Altar of Blood

2

‘Germania? Again?’

Scaurus smiled at the most outspoken of his centurions in the transit barracks’ lamplight. He’d decided to decamp from the house on the Viminal Hill in order to ensure that no hint of the Tungrians’ latest mission, or even their immediate destination, could reach prying ears. A former prince of the Brigantes, the tribe through whose lands the Roman defence of northern Britannia ran from sea to sea, Dubnus had long since given up any pretence at moderating his forthright manner.

‘Yes, Centurion, it’s Germania Inferior. Again. But this isn’t the Germania Inferior you know. What you saw was the civilised edge of the province where it abuts Gallia Belgica, farmland for the most part with the occasional vineyard. Whereas in reality Germania Inferior isn’t really much more than a military buffer zone, a strip of land no more than thirty miles deep protected by legions and auxiliary cohorts camped along the length of the river between the sea in the north-west and Fortress Bonna two hundred miles to the south-east. The governor of the province has two simple tasks to perform, the most important of which is to ensure that the barbarian tribes who inhabit the land on the other side of the river don’t get any ideas about crossing the Rhenus and settling in the Gaulish provinces to the west. And while the mission that the chamberlain has set out for us will initially take us to Germania Inferior, we won’t be staying there for long.’

The men he’d gathered for the briefing seemed to collectively lean closer to their newly reinstated tribune. In addition to Dubnus, who had acted as the 1st Tungrian cohort’s first spear while Julius had been temporarily ranked as the Third legion’s senior centurion during their time in the east, he had summoned Qadir, a centurion who hailed from the city of Hama in Syria, a man he valued highly both for his imperturbable steadiness and his men’s skill with their bows, and Cotta, simply for the veteran’s experience and forthright opinions. His German slave Arminius stood behind him, having long since become more companion than bondsman, the first member of the small group of men Scaurus had come to consider as his familia. Ignoring Julius’s disgust at being left behind, Scaurus had swiftly decided that since only a small portion of his two cohorts’ strength would be marching north he would leave a strong leader to ensure that those men left behind were kept fit and ready to fight, and since Marcus already knew the detail of their mission he’d sent the younger man home with the first spear to spend a little time with his son before the time came to leave. Taking a sip of the wine that he traditionally served at such gatherings of his officers, he pointed to the map that lay unfurled on the desk before him.

‘I’ll be taking a small party of men north to the provincial capital, and leaving the rest of both cohorts here, a distance of a thousand miles that I expect will take twenty-five days or so on horseback. From there we’ll cross the river by whatever means is deemed to be the most likely to get us onto the far bank without being discovered.’

Cotta looked up at him in surprise.

‘We’re going to cross the Rhenus?’

Scaurus’s lips twitched into a wry smile.

‘It’ll be fairly difficult to carry out the task I’ve been handed by the emperor’s chamberlain if we don’t.’

The veteran centurion shook his head with a stubborn expression.

‘But … everyone knows that barbarian Germania’s just a mess of forests and bogs, Tribune. How are we going to make any progress through that?’

He fell silent as he realised that both Scaurus and Arminius were looking at him with expressions of amusement.

‘You shouldn’t believe everything that you’re told, Centurion Cotta. The lands across the Rhenus are no better and no worse than those on the western bank, they just haven’t been subjected to Roman influence. There’s some fertile farmland, some deep forests and yes, even some mountains and bogs, but very little of it is completely impassable. The biggest challenge won’t be the terrain, it’ll be making sure that we’re not detected by the tribesmen who inhabit the land we’ll be crossing to reach our objective. Because if they find out what it is that we’re hoping to take away from them then both cohorts wouldn’t be enough to protect us. Not nearly enough.’

Dubnus stared at him in open disbelief.

‘What is it that’s so important to these tribesmen that we have to take it away? Gold?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘It isn’t a what, Centurion, it’s a who. We’re ordered to effect an abduction, gentlemen, a kidnapping of the most dangerous person in the whole of Germania.’

‘Since you’re here you can hold this young man while I sort out their dinner.’

Marcus took his son from Annia, placing the squirming infant onto his knee and jigging the child up and down to both their delight, his misery forgotten momentarily at the sight of his son’s innocent enjoyment.

‘And you, infamous daughter-namer, can have this wriggling bundle of delight.’

Depositing her daughter Victoria into her husband’s lap she turned on her heel and stalked into the kitchen, noisily rattling pots as she prepared the two children’s evening meal. Julius and Marcus exchanged knowing glances, the heavily bearded first spear grimacing at his friend.

‘Best not to say anything when she’s in this mood. She only brings up the fact that I chose the girl’s name without consulting her when she’s raging about something or other.’

The retort from the kitchen was instant.

‘I heard that. And you needn’t pull that face either.’

Silence reigned for a while, broken only by the children’s giggles, Julius’s eyes narrowing as his daughter first found his beard and then discovered the fun to be had from pulling at it.

‘So it’s Germania?’

His question went unanswered for a moment, while the Roman watched his son’s face beam with delight at their game.

‘So it seems. A simple enough task, as long as we don’t let the Bructeri get scent of us.’

‘Bructeri?’

‘A German tribe who live on the land across the river from the provincial capital.’

He moved the child to his other knee, repeating the jigging trick to provoke another giggling shout of delight, and Julius stared at him for a moment before speaking.

‘Marcus …’ The Roman looked up at him, eyebrows rising at the troubled look on his friend’s face. ‘Are you sure that you’re ready for this?’

‘Which means you’re sure I’m not.’

Julius shrugged helplessly.

‘You’re your own man. But …’

‘But I’m not myself. Withdrawn most of the time, distant, as if I’m not really interested in what’s happening around me. Yes. I believe my wife would have diagnosed a severe reaction to a number of events that have happened over the last few years. The death of my family, several pitched battles, the killing of my enemies both for the empire and for my own purposes and now her rape and effective murder by the one man I can’t take any revenge on. I lack focus on the events around me, my former speed with my swords has deserted me and when I go to my bed sleep eludes me. I can hardly see the point of it all any more, Julius, and there are times when all I want to do is curl up in a corner and cry.’

His friend stared at him in silence for a moment, then nodded.

‘We’ve seen it before, in men who reached the limits of their courage and surrendered to their fears. And you and I both know that they swiftly become useless in a fighting unit, much less a detachment tasked with crossing the river Rhenus and taking on these …’

‘Bructeri.’

‘So why go, Marcus? Why put yourself at such risk when you’re clearly not ready? Stay here with us, enjoy your son! The gods know you’ve seen little enough of him since he was born, and here you are threatening to go away and in all likelihood never come back.’

The younger man jigged his knee again, setting Appius giggling once more.

‘I know. And I know I should stay. But I can’t. What if my friends went across the Rhenus and were never seen again? How could I forgive myself? And what is there for me in Rome anyway, other than the ghosts of my family and my wife, and the grinning, fornicating bastard that murdered them all?’

Julius shook his head in disbelief.

‘You’re going with them. You’re going to turn down the chance to rest, recover your wits and spend some time with the child, and go north as part of some idiotic scheme that’s more than likely been dreamed up by that bastard Cleander simply as a way to have you disappear.’

‘Yes. I should feel some emotion at the prospect of leaving Appius fatherless, but all I feel is … numb.’

‘He’ll never be fatherless, I promise you that.’

‘Here, you can shovel this into the little monster.’

Annia had returned with a pair of bowls, placing one on the table in front of Marcus.

‘Perhaps you’ll have more luck than I normally do in avoiding him getting it all over himself and whoever’s feeding him.’

Taking their daughter from Julius she sat the child on her knee and reached for the other bowl, only to freeze as an infant’s wail came from the nursery on the floor above them. Giving her a knowing look Julius reached out and took Victoria, who looked up at him with the same slightly baffled expression with which she had regarded him since his return the previous day. Returning with the baby, Annia went into the kitchen and busied herself with a pan of milk whose contents, suitably warmed, went into a terracotta bottle which, once filled through a trio of slots in a dished section at the thicker end, had only a tiny hole at its pointed end from which the baby might drink. Marcus looked up as she walked back into the room with the infant, his face hardening at the sight of the child. The woman took her seat in silence, lying the child back in the crook of her arm and positioning the bottle to dribble a thin stream of warm milk into his mouth. Only when he was contentedly sucking away at the spout did she look up at Marcus with an expression he’d learned brooked no argument.

‘I know what you’re thinking. You look at this baby and all you can see is Commodus violating your wife and bringing about her death. And you’re right. The emperor did rape her, and the blame for her death does lie with him. But it doesn’t have anything to do with this innocent. I promised Felicia before she died that I’d raise him as my own, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

She tipped her head at her husband, who wisely concentrated on putting food into his daughter’s mouth.

‘Julius has already agreed, not that I gave him any choice, and you’re going to promise me never to do anything to bring harm to the child. You’ll keep the facts of his birth to yourself, no matter what provocation might come your way, and you’re going to allow him to grow up to be the best man he can possibly be, with Julius and me to guide him. And do you know why?’

The Roman shook his head in silence.

‘Then I’ll tell you. You’ll be gone again soon enough, away to perform whatever suicide mission it is that’s been dreamed up for you and Rutilius Scaurus this time, leaving me here with these three. A pair of two-year-olds and a newborn to raise-’

‘We can hire a nurse. More than one if need be.’

Her smile was thin enough for the meaning to be clear.

‘Nurses feed children, bathe them and clean their backsides three times a day. But they don’t often raise children, talk to them, entertain them, or give them love.’

‘But the right nurse-’

‘Will still only be a nurse and not a mother. I’ll be mother to the three of them, and Julius, given he’s not going with you, can play at being a father for a while. While you go and do your best to get yourself killed, no doubt.’

She looked at Julius again.

‘He’s told me the sort of thing you get up to.’

Julius shrugged apologetically, and Marcus found himself unable to resist a wan smile.

‘I surrender. All I have to offer is abject apology …’

The woman stared at him for a moment in silence, her expression softening.

‘The gods know you’ve been through enough, Marcus, your family destroyed, your name and honour trampled into the dirt, and now this latest horror. Doubtless you’ll be happier killing barbarians in whatever part of the empire it is you’re being sent to this time than moping here, with your fingers twitching for the emperor’s throat. Perhaps you’ll even be able to forget all this, for a while at least. Just don’t forget, while you’re out there killing Rome’s enemies, that you’ve got a son here who’ll need a father if he’s to grow up whole.’

Marcus nodded gravely.

‘I can’t argue with you, Annia. And I thank you for your devotion to my wife, and to her memory. I promise by the name of Our Lord the Lightbearer never to harm the child through act or word. What name have you given him?’

Annia’s face softened again as she looked down at the feeding baby.

‘I decided upon Felix.’

Marcus smiled bleakly.

‘Felix? He’s certainly had his fair share of luck, I’d say, but-’

He looked down in dismay as Appius buried a food-streaked face in the wool of his tunic.

‘Ah. I see what you mean.’

‘Every man is to wear mail. No scale armour or crested helmets for the centurions, no bronze for the officers and no segmented armour to be worn by the men either. I want nothing to differentiate any of us from each other, or to indicate who might be a centurion or senior officer.’

Scaurus looked at the gathered centurions with an expression that told them he was deadly serious.

‘Vine sticks will not be carried, and medal harnesses will not be worn. The glorious panoply of the legions is all very well if you’re marching into enemy territory with four eagles and forty cohorts at your back, but not quite as well advised when your party numbers as few men as ours will. There will be no decorated equipment of any sort, just standard-issue items straight from the stores with nothing to make the user stand out. Shields, oval shields mind you, will be painted plain green and kept in their covers until such time as we’re across the river, and their metal edging will be removed and replaced with rawhide. I want any casual observer to think at first glance that the men he’s looking at are German, and I want as much uniformity between every man’s armour and equipment as possible.’

‘If I might be so presumptuous as to question this decision, Tribune, why is it that you wish all of us to appear identical?’

Scaurus turned to face Qadir.

‘Because, Centurion, if any of us are captured the best we can hope for is a quick death, with as little further unpleasantness as possible.’

The Syrian raised an eyebrow.

‘You imply, Tribune, that these Germans habitually use torture on their captives?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘Not always. It depends on the tribe, and how their interactions with Rome have left them feeling towards us. I myself heard enough screaming from enemy camps during the war with the Marcomanni and the Quadi to know that being taken prisoner is often by far a worse alternative than stopping an arrow or a spear. Of course a chieftain may order his men to spare captives, looking to sell them back to Rome or simply enslave them, or he may choose to punish their audacity in breaching his territory by making an example of them. The histories mention soldiers being caged and starved to death, or set alight to burn for the Germans’ amusement, but when it comes to officers their ferocity is unbounded. The survivors of several defeats have returned with tales of men having their eyes pulled out and their tongues severed, but the most bestial treatment is sacrifice on an altar in one of their sacred groves. There are tales told by the very few men who survived German captivity of more than one senior officer having his ribcage cut open with a saw, then pulled apart with simple brute force, and his heart pulled still beating from his body.’

He looked around his mesmerised audience and shrugged.

‘A fate that I’d be happy to avoid if the only price I have to pay is to be parted from my bronze for a while.’

He’d hoped the quip would lighten their mood, but Cotta shook his head in disbelief.

‘They actually sacrifice men to their gods? I thought those were just-’

‘Stories used by the veterans to keep the younger men in their place?’

All eyes turned to the tribune’s slave Arminius, whose usual practice was to sit in silence and observe proceedings with a faint air of disdain.

‘Not in the case of my people, the Quadi. We sacrifice men, and women, to our gods, Tiwaz the god of war, and Wodanaz who guides our souls to the underworld. Some sacrifices are entirely voluntary, such as a slave who wishes to be with his dead master …’ He paused, nodding at Scaurus. ‘Others, obviously, are not. But do not imagine that the tribes east of the Rhenus reserve this treatment especially for you Romans. Any captives in time of war are treated with just the same disregard for their lives. It is simply our way.’

‘But that’s-’

‘Barbaric? It is harsh, certainly, to have your heart torn from your body and held up before your dying eyes. But is it really any worse than the way that you Romans treat your captives? When I was taken prisoner by my master there,’ he pointed to Scaurus, ‘every other man of my tribe who was made captive by the Romans was chained to several other men and marched away into slavery. Not the type of slavery I have lived over the last ten years, with a respectful master who values me for my abilities, but enslavement to the arena. They were taken to be gladiators, marched away to Rome in order to provide your people with entertainment in the Flavian arena. They’re all dead now, of course, unless any of them survived long enough to win their freedom, but instead of a swift death they suffered an agony of waiting for their fate to come for them, and for Wodanaz to finally walk with them on their journey to greet their ancestors …’

He fell silent, and Scaurus looked at him for a moment longer before resuming his instructions.

‘Every archer is to carry two quivers full of arrows. Once we’re across the river we’ll depend on them for protection against our being detected as we move towards our objective. The soldiers are to carry an oval shield, a dagger, a sword and a single spear, of a design which is currently being manufactured for me by the armourers who supply the gladiatorial schools. Of course the swords will undermine our disguise as tribal warriors the moment anyone gets close enough to see them, since that much iron is a rarity among them, and they usually make do with a spear. But not a throwing spear, gentlemen, it’s something entirely more daunting, both to use and to face.’

‘Not a throwing spear? If it’s not made to be thrown then how much use can it be? Don’t tell me we’re going back to those ten-foot-long horse-poking sticks.’

Arminius spoke again, his face creased into a knowing smile.

‘Oh it can be thrown, Dubnus, we just don’t often choose to do so. The weapon my master has in mind is called a framea. And I will teach you soon enough just what it can do.’

‘I think we’re safely out of earshot, First Spear. So what is it that you wanted to discuss in private?’

Julius had suggested that he and Scaurus take a turn around the practice ground while their cohorts were exercising the next morning, and the tribune had simply extended a hand to indicate that he would follow his first spear’s lead, waiting until there was no danger of their discussion being overheard. His subordinate’s next words were every bit as blunt as he had expected them to be.

‘I don’t think that you should be planning to take Centurion Aquila with you, Tribune.’

Scaurus looked away across the ranks of sweating soldiers in silence for a moment before responding.

‘I’m inclined to agree with you. Not only is he deep in the grief of his wife’s unexpected death, but he’s clearly unbalanced. First he went on the rampage through the night-time streets and now he’s retreated into himself. All I can get out of him is monosyllabic answers for the most part. Respectful, considered, but not meaningful responses.’

Julius stopped walking, pointing with his vine stick at the nearest century and raising his voice to a bellow.

‘Rear rank, put some fucking effort into it or I’ll come over there and take my fucking stick to the lot of you!’

Both men watched the soldiers in silence for a moment, Julius smiling grimly as the men’s centurion, clearly smarting under the criticism, promptly laid about him with his own vine stick in a random but apparently highly effective display of his motivational skills.

‘So we’re agreed then, he’s in no way ready for another one of this man Cleander’s little suicide missions? You’ll order him to remain behind?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not. There’s a third opinion that you’re unaware of, but which carries a good deal more weight than mine. And it belongs to that man Cleander.’

Julius stared at him in disbelief.

‘He ordered you to take Marcus with you?’

‘Yes and very specifically.’

The chamberlain had called Scaurus back into the room as he and Marcus had made their exit at the end of his briefing as to their new task.

‘One more thing, Tribune?’

Scaurus had exchanged glances with Marcus and gestured for him to take a seat in the anteroom, turning back to Cleander with a look of apprehension as the doors were closed again. The freedman who now exercised almost untrammelled power on behalf of his master the emperor had shaken his head knowingly in his place behind the desk.

‘Don’t worry, Tribune Scaurus, I’m not intending to do you any harm. Not for the present.’

The soldier had smiled thinly.

‘Nor did I expect that you were, Chamberlain. My concern is for that man out there, not myself.’

‘Perceptive of you, not that you’re anyone’s fool.’ Cleander had leaned back in his chair. ‘And this does concern young Aquila.’

‘Yes?’

‘Under no circumstances is he to remain in Rome when you leave for Germany.’

Julius stared at his superior in disbelief.

‘Why? Why would he order you to take the man with you, unless …’

‘Unless he wants to get him killed? I asked him the same question.’

‘And …?’

Cleander had regarded Scaurus with a calculating expression.

‘What do you think he’ll do, left here to brood? Given the violence of his initial reaction to the news of his wife’s unfortunate death?’

Scaurus had mused on the question for a moment.

‘I think he’ll grieve for a month or so. And then, if he stays here, I think the constant reminders of his wife will harden his mind in ways that might not be that constructive.’

‘Indeed.’ The chamberlain’s tone had been acerbic. ‘He may very well take it into his mind to come looking for vengeance. And at that point, one of two things will happen. Either, by some fluke or stroke of fortune he will succeed in his attempt on the emperor’s life, or entirely more likely, I’ll simply be forced to make him disappear before he can try any such thing, never to be seen again. Either of which eventualities would be a shame, don’t you think?’

Scaurus had bowed fractionally in acceptance of the point.

‘I’ll take him along for the ride, although I can’t see him being of very much value in his current mental state.’

Julius grunted his agreement as the tribune replayed the end of the conversation.

‘You have that point right. He’ll either have his mind elsewhere when the time comes to face the locals or lead the detachment into a bloody-handed goat fuck that you can’t win.’

‘Which is why I plan to make Dubnus my senior centurion for the mission. Marcus will support the decision, he told me as much during our walk back from the Capitoline Hill when I’d informed him that I was going to have to drag him away from his son once more.’

Julius nodded in appreciation of the decision.

‘Dubnus? He’s a good enough choice. And it might stop him from going back to his role as the king of the axemen.’

‘Only ten men, Tribune? Surely you’ll be wanting the whole Tenth Century?’

Dubnus shook his head in amazement at his commanding officer, ignoring Marcus’s raised eyebrow, but Scaurus simply raised a hand to silence him.

‘I appreciate your zeal, Dubnus. Not to mention the fact that now you’re back in command of the Tenth you’ve reverted to type and started swaggering round like a man with balls made of bronze …’

He paused, allowing the gentle jibe to strike home, but if the big Briton was discomfited by the barb that he was emulating the pride and bombast of the officer his men had simply called the ‘Bear’, he showed no sign of it.

‘You can’t intend marching into enemy territory with a handful of men, Tribune, it’ll be no better than taking a knife to your own throat!’

Scaurus shrugged.

‘Possibly. Or possibly there’s strength in stealth and guile, rather than numbers. Either way you have my orders — select ten men from your century to accompany us across the Rhenus. And while you’re choosing them please keep in mind that I’m not recruiting for a weightlifting contest, and neither do I want men who despise their fellow men for not being six feet in both height and breadth. Bring me your thinkers, Centurion, men who are as quick on their feet as they’re good with an axe. If I see any of the usual sneering suspects from your front rank when we muster then I’ll make my own choice of their replacements and leave you behind along with them.’

The big man nodded grimly.

‘Understood, Tribune.’

Scaurus smiled tightly.

‘I hope so. It would be a shame to have to abandon my senior centurion before we’ve even marched a step.’ He smiled at the Briton’s baffled expression. ‘You heard me. Your plans to relax back into the role of big brother to my cohort’s centurionate will have to wait. Responsibility calls, Centurion.’

‘My ten best archers? The selection will be an easy matter, Tribune, but surely a stronger force would be advised?’

Scaurus shook his head at the Syrian.

‘Ten men are all that we’ll need, thank you Centurion. But as to your selection, it’s not going to be as simple as lining them up in front of a row of targets and taking the men who can hit their mark with the greatest frequency.’

The Hamian inclined his head in respectful question.

‘Rather than picking men who can hit the same spot ten times with ten arrows when the greatest pressure on them is nothing more dangerous than the approval of their peers, I need you to select those men who are your most prolific hunters.’

Qadir nodded his head slowly.

‘You want me to choose those among my command with the ability to move through the forest without disturbing leaf or branch? Those with the ability to bring down a startled deer as it turns to flee, with sure aim and the nerve to use it in the moment of greatest advantage?’

Scaurus patted him on the shoulder.

‘I think you discern my intentions clearly enough, Centurion.’

‘I need ten men.’

‘Ten?’

The chosen man’s expression was a perfect match for the face Dubnus himself had pulled when Scaurus had made his requirements clear, and he found himself smiling wryly at the man despite his continued sense of disbelief.

‘It’s worse than that.’

‘Worse? How can it be worse, Centurion? The tribune plans to ride north with only a handful of archers and ten of our lads to stand between him and an entire German tribe. The only way it could be worse would be if-’

‘Enough, Angar.’ Like Dubnus and most of the Tenth Century’s men, his chosen man had declined the option to take a Roman name on joining the cohort. ‘It’s worse, because the Tribune’s requirements of those ten men are very specific.’

‘Specific, Centurion?’

‘Specifically these …’

Dubnus looked across the transit barracks parade ground, taking stock of his century’s men as they exercised as was their practice each afternoon once the morning’s drill had been completed under Julius’s watchful eye. Lifting improvised weights, performing press-ups with a comrade on each man’s back, they were sweating in the sun without regard for the heat in pursuit of physical perfection.

‘The tribune wants men who will back down from a fight if doing so will keep the detachment undetected.’

He waited in silence for his deputy to digest what he had said.

‘He wants … cowards?’

‘No, Angar, he wants thinkers. He wants men who have enough brains to know when it’d be better to crouch in the cover of the forest and allow a stronger enemy to pass by, rather than sell their own lives, and those of their brothers, for a brief moment of furious bloodletting.’

The chosen man looked at the ground, shaking his head slowly.

‘It goes against everything we teach these men. We select the biggest and most capable-’

‘Not to mention those with the hottest temper.’

Angar shot him a hard glance.

‘- and we train them, make them stronger, harder, unbeatable in a fight — brothers until death. Ten of these men are worth fifty of any other century in the cohort when the blood’s flying! We are the tribune’s proudest and most dangerous men, and with that danger comes a sense of …’

He groped for a word, and Dubnus took his opportunity.

‘Arrogance.’ He spoke the word quietly, raising a hand to forestall any retort. ‘Cocidius as my witness, I feel it too. I strut around in front of my fellow centurions like a muscle-bound prize fighter, and I’ve even taken to calling some of them “little brother” in just the same way the Bear used to.’

Both men fell silent for a moment, remembering the centurion that his men had idolised, and his assumption of the role as their warrior king, the only man capable of snapping them out of their misery and making them fight like madmen at a desperate time.

‘We make them arrogant for a reason, Dubnus.’

The Briton smiled at his subordinate’s use of his given name rather than his formal title, a relaxation of formality that was taken for granted by the Tenth Century’s tightly-knit brotherhood.

‘We make them-’

Angar shook his head impatiently.

‘Hear me out, Centurion.’

He raised an eyebrow, but gestured with a hand for the other man to continue.

‘We make them arrogant because they have to believe in themselves and each other over anyone else. So that when the tribune gives the word they will run at the enemy with their axes ready to kill, taking far greater risks than those delicate flowers in the other nine centuries. They hide behind their shields and kill with the first few inches of their swords, dainty little stabs and thrusts to open their opponent’s arteries and let them bleed to death. Whereas we-’

‘I know. We court death every time we raise our axes to strike, and invite the man facing us to stab in with their spears.’

‘Exactly. We fight like tribesmen, smashing and hacking at the enemy. We leave the battle blasted with the blood of men we have cloven in two. We don’t kill on the battlefield, we slaughter, we decapitate and we tear men apart. We are warriors, Dubnus, where the rest of them are only soldiers. Our men need that edge of arrogance, or why would they throw themselves into the fight without concern for their own lives?’

Dubnus slapped him on the shoulder.

‘Well argued. You make me wish for a pack of tribesmen barking at our shields, and the command to take our axes to them. There is nothing finer in life …’

‘But?’

‘Exactly. But. In this case Tribune Scaurus has asked me — ordered me, to select ten men who have cooler heads. I know, there’s not a warrior among us without that sense of being the equal to three men from any other century, and I won’t back away from that pride, but I need you to find me the thinkers among us. You’re the first, by the way.’

‘Me? A thinker?’

Dubnus shook his head again in amusement.

‘You. A thinker. How else did you get to be the Tenth Century’s chosen man? And besides, if I’m going to prance around a German forest playing nursemaid to Qadir’s archers while they pick flowers and pull each other’s pricks like the eastern perverts they so clearly are, I’m not going to suffer the indignity on my own. So get thinking, Angar, and find me nine more thinkers to share my pain.’

Qadir smiled thinly as the two men before him snapped to attention, waving a hand at them and shaking his head in disgust, addressing them in the language of their mutual homeland.

‘Save the punctilious displays of respect for parades, it would make a nice change from your usual slouching and coughing.’

The younger of the two men standing before him, his age roughly the same as his centurion with whom he had been enlisted on the same day, kept his face carefully impassive as was his usual rule. The older of them, a goatherd before his recruitment into the army six months before them both, and therefore by his own estimation a man of greater experience and cunning, grinned knowingly.

‘We wouldn’t want to set any higher expectation among your brother officers, would we, Centurion?’

Qadir smiled thinly, recognising his comrade’s jibe for what it was intended to be, a reminder of the fact that they had all begun their military lives as simple archers, before their friend’s rise to command them which, given his birth, had been something of an inevitability.

‘Indeed, Husam. Why look professional when with just a little less effort you can remain a goatherd for the rest of your life?’

His friend bowed his head in recognition of the returned insult.

‘How can we be of service, Centurion?’

Qadir dropped his helmet on the desk of his quarter and gestured to them both to sit.

‘I have been selected to join the tribune and centurions Marcus and Dubnus in a delicate mission to the northern wastes. To Germania.’

‘You are clearly under the blessings of the goddess. Once more you have the opportunity to accompany your betters to a distant part of the empire, where unfriendly men will do their very best-’

Husam fell silent as he realised that Qadir was smiling at him in a not entirely humorous manner.

‘That is correct. But you are mistaken in one thing, old friend. She smiles upon all three of us.’

He turned away to place his vine stick on the office’s table, muttering quietly to himself.

The younger of the two raised a tentative hand.

‘If I might enquire?’

Qadir spread his hands wide, as if granting silent permission for the question.

‘Husam is your chosen man. I am your watch officer.’

‘And so you are asking me who is to lead the men while we are away from the city, Munir? Select someone. I very much doubt that there will be any call for our archers, here in Rome. They will be free to relax, and forget the horror of our recent battles against the Parthians. Whereas we will be reacquainting ourselves with the German forests.’

‘Cold, damp, miserably dark even in summer. There is little with which I have the urge to reacquaint myself. And their language, all that growling and gritting of teeth. I had not thought to sully my mouth with it again in this lifetime.’

Qadir grinned at Husam.

‘With luck you won’t have to. The tribune hopes to be “in and out again” without ever being detected. But, just in case his fond wish for a boring and uneventful few days is denied, we are to take ten archers, including you two.’

‘Ten?’ The question was incredulous in tone. ‘What use are ten bows against a tribe of screaming painted lunatics?’

His answer was an eloquent shrug.

‘I do not know, and I fervently hope not to find out. But, just in case the opportunity for that learning comes to pass, you must select eight more men to join us on this journey into the green half-light. And trust me in this, my brothers, you must not simply choose those men who are the most precise shots with their bows.’

Husam nodded wearily.

‘I know. You want the best hunters, the stealthiest, and the most deadly shots when it comes to dropping a man with a single arrow.’

Qadir nodded soberly.

‘I do. But I want them all to have one more essential quality, something which cannot be learned, but which must have been part of the man’s way of thinking when he fell out of his mother.’ Chosen man and watch officer stared at him in questioning silence. ‘Every man you select must have the ability to lose all fear of failure at the moment he releases the arrow, must be blessed with cold eyes that can measure the best point of impact for his last arrow even as the cataphract bears down on him in dust and thunder, knowing that if this last arrow fails him then he will surely die on the end of the horseman’s lance, or trampled under the hoofs of his warhorse. And, in the instant of releasing the arrow that he knows will surely fly true and fell his opponent, not to care.’

The room was silent for a moment before he spoke again.

‘I know you both possess this detachment from the fears of the battlefield, or neither of you would hold the positions to which you bring great honour. Now go and find me another eight like you. Men who are not shy of killing, but who more importantly are not afraid to die.’

The two men bowed to him briefly rather than saluting, and left him alone with his thoughts. On the steps outside the office the chosen man put a hand on his colleague’s arm.

‘Did you hear what he said in there, when he turned away and thought his words were private? That the goddess smiled on all three of us — if she smiled at all?’

Munir nodded his head soberly.

‘It is not the first thing he has said in the months since the battle for Nisibis that has given me pause for thought. More than once his words have implied that he is a less fervent believer in the Deasura than was once the case. You have noticed too?’

Husam shrugged eloquently.

‘I was hoping that it was more a question of my imagination than his words, but it seems that our friend is losing his love for our goddess Atargatis. In any case our men must not discover his wavering belief, so keep this to yourself. I will speak with him, and encourage him to consider his position as our century’s spiritual leader in this city of unbelievers. I am sure that he will understand my concerns.’

‘Archers and axemen. The ability to kill at a distance or to hack an enemy to ribbons. We should have every eventuality covered …’

Julius looked across the table at Scaurus, tearing off a piece of the bread on the plate before him and popping it into his mouth, chewing vigorously as he responded to the Roman’s musing. The tribune and his centurions had climbed the Viminal Hill with the sun’s last light to join the senior centurion and his woman for dinner, and talk had inevitably turned to their preparations for the march north.

‘You can kill anyone you see, hack anyone to ribbons that gets past the archers, and generally outfight anything short of a full tribal war band. So what’s worrying you?’

His superior took a sip of wine before answering.

‘The lack of … guile, I suppose?’

Julius snorted, shaking his head.

‘Guile? Given some of the men you’re taking, I’d say what you’ve got is more like villainy.’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘You miss my meaning, that or perhaps my expression was poor. And you’re right, we have as much power to kill or terrify we can muster in a group small enough to evade detection, but we still lack something …’ He paused, spearing a piece of meat with his fork. ‘Given that we’re going to have to go in on foot, and cross the river into their territory at some point, I think it’s a lack of intelligence that’s the problem. We could make our way into the heart of Bructeri territory by the most subtle and devious of means and end up walking into something quite unexpected, simply because we’ll have no idea as to the state of play where it matters the most.’

Julius nodded slowly.

‘I take your point. You could always take Silus with you and send him ahead?’

Marcus shook his head, breaking the reverie that had descended on him upon entering the house’s painfully familiar confines.

‘Not Silus, and not any of our cavalrymen, I’d say. They’re too obviously serving soldiers, which would make them targets for suspicion anywhere east of the Rhenus.’

The senior centurion thought for a moment, then his face lit up.

‘If you’re looking for someone who’ll blend into the landscape, a man that no one would ever suspect of being a serving soldier, I’ve just the man for you. And he’s right under your nose.’

He opened his mouth but before he could expand on his idea one of Cotta’s men escorted a newcomer into the room. The officers watched as he saluted Scaurus.

‘Rutilius Scaurus, a pleasure to see you again.’

Scaurus stood, returning the salute with grave solemnity.

‘Gaius Vibius Varus. It’s a pleasure to see you, even if somewhat unexpectedly. Will you join us for dinner, if the lady of the house can muster another seat?’

Varus smiled.

‘I would be delighted, Tribune.’

Silence descended upon the room as another place was set at the table, and Varus took his seat with a bow of thanks to Annia.

‘So, what brings a man of the senatorial class to this table? Shouldn’t you be reclining gracefully on a padded couch and listening to poetry while the house slaves feed you delicacies and young ladies compete to catch your eye?’

The younger man took a piece of bread from the proffered basket.

‘Thank you. As it happens I did have a dinner invitation tonight, an invitation issued by one of my father’s closest friends. It seems I’m quite the social must-have at the moment, with a dinner to attend every night of the week and sometimes more than one.’ He sighed. ‘They all want to hear my war stories and have me tell them how I spilled blood for the emperor. As the only man of senatorial rank who took part in our mission to Syria, everyone makes the automatic assumption that I must have been in command. At first I insisted on telling the truth of it, but the collective incredulity that an equestrian such as yourself might have commanded a legion seems to be just a little too hard to believe for most of them. The ladies flutter their eyelashes at me and lick their lips, while their fathers and husbands slap me on the back and compliment me on my modesty. I could dine out for a year on the reflected glory of our victory, and probably share a bed with a different woman each night, and yet …’

‘And yet what?’ Julius stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You did your part as well as any other man, and you’ve earned the opportunity to make the most of it. Eat, drink, suffer the bullshit and f-’ He shot a guilty glance at his wife, whose eyebrow was raised in an unmistakable signal of disapproval. ‘Er, enjoy as much female company as you can. The chance might not be along again for a while.’

Scaurus looked at the younger man for a moment before speaking.

‘But that’s not enough, is it, Vibius Varus? You’re not content to play the hero and take the kudos, are you?’

Varus shook his head.

‘I need something more. To be alive again, and see the world in vivid colours, to feel the blood sizzling in my veins …’

Marcus nodded knowingly.

‘You’ve stepped over the threshold that divides us from those men who’ve never taken sharp iron to another human being, never spilled an enemy’s blood to stop him spilling yours. And never laid awake in the middle of the night pondering those deaths.’

The younger man nodded.

‘I want to march with your spears again. You’re getting ready to go somewhere, perform some mission for the emperor.’ He raised a hand to forestall the denial. ‘Don’t try to palm me off on this, Tribune, I quietly strolled down here this afternoon, with a couple of ugly slaves to make sure I wasn’t interrupted, and I watched the most amusing thing I’ve seen in a long time. Archers and axemen learning to ride? Whatever next? And so I wondered to myself what the purpose of such an exercise, unless the men in question, a small number of men, I noted, are going to have to ride somewhere a long way away?’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow.

‘And your conclusion?’

Varus leaned across the table, his eyes alight with speculation.

‘You’re only taking thirty or so men, from the look of it, which means it’s something covert. If the job entailed fighting for whatever it is you’ve been tasked to win, or destroy, you’d be going in strength, whereas this, I’ll wager, is something subtler. So I discussed the state of Rome’s relations with her neighbours with my father. It seems that most of the frontiers are quiet now, especially since we put Parthia back in her place, but there are one or two spots on the map where the sparks of resentment still burn brightly. Places where, in some cases, there are Varus family members serving their emperor, hence my father’s interest in the affairs both of those provinces and their neighbours as well.’

He leaned forward in his chair.

‘Take me with you.’

Scaurus stared at him for a moment in silence.

‘And your father? Where does he stand in all this? I’d be more than a little surprised if he were supportive of your disappearing from Rome just at the time when your exploits in the east have probably guaranteed you a favourable marriage, and made you the talk of the city?’

Varus shook his head.

‘I’ve taken the precaution of not consulting him on the matter. He would most certainly say no.’ His face hardened. ‘And that wouldn’t end well.’

Scaurus spread his hands wide.

‘And as a tribune I have no suitable rank to offer you.’ He saw a confident grin spread across the younger man’s face. ‘But you’ve already thought that through as well, haven’t you?’

‘Make me a centurion. You know I can carry it off.’

Julius closed his eyes and muttered something unintelligible. Scaurus stared at Varus for a moment and then nodded slowly.

‘You might have something there, if you’re idiot enough to lower yourself to such a thing. You know this will be looked upon askance by the influential men who have been so much in your favour though, don’t you?’

Varus waved the thought away.

‘Victory is a child with a thousand fathers, Tribune, you told me that some time ago. If I come back from wherever it is we’re going in the company of men who’ve achieved a great success for the empire, then all will be well, perhaps even better than now. And if I don’t come back? Well in that case you can be assured that no one’s going to be all that worried about the rank I was carrying when I died.’

Scaurus looked at Marcus.

‘No view on this, Centurion?’

His friend’s haunted face turned to match gazes with him.

‘We only have one life, and it’s better to have lived it the way that feels right. Even if only for a short time. And doubtless one or two of our men will be honoured to keep an eye on our colleague and ensure that he comes to no more harm than the rest of us.’

Scaurus nodded decisively.

‘Very well. Get yourself kitted out tomorrow morning — I’m sure Julius will be delighted to help you make sure you look the part. Just don’t come complaining to me when there are hundreds of German tribesmen baying at the moon for your head.’

Varus smiled beatifically.

‘Germania? I’d hoped as much. With a bit of luck you’ll be able to make your acquaintance of my cousin. I think you’ll find him a most entertaining and useful man to know.’

‘Thugs, Tribune?’

Scaurus stared at Cotta for a moment before answering.

‘Your hearing clearly hasn’t deteriorated, Centurion Cotta, although what I actually specified was the Briton Lugos and some thugs. We can’t leave him here, he’ll be lost without us.’

The veteran raised an eyebrow at the younger man.

‘Far be it from me to contradict as fine a specimen of the equestrian class as yourself, Tribune, but my impression was that you were planning a swift raid on these Bructeri, an in and out with as little noise as possible, and with the Germans not even knowing that we’re there until we’re back on the right side of the river with the prize.’

The tribune nodded with an approving expression.

‘That’s exactly what I’m planning. My congratulations not only on the state of your hearing but your general cognitive powers as well.’

Cotta shook his head with a look of mystification.

‘If it’s all got to be done on tiptoes then why would you be asking me to recruit thugs to bring along, given that we both know that thugs usually operate in a manner that’s the direct opposite of either subtle or restrained? Not that I would ever have thought to describe Lugos in those terms.’

Scaurus raised a knowing eyebrow.

‘The why, Cotta, is something that I shall keep to myself for the time being, so I suggest you concentrate on what I’ve asked for, and who would be best selected to deliver it. Suffice to say that I need a few soldiers along for the ride who can pass for the sort of men one sees outside the rougher sort of brothel after dark. Men who can quite clearly handle themselves, and who, when the need arises, punch first, punch again and only then give even the most fleeting consideration to explaining to the man on the end of their knuckles exactly why it is that they’re punching them.’

Cotta looked at him for a moment.

‘And whatever it is that you think you’re going to achieve by unleashing the ugliest men in the cohort, you want me to select them. Which also means that whatever it is you plan for them to do, I’ll probably be right in the middle of it. Am I right?’

‘Almost. Yes, I want you to be their leader in that part of the plan I have in mind for you. And you can thank Julius for that, this was his idea. But I didn’t say I wanted the ugliest men in the cohort, but rather the most criminally minded and, if need be, the most violent. I want thinkers, Centurion, men who’ll be working out the odds before they raise their fists and not after, when it’s too late.’

‘You’re asking me to find the cleverest, most brutal bastards in the whole cohort and then keep them under control until the time comes to let them loose?’

Scaurus’s smile deepened, and the veteran officer rubbed his face wearily with the palm of his hand, puffing out his lips in an exaggerated exhalation of breath.

‘Whatever it was I did to deserve this, it wasn’t worth the punishment.’

‘Why us?’

Cotta stared back across the tavern table at the soldier called Sanga with an expression verging on disbelief.

‘Why you? I tell you that I’m looking for a pair of men to do dangerous and dirty work, men who know which end of a dagger does the damage, men who can talk their way out of trouble but know when to stop talking and start fighting, and you ask me “why us”?

Sanga stared at him, apparently uncomprehendingly, and the veteran centurion sighed wearily.

‘If I must …’ Without warning he lunged across the table, putting a finger in Sanga’s face and smiling as the soldier visibly suppressed his urge to take the hand and break the wrist attached to it. ‘There, that’s why you. Your first spear tells me that you, Sanga, are without a doubt the most violent man in your century, possibly in the entire cohort. Not a pretty fighter like your mate there …’ The Dacian Saratos grinned at the description. ‘But nasty as a week-old latrine trench once you’ve decided to put a man down. Fists, elbows, feet, teeth …’

Saratos nodded his agreement.

‘You’ll use them all, without restraint and without mercy, until the other man’s on his back and has stopped trying to get up again. Won’t you?’

Sanga shrugged.

‘A man has to look after himself.’

Cotta smirked.

‘And you look after yourself so well you’ve been given to the hardest centurion in the cohort, eh? How’s serving under Otho working out for you?’

‘It’s alright. He’s hard, but he’s fair — most of the time.’

‘I’ll bet. Sure you don’t fancy a holiday from all that shouting and slapping he likes so much?’

The soldier shrugged again, a sly smile creeping onto his face despite his best efforts to keep it straight.

‘Look at the alternative. On the one hand you’re offering us the chance to ride a thousand miles, when I don’t know one end of a horse from the other until it blows out some apples to give me a clue, to do who knows what in Germania, of all places! We done Germania before you poled up, Centurion, and it was without a doubt the biggest shithole I’ve ever served in! And I’ve served in some right horrible places.’

He looked round at Saratos, grinning at the muscular Dacian.

‘Or, and here’s the difficult choice, we could be stuck here in the centre of the empire, the place where there’s whores everywhere, and they’ll all do it for the price of a loaf of bread, even some of the pretty ones. Even a half-witted Dacian bum-fucker like my mate here can see the choice for what it is, can’t you Saratos? Germania or Rome, eh?’ He spread his hands wide, a pleading note creeping into his voice. ‘Even you can see that choice for what it is, can’t you?’

Saratos nodded, pretending to consider the question.

‘Is easy.’

Sanga’s smile widened.

‘Is Germania.’

‘Eh?’

‘Is Germania, obvious. Is Germania because one week of whore enough for any man. Even you, Sanga. Is Germania because stay here while friends go fight is not-’

‘Right?’

The Dacian nodded at Cotta, who was grinning at Sanga, enjoying his discomfiture.

‘Yes, not right. And is Germania because Centurion Marcus go Germania, is true?’

Cotta nodded, his lips suddenly a tight line as he recalled Marcus’s troubled state of mind.

‘It’s true. And that young man needs all the protection he can get, over the next few months.’

The three men fell silent, all replaying the bloody events of two nights before, and the horrific revelation of Felicia’s death that had shocked every man in the cohort. Sanga put his head down until his forehead was touching the table, banging it against the wood and drawing a worried glance from the tavern owner. Cotta sat back in his chair with a smug smile.

‘It’s Germania then. But don’t worry, Sanga, you’re not the only man I’ve got my hooks into. Dubnus is breaking the bad news to a colleague of yours this very moment.’

‘Let’s face it comrades, we’re getting left behind this time.’ Morban smiled round at his usual circle of associates, half a dozen of the older sweats in the First Cohort, raising a cup of wine in salute. ‘Wherever it is that the tribune’s taking his picked men, I reckon they’re going to be away for months. Perhaps a year or more …’

He looked about him with an expression bordering on delight, laughing at their confusion.

‘Come on, the emperor’s not going to be sending our boys out to buy him some eggs, it’ll be another one of those dirty little jobs that means travelling to the far side of the empire …’

He drew breath, and one of his comrades interjected with the speed of a man who knew all too well just how much the standard bearer enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice.

‘But we’ve not been back from the east more than a day. Why bring us back, if-’

Morban cut him off with a dismissive wave.

‘There’s more to this empire than Britannia, Rome and Syria, mate! There’s dozens of provinces with hostile tribes next door, plenty of things the emperor wants but doesn’t actually own.’

He grinned round at them again.

‘For all we know they’re being sent south to bring back some nice dark-skinned girls for Commodus …’ He nodded acknowledgement of another man’s attempted interjection. ‘Yes, or boys. And it doesn’t matter what it is, just as long as they take their time finding it. We’ll just have to sit here and make the best of it, eh? Wine, games and lots and lots of whores. I can’t see any …’

He fell silent as the men around him transferred their attention from his beatific smile to a point behind him. Scrambling out of their chairs they snapped to attention, and Morban stood, turning on his heel and tightening his body into the brace position automatically.

‘Well now, Morban, I was told I’d find you here.’

‘Centurion.’

Dubnus looked around at the other men questioningly.

‘Could you men perhaps grant me a moment alone with my old friend the standard bearer here? Leave your wine where it is, I’ll be gone soon enough.’

Needing no second bidding in the face of the bearded officer’s request, the Tungrians slid past him to either side with forehead-touching gestures of respect. When they were gone his expression softened.

‘At ease, Morban.’

Morban relaxed slightly, putting his hands behind his back, staring intently at his former associate from the days when Dubnus had seemed stuck in the role of chosen man, before Marcus had found a way to have him promoted to centurion.

‘Doubtless you’re all speculating as to exactly where the tribune’s picked men might be going. Knowing your long history of illegal gambling it wouldn’t come as any surprise if you were already taking money on the outcome …’ Morban opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but closed it again when he saw the look on his officer’s face. ‘Wise, Morban. Perhaps you’re growing some wisdom in your old age. But I’m not here to warn you off. Far from it.’

He fell silent, watching the older man as Morban smiled hesitantly and then, as the full import of his words sank in, the expression slowly faded from his face.

‘But …’

The centurion raised an eyebrow,

‘But? But what, Morban?’

‘You can’t mean …’

Dubnus nodded slowly.

‘You have skills, Standard Bearer, abilities that will make you essential for the success of our venture. You’ve been requested, you specifically, to accompany the detachment that’s going north.’

The veteran frowned incomprehension.

‘Skills?’

‘Skills, Morban.’

Dubnus reached out a hand and tapped him on the forehead.

‘This, Standard Bearer, contains more guile and calculation than is possessed by any other man in the cohort. And, whether you believe it or not, those traits will be vital where we’re going. So pack your gear and report to the detachment’s barracks.’

The veteran soldier saluted tiredly.

‘Yes, Centurion.’

Dubnus turned away, then returned his attention to the older man.

‘Look on the bright side, Morban. Doubtless you’ll find a way to turn this to your advantage. Just as long as you don’t use your inside knowledge to make money before we leave for Germania.’

‘Germania? I thought-’

‘As intended. Trust me, Standard Bearer, where we’re going we really don’t want the slightest anticipation of our arrival, because that could only end very badly indeed. So if you don’t want to end up with a witch pawing through your innards you’ll keep your mouth shut. Won’t you?’

‘I’m coming with you.’

Arminius stared back into the boy’s eyes in the light of their solitary oil lamp, realising with a shock that the child whom he had looked down upon only a year before was suddenly a good deal closer to staring him in the face than before. He walked away to the barrack window, looking out across the dark parade ground on which the detachment would muster the next day before turning back to face the child, shaking his head, raising a hand to emphasise the point.

‘Not a chance. You’re too young.’

Lupus shook his head with a look that promised obduracy and a good deal more.

‘You left me behind the last time, and I was stuck here for a year without anyone to talk to except the women and babies. And then …’

The German resisted the urge to put his arms around the boy by force of will, watching in impotent anguish as Lupus’s eyes filled with tears.

‘I know. And if I had my time again I’d have been there.’

The boy looked at him with eyes as hard as any he’d seen on a man, and once again Arminius wondered at the change in him.

‘You would have died alongside Arabus. Nobody could have protected moth-’ He swallowed painfully. ‘Nobody could have pro-tected Felicia from those men. But given enough time someone will make them pay.’

The stone-hard stare lingered on the German for a moment, and in that instant Arminius knew he was seeing the man to come, implacable in his hatred, his view of the world around him forever tilted towards hard words and deeds by his childhood experiences.

‘Lupus … you shouldn’t-’

The boy shook his head flatly.

‘Not you, Arminius! The women can tell me that it’s not good to hate, but not you! You helped the Centurion to take revenge for his parents, you told me he was an honourable man for doing so!’

The German regarded him levelly for a moment before speaking.

‘So, ignoring the fact that you’re sworn to kill the emperor and half the praetorian guard, what do you expect to contribute to this task that the tribune’s been handed by the very man you’re determined to see dead?’

Lupus stuck his chin out.

‘My sword and shield. I’ve been practising with Centurion Cotta’s men ever since you left, and I’m as good as any of them except when they use their strength to push me over, when they get bored with not being able to beat me.’

Arminius smiled despite himself, recalling Cotta’s summary of the things the men he’d set to guard the two women while the cohort was in the east had told him about the boy’s progress with his weapons.

‘He’s fast alright. Faster than any of my boys, and someone’s taught him a halfway decent technique that I can probably get close to Marcus’s standard, given enough time.’ The veteran centurion had winked at the German’s wry smile, knowing full well that Arminius’s training had given the boy most of the sword skills he needed. ‘Once he’s grown another foot and filled out he’s going to be a right monster, you can see it in him already. It just amazes me that a squat little waddler like Morban can have sired the man who put that into a woman.’

His smile faded as he recalled Cotta’s other, less cheery comment.

‘Given you’re pretty much his father these days, there is something else for you to think about though. There’s something changed in the boy since the day Arabus was killed by the praetorians. Before it happened he was still a boy most of the time, when he wasn’t behind a shield and a sword, but from that day on my boys tell me they’ve not seen the child in him. He’s been brutalised, Arminius, had his childhood ripped away from him in a way that’s left him …’

‘Scarred?’

Cotta had nodded unhappily.

‘That’s as good a term as any other. I expect Marcus’s wife, the gods watch over her departed spirit, would have had a better term for it, but scarred covers it well enough. The boy’s gone, and what’s standing there is a man in a body that’s not quite ready to fight alongside men. But he will be, soon enough. And he’s going to need some help making the transition, if he’s not going to get himself killed before his time.’

Man and boy stared at each other in mutual unease for a moment before Arminius spoke again.

‘If you were to accompany us into Germania you’d be a boy among men. The tribune’s taking ten axes and ten bows, plus officers and a few hangers-on for skulking and thieving, every man with a purpose. Having you with us would be a distraction. You haven’t learned to fight with or against the spear yet, and that’s the weapon the tribes use for the most part.’

To his surprise the boy just shook his head, where a year before there would have been tears of frustration in his eyes.

‘So, you’re all going away again, only days after you came back. You, Centurion Marcus, my grandfather, all the people who promised to look after me. And what happens to me if you all get killed? I’ll be stuck here with no one to look out for me, other than Julius. Which means I’ll be a soldier soon enough and taking just the same risks, just without anyone to look after me.’ He stared the German in the eyes. ‘I’d rather die in Germany with you.’