‘So he’s not only a thief, but not even a good one? What use would we have for a dishonest incompetent?’
Drest shrugged in the face of Julius’s scorn.
‘That’s hardly for me to say, I have such a small basis for comparison. Perhaps the man himself might venture an opinion?’
He gestured to the thief, whose face was set in what Marcus assumed was professional neutrality.
‘I was caught because I broke my own rules and attempted to rob more than a single mark in the same place. The man was a merchant from the looks of him, and possessed of a purse so heavy that to have left it there unplucked seemed improper.’ He shrugged. ‘That was my mistake. He had the purse doubly secured to his belt by a hidden chain, having been robbed before. As to whether I am an effective thief, I’d say that you, First Spear, might be the best judge. I found this in your belt pouch as we were coming through the door …’
He held out his closed fist and opened the fingers to reveal Julius’s brass whistle resting on his palm. Dubnus sniggered behind his colleague, trying and failing to muffle his uncontrollable amusement behind a hand, and even Marcus was forced to smile at his brother officer’s discomfiture.
‘I’d say that’s sufficient evidence for us to accept that your man here has some ability in his chosen profession. But what good will it serve us? Our task is one of infiltration and murder, not the picking of merchants’ purses.’
Drest spoke up, stepping forward and taking the whistle from his comrade’s outstretched hand.
‘He’s a good deal more than a simple thief, Centurion. He has silent feet to complement his swift fingers, and an uncanny ability with a lock. If I were going to attempt to get into The Fang unnoticed, then he would be my first man over the wall.’
Scaurus spoke, having stood in silence while the introductions were made.
‘“If” being the operative word, as you so correctly identify. It is clear that Artorius Castus hopes that we will accept your services in this matter, and equally obvious that he reposes a good deal of trust in you, but you can be sure that I do not yet share his views as to your suitability.’ Drest stood in silence and waited for the tribune to continue, his expression untroubled, while Scaurus played a calculating look across his comrades. ‘Some proof of these abilities is called for.’
Drest shot the tribune an amused glance, clearly unabashed by the tribune’s status.
‘And you have a fairly specific idea as to how we might provide you with that proof, don’t you, Tribune?’
The Roman smiled grimly at him.
‘Indeed I do. But be very careful in considering whether or not you can accept this challenge. I’d imagine that the punishment for being caught attempting what I have in mind will involve a vigorous session on the sharp end of a scourge, rapidly followed by the enthusiastic application of a hammer and three big nails.’
2
The next morning was clear and bright, overnight mist burning off in less than an hour as the Tungrians prepared to march north. Marcus stood with his helmet under one arm and watched as the Sixth Legion’s three centuries readied themselves to escort Tribune Sorex’s gold chests back to their fortress at Yew Grove. He nodded in wry recognition as their centurions undertook the ritual final preparations, inspecting the waiting soldiers alongside scowling chosen men who had already scrutinised their troops’ readiness with sharp and unforgiving eyes. Camp Prefect Castus stood and watched beside Marcus with a look of satisfaction at the scene before him.
‘Is there any better sight in the entire world than a few centuries of battle-hardened infantry commanded by men at the peak of their powers? I’ve trodden parade grounds across the length of the empire, from the burning sand of Syria to the ice and snow of Dacia, and nothing has ever put a lump in my throat like the sight of good soldiers ready for whatever the day might throw at them.’
He paused for a moment, and Marcus sneaked a sideways glance that found the older man gazing misty-eyed at the ordered lines of men before him.
‘This is my last posting, young man, and I had to beg the powers that be for this chance to be a fighting man one last time, even if I am only supposed to be the officer who organises the legion’s food and pay. Take a lesson from where I find myself, Centurion, suddenly clinging on to the arse end of my career and wondering where all those years went. Make the most of each and every day you have under the eagle.’ He laughed, shaking his head to dispel his melancholy. ‘Well at least Procurator Avus should be happy that his precious cargo will be travelling under suitable protection. Doubtless he’ll be expected to report to some exalted person or other as to the state of affairs he discovered here …’
Marcus followed his gaze to find the imperial official standing a short distance away with a look of approval at the soldiers’ ranks. Looking back at the column his eyes found his wife Felicia and her assistant Annia, an island of femininity in the column’s sea of iron. The young centurion stared wistfully as his wife handed their infant son up to the now heavily pregnant Annia, who had already taken her place in the cart that had been procured for them at Castus’s order. The camp prefect had readily agreed to take his wife, his baby son Appius and the doctor’s assistant with him to the Sixth Legion’s fortress at Yew Grove, as part of the well-protected convoy of wagons that would deliver Tribune Sorex’s gold to the buried strongroom safe behind its heavy stone walls. The final member of the women’s small party was his standard bearer’s grandson Lupus, whose furious protests at being made to accompany the women had fallen on deaf ears. Marcus had taken him aside once his initial anger at the decision had burned out and the boy had been reduced to tearful silence, squatting down on his haunches to look up into the child’s resentful eyes.
‘We don’t always get what we want, young man, and nor should we. What use is a life that doesn’t contain the occasional disappointment to remind us just how pleasant success tastes, eh? This time you have to go with Felicia and Annia, and that’s all there is to it.’
Lupus had shaken his head, his reply petulant even though he knew that when the centurion spoke so firmly his will was not to be questioned.
‘But I came with you last time you marched to fight.’
Marcus had smiled, conceding the point.
‘And we were lucky enough not to get you killed. But this time I need you to go with the women. Besides, I’ll feel happier with one of us close to them.’
The boy had nodded solemnly at him, his eyes widening at the centurion’s words, and put his hand to the hilt of the half-sized sword strapped to his waist, much to the amusement of the soldiers. Catching the direction of his companion’s stare, the Prefect nudged him with an elbow and nodded towards the two women.
‘Don’t worry, Centurion, I’ll make sure they’re not bothered by the soldiery. Indeed it will be a pleasure to escort two such agreeable ladies to a place of safety. I believe that your woman is a doctor with some experience of treating battlefield wounds?’
Marcus smiled wryly.
‘She has saved the lives of several men I would have said were fit for nothing more than a quick and merciful release from their suffering, but she has experience at inflicting damage as well as repairing it, if the need presents itself. And I suggest that you approach her assistant with care. Annia is, as you can see, somewhat heavy with child and she is not, I can assure you from recent experience, particularly happy with that condition. I think the father of her child is looking forward to facing off with the Venicones as a relief from her vividly expressed disappointment that his manhood hasn’t yet dropped off as the price for putting her through such discomfort.’