Cursors's Fury

Tavi tried not to give such cynical thoughts too much of his attention, but standing in the light, wooden storage building through the second chorus of yet another furious rant from Tribune Gracchus, to which he was not expected or allowed to respond, it was hard to keep from feeling somewhat bitter about the entire situation.

“Do you have any idea of the chaos you’ve caused?” Gracchus demanded. The beefy man slapped a pair of fingers against his opposite palm every few syllables, then jabbed them accusatorily at Tavi at the end of each sentence. “The measure of flour for each legionare is a precise calculation, Subtribune, and it is not subject to arbitrary adjustments by striplings on their first tour.”

There was a pause as Gracchus drew breath, and Tavi promptly interjected, “Yes, sir.” He had learned Gracchus’s rant-rhythm before the end of the second day.

“That’s why we use standardized, regulation measuring cups in the first place.”

“Yes, sir,” Tavi said.

“By introducing your shoddy replacements, you have thrown off my estimates, which will disrupt stores calculations for more than a month, Subtribune. I have every right to have you flogged for such a thing. In fact, I could have you up on charges for it and disenfranchised to repay the provisions budget.”

“Yes, sir,” Tavi repeated.

Gracchus’s eyes were already beady. He narrowed them even farther. “Do I detect insubordination in your tone, Subtribune?”

“Sir, no sir,” Tavi replied. “Only disagreement.”

The Tribune’s scowl darkened. “Do tell.”

Freed to speak, Tavi kept his tone mild. “More than a score of veterans had complained to their centurions that they were receiving smaller measures of bread at meals. When enough of them had done so, the centurions requested that the First Spear look into the matter. He did. Per standard procedure, the First Spear approached a Subtribune Logistica. I happened to be the first one he found.”

Gracchus shook his head. “Do you have a point, Subtribune?”

“Yes, sir. I investigated the matter, and it seemed likely that some of the flour was going missing between the storehouse and the mess.” Tavi paused for a moment, then said, “I started by verifying the accuracy of the measuring cups. Sir.”

Gracchus’s face went florid and angry.

“Though the cups appear to be standard-issue, sir, they are in fact forgeries that hold nine-tenths of what the actual cups will contain. I asked one of the smiths to beat out a few cups of the proper size, sir, until they could be replaced with standard-issue gear.”

“I see,” Gracchus said. His upper lip had beaded with sweat.

“Sir, I figure that someone must have replaced the cups with forgeries, then skimmed the excess flour off to a market for it-or perhaps they were utterly unscrupulous thieves with the gall to sell the excess grain back to the Legion at a profit.” Tavi shrugged his shoulders. “If you wish me to face charges, sir, I understand your decision. But I estimate that the amount of money gained from this business wouldn’t buy much more than a silver ring and a new pair of boots. I think we caught it before any real harm could be done.”

“That’s enough, Subtribune,” Gracchus said in a quivering voice.

“Of course,” Tavi went on, “if you wish to put me up on charges or take disciplinary measures against me, the captain would be obligated to open an investigation. I’m sure he’ll be able to sort out exactly who was stealing what from whom, sir. That might be for the best.”

Gracchus’s face turned purple. He closed his eyes, and the silver ring on his left hand rapped nervously upon his breastplate. His new boots rasped against the floor as he shifted uncomfortably in place. “Subtribune Scipio, you are sorely trying my patience.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Tavi said. “That was not my intention.”

“Oh yes it was,” Gracchus snarled. “You’re lucky I don’t drop you into a pit where you stand and close it after you.”

From the entry to the building, someone coughed politely and rapped knuckles against wood. “Good afternoon, sirs,” said Maestro Magnus, stepping forward to smile politely at them. “I hope this is not a bad time.”

Gracchus’s stare was almost poisonous, and Tavi was sure that if looks could kill, he would already be a dead man. “Not at all, centurion,” he murmured, before Gracchus could answer. “How may I assist you?”

“Captain Cyril’s compliments, Tribune, and will Subtribune Scipio join him at the practice field?”

Tavi frowned at Magnus, but the old Maestro’s expression told him nothing. “With your permission, sir?”

“Why not,” Gracchus said, his voice smooth. “I can use the time to consider how best to employ your energies. Something in the way of sanitation, perhaps.”

Tavi managed not to scowl at the Tribune, but felt his cheek twitch in a nervous tic. He saluted, then departed with Magnus.

“Was that about the measuring cups?” Magnus murmured, after they had walked away.

Tavi arched a brow. “You knew about it?”