Читать книгу The Queen's Brooch - Henry Treece - Страница 6

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Soon after Marcus had completed his basic training and now wore his Tribune’s high-crested helmet with authority as he cantered about the strong garrison on the hill, a letter came to him from a vessel that had put into the river Abus to collect a cargo of hides and jet from Whitby in the north. It was from his sister Livia and its message was a short one: “Trade calls my respected husband to Palmyra in Syria. There we shall set up house. Our baby-girl, Drusilla, resembles you much and daily reminds me of you. May fame and fortune visit you. May we meet again, the gods willing.”

At first Marcus felt hurt that he had not heard of the baby earlier; his next feeling was one of loneliness again, for Palmyra was half a world away. But then he shrugged off his self-pity and wondered if there was any gift he might send the child by the ship that still lay in the Abus, being loaded for the return journey.

Tigidius was with him when Marcus opened his loot-coffer and rummaged in it. There were the usual odds and ends—a cracked gorget of twisted gold, a vicious old bronze skinning-knife, a handful of tarnished Celtic coins, some pieces of rough amber, and the brooch which the queen had given him when he was a boy.

He said, “It seems that I have nothing that would amuse a baby-girl, centurion. Unless I send her the brooch to wear when she grows up.”

Tigidius pulled his lips in tightly together and said, “If you sent that, a sailor might steal it. Or if it got to its destination, no doubt your rich brother-in-law would despise it as rude native work, and throw it away. No, I think its place is in your box, Marcus. It might turn out to be useful to you in the end. Perhaps one day, when you travel on duty up north, you might get a village craftsman to make the child a lucky necklace of garnets and jet beads. But in the meantime there is something else that must occupy us. The Legate wishes to speak to you about it now.”

Quintus Petillius Cerialis was looking worried, pacing up and down his office. He did not ask Marcus to sit down but said straightway, “Tribune, I am a little disturbed. Things are not very well among the tribes.”

Marcus wished to show his knowledge and said, “I don’t know, sir. We had a man of the Cornavii in the garrison only yesterday, arranging for our corn supplies. He told us how contented his people were out there in the midlands under Roman rule.”

Cerialis regarded him bleakly then said, “The Cornavii will say anything when they are bargaining, Tribune. I am not concerned about them, they let the wind wag their tongues about as it suits them. I am worried about the Coritani to our south and the Iceni to the east. Something is happening among them and I can’t put my finger on it. They seem to be humming like a swarm of bees—but the moment they see a Roman they go silent again. I don’t like it, but until I can get a reliable spy or two on to the problem, there is nothing I can do.”

Marcus put on a very stiff look and said, “You are not asking me to become a spy are you, Legate?”

Cerialis smiled and shook his head. “No, my boy,” he said, “not that. But, make no mistake, if I found it necessary for you to go spying on behalf of Rome, I should send you—and you would go. There are not many officers here in Lindum who can look as British, and sound as British, as you can, young man.”

Marcus could not decide whether the Legate meant this as a compliment or not, so he said nothing but just stood to attention with his helmet under his left arm.

Then Cerialis said, “In the past three months we have lost a score of trained battle horses from the pastures outside the west wall. They are taken at night, it seems, although I have trebled the guard on the grazing sector.”

Marcus said, “That seems ridiculous, Legate. They are all branded with the legion’s mark, and couldn’t be sold again in the cattle fairs.”

The commander nodded. “That is the whole point, Tribune,” he answered. “If they are not being stolen for the market, then why would the British want them? Our horses are useless for any other purpose than the fast charge. Show them a wagon or a chariot and they would kick it to pieces. What is your guess, man?”

Marcus scratched his chin, then said slowly, “Which of the tribes would want to use them in battle against us? In any case, the chiefs have their own light-built ponies that they seem to prefer.”

The Legate said quietly, “Let us suppose that the chiefs were getting dissatisfied with the native ponies. Let us imagine that some young chieftain, relatively close at hand, dreamed of playing us at our own game and thought of using heavy cavalry on us, for whatever reason. Who comes to your mind? Come on, speak up, you know all the local princes, or whatever they call themselves.”

Marcus looked away for a while. The Legate tapped impatiently on the table, so at last the Tribune said, “I could name a dozen young princes. But it is not just, to name names in a case like this. One needs proof before laying charges, sir.”

Quintus Petillius Cerialis gave him a most stark look, then said with difficulty, “Tribune Marcus Volusenus, I did not ask you to visit me so that I might be given a lecture on law. We can leave that to the lawyers. We are soldiers, always remember that. Very well, give me some names.”

Marcus said coldly, “Under protest, sir. The most active of the princes are Gwyn son of Nudd, Cynwas son of Tringad, Osla Longsword, and Togodumnus the Younger.”

The Legate gazed at him for a while then nodded. “I already have them on my list, Tribune,” he said, smiling shrewdly. “Yes, you know the tribes, I will agree. Now, of these, who is the most fond of horses?”

Marcus thought for a moment, then said, “Why, Cynwas, sir. He thinks of nothing else. He claims to have horses in his ancestry.”

Now Cerialis sat down on his chair and signed for Marcus to take the stool that stood before the long table. And when they were both seated, he said, “If you were looking for Cynwas at this time of the year, where in Coritani territory would you seek him?”

Marcus said, “That is not easy, sir. These horse-herders move about a great deal to find grazing.”

The Legate said sharply, “I know that, Tribune. I am not a fool. Come to the point; if it were a matter of life or death, where would you look for Cynwas?”

Marcus frowned and then said quite abruptly, “Beyond Ratae, where the Fosse Way cuts the Viroconium road, eight miles north of Venonae across the Trent. He keeps his best stock there.”

Cerialis smiled now. “Well done, Marcus,” he said. “At noon today I want you to go down there and see what sort of stock this Cynwas has tucked away over the Trent. Tigidius will go with you, mounted, and you will take that young decurion Novantico and his ten men. He is an ambitious fellow and deserves to see a little action if there is any going. He will make a centurion one day, in my opinion. What do you think of him?”

Marcus drew his chin back and almost sulked for a while. He said, “Is this an official request, sir? If so, I will have the scribe set down my report in writing.”

The Legate said, “You are far too touchy this morning, Tribune. Very well, if you do not wish to speak about the decurion, so be it. Sometimes a commander learns about his men from private word-of-mouth discussions, as you will find.”

Marcus rose from the stool and said, “Sir, my father never spoke about his men, unless to them personally or on the army reports, officially. It is not a soldier’s business to discuss a man’s character behind his back.”

Cerialis forced himself to smile now and said, “I am corrected, by my newest Tribune. Once again, so be it. I asked for it. But tell me one thing—do you like Novantico?”

Marcus stared straight ahead and said stonily, “He is a good soldier.”

Then the Legate said, “Very well, Marcus, I will dismiss you before you teach me more of what a General should or should not ask. May you have good luck in your mission. See that the men have adequate rations and do not let them sleep in the damp. A sick soldier is no soldier. Make them take their cloaks. I always come back with a cough when I have been along Trentside.”

Marcus saluted and went out to the courtyard. The centurion was waiting for him and said, smiling, “Did he tell you to make them wear their cloaks?”

Marcus nodded furiously. “He did,” he said gruffly. “To be an officer in the Ninth is splendid training for becoming a nursemaid when your time is up.”

Tigidius put on a sympathetic face and nodded. “You take the words right out of my mouth, little one,” he said. “Now go and see that your own cloak is packed properly behind your saddle.”

Then Tigidius stumped off leaning on his oak staff, to see that his servant had packed up all his gear correctly, according to the manual. And that included his cloak.