speaking in a quiet but fierce tone.
‘Not now . Can’t you see the interest you’re causing?’
Two or three men were already watching the pair with thinly disguised curiosity, and the decurion turned away to check the fastenings on his saddle, speaking quietly over his shoulder.
‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait a few days?’
‘I’ve got a soldier from one of the Tungrian cohorts offering me a bloody great big gold barbarian torc, and he says it belonged to a tribal chief. It’ll sell in Rome for a hundred thousand, minimum, and I’ve got him on the hook for a thousand. We can probably make at least twenty thousand on the deal, if you can just lend me five hundred to make up the purchase price …’
Cyrus turned back to him, taking his spear and showing him its iron head as if to discuss some feature of its manufacture.
‘Firstly, my friend, there’s no way I’m going to put my hand into my purse with this collection of thieves and idlers watching. And secondly, both Tungrian cohorts are away off to the north-east with that aristo Felix and six squadrons, something about cleaning out a nest of blue-noses up north, so that torc’s about to march out of the camp. It seems that your deal’s walking out on you.’
3
Centurion Dubnus shifted uncomfortably on the examination table, feeling the doctor’s cool hands gently probing around the fresh scar that would be his permanent reminder of the battle at the Red River. The spear wound had been inflicted by a barbarian who had run full pelt into his century’s line and punched his weapon’s iron head through the big man’s armour, burying it deep in his side to put him out of the fight, and into the hands of the Noisy Valley fortress’s medical staff.
‘I can’t feel anything to indicate any infection, Centurion, and your wound seems to have healed nicely enough. You’re a lucky man. You can get back on your feet for a few hours a day, nothing strenuous, mind you, and no clever ideas about sneaking back to your cohort either. I know you’re desperate to get back into the fight, but you won’t be fit to get back into armour for at least a month. Do you understand what I’m saying this time?’
Dubnus returned her questioning stare with a rueful smile. He had been caught at his room’s window a few days previously, watching the legionaries practising with their weapons when he was supposed to be confined to bed.
‘I understand, Doctor. I’ll sit in my chair and listen to the idiots comparing the size of their scars.’
She nodded firmly.
‘Good. And no trying to make your way down the corridor unobserved either. You need at least another week of inactivity before we can be sure that your wound is really healed.’
He nodded, sitting up with the help of the doctor’s orderly Julius, a quiet and good-natured man rarely without a smile on his face.
‘Is there any news from the legions?’
Julius answered after a moment’s silence, shooting a troubled glance at his mistress.
‘Yes, Centurion, a message rider arrived last evening. I would have woken you when I heard the message he was carrying, but you looked so …’
‘And?’
The orderly smiled at the questioning tone, but the doctor turned back to him and wagged a finger.
‘Calm yourself, Centurion. There’s nothing either of us can do, whatever the news might be. As it happens, the news is good, or so it seems. The rebellion is broken, their camp stormed and destroyed, and those barbarians who escaped are scattered, and running for their lives. And no, there’s no detail as to which units took what part in the fight.’
Dubnus pulled his tunic back on gingerly, feeling the fresh scar tissue flexing with his movements.
‘Doctor …’
She shook her head.
‘After all that’s happened in the last few months I think you should call me Felicia, Centurion.’
‘Very well, Felicia. Whatever fighting he might have seen, Marcus will have come through it in one piece.
‘Not now . Can’t you see the interest you’re causing?’
Two or three men were already watching the pair with thinly disguised curiosity, and the decurion turned away to check the fastenings on his saddle, speaking quietly over his shoulder.
‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait a few days?’
‘I’ve got a soldier from one of the Tungrian cohorts offering me a bloody great big gold barbarian torc, and he says it belonged to a tribal chief. It’ll sell in Rome for a hundred thousand, minimum, and I’ve got him on the hook for a thousand. We can probably make at least twenty thousand on the deal, if you can just lend me five hundred to make up the purchase price …’
Cyrus turned back to him, taking his spear and showing him its iron head as if to discuss some feature of its manufacture.
‘Firstly, my friend, there’s no way I’m going to put my hand into my purse with this collection of thieves and idlers watching. And secondly, both Tungrian cohorts are away off to the north-east with that aristo Felix and six squadrons, something about cleaning out a nest of blue-noses up north, so that torc’s about to march out of the camp. It seems that your deal’s walking out on you.’
3
Centurion Dubnus shifted uncomfortably on the examination table, feeling the doctor’s cool hands gently probing around the fresh scar that would be his permanent reminder of the battle at the Red River. The spear wound had been inflicted by a barbarian who had run full pelt into his century’s line and punched his weapon’s iron head through the big man’s armour, burying it deep in his side to put him out of the fight, and into the hands of the Noisy Valley fortress’s medical staff.
‘I can’t feel anything to indicate any infection, Centurion, and your wound seems to have healed nicely enough. You’re a lucky man. You can get back on your feet for a few hours a day, nothing strenuous, mind you, and no clever ideas about sneaking back to your cohort either. I know you’re desperate to get back into the fight, but you won’t be fit to get back into armour for at least a month. Do you understand what I’m saying this time?’
Dubnus returned her questioning stare with a rueful smile. He had been caught at his room’s window a few days previously, watching the legionaries practising with their weapons when he was supposed to be confined to bed.
‘I understand, Doctor. I’ll sit in my chair and listen to the idiots comparing the size of their scars.’
She nodded firmly.
‘Good. And no trying to make your way down the corridor unobserved either. You need at least another week of inactivity before we can be sure that your wound is really healed.’
He nodded, sitting up with the help of the doctor’s orderly Julius, a quiet and good-natured man rarely without a smile on his face.
‘Is there any news from the legions?’
Julius answered after a moment’s silence, shooting a troubled glance at his mistress.
‘Yes, Centurion, a message rider arrived last evening. I would have woken you when I heard the message he was carrying, but you looked so …’
‘And?’
The orderly smiled at the questioning tone, but the doctor turned back to him and wagged a finger.
‘Calm yourself, Centurion. There’s nothing either of us can do, whatever the news might be. As it happens, the news is good, or so it seems. The rebellion is broken, their camp stormed and destroyed, and those barbarians who escaped are scattered, and running for their lives. And no, there’s no detail as to which units took what part in the fight.’
Dubnus pulled his tunic back on gingerly, feeling the fresh scar tissue flexing with his movements.
‘Doctor …’
She shook her head.
‘After all that’s happened in the last few months I think you should call me Felicia, Centurion.’
‘Very well, Felicia. Whatever fighting he might have seen, Marcus will have come through it in one piece.
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