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.
There was I thinking the next update had already been posted. 
Slaps wrist and mutters 'patience'.
![[party]](/images/smilies/partytime.gif "Party [party]")
