lucky to have, is to bite on the leather and take your punishment. Of course, you could go to the prefect, and see if he’ll accept your word against mine. Shall we go to him now? It might be entertaining to see which of us appears the more credible.’
Annius shrank farther into the forest of wooden poles, his face red with fear, but said nothing. The sword swung away from its harsh grip on his life, dropping back into its place on Marcus’s belt. Rufius pushed him out of the way, the smile on his face broadening as he headed for the rear of the store.
‘I spy amphorae back here! How much for the wine, storekeeper…?’
Annius smiled through the pain, knowing he lacked any choice in the matter. If the young bastard chose to shit on the store floor and then ordered him to clean it up with his tunic, he would have to do as he was told. Later, however, he promised himself, when the new centurions had taken their leave of him, probably in possession of half his stock, bought at knock-down prices with his own money, he would sit silently in his office, brooding over his revenge. That, and the ways in which he might learn more of the enigmatic new arrival’s past. Rufius opened the door of the centurions’ mess an hour later, meeting the stares of the officers present with a careful smile.
‘Gentlemen…’
He waited in the doorway. Marcus stood in view behind him, both of them acutely aware that they had to be invited in for their first visit. The shortest of the cohort’s centurions, a bristly-haired man whom Marcus recognised as the least unfriendly of the gathering for morning report, had apparently just reached the punchline of the joke he was telling. He turned back to the others.
‘So the centurion says, “Well, Prefect, normally we just ride the horse to the whorehouse!”’
He turned back to Rufius.
‘Come on then, Grandfather, in you come.’
Rufius winced, giving Marcus a dirty look as the younger man hid a smile behind his hand. The speaker beckoned again, looking over Rufius’s shoulder.
‘And you, young Two Knives, and let’s have a proper look at you.’
One of the speaker’s companions snorted derisively, turning away to study the wine jug behind the serving counter, one hand teasing at a knot in his heavy beard. The man next to him appraised Rufius and Marcus through eyes that seemed permanently half closed, peering down a nose that had clearly seen better times. Their host smiled openly, showing a selection of crooked teeth in the bristly thicket of his beard.
‘Don’t worry about our colleagues here. Otho’s wondering whether he could take either of you in a fair fight, as opposed to the knife-in-the-dark methods that got him to where he is today…’
The battered face split into a happy grin.
‘While my good friend Julius already knows from your performance this morning that he’d have no more chance against you than I would.’
His good friend Julius snorted his disgust again, peering disdainfully down his nose.
‘Pretty swordsmen don’t necessarily make good officers. Especially when they have no idea about soldiering. He’ll give up soon enough, once the Ninth sees through him.’
He sized Rufius up with a swift up-and-down glance, nodding with some measure of respect.
‘I hear you’ve done your time with the legions — come and see me in my quarter if you’d like to talk soldier to soldier.’
He strode from the mess, slamming the door behind him. Marcus swallowed his anger, forcing himself to smile again.
‘This morning…? I was lucky that Antenoch was stupid enough give me a warning. I’m still rusty from too long on the road.’
The bristly-haired officer raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Still rusty, eh? In that case old Otho had best jump you while you’re still polishing up! I’m Caelius, by the way, centurion of the Fourth Century, although my men call me “Hedgehog” when they think I’m not listening…’ He paused and stroked his prickly scalp for effect. ‘… can’t imagine why! Otho here, also known as “Knuckles”, although you might have guessed that from the state of his face, has the Eighth. Julius, not unreasonably known as “Latrine” since he is, as you can see, built like the cohort shithouse, has the Fifth. Your chosen man was his chosen man until you arrived, hence his sulking demeanour. He’s having to work for a living now, instead of lounging around here and letting the Prince get on with doing the hard work for him.’
He waved an arm around the other centurions.
‘As for the rest of your colleagues, there’s Milo, or “Hungry”, since he’s forever eating and still skinny as a spear, he’s got the Second, and Clodius the “Badger”, both for his hair and his temper. He keeps the Third in a permanent state of terror.’
The centurion Marcus and Dubnus had encountered earlier on the road inclined his head in an impassive nod.
‘Brutus has the Seventh, and has seen more action than the rest of us put together with never a scratch on his baby-soft skin, which is why he answers to “Lucky”. Lastly there’s Titus, or “Bear”, he’s got the Tenth, which is our century of axemen. When we’re in the field they specialise in tree-felling and field defences, and they fight with their axes like barbarians, so they all have to be great big brutes like him. “Uncle Sextus” has the First Century, but you already know that. Anyway, introductions made, will you join us in a drink?’
Wine was procured by the steward, which Rufius tasted and instantly judged to have come off second best to the long journey from its birthplace.
‘Actually, it was wine I came to discuss with you, apart from making our introductions. You see, we made a deal with your deeply unpleasant storeman just now, included in which were a dozen large jars of a rather nice red from Hispania. Perhaps the mess could use them? As a gift from the new boys, you understand.’
Caelius smiled at them with renewed warmth, knocking back a large swig from his own beaker and wiping his moustache with the palm of his hand.
‘Well, after six months of drinking this issue filth, your gift would be as welcome as bread to a starving man. That slimy bastard Annius never even told us he had anything of the sort. Now, one good turn deserves another, so here’s a word of friendly advice for you, young Two Knives…’
He paused significantly.
‘If you want to keep the cold out up here, and look like an officer…’
He paused again portentously, making it clear that he was about to do his new colleague a great favour. Rufius raised a cautionary eyebrow over the man’s shoulder.
‘What you need to do is grow yourself a nice thick curly beard. You can grow a beard…?’
6
The cohort’s long stay in winter quarters began to draw to a close a fortnight after their arrival. The onset of warmer weather heralded the opening of spring’s campaign to revitalise the land. The change was much to the relief of officers at their wits’ end with containing the fallout of boredom and indiscipline that the winter’s long inactivity had bred in their troops. Marcus had already had one case to deal with from within the 9th, a tall, darkly surly, one-eyed soldier who went under the official name of Augustus and the unofficial title of ‘Cyclops’. It seemed that the name had as much to do with his poor temper as any more obvious reason.