He smiled into Belletor’s incensed glare with complete equanimity for a moment, then shook his head in good-natured amusement.
‘Tribune, I’ve known Sextus Tullius Decula since the bad old days of the German Wars. He’s quite the most pompous and hidebound man I’ve ever served with, utterly convinced that only men of the senatorial class are capable of leading our legions to victory and at the same time somewhat more lax with the more mundane aspects of his command than might be wise. Doubtless he barked out a diatribe based on his ingrained prejudices, and then left his clerk to convert the sentiment of whatever it was he’d ranted on about into a written order for you to carry away, as your proof of superiority over your colleague here.’
Belletor shifted in his seat, while Scaurus’s face remained rigidly set, and Albinus looked down at the order again, pointing to the paper in his hand.
‘The first part of the order is clear enough, so I will paraphrase. You, Domitius Belletor, are to assume command of the detachment comprised of the units you detailed to me earlier, less the one thousand Sarmatae horsemen you’ve been brave enough to add to your command since then. Further, you are to exercise “absolute decision-making responsibility”, with the right to remove your colleague here from his subordinate command of the Tungrian cohorts should he provide you with adequate reason to do so. That was almost word for word with the legatus’s verbal instruction, I expect?’
Belletor nodded vigorously, sensing that his argument was easing itself away from the thin ice of the legatus’s relationship with his colleague, and onto the more certain ground of his clearly delegated authority over Scaurus.
‘Indeed so. And yet when I attempted to exercise that right to remove Rutilius Scaurus from his command he refused to accept my decision.’
Albinus nodded.
‘On the face of it then, Tribune Scaurus’s refusal to accept your command to relinquish control of his cohorts is a simple question of insubordination?’ Belletor nodded sanguinely. ‘I see. It is, of course, a matter which I am compelled to punish severely. .’ He paused and fixed Belletor with a flat stare. ‘If, that is, I am unable to find any justification for Tribune Scaurus’s actions.’
The tribune recoiled in his seat as if he’d been stung.
‘Justification, Legatus?’
‘Justification, Domitius Belletor. By which I mean a good reason for your colleague to have ignored your instruction to relinquish his command.’ Albinus waved the order at Belletor, his smile now notably reduced in its friendliness. ‘And so we turn to the second part of this order, the part I suspect you read rather less well than the section we’ve already discussed, since it was perhaps less worthy of your interest. By which I mean it serves your interests somewhat less well. It is, after all, an afterthought, the usual standard order that headquarters’ clerks tack onto every set of instructions received by every detachment commander, and to which no legatus will ever take exception to since it all makes such good sense from the perspective of covering his backside.’
He flourished the order theatrically.
‘Let’s see what it says, shall we? He read from the scroll. ‘“You are commanded to fulfil the requirements of your orders with regard to the march from Germania Inferior to Dacia, and to conduct any necessary independent field operations with the required combination of necessary aggression whilst also exercising due regard for your command’s preservation.” Oh yes, this was definitely written by a professional administrator, since you are ordered to act both aggressively and in a cautious manner at the same time. The man’s covered every possible angle for his legatus, so that any disaster you might inflict upon your command is clearly your own fault and in no way capable of arriving on his desk. My man does much the same, and indeed I’m sure it’s a long-standing art passed from one clerk to the next.’
He smiled at Belletor again, but this time the expression was so thin as to be practically non-existent.
‘And so we come to the meat of the issue, Tribune Belletor. This last section, which I doubt Legatus Decula gave even so much as a second glance as he scribbled his name at the bottom of the paper, given he’ll have seen it so many times by now for it to be virtually invisible to him. “Should the requirement become obvious, you are to be replaced by your deputy until such time as you demonstrate your renewed ability to command the detachment in question.” An innocent little clause, isn’t it, and yet I fear it’s going to be the downfall of your argument for Rutilius Scaurus’s dismissal.’
Belletor’s mouth dropped open in amazement, and when he spoke again his words were an incensed gabble.
‘But there was never any need for Scaurus to replace me! I was always in complete control of the detachment, and at no time unfit to command!’ He glared at the legatus with undisguised fury. ‘This is outrageous, Legatus Albinus, I can see what you’re trying to do here and it won’t. .’
He fell silent as Albinus picked up the silver bell and rang it, the high-pitched note summoning his clerk from the side office where he had clearly been waiting as instructed.
‘And that, Tribune, all depends on how we are to interpret fitness to command, doesn’t it? Ah, Julius. If you’d be so kind as to ask Beneficiarius Cattanius to join us? And perhaps you could take some notes for me? You know how the army likes this sort of thing to be properly documented.’
‘So what’s going on here, eh? What fuckin’ mischief are you apes up to now? And put those fuckin’ buckets down!’
Sanga and Scarface snapped to attention and stared fixedly at the fort’s wall while Quintus strode up to them with a furious look on his face, Marcus trailing in his wake with his eyes narrowed at the sight before him. Much to Scarface’s delight the two soldiers had been transferred from Qadir’s century to the Roman’s, along with the remnants of their tent party after the cessation of hostilities with Galatas’s men, replacements for the losses that Marcus’s men had taken at the battle for the Saddle. Shortly thereafter their number had been reinforced by one of the warriors Balodi had offered as part of the agreement, and as the cohort’s officers had expected, the soldiers were finding ways to express their disdain for the hapless conscripts. The young centurion and his chosen man had rounded a corner to find the two veterans in the act of filling four buckets from one of the rainwater troughs that were positioned around the fort’s exterior. Their intended victim, a new soldier who Marcus recalled went by the name of Saratos, was standing stolidly by and watching the buckets being filled with an expression of faint dismay. Looking past him the young centurion spied Morban, having seemingly exercised his usual sixth sense with regard to the impending presence of officers, halfway down the line of tents and walking briskly with his attention ostentatiously elsewhere. Deciding to leave the standard bearer’s comeuppance until later in the day, Marcus stepped up behind his chosen man, pursing his lips as Quintus squared up to the veteran soldiers.