‘Well if Quintus has been missing Julius and his rough and ready ways, I’d say you’ve probably just cured him of that particular yearning. That was just as hairy-arsed as our good friend ever managed when I was his chosen man, and you can take that as a compliment if you like.’
Quintus returned after a tense wait with a bedraggled prisoner in tow, and his obvious sense of aggrievement was left unsalved by Marcus’s swift dismissal with instructions to find a plate of food and a hot drink for the man.
‘Hot food, mind you Quintus, I’m sure there’s a pot bubbling somewhere close to hand to feed the guards. We’ll be in the duty officer’s tent.’
He led the way with Dubnus bringing up the rear in best menacing form, but the prisoner seemed untroubled by the potential for violence, looking about himself with an interest apparently undimmed by either a day in captivity or the lump beneath his right eye. Once inside the tent’s welcome warmth Marcus called for more lamps and sat the man down, placing his damp cloak close to the brazier that was heating the enclosed space.
‘While we wait for my deputy to bring you something to eat, perhaps it would be best to find out whether you’re going to earn it. Who are you?’
The captive looked back at him with a steady gaze.
‘If it’s true that you met Prince Galatas Boraz today, then you already have a good idea of my identity, Centurion.’
Marcus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest with his vine stick tapping impatiently at one shoulder.
‘We’re not playing party games here. Whoever you are, the outcome of this discussion is of far more concern to you than it is to me. If you turn out to be nothing more than a man with a gift for languages, then you’ll be back inside that ditch with your fellow captives before you even get a sniff of a bowl of stew. So I’ll ask you one more time, who are you?’
The prisoner shrugged, apparently untroubled by the Roman’s impatience.
‘Galatas will have asked after his father, of course, and in the same breath I’d expect him to have wondered as to the fate of his brother and his uncle. I am Balodi Boraz, his uncle. I could have proved that statement yesterday, by showing you my gold chain, but I hid it on the battlefield before your men took me prisoner.’
Dubnus nodded.
‘Very wise. It would either have been stolen or identified you as a noble, and worthy of special treatment. You can find it again?’
Balodi shrugged.
‘We can only hope so.’ He shot a sideways look at Marcus. ‘Is Asander still alive?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘We’ll keep the questioning to this side of the discussion, Balodi, if that’s your real name. You asked to see me. Why?’
The Sarmatae noble leaned back in his chair and smiled.
‘Because I was told you had been over that wall of yours, and gone down into our camp to attempt a negotiation with my brother’s son. I just wanted to meet the Roman who went face-to-face with my brother’s kinsman by marriage, Inarmaz, and lived.’
He watched the expression on Marcus’s face closely while he was speaking, and on seeing the Roman’s reaction to the Sarmatae noble’s name his smile became a grin.
‘Oh yes, now we both have the proof we wanted. You know that I am who I claim to be, and the look on your face when I mentioned his name assures me that you did indeed speak with Galatas, because I’m sure Inarmaz would have been close to his shoulder. Most likely he was trying to work out where best in his nephew’s back to put the knife, when he inevitably seizes power for himself.’
His wet cloak was starting to dry in the brazier’s relentless heat, tendrils of steam drifting up from the damp wool. Marcus stared at the prisoner for a moment before speaking.
‘You suspect that Inarmaz covets the throne?’
The noble shook his head impatiently.
‘No, I suspect no such thing. I know it for a fact. My brother’s brother by marriage has always been the most fiercely opposed member of our tribe’s rulers to our having any truck with your empire, whereas our father always raised both of his sons to be realists in these matters. He once took both of us out onto the great plain, to the place where our tribe’s sacred sword juts proudly from our soil, and pointed to the east, then the south, and finally the west. Every time he pointed, he said just one word.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And that word was “Rome”. “My sons,” he told us both, “in every direction other than to the north, our peoples’ lands are bordered by Rome, a people so rich that they have armies of tens of thousands of men who do nothing but fight wars and practise for war, and whose leaders constantly scheme to increase their empire’s wealth. If we provide these men with sufficient reason they will slaughter our warriors, enslave our women and children and turn our grasslands into farms, which we will be forced to work for them. All my life I have sought to keep these people at a distance by means of guarded friendship backed by the promise of unremitting war should they venture north of the river Danubius, and when I die that task will fall on you both, may the sword help you.”’
He glanced at the cloak, more moisture steaming out from those parts of the garment closest to the brazier.
‘But my father made one mistake, late in his reign when the light in his eyes was starting to dim. He married my older brother Asander to the daughter of a neighbouring king, a sweet little thing while she lived, but with her came her brother Inarmaz, and with Inarmaz came all the poison with which his father had been feeding to him all his life. My brother’s brother in marriage is, as you will have gathered, deeply hostile to your empire, and much of what he says on the subject finds an echo in my people’s hearts. Over the years, like the water leaving that cloak as steam, the heat of his hatred has burned out the good sense our father worked so hard to establish in the tribe’s thinking. His constant outpouring of hatred has made them ready to take arms against Rome once more.’
‘But your brother?’
Balodi shook his head.
‘Asander’s wife died delivering Galatas into the world, and her brother has proven merciless in using her memory to drag the king toward his enmity with Rome. Asander Boraz was our father’s son in this matter, always more disposed towards what you might describe as an accommodation with Rome. But over the years Inarmaz’s influence slowly pulled his thinking away from any relationship with your empire, to the point where he was content to be goaded into this war by promises of easy victory while the Roman armies are preoccupied in the province’s north. Inarmaz also promised my brother a mountain of gold ripe for the taking. And in the last few months our people’s anger has been sharpened by the tales of rape and pillage from the settlements bordering your province, atrocities perpetrated by soldiers in the uniform of your empire.’
Marcus and Dubnus exchanged glances while the Sarmatae noble continued.
‘But in all of these decisions, of course, he was always the man behind the throne, constantly seeking to advise and cajole the king, but taking great care never to expose himself as the real decision maker. As far as the tribe is concerned this was Asander’s war, and Inarmaz always took care to be seen as his faithful follower. When the sweet wine of victory that my people expect turns out to be a sour brew it will be the king’s decisions that are questioned, rather than the counsel on which they were founded.’
He shook his head wearily and fell silent just as Quintus returned with a wooden bowl of steaming stew. Marcus took the food with a word of thanks to his deputy and passed it to Balodi, who took a bone spoon from his clothing and started eating. The two centurions watched as he ate the food with relish, and as he scooped the last of the stew into his mouth Marcus reached out for the bowl, raising an eyebrow in question.