Princes 15 – Scipio's Spy

Marcus Scipio and the Mycenian Campaign, 1740 AD

Part 1

The cannon rolled down the cobbled street, making a dreadful racket as they passed; their heavy wooden wheels clattered on the irregular cobblestones, and the ungreased axles groaned and squealed as the wheels turned. Lieutenant Marcus Scipio watched the cannon roll by and couldn’t help wincing.

“You overindulged last night, didn’t you, sir?”

Scipio turned and glared up at the man who’d spoken to him. Sergeant Necalli, “Cal” to his friends, was grinning cheerfully, apparently enjoying his commanding officer’s discomfort. The tall, dark-featured Aztec was standing at attention, his dark blue Rifleman’s uniform doing little to hide his powerful frame. Scipio himself was a tall man, and strong, but Necalli was a giant. Not for the first time, Scipio was thankful that the Sergeant was on his side in this war. But he wasn’t thankful enough not to be annoyed by his Sergeant’s chipper attitude.

“We all bloody overindulged,” Scipio grumbled. “Including you. So how is it that you’re so damned cheerful?”

“Water,” the Aztec responded. Scipio continued to glare at him, but quizzically. “Dehydration causes the hangover, sir,” he explained with an impudent grin.

Scipio now vaguely remembered how the big Aztec had come across a rain barrel during the previous evening’s revelry and had dunked his head in it, a sight which the other men had found extremely comical. He’d then proceeded to drink nearly a quarter of the rain barrel’s contents.

“And here we thought you were just stocking up for a pissing contest,” Scipio muttered. He regretted speaking even as he did so. His head felt incredibly tender, his ears oversensitive to any noise, and his tongue felt fat and dry in his mouth. He could feel that his sandy hair was plastered to his head by sweat beneath his shako, despite the coolness of the day.

But if a hangover was the price he had to pay, he’d pay it. Yes, he’d overindulged the night before, along with most of the Roman army, but no one could hold it against them. They’d fought the first battle of the Mongolian campaign and had taken the city of Mycenian after a protracted fight. Afterwards, the soldiers had celebrated their victory. They had also celebrated simply surviving, not being one of the many Roman casualties, nor the more numerous Mongolian dead. And of course, none of them knew if they’d still be alive to celebrate anything in a day, a week, a month, let alone a year or longer. So they’d gotten drunk, practically the entire Roman army, and Scipio along with them. He’d enjoyed it and had no regrets. Today, however, they all paid the price. The General was seeing to that.

Lieutenant Scipio stole a glance across Mycenian’s town square at his General. Gaius Rutullus Lepidus just sat there on his horse, staring balefully at his men, his dark blue uniform with its gold epaulets immaculate, his high cocked hat perfectly positioned atop his patrician head, concealing most of the close-cropped auburn curls that adorned his head. He was too canny, the General was, to punish the men outright for drunkenness; there would have been too many men to punish and too few to mete out the punishment. Instead, he’d ordered them out onto parade first thing in the morning and made the hungover troops watch… and listen… as the groaning, squealing cannon rolled by. As punishments went, Scipio had to acknowledge ruefully, it was excruciating, and brilliant. He swore that the only thing that rivaled the cannon in volume that morning was the gnashing of hundreds of Riflemen’s teeth.

The last cannon rolled by and left the square, and the men breathed an audible sigh of relief. Then they noticed the General watching them severely and braced themselves for whatever punishment he had in mind for them next.

“Well, I sincerely hope you miserable bastards enjoyed that,” General Lepidus said, speaking loudly and clearly from atop his chestnut brown stallion.

Several of the men around the square smiled ruefully. He was a hard man, they knew, but he’d led them well yesterday--led them to victory. That forgave a lot of sins, or in this case, fiendishly ingenious discipline.

“Just remember this,” the General continued. “From now on, you only get drunk when I give you permission to do so. Next time I’ll do much worse than simply aggravating your hangovers,” he growled. “Dismissed.”

The assembled soldiers perceptibly relaxed now that the ordeal was over. After receiving a nod from his Captain, Lieutenant Scipio turned to his own unit and quietly braced himself.

“Company… dismissed!” he called out, doing his best not wince as the sound of his own voice made his head throb painfully.

"Should we go find some of the hair of the dog that bit you, sir?” Sergeant Necalli asked.

Scipio glared at him. The tall, broad-shouldered Aztec was still irritatingly pleased with himself.

“I’ll settle for a bite to eat,” Scipio responded, “provided I can keep it down.”

Scipio and Necalli had first met on board the transport ship Minerva that had brought them from Rome to Mongolia. The passage had been rough and long, the quarters cramped, the food terrible. Many of the Riflemen, unaccustomed to sea voyages, had become seasick. Many more had threatened to mutiny. Scipio and Necalli had caught wind of the impending mutiny and, with a few other soldiers, had taken it upon themselves to suppress it.

Their actions hadn’t been an act of duty or patriotism on their parts as much as enlightened self-interest. Every man on board a ship that had suffered a mutiny was likely to be punished with a flogging at the very least, regardless of their level of involvement. Nevertheless, the two Riflemen had been promoted for their actions before even seeing their first battle. The experience had also led to the two men forming, if not quite a friendship, at least a partnership—a mutually beneficial relationship between an officer and his sergeant.

The two men turned and strolled out of the city’s central square, heading down a side street. They kept their wits about them, eying each window and door for trouble. They’d won the battle and taken the city yesterday, but the locals, of course, would not welcome these conquerors from a distant continent. There would be unrest and resistance, so they remained watchful.

“You in the mood for army rations,” Necalli asked, “or some of the local fare?”

Scipio gave a brief, derisive laugh. “You think the Mongos will actually serve us?” He asked in a skeptical tone. ‘Mongo’ was, of course, the soldiers’ somewhat pejorative term for the Mongolians. Considering the much coarser terms used yesterday to refer to the enemy during the battle, ‘Mongo’ seemed almost polite in comparison.

Necalli shrugged. “There’s always a few practical-minded businessmen ready to take anyone’s coin,” he said. “Businesswomen, too,” he added, stopping as something in a nearby alley caught his attention.

Scipio turned and looked to where his Sergeant was staring. There, in the darkness of the alley, he could just make out the silhouette of a woman. She stepped out hesitantly into the light, and Scipio’s breath caught. She was Mongolian, and she was quite beautiful.

The woman was a head shorter than Scipio. Her hair was long and dark; her almond-shaped eyes matched her hair colour. Her skin was golden. She wore a white buttoned shirt and a dark green skirt which was just short enough to reveal a few inches of her well-shaped calves; her pert breasts pressed against the fabric of the shirt and immediately caught Scipio’s eye, especially since the top buttons of her shirt were undone, revealing an enticing hint of cleavage.

She favoured Scipio with a come-hither glance and an inviting smile. How long had it been since he’d been with a woman, he wondered? Too damn long. Not since that skirt in the Subura, the tavern-keeper’s wife, the reason Scipio had found it necessary to join the army and get out of Rome until the whole ugly business blew over. He watched the young Mongolian woman approach him and felt the old, familiar hunger starting to catch fire in his body.

“I think I just found the cure for my hangover,” he muttered to Necalli with a grin. He slid his rifle off of his shoulder and handed it to the Sergeant.

“Ask her if she has a friend,” the Aztec replied as he took the weapon.

“Hello, love,” Scipio said to her, his smile broadening. He had a good smile, he knew; he had all his teeth and they were straight and clean.

“Hello, Rome soldier-man,” the Mongolian woman responded. She placed one of her hands upon a white-washed wall and placed the other upon her shapely hip, which she thrust out in a provocative pose. “You want good time?”

“Do I ever,” Scipio said, his tone low and intense.

Even as he approached her, he instinctively evaluated her as a threat. She carried no weapons that he could discern; her clothing was too tight-fitting, pleasantly so in his opinion, to conceal anything. No, she seemed like the genuine article. This pleased Scipio all the more. He’d managed to hang on to some of his coins last night, not spending them all on drink, and would be more than happy to leave a few with this delightful creature.

“I don’t suppose you have a friend around?” Scipio asked, generously remembering Necalli, who was leaning back against the wall on the opposite side of the alley, watching the encounter with a bemused expression on his face.

The woman eyed the big Aztec for a moment, her brows raising in appreciation as she took in the man’s size and masculinity. Then she shrugged.

“I do you, then I do him. Okay?” she said.

Scipio turned to glance at Necalli and grinned. “Rank has its privileges,” he quipped. Necalli just rolled his eyes.

“I have place. In here,” she said, indicating a doorway behind her with a brief nod of her head. “Two Rome coin each, okay?”

“Sounds fair to me, love,” Scipio said agreeably. She took his hand to lead him down the alley.

“See you in a minute, sir,” Necalli called after him. Scipio turned around briefly and held up his index and middle fingers, the back of his hand towards his Sergeant. The Aztec smirked and chuckled lowly at the rude gesture.

The woman led Scipio a few paces down the alley. He followed her into a doorway and found himself in the empty storeroom of what appeared to be a disused general goods store. He glanced around for a mattress but saw none.

“Standing up then?” he said with a smirk. “Fine by me, love…”

Suddenly the smile disappeared from Scipio’s face. Even in the dim light of the abandoned shop, he could see the change that had come over the woman, and it startled him. Gone was the enticing, come-hither stare. She was staring at him levelly in a manner that reminded him of a cat eying prey. He knew that look that had suddenly appeared upon her face. He’d seen it enough times in the Subura back home. This was no mere prostitute; she was a predator. Instinctively, his right hand moved to his belt, to the knife he carried there.

The woman made a derisive sound as she watched him.

“Relax, lieutenant,” she said in clear, unaccented Latin. “You’re not in any danger. Unless you try to rape me, in which case I’ll take that knife and relieve you of your manhood before you make another move.”

“What the hell…?” Scipio said, his pale blue eyes opening wide as he stared at the woman.

“I don’t have much time,” she said. “I have a message for the General.”

“Lepidus?” Scipio said, his mind still reeling.

“Is there another Roman General in Mongolia?” the woman asked him with more than just a little sarcasm in her voice.

Scipio still struggled to clear away his confusion. “I’ve never even spoken to…” he began to say.

“I’m going to tell you something,” the woman went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “A set of phrases. It will mean nothing to you. But you must memorize it and relay it, word for word, to General Lepidus himself. Understand?”

Scipio nodded; his mind was finally catching up to the situation. Even so, he felt completely out of his depth.

“I’m no spy…” he began to say.

“I’m well aware of that,” the woman muttered impatiently. “But you’ll have to do.”

There was a noise out in the street in front of the shop. The woman’s body jerked suddenly in alarm and she turned to look through a doorway to the store’s grimy front windows that were partially boarded up. She briefly saw a child run by. Her slender shoulders slumped as she breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’re in danger,” Scipio observed.

“My, you’re a quick one, aren’t you?” the Mongolian woman said in a cutting tone.

“Maybe you should come with me and my Sergeant and deliver this message in person,” Scipio suggested.

The woman blinked twice, expressing her surprise. Then an amused half-smile appeared upon her lips.

“Very gallant,” she said. “But completely impractical. Now listen closely. ‘Hercules has cleaned the stables, and is rounding up the mares. The lion is slain. The cattle remain free.’” She made him repeat the statement several times to prove to her that he had memorized it.

“There’s a problem, though,” Scipio told her. “I’m just a lieutenant. The General won’t give me the time of day.”

“Just tell them the message is from Larentia,” she said, and made him repeat the name several times as well. “I have to go,” she said suddenly.

With that, she turned away from him and cautiously made her way through the darkened store towards its front door. Scipio’s mind was still whirling; he stood and watched her go. She opened the store’s creaking front door and stepped into the street.

Just then, Scipio heard a man’s voice shout and saw Larentia tense. She turned to her right, away from the voice, and took a step as if she was about to break into a run, but then stopped. She turned around and grasped the handle of the store’s door, but she never got a chance to open it. In a heartbeat, over a half dozen Mongolian men swarmed around her. Scipio watched as she quickly struck and felled two of them with skill and grace, but their numbers overwhelmed her. They grabbed her arms and held them tightly and painfully behind her back. One man, a tall, burly fellow who was apparently the ringleader, stepped forward and slapped her face, hard. She shook her head, then glared at the man and spat into his face. He slapped her again, and this time her head slumped forward.

Scipio felt his gorge rising. His teeth gnashed and his hands clenched into fists. He was about to run out of the darkened shop to her aid when suddenly she looked up and her dark eyes gazed directly into his. She gave a brief, barely susceptible shake of her head. Then the men holding her pulled her upright and dragged her away.

The leader of the gang remained standing out in front of the store. He turned and looked through its grimy windows. Scipio took a step back into the darkness deep in the abandoned store, but his eyes remained riveted on the face peering in towards him. The man was tall for a Mongolian, as tall as Scipio himself; he had a broad face and two long, thin mustaches that dropped down on either side of his mouth towards his chin. His eyes were narrow and hard, his mouth equally so. Scipio memorized every feature, hoping in his heart to see that face again when he had the advantage. Then the man grunted and walked away.

“I was right,” Necalli said with a grin a moment later when Scipio reappeared in the alley. “That didn’t take you…” his voice trailed off as he noticed the grim look on the officer’s face.

“Come on, Cal,” Scipio muttered as he retrieved his rifle from the big sergeant, “let’s go.”

“Where? What the hell is going on?” Scipio turned to glare at him, so Necalli quickly added, “Sir.”

“I have to go recite a bit of nonsense to the General,” Scipio replied. “A woman may have just given her life for it, so it damn well better mean something to somebody."
Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 2

A great oak door opened, and a heavy-set man in a dark blue coat with gold buttons and clean white breeches walked out. The sword hanging from his left hip indicated he was an officer, the red sash around his waist—not to mention his presence in the general’s chambers—meant he was a high-ranking one. Scipio quickly spied the two silver epaulets on the man’s shoulders and then knew the man held the rank of Major. He had short brown hair and a long, drooping mustache, and the way he eyed Scipio reminded the rifleman of how a cat sized up a mouse in the dark, dirty alleyways back home.

“Lieutenant Scipio?” the man said, and Scipio was on his feet at full attention in an instant.

“Sir!” he said, staring at a spot on the wall just above the Major’s head.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” the Major said.

The right side of man’s mouth twitched upward for a moment, indicating he found Scipio’s adherence to rigid army formality—which only served to advertise his anxiety—mildly amusing. Bastard, Scipio thought as he relaxed his stance as much as his body let him.

“Follow me,” the Major said.

A good soldier, Scipio did as he was told. He followed the Major into a large chamber, still decorated in simple Mongolian style and native woods, but now sporting some Roman additions, such as several large flags, all bearing a gold oak crown on a field of purple, the standard of Rome. At the far end of the room, two golden eagles atop oak staffs stood on either side of a large desk; behind the desk, on the wall, was a portrait of a man wearing the purple-striped toga of a senator, a patch over one eye, and, more significantly, a grass crown upon his head. At the desk sat a man with auburn hair speckled with grey that formed short, tight curls upon his head. He was dressed in a blue coat with gold epaulets, and was studying several papers in front of him.

Scipio followed the Major to the front of the desk, where the officer cleared his throat to get the General’s attention. The man at the desk looked up, then gently laid the sheet of paper he’d been studying upon his desk and slowly rose to his feet.

“General Gaius Rutullus Lepidus,” the Major said, “may I present Lieutenant Marcus Scipio.”

“Sir!” Scipio said, assuming a stance of full attention yet again.

“At ease, at ease,” the General said with a wave of his hand. He strode casually from behind his desk until he was standing in front of it and staring hard at Scipio, who did his best to stand steady before that intense, unwavering gaze.

“Tell me what she said,” the General ordered without preamble. “Verbatim, Lieutenant. Every word, exactly.”

Scipio repeated his message, fully aware of the General’s intense gaze that seemed capable of seeing clear through into the depths of his soul. Though the message meant nothing to him, he was aware that it was code and could have deep meaning for these two men, and therefore for the war. Scipio also assumed that the lovely young Mongolian woman who called herself Larentia had very likely risked her life to deliver the message to him.

When he finished, the General turned to Major Scaurus. The two senior officers shared a long, silent look that nevertheless seemed to convey a great deal of unspoken information. Then the General turned from Scipio and walked back behind his desk, his face pensive.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Scaurus said brightly, with a feigned friendliness that made Scipio all too aware that he was about to be dismissed. “That will be…”

“There’s more, sir,” Scipio said.

“More?” Scaurus said, his expression suddenly suspicious. “You did give us the entire message, didn’t you, Lieutenant?” he asked, his tone implying that there would be trouble for Scipio if he was holding out on them for some reason.

“Yes sir, every word,” Scipio replied. “But after she gave me the message, the woman was captured, sir. By a bunch of Mongos… sorry, Mongolians. They were… treating her quite rough, sir.”

A long, heavy silence hung in the room. Scipio watched as the Major and General shared yet another silent but significant communicative glance.

“Unfortunate,” the General said with a sigh, his lips pressed together grimly. “She’s been very useful to us.”

“Indeed she has, sir.” Scaurus said.

Every sensible instinct he possessed told Scipio to keep his mouth shut. He knew that the best thing he could do would be to deliver a smart salute and then beat a hasty retreat. But some other part of him wouldn’t let it go. He was all too familiar with that part of himself; it was the very reason he was in uniform fighting in Mongolia rather than relaxing in a tavern on the other side of the world. He could no more deny it than he could stop breathing.

“Sirs,” he said, and felt a cold sweat break out on his skin as the two senior officers suddenly focused their attention on him. They both looked somewhat appalled that he even had the temerity to speak up, but Scipio ploughed ahead. “Surely she must still be in the city somewhere. Some sort of… rescue operation can’t be out of the question, can it?”

The Major and the General were silent for a moment. Then Major Scaurus began to chuckle, a low, mocking laugh that made the blood rise to Scipio’s cheeks.

“Rescue?” Scaurus said. “Oh, you are a gallant one, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

“She’s obviously been acting as a Roman agent, sir,” Scipio continued, though the sensible part of his brain was silently screaming at him to stop. “Surely we owe her…”

“That is quite enough, Lieutenant,” the General said testily. “I don’t need to be lectured about quid pro quo with our agents by my junior officers.”

Scipio’s teeth gnashed together and he stared long and hard at his general, long enough to be considered insubordinate. Just as Lepidus’ brows rose, Scipio lifted his gaze to a spot on the wall above the General’s head and brought himself to attention.

“Sir!” he said, checking the anger he felt.

Lepidus sighed heavily and rose from behind his desk. “In war,” he said to Scipio in a tone that was surprisingly gentle, “sacrifices must be made. If you try to keep everyone from getting killed, you wind up getting them all killed. Perhaps if you rise higher in the ranks you’ll come to understand that, Lieutenant.”

“Sir,” Scipio said, his anger at the General’s seeming callousness dissipating. Even so, the abandonment of the woman continued to bother him.

Lepidus turned and marched back to his desk, nodding at Scaurus as he did so.

The Major simply turned to Scipio and said, “Dismissed, Lieutenant."
Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 3

“Bloody rifles,” Corporal Ancus Silo muttered.

His comment came on the tail end of the other Riflemen’s grumblings about their billet, a somewhat derelict warehouse near Mycenian’s port district. The roof leaked, rats scurried across the floor, and the place reeked of sulphur and potash and other goods that once had been stored there. What any of the complaints had to do with their weapons was unclear to an uninformed observer, but among the men of Rome’s 14th Legion, the comment prompted the usual response: appreciative chuckles from the other men, and a heavy sigh from Private Li Wei.

If only, Wei told himself, he’d had the sense to keep to himself the fact that he was the son of the man who had developed the Li rifle, which was standard issue in their unit. As soon as the other riflemen had found out, he’d spent the entirety of an evening listening to a litany of complaints about the weapon. Most of the problems were a result of manufacturer’s defects, poor maintenance, or simply the heavy use the weapons endured during warfare, but Wei became the de facto sounding board for every little issue with the rifles.

And then it got worse. Before long, whenever anything went wrong, the men blamed it on the rifles. Especially if Wei was within earshot, the implication being that his father and by extension he himself was somehow to blame if their biscuit was too hard, the weather too cold, or the officers were in a foul mood. Something would go wrong, a man would mutter “bloody rifles”, and all eyes would stray to Wei. And they’d laugh.

The young private felt a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t take it so hard, my young friend,” Private Lallena told him. “It’s just a little good-natured ribbing,” the Spaniard insisted.

Wei’s lips pressed together. “It’s a slight on my family’s honour,” he muttered.

“No it isn’t!” Lallena said with a laugh. “It’s a joke, and you should regard it as such. It’s even a sign of acceptance and dare I say affection. Though frankly, that heavy sigh you give each time the rifles get blamed for something is a cherished part of the routine, so by all means keep it up.”

Wei rolled his eyes, which only made his Spanish friend laugh yet again. Then he shrugged and laughed. Perhaps Miguel had a point, he thought…

Wei’s ruminations were interrupted by the sound of the warehouse door slamming open, followed by several heavy, rapid footfalls. The men fell silent. Lieutenant Scipio had returned from his audience with the General, and he was in a foul mood, that much was obvious.

Sergeant Necalli followed Scipio as he stormed into the warehouse. The Lieutenant stomped past his men and went straight into the former shipping/receiving office, now his makeshift quarters. He slammed the door behind him.

“I take it that our esteemed Lieutenant’s meeting with el General did not go well?” Lallena said to Necalli.

The big Sergeant shrugged his broad shoulders. “He wouldn’t say, but it’s a safe bet,” he commented.

“What’s all this about, anyway?” Wei asked.

Necalli told the young private as much as he knew: that he and Scipio had met a Mongolian woman who was, in fact, some sort of Roman agent. She’d given Scipio a message for General Lepidus, then she’d run off and gotten captured by some local ruffians—probably resistance fighters, or worse. Wei shuddered a little upon hearing the story; he could well imagine how a perceived traitor would be treated. The fact that she was a woman would make her punishment all the more sordid and gruesome.

A few minutes went by, and the men’s interest in the Lieutenant’s business with the General quickly waned. Necalli pulled out a deck of cards, and Silo, Wei, and Lallena joined him, sitting upon barrels around a wooden crate to play a hand or two of whist, a game imported from England that had become very popular in all of Rome’s territories. They’d just dealt the first hand when Scipio opened the door to his quarters and stepped out. The tall lieutenant’s eyes roamed about the warehouse for a moment, then came to rest on the four riflemen playing cards.

Necalli sighed. “So much for our game, lads. Here it comes…” he muttered.

Scipio walked up to the group of four riflemen. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced. They looked up at him expectantly. “I think it would be a good idea to mingle with the locals. Make their acquaintance and such. Chat them up. You never know what interesting things they might have to say to you, once you persuade them to loosen their tongues.”

Necalli knew where this was heading. “The General said there would be no rescue effort,” he reminded his officer.

“He said he wouldn’t launch one, that’s true,” Scipio said. “But he didn’t order me not to attempt such a thing myself. Besides, who said anything about a rescue? I’m just going for a walk.”

“In an enemy city we just captured yesterday?” Silo said. The Corporal was a sly man in early middle age, a poacher from Capua. His profession explained why he was in the army, as well as how he had become a crack shot.

“Well,” Scipio said, “if some of my men want to accompany me on my little stroll—to valiantly protect their officer, or just for company—I can hardly object. Not that I’m asking. Let alone ordering. Understand?” The riflemen glanced at one another, then nodded.

“Aren’t we awaiting orders or something?” Wei ventured.

Scipio looked at the young Private sharply. “That we are. In the meantime, our time is our own. Word is that Lepidus is deploying our guerrilla troops on the hills east of the city in anticipation of a counter-attack. The 14th is specialized in city raiding; that leaves us with some time on our hands, doesn’t it, Private Li? So. You can sit around in this musty, rat-infested warehouse. Or you can come with me for a walk in the fresh air.”

And attempt to rescue a woman, he didn’t say, but every man heard it. And attempt to rescue a female Roman spy from the men who’ve captured her and may be torturing her as we speak…

As one, the four riflemen rose to their feet.

“Nice evening for a walk,” Silo commented.

“Night air is good for the constitution,” Lallena agreed cheerfully.

“I had my fill of whist on the trip over anyway,” Necalli muttered. “And besides, the Spaniard cheats.”

Lallena’s mouth dropped open. “I damned well do not, you big mentula!” he shouted in indignation.

Necalli cast an amused sideways glance at him. “And why exactly did you join the army, anyway?” he asked with a knowing grin.

“I don’t cheat anymore…” Lallena muttered as he shuffled his feet.

“We should grab our ‘bloody rifles’, shouldn’t we?” Wei commented with a wry grin.

“That we should, lad,” Silo said with a smile, “that we should. Bayonets too, and several rounds of ammunition. You’d be surprised what sort of game you can find, even in the midst of a city.”

A few minutes later, the five riflemen left their makeshift barracks and walked out into the streets of the captured Mongolian city. The sun was setting in the west, visible as a burning orange orb across the Bay of Mycenian. Above it, the scattered clouds were the colour of blood.
Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy

Part 4

Jambyn Bayar looked up from the glass he was drying as five Roman riflemen walked into his tavern. He barely managed to withhold a curse. As if their mere presence here wasn’t bad enough, each of them was armed; all five men had rifles slung over their shoulders, while the officer also had a sword in a scabbard hanging from a belt around his hips. As the soldiers entered, the conversation in the room died. Over two dozen Mongolian men eyed these representatives of the conquering army warily.

The officer in the lead of the group was a tall, sandy-haired man, who was nodding to the local patrons as though they were acquaintances he saw every day. The officer’s smile and friendly manner did not deceive Bayar in the least; the man had a lean, hard look to him and moved like he knew how to handle himself. At his right shoulder was a mountain of a man with bronze skin and dark features; the mere sight of him convinced any Mongolians in the bar who were considering attacking these soldiers to restrain themselves. The other three riflemen looked no less confident and formidable.

And why shouldn’t they be confident, Bayar asked himself quietly. The Romans had arrived in force, as he’d known they would, and had captured Mycenian after a single day’s fighting. The Mongolian’s own riflemen had been unable to withstand the withering barrage from those Roman cannon. Bayar could still hear the echoing booms in his head, like deadly thunder that had made his children weep in terror. Just the sound alone had been enough to unnerve many of the defending troops; the terrifying effects of the cannonballs on them had been even worse.

But the Romans were here now—in Mongolia, in Mycenian, and now, of all places, in his bar. Bayar had little choice, therefore, but to force a wary grin onto his face and acknowledge the soldiers as they walked up to his bar. A half-dozen Mongolians vacated the bar as they approached; the Romans appeared to not notice this at all. The officer sat down on one of the stools while his men remained standing and turned to watch the crowd.

“D’you speak Latin?” Scipio asked Bayar.

“Some,” the bartender admitted.

“Whiskey,” Scipio ordered as he tossed a bronze Roman sestertius onto the counter.

Bayar stared at the coin without making a move to pick it up. “We no take Rome coin,” he said in broken Latin.

“Well you’d better damn well start,” Scipio said in a low tone that made no attempt to conceal the threat it contained. He smiled, then turned to look back at the other patrons who were watching him and his men sullenly. “You’d all better get used to having us around,” he said loudly. “When Romans go somewhere, we tend to stay. Just ask my Spanish or my Aztec friend here,” he went on, pointing at Lallena and Necalli in turn.

“They’re stubborn,” Necalli conceded with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

“Like barnacles,” Lallena added.

“So how about that drink?” Scipio said over his shoulder. Bayar sighed, took the coin from the counter, and reached for a bottle. “Not the cheap rotgut,” Scipio said, without even turning around to watch the barkeep.

Bayar’s hand drifted to a different bottle. He uncorked it an poured its contents into a glass for the Roman officer.

Scipio took a sip from the glass and rolled it around in his mouth. His brows rose. “Not bad,” he said, then tossed the rest of the drink back. “If you Mongos can make whiskey like this, I think we’ll get along just fine!”

“I no want trouble,” Bayar said to him nervously. “This good place.”

“We don’t want trouble either, friend,” Scipio said as he turned around on his chair to look at the barkeep. He lowered his voice so that only the barkeep could hear him. “In fact, you might be able to do us a favour. Then we’d be in your debt. That’s a very nice place to be, having Romans owing you something. Rather than the other way around.”

Bayar’s brows furrowed and his dark, narrow eyes regarded the Roman with undisguised suspicion. “What favour?” he asked warily. His eyes shifted to the other tavern patrons. He was well aware that cooperating with the invading army could earn him a world of trouble. He might have little choice in the matter, but that excuse would not curry any favour with the local resistance leaders. And Bayar had a wife and three children to worry about…

“I’m looking for someone,” Scipio said, still keeping his voice low. “Mongolian, tall bugger—tall as me. Broad face, two long moustaches,” he said, gesturing at his own face with one hand to illustrate his description. “Nasty fellow. You know him?”

As Scipio watched, the tavern owner’s eyes widened momentarily. Then he dropped his gaze to stare at the bar. “I no can help you,” he said.

“You know him, don’t you?” Scipio said. He reached into his money pouch for another coin, gritting his teeth when he felt how few were left there. He reluctantly brought out his last silver denarius and placed it on the bar.

“I say I no can help you!” Bayar shouted. “You keep money! I no can help!” He turned away from the Romans and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Scipio paused, staring at the bartender a moment longer. “Fine then, friend,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.”

He got up and walked out, his men following him. Only when the door closed behind them did Bayar let out the breath he’d been holding.

***

A couple of hours later, Bayar closed and locked the tavern’s front door and his shoulders sagged. He knew it was inevitable that some Romans might find their way to his establishment, but so soon? And then for them to start asking about Manlai! Trouble like that he didn’t need. At least they’d left without any fuss. He hoped that any other Romans that made their way into his tavern would want nothing more than a drink.

He told himself to relax. All told, it hadn’t gone too badly. Everyone there had seen him do no more and no less than any good Mongolian could be expected to do, under the circumstances. Refusing to serve them would have just resulted in trouble; but at the same time, he’d refused to give them anything more than what his establishment offered. Bayar allowed himself a smile and let his thoughts drift to his wife and his three children, who would all be asleep upstairs by now. He’d just sneak a peek in on them, as he did every night…

“Hello, friend.”

Bayar gasped and instinctively took a step back. He turned to his right, and there he was: the tall, sandy-haired Roman. He didn’t see his companions, but they couldn’t be far. Bayar nervously glanced around the bar even though he knew they were alone.

“I no your friend!” Bayar insisted. “You go!”

“I’m not going until you tell me what I want to know,” Scipio said. “You know the man I’m looking for. Who is he, and how do I find him?”

Bayar shook his head. “You no want to find him,” he said.

“Oh, but I do. You see, the big bastard took off with a Mongolian woman of my acquaintance. Pretty little thing, too. He’s probably torturing her—hurting her right now, as we speak. You can help me stop that.”

“I no can help—“

“Are Mongolian women fair game, then?” Scipio asked pointedly. “Is that what you people go in for? You treat your women as punching bags?”

Bayar didn’t understand every word that the Roman had said, but he caught the gist of it, and it made the gorge rise in his throat. He thought of his own beloved, precious wife, as well as his two daughters. He drew himself up, summoning what national pride he could muster.

“No!” he asserted. “We treat women good. Mongolian women, they get re… re…”

“Respect?” Scipio prompted him. The barkeep nodded. “Yes, well, that’s not what this woman I’m worried about is getting. What she’s getting is tortured, and eventually killed. You can help me stop that.”

Bayar stood there, his head shaking, his mind filled with images of the same fate befalling his own wife and girls. The best way to protect them was to send this man away without any help. But what if it was his own wife, or one of his girls, in Manlai’s hands? Wouldn’t he want someone, anyone, even a Roman, to rescue them?

Scipio was about to turn and walk away when he heard the man mutter something. “What was that?” he asked.

“Manlai,” Bayar said. “His name Manlai. I not know where you find him, but you ask, you find.”

Scipio nodded. Things worked much the same way in the Subura back home. If you made enough noise looking for one of the local bosses, eventually they’d come to you, or bring you to them, just to find out what the fuss was about. Men like that operated in the shadows; it wasn’t good for their business to have someone stumbling around, reminding the world that they existed.

Scipio reached inside his money pouch for a coin, but Bayar shook his head and held up his hand.

“No Rome coin. Bad if I have many,” he said.

Scipio nodded. “All right then,” he said. “My name is Lieutenant Marcus Scipio. If you ever need a favour, you come and ask for me.” He then turned and left, leaving by way of the tavern’s back door, the same way he’d come in. Necalli was waiting for him in the dark alley outside.

“Anything?” the big Aztec whispered.

“A name,” Scipio said. “It’s a start.”

The Sergeant nodded, and they warily walked down the alley to rendezvous with their three companions. Back inside, in the living quarters above the tavern, Bayar’s children were sleepily puzzled when their father pulled each of them out of bed to embrace and kiss them in turn.