Read Online The Inquest by Stephen Dando-Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Dando-Collins
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Hostilis appeared from behind him with a metal stylus. Varro took the writing instrument andquickly wrote ‘RESPECT’ in the wax. Laying aside the stylus he passed the tablet back to Rufus. Then he looked directly at Venerius. “Respect,” he said. He paused, for effect, then added. “You and the tesserarius are dismissed, centurion.”
Gallo and Rufus turned and left the tent.
The shocked Venerius stood looking from Varro to Martius and back again.
“Tribune Venerius,” Martius now said. “If you have not reported for duty in full uniform and equipment by the time the sun has set, you will be considered in breach of your orders and you will be charged accordingly. Well? What are you waiting for, boy?”
Venerius swallowed hard, then turned and left the tent.
Martius looked at Varro and Crispus the curly-headed cavalry prefect. His severe expression gave way to a grin. “That seemed to do the trick,” he said.
“Could you really court martial him, questor?” asked Crispus, in a lowered voice.
“Of course,” said Varro. “All that is required is a panel of three officers senior to, or equal to him in rank—you, Martius, and myself.”
“I would quite enjoy it,” said Martius. Then he frowned. “You don’t think I came on a little too strongly, do you, Julius? Any other thin-striper would have felt the back of my hand, but this annoying little monkey is Mucianus’ nephew, after all.”
“He cannot use his connections to escape his responsibilities,” said Varro emphatically. “You were quite right to set the boundaries, Marcus. This is only the first day of the mission; we must start as we mean to go on.”
Outside, on their way to the main gate to commence the distribution of the password, Gallo and Rufus were passing along beside the enlisted men’s tents, where cooking fires in front of tent doors glowed in the failing light. Every squad cooked its own food, and tonight the men would be eating hot broth and freshly baked bread oozing with a spread of olive oil. As they walked, Gallo and Rufus happened to look back, to see Venerius emerge from the questor’s tent then run to his own.
“Little toad!” Gallo growled, halting beside the standard bearer’s tent, where lamps radiated light onto the detachment’s sacred standard in its portable camp altar. He glowered toward the tent occupied by the thin-stripe tribune. “Accuse me of laying hands on him, would he!” Under Roman military law, this was a capital offense.
“He’s a fool, centurion” said Rufus. “You know what the men are calling him? ‘Soupy.’ Because he’s thick and wet.” Rufus guffawed.
“He’s no fool,” said Gallo coldly, “he merely acts foolishly. In his arrogance he doesn’t think before he acts. But accusing me of assaulting him was worse than foolish.” His face was set in as fierce an expression as Rufus had ever seen on the centurion. “For his trouble,” said Gallo, “Venerius has made himself an enemy, for life.”
By the afternoon of the third day into the journey, having made better than twenty miles each day, the expedition reached Laodicea on the Mediterranean coast, principal port of the province of Syria. Here, the men of the Varro expedition prepared to spend the night in a regular marching camp outside the city walls, setting up their small camp inside an existing temporary fortress as usual. The legionaries followed camp markers set out by the junior tribune Venerius, who was now riding with the advance guard by day and serving as officer of the watch each night as instructed.
After dinner in the questor’s tent, most of the officers and officials returned to their own quarters, but Martius lingered with Varro to discuss the expedition’s itinerary. With cups of diluted wine in hand, they each lounged on a separate dining couch. Both agreed that, after visiting Beirut, Sidon and Tyre, they should swing inland, to the city of Caesarea Philippi at the head of the Jordan River.
Gallo and Rufus turned and left the tent.
The shocked Venerius stood looking from Varro to Martius and back again.
“Tribune Venerius,” Martius now said. “If you have not reported for duty in full uniform and equipment by the time the sun has set, you will be considered in breach of your orders and you will be charged accordingly. Well? What are you waiting for, boy?”
Venerius swallowed hard, then turned and left the tent.
Martius looked at Varro and Crispus the curly-headed cavalry prefect. His severe expression gave way to a grin. “That seemed to do the trick,” he said.
“Could you really court martial him, questor?” asked Crispus, in a lowered voice.
“Of course,” said Varro. “All that is required is a panel of three officers senior to, or equal to him in rank—you, Martius, and myself.”
“I would quite enjoy it,” said Martius. Then he frowned. “You don’t think I came on a little too strongly, do you, Julius? Any other thin-striper would have felt the back of my hand, but this annoying little monkey is Mucianus’ nephew, after all.”
“He cannot use his connections to escape his responsibilities,” said Varro emphatically. “You were quite right to set the boundaries, Marcus. This is only the first day of the mission; we must start as we mean to go on.”
Outside, on their way to the main gate to commence the distribution of the password, Gallo and Rufus were passing along beside the enlisted men’s tents, where cooking fires in front of tent doors glowed in the failing light. Every squad cooked its own food, and tonight the men would be eating hot broth and freshly baked bread oozing with a spread of olive oil. As they walked, Gallo and Rufus happened to look back, to see Venerius emerge from the questor’s tent then run to his own.
“Little toad!” Gallo growled, halting beside the standard bearer’s tent, where lamps radiated light onto the detachment’s sacred standard in its portable camp altar. He glowered toward the tent occupied by the thin-stripe tribune. “Accuse me of laying hands on him, would he!” Under Roman military law, this was a capital offense.
“He’s a fool, centurion” said Rufus. “You know what the men are calling him? ‘Soupy.’ Because he’s thick and wet.” Rufus guffawed.
“He’s no fool,” said Gallo coldly, “he merely acts foolishly. In his arrogance he doesn’t think before he acts. But accusing me of assaulting him was worse than foolish.” His face was set in as fierce an expression as Rufus had ever seen on the centurion. “For his trouble,” said Gallo, “Venerius has made himself an enemy, for life.”
By the afternoon of the third day into the journey, having made better than twenty miles each day, the expedition reached Laodicea on the Mediterranean coast, principal port of the province of Syria. Here, the men of the Varro expedition prepared to spend the night in a regular marching camp outside the city walls, setting up their small camp inside an existing temporary fortress as usual. The legionaries followed camp markers set out by the junior tribune Venerius, who was now riding with the advance guard by day and serving as officer of the watch each night as instructed.
After dinner in the questor’s tent, most of the officers and officials returned to their own quarters, but Martius lingered with Varro to discuss the expedition’s itinerary. With cups of diluted wine in hand, they each lounged on a separate dining couch. Both agreed that, after visiting Beirut, Sidon and Tyre, they should swing inland, to the city of Caesarea Philippi at the head of the Jordan River.
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