Wounds of Honour: Empire I (7 page)

Dubnus dropped a heavy hand on Marcus’s shoulder, pulling him farther away from the scene.

‘You don’t want to see that. Stay here and watch my pack.’

He drew his sword and walked to the closest of the fallen horses, pausing to wrest his throwing axe from the chest of his first victim before turning to the man’s horse. Practical necessity overrode any qualms he might have felt about either the man’s death or the use he was about to make of the dead horse. From the moment he’d agreed to do what the former officer had asked of him he’d been working out how to make good their escape, once the Roman was safe from the threat of murder. The veteran officer had disturbed his sleep earlier that night with the request, one that had made him laugh out loud with its audacity once his irritation at being awakened before the dawn call had worn off.

He’d stopped laughing when a bag full of gold had landed on the bed in front of him. The former officer, it seemed, was determined to have his help, and was willing to pay handsomely. It was enough money, Tiberius Rufius had told him, to buy every man in his cohort a decent coat of mail. He’d stopped laughing all right, but the look on his face had made it clear enough to the veteran centurion that he wasn’t going to pick the money up from where it had landed, at least not without a good reason. Which Rufius had proceeded, with a half-smile that signalled how well he understood the Briton, to matter-of-factly provide.

His task complete, Dubnus returned to find Marcus waiting where he had left him. He stuffed the carefully wrapped bundle into his pack and then led the way deeper into the copse, searching in the half-light until he found what he was looking for. The plant glistened in the grey light.

‘Woundwort. Good.’

He ripped a handful of the plant away from its stem, squeezing it hard in a straining fist until a milky fluid dribbled from between his fingers on to the arrow punctures, then reached into his pack, hidden at the foot of a tree, for a strip of cloth.

‘The juice will help to stop the bleeding. Help me to tie it.’

Dubnus wound the cloth around his bulky forearm and allowed Marcus to knot it. A slow red stain seeped through the layers.

‘Tighter … good.’

A shrill scream made Marcus start. The soldier shrugged, regarding the temporary bandage with a professional scrutiny from beneath his heavy eyebrows, a slight smile crossing his face.

‘He’ll talk soon, that German. It’s inevitable. Our friend Rufius will offer him either a quick death or a slow one. Any man that runs from a fight before it is lost will take the easy way out when there’s a knife probing the root of his cock.’

A flush of anger ripped through Marcus’s body, part reaction, part frustration at the uncontrolled spiral of events, and part hot burning disgust at what Rufius was doing to the fallen rider. Spinning, he thrust his face into the soldier’s, snarling his anger into its indifference.

‘Why did you come here? Why save me? You
hate
Romans!’

‘You’re an outlaw now. The German called you a traitor. You’re not one of
them
any more.’

The simple reversal of judgement infuriated Marcus, as much for the smug simplicity of its verdict as its perpetuation of the injustice done to his family.

‘I am
not
a traitor!’

Dubnus pointed into the darkness, to where the screams had sounded.

‘German or not, he’s a Roman. A cavalryman. One of their elite. Why was he hunting you?
He
must think you are a traitor.’

The Briton watched Marcus as he frowned at the simple verdict, attempting to gauge the man’s mettle, whether he would stand up to the rigours of the coming days. He’d wondered whether the Roman would even be able to make effective use of the weapons they’d hidden for him by the roadside, after they had slipped out of the fort through a hidden door concealed in the wall. The thick oak door had answered the first of his objections, as to how they were going to get out of the fortress without word getting back to Titus. It was faced in stone to match the walls around it, with heavy stone slabs inside the wall poised ready to fall and block the tiny entry if small wedges restraining them were knocked away. He would never have known it was there if he hadn’t been guided to its precise location.

‘It’s designed to allow troops to get out and attack besiegers, or messengers to leave in secret,’ Tiberius Rufius had told him as they forded the river between the fortress and its town on carefully placed stepping stones that lay beneath the river’s slow-moving surface. ‘But it’s a good thing it hasn’t rained hard for a week or so, or the river would be trying a lot harder to pull us off this little bridge.’

They had skirted the town and headed down the road to the two-mile marker, while he hefted his spear and thought darkly about what he was going to do to the German cavalryman if he got the chance. Tiberius Rufius had made the connection for him, pointing out that the man shouting orders to kill him over the din of their little battle could not have been a tribesman with an accent like that. It had been all the bait needed to get the big Briton off his bed and into his mail coat, intended murder in his heart, revenge for the man he’d lost the previous day.

In the event, seeing the Asturian decurion trapped beneath his horse had put out the fire of his bloodlust in an instant. Knowing that the man was doomed to die in agony, his leg shattered under the horse’s massive dead weight, had been enough for him. He had still smiled to himself when the screaming started, though. A man made his choice and lived with the outcome.

Tiberius Rufius appeared out of the dawn’s murk, wiping his dagger with a tuft of grass pulled from the roadside.

‘Well, at least that was easier than it might have been. We must leave this place, and quickly. Dubnus, we need to make good speed, but be well away from the road before the first patrols get this far. Lead us, if you will.’

The Briton nodded, turning away towards the indistinct hillside above them and picking up his pack pole and spears.

‘Come.’

For a wounded man he made good time, grinding across the hard winter ground at a pace that had Marcus breathless inside ten minutes, their path climbing steadily up and away from the road. He glanced back at Rufius, bringing up the rear with an alert eye to all sides, to find that he was striding out without any sign of trouble. Returning his energy to putting one boot in front of the other time after time after time, he concentrated on the Briton’s muscular back. Weeks of travel, by sea and on horseback, had done little to help his fitness. After about fifteen minutes of increasing physical torture Dubnus stepped off the line of their march, leading them into the shade of a small huddle of trees. A patch of scorched earth in the middle of the tiny grove showed where a fire had burned quite recently. Dawn had come and gone, and the first glint of sun was edging the horizon. Below them the road was still, trees along its verges casting stripes of dark shadow across the landscape. The Briton gestured down towards the road.

‘This is a good place to camp, the fire shows as much. A moving man is easily seen from here in the dusk or dawn, his shadow will stretch across the land. It is a good defence for us, but will make us vulnerable if we move any farther until the sun gets higher. We’ll have to wait here until the sun clears the horizon.’

Marcus stood with his head back, sucking in the cold morning air with his eyes closed. Somewhere in the gloom a crow cawed hoarsely, echoing his mood. Dubnus prodded him in the stomach.

‘You’re
soft
. A soldier has to march all day, then dig out a camp before eating or sleeping.’

Marcus opened his eyes and grimaced in return, looking up at the Briton’s relaxed posture. Only the slight rise of steam from his skin in the half-light gave any hint of his recent exertion.

‘I
am
a soldier … I’ve just been without real exercise for too long.’

Rufius raised a sympathetic smile, almost hidden in the dawn’s meagre light.

‘If it helps, my legs ache too. It’s been too long since I had to cover country at that pace, but Dubnus has got us away safely, and that’s what counts. Now, let’s talk, you and I. Dubnus, do me a favour and keep watch.’

The Briton took the hint, moving quietly away to the edge of the small copse to watch the road below their hiding place. Tiberius Rufius took Marcus by the arm, pulling him down into a conspiratorial squat. The Roman huddled into his cloak, shivering as the sweat cooled on his body.

‘You met with the legatus, I presume?’

Marcus snorted, his lip curling.

‘The legatus? Yes, he had me thrown to those wolves.’

Tiberius Rufius nodded his head.

‘Indeed he did, and he no choice in doing so. Calidius Sollemnis did no more than he had to in order to be sure that he looked the model servant of Rome. In all truth it was his tribune Perennis who set the Asturians on you, the same way that he ordered the attack on us yesterday. I would have been sure of
that
even if our deceased Asturian friend back down there hadn’t just confirmed it. Forget the carefully posed interview, consider what else has happened in the last few hours. The legatus had a trusted centurion pick you up from the inn and stay with you all the way to the gate. Without that safeguard it’s likely that you would have been conveniently knifed before getting anywhere near your horse. Sollemnis also had me leave you the weapons that saved you from the Asturians, and wait for you down the road at a place where we might escape into the forest and evade pursuit. He knows what Perennis is capable of, and he took every step possible to fend off the man’s efforts to have you killed.’

‘And the Briton?’

‘The first time he saved your life was pure luck, and fortune of the finest quality given the fact we’d have been dead men without his intervention. I’d say Fortuna smiles on you, Marcus Valerius Aquila. The second time, well, that was my own doing. People who plan for the worst have a tendency to survive when it actually happens, so I took steps to make sure that I was using my own dice for the game.’

He paused for a moment and looked the younger man square in the eye, as if weighing up his state of mind.

‘And now, Centurion, there are things you have to know before we leave this place. None of them are pleasant, but then you find yourself in a difficult place with very limited options. You must fully understand your situation before you can decide how to face it.’

Marcus met his gaze with a level stare.

‘I’ve been sent across Oceanus to the very edge of the world on a fool’s errand, ambushed twice in two days by men I do not know intent on my murder, and informed in casual terms of the downfall of my father, previously a respected senator of Rome. I’m not sure you can make that picture very much bleaker, Tiberius Rufius, but if there’s more to tell then I am ready.’

‘Bravely put, Valerius Aquila. And you can drop the formalities. My forename is Quintus, and I’d be proud to count you as a close enough friend to use it. Now then, where to start? Legatus Sollemnis received a message from your father twenty days ago, stating that he feared for your family’s safety in the current political climate in Rome. The senator wrote to warn Sollemnis of his decision to have you sent as far away from Rome as possible. He asked Sollemnis to hide you away from his enemies, as a last favour to a friend. This, of course, was no idle request – he was asking his friend to defy the throne and harbour a man who would swiftly be named as a traitor.

‘When I met with Sollemnis last evening it was already clear to him that Tigidius Perennis would be his main problem. You’ve probably guessed by now that he’s the son of your praetorian prefect, a man closer to the throne than you may know. What you don’t know is that his appointment as a tribune on the Sixth’s staff was imposed on Sollemnis last year. At the time he took it as a clear signal that Emperor Commodus, or at least the men who stand behind him, intended to be assured of his loyalty. After all, three legions and a dozen auxiliary cohorts
is
a lot of spears, the biggest single concentration of troops in the entire empire, and that could be an irresistible temptation to a man of the senatorial class with ambition. Sollemnis mistakenly thought that Perennis had simply been appointed to spy on his actions, but since his arrival this new tribune’s actions have gone well beyond simple spying. He’s subverted the Asturian cavalry to do his dirty work, and Sollemnis is convinced that he’s planning to take command of the legion if ever he gets the chance.’

Marcus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘A tribune? Unseat an imperial general officer? How likely is that?’

‘With the right authority? With a scroll of authority embossed with the correct seals, and with the legion’s most senior officers in no doubt as to their fate if they jumped the wrong way? Easier than you might think, I’d say. When, at the right time, Tigidius Perennis brings out his letter of authority, complete with the imperial seal, half a dozen men find themselves harking back to quiet conversations with the man. Flattery, offers of promotion and veiled threats to loved ones from a clever young man of the highest influence and absolutely no scruples. I’d put good money on Sollemnis finding himself at the wrong end of the spear very quickly in such a situation. He knows that he has very good reason to behave in a manner that provides no opportunity for Perennis to make his move.

‘So, the legatus originally thought that it would be relatively simple to send you across to the Twentieth Legion at Deva, under the supervision of
their
legatus, if he could just keep you from Perennis’s attention. The Twentieth’s man owes him a favour or two, apparently. A second messenger arrived, two days ago, an urgent dispatch from Rome, and carried by a courier I’ve met a few times before. Once I got a few drinks into him he was happy enough to discuss the stories he’d heard around the palace before he left. Your father had been arrested for the crime of conspiracy against the throne, and was … questioned on your disappearance, but even
in extremis
refused to give any clue as to your whereabouts. All they could wring out of him, after days of suffering, was that he’d sent you to the ends of the empire, out of their reach. His remains were scattered for the crows, denied the burial rites to avoid there being any rallying point for your family’s supporters. You should be proud of him, Marcus Valerius Aquila; by dying in such ignominy, but with such dignity, he brought great honour to your name. But suspicion obviously fell on your tribune, and he told Commodus’s men everything they wanted to know as soon as they came for him. Hoping to save himself from torture, it seems. Fool. It would have been easier on him if he’d just fallen on his own sword while he had the chance. The elder Perennis was so furious that you slipped from his grasp just as he was ready to move on your family, he had his thugs torture Tribune Scarus to death just trying to prove his story false.