Arrows of Fury

2

The first arrow missed its target by less than a foot, hissing unheard past the heads of the rearmost rank’s soldiers. Of the other four arrows, fired a second later, one flew cleanly past the astonished faces of four soldiers near the back of the century’s column, another fell short owing to a weak bowstring, and the last two found targets among the marching soldiers. The first flicked off the metal boss of a shield slung over its owner’s shoulder in the marching position, ricocheting into the throat of one of the soldiers in the following rank, while the other hit a man three ranks farther up the marching column in the calf. He stumbled out of the line of march, hopping a couple of paces before falling to one knee. The century’s chosen man, marching in his usual place at the column’s rear, pointed at the treeline with his brass-knobbed pole and shouted a warning to his centurion.

‘Archers!’

Julius reacted immediately, drawing his sword and pointing it at the trees.

‘Buckets and boards! Get your bloody guard up!’

He turned to the leading century, gesturing urgently for Dubnus to take his men around to the right through the trees that ran almost to the side of the road as the forest’s edge curved around from the barbarian archers’ position.

‘Dubnus, hook right! Get into the bastards!’

Another flight of missiles arced across the space between the forest and the road, hammering into shields hurriedly swung from their carrying positions to face the unexpected threat. Julius bellowed again, ignoring the arrows flicking past him.

‘Fifth century, face the threat! Get ready to attack. The Ninth will attack into the trees to our right! At the march, advance!’

The troops obeyed the order without thought, their obedience drummed into them over long years of drill and practice fighting and reinforced by the shouts and pushes of their chosen man and his watch officer. The 5th Century advanced to their left into the scrub between road and forest, their shields raised against the continual harassing rain of arrows from the trees a hundred paces away, while the 9th Century to their right advanced briskly into the forest to their front in broken order, hunting through the trees for the rebel archers. Marcus, who had been marching alongside Dubnus, snatched a spear from the man closest to him and sprinted ahead of the advancing soldiers, outpacing even the fastest of them as he weaved around the massive oaks at a dead run, bursting through the scrubby bushes that dotted the gloomy forest floor.

The half-dozen Brigantian archers took fright in the face of the 5th Century’s advance across the open ground in front of them, their attack only ever intended to harass the auxiliary soldiers rather than bring them to open battle, turning in their retreat to loose one last volley at the advancing Romans. As they turned back to run for the shelter of the deeper forest, Marcus, now a good twenty paces ahead of Dubnus and his men and still running hard, drew back his spear arm and fixed his gaze on the rearmost of the barbarians, slowing his run to a trot, and drawing back the spear until its razor-sharp iron head was level with his ear. He hurled the weapon with a power and artistry that made light of his sprint through the trees, his arm extended to follow the missile’s trajectory to its target. Caught in the act of turning to run from the vengeful soldiers, the archer had only a split second’s realisation, a fleeting glimpse of the weapon’s blurred flight, before the spear arced down out of the trees and spitted him cleanly through the thigh. He toppled to the forest floor, his mouth gaping in a howl of agony as Marcus covered the remaining distance to stand over him with his sword drawn, watching the remaining tribesmen vanish into the forest’s gloom as he sheathed the weapon. Julius and Dubnus joined him, his hands on his hips as he stared down at the fallen barbarian, apparently breathing normally in spite of his exertions.

‘Nice throw, Marcus, that’s worth a few cups of wine once we get to Arab Town. You didn’t even hit the bone…’

The younger man scowled, stretching out his arm and spreading the fingers wide before bunching them into a fist and looking down at his knuckles, crisscrossed with scar tissue from his long years of tuition at the hands of his father’s bodyguards.

‘I must be losing my touch, Julius. I was aiming for the middle of his back.’

His brother officer laughed mirthlessly.

‘And nevertheless, tragic though it is that you missed your mark by a foot with a spear slung on the run between trees, here we have that rarest of commodities…’ He extended an arm to gesture to the tribesman, still writhing with the pain of his wound. ‘… a live barbarian captive. A bit soiled, I’ll give you that, but in no real danger of dying any time soon and ripe for a few questions, I’d say.’ He reached out and rapped on the spear’s wooden shaft, then took a hold of it and twisted it sharply, rotating the wooden shaft inside the man’s wound. The tribesman screamed again, louder than before, his eyes bulging with the effort wrung from his pain-racked body. The centurion smiled down at him. ‘I thought that might hurt. Anything you feel like telling us?’ The barbarian snarled back at him, spitting defiantly at his armoured chest. Julius smiled back even more broadly, looking down at the spittle dribbling down the shining metal rings. ‘Oh, good, a challenge…’

Hearing a voice behind him he stood up, turning away from the fallen tribesman. Rufius had crossed the gap between the road and the forest’s edge, and now stood staring into the shadows cast by the trees. He had picked up a fallen arrow and was examining the barbed head closely, talking in conversational tones to his comrades.

‘One of ours, I’d say. That puts paid to the story that they were all burned when we put the Noisy Valley stores to the torch. Just a shoot-and-run, do you think, or were they hoping to lure us into some nasty little ambush? That was the way in my day.’

Julius shrugged his indifference.

‘Your day, Rufius? Well, my friend, these days it’s just shoot-and-run. These are simple village boys, not tattooed Tava valley head jobs. I suppose it beats shooting at the squirrels. Casualties?’

The older man nodded, his face solemn.

‘You’ve lost one man, he choked on his own blood before I could even get a bandage carrier to him, and you’ve one man with another one of these stuck in his leg. It’ll come out easily enough once we get him to Arab Town.’

The centurion shook his head disgustedly, and then squatted back down next to his captive, batting away the man’s hands from their ineffectual fretting at the spear wound and switching to the man’s native language as he addressed the captive.

‘I’d leave that well alone if I were you, it’s going to hurt a lot more when it comes out.’ He took a firm grip of the spear’s shaft, the fallen tribesman’s eyes slitting in expectation of the pain to come. ‘And now, my lad, and without any further delay since we’re in a hurry to get off down the road to collect some more soldiers, you can tell me which village you’re from.’

The wounded man closed his eyes and shook his head, a tear trickling down his cheek. Julius slapped his face gently, shaking his head with mock sadness.

‘Come on, sonny, you know you’re going to tell me sooner or later, just cough it up now and save us both the unpleasantness.’

The tribesman shook his head grimly.

‘You’re going to kill me anyway. Just get it over with…’

Marcus squatted down alongside Julius, his expert eye appraising the tribesman’s wound as he spoke.

‘He’s got a point.’

‘Piss off, Two Knives, I’m going to get the name of this stupid bastard’s village, and then…’

‘And then you’re going to do what, exactly? Burn it to the ground? Kill every adult male? The place will probably be deserted once his mates get back there and tell their story. All we’ll ever achieve if we seek to punish these people for the crimes of a very few is turn more of them against us than ever attacked us in the first place.’

Julius stood, his face a picture of exasperation, one hand gesturing back to their captive.

‘So what do we do then, eh, Marcus? Just how do you propose to send these bastards the message that if they take us on they’ll end up regretting it?’

The younger man shrugged, pointing down at the wounded tribesman.

‘Kill him. Either that or get that spear out of his leg and get us back on the road. Just don’t fool yourself that if you kill him you’ll achieve anything other than to turn another dozen men from neutrals to enemies.’

The older man stared at him with a troubled expression.

‘And what about the fact that he was part of an ambush that killed one of our men?’

Marcus nodded, extending a hand to indicate the tribesman’s wound.

‘He’s got a spear through his leg. I’d say that’s a decent down payment on what he’ll have to suffer for the rest of his life. He’ll probably never run again, he’ll most likely walk with a limp… he’ll pay for his stupidity over the next thirty years, but this way he’s not a martyr for these fools to shout about, just a constant reminder of what happens when you cross the wrong people. Bandage carrier!’ He reached out and pulled the weapon smoothly up through the horrified tribesman’s thigh, easing its blade out of the wound’s opening with delicate care and passing it to Dubnus. The wounded man’s eyes rolled up as he lost consciousness, sagging back on to the hard ground. Marcus turned to the medic summoned by his call. ‘Get that leg tied off, enough to stop the bleeding and keep him alive.’ Wiping his hands on a handful of grass, the young officer turned back to his colleagues. ‘There you go. He’ll live, but he’ll be crippled for the rest of his days, a burden on his tribe, and every time he walks past it’ll send a powerful message to everyone around him. If you want to roll the dice with the big boys, you’d better be sure you can afford the stakes. Come on, let’s put your casualties on a cart and get back on the road to Arab Town. I suddenly find myself in need of a drink.’

Night was falling across the fortified port of Arab Town by the time the Tungrian officers had their men bedded down for the night and were free to head for the officers’ mess. The fort’s looming stable blocks and barracks were silent silhouettes against the sunset’s red glow, and only the port’s pilot boat was anchored at the wooden pier that jutted out into the German sea, in stark contrast to the barely organised chaos that had greeted their previous visits during the summer to collect supplies shipped in from across the empire’s northern provinces. Infantrymen and cavalrymen, their mounts, weapons, armour, boots, shields, supplies and more, had flowed through the port over the previous few weeks, drawn from legions and supply depots across the German frontier and beyond, as the Roman forces in Britannia scrambled to make good the disastrous losses incurred by the imperial 6th Legion at the battle of Lost Eagle. For the first time in all those weeks the fort’s officers’ mess was quiet, a relief from the hard drinking and inevitable boisterous behaviour of officers passing through to new roles with units in the field, determined to get thoroughly drunk one last time before months of enforced abstinence.

The Tungrian centurions had just settled down around the stove for the evening when the door opened to admit two officers, the newcomers shrugging off their cloaks and luxuriating for a moment in the room’s warmth. Rufius turned to greet them, frowning up from his chair.

‘You two look familiar. Aren’t you…?’

The older of the two newcomers nodded.

‘Second Tungrians. I’m Tertius, this is Appius.’

Rufius stood and offered his hand.

‘I’m Rufius, formerly Sixth Legion and now an adopted member of the First Tungrian cohort. These cheeky young bastards have taken to calling me “Grandfather”. This big arrogant specimen is Julius, or “Latrine” to his men, for reasons I’ll leave you to ponder, he commands the lead century, while this even bigger young lad is our newest centurion, Dubnus. The quiet man in the corner wearing, you’ll note, two swords, is “Two Knives”.’

Tertius narrowed his eyes.

‘“Two Knives”? Like the gladiators?’

‘Just like the gladiators. Only faster. Much faster.’

Tertius raised an eyebrow.

‘Now that I’d like to see.’

Rufius laughed grimly.

‘You’ve missed the last performance, at least for a while. He only really waves them around at full speed when there’s blood to be spilt, and we haven’t seen much of that since Lost Eagle. Speaking of which… Steward! Wine for our friends here. You lads saved our bacon on that shit-spattered hillside, and we haven’t forgotten it.’

The two newcomers pulled up chairs and made themselves comfortable, while the steward ferried cups of wine to the group.

‘A toast.’

Tertius raised his cup.

‘The lost eagle.’

They drank, and then Tertius wiped his mouth on his sleeve and spoke again.

‘You know there’s a hefty reward for the soldier that recovers the standard?’

Rufius nodded. Tertius took another mouthful of his wine.

‘Aye. And we’ll be out looking for the bloody thing soon enough. That, and the head of the idiot that lost it. Once we’ve collected our new prefect and legged it back to join the rest of the cohort we’re slated for a tour up north to see what’s going on along the main road to Three Mountains.’

Marcus Tribulus Corvus pulled a face and stared at the floor.

‘What’s the matter with your mate?’

Rufius took a sidelong glance at his companion.

‘Not everyone has a bad opinion of the late Legatus Sollemnis. We were there when a nasty little shit by the name of Perennis sent the Sixth Legion into that ambush by lying through his teeth that the ground for their approach march was safe. He tried to kill our prefect too, except Dubnus here put his axe through the would-be executioner’s spine and then shot the traitor off his horse at thirty paces. Beautiful piece of work, that shot…’

He darted a warning glance at Marcus, an imperceptible shake of his head, before turning back to the newcomers.

‘Anyway, a new prefect? Where’s he come from, to be coming ashore here?’

Tertius took another mouthful of wine.

‘Germania, apparently. Supposed to be some kind of fire-eater from what we’ve heard, keen as black seed mustard apparently. We’ve come down the wall with two centuries to escort him back to join up with the cohort at The Rock before we go north. And you lads are here for reinforcements?’

Julius spoke up, his voice a deep rumble.

‘Two centuries’ worth of real Tungrians, trained, armed, armoured and ready to march. Just enough to get us back to something like full strength after the losses we took in that goat-fuck at Lost Eagle, and the only troops left in the port if I don’t count a couple of centuries of Hamian fairies twanging their bows in the next barrack. We’re lucky to be getting them, with so much competition for replacements, but our old prefect’s commanding the Sixth Legion now, which counts for something. Grandfather and Two Knives have command of our two empty centuries, broken up to provide replacements to bring the other eight up to strength, and we’ve come to collect their replacement soldiers. Dubnus and I are along for the ride with our boys, just to make sure they got here unmolested. And just as well, given the fun we had on the way.’

Tertius nodded grimly.

‘Barbarian bowmen, between Fine View and White Strength?’

‘Yes. We lost one man and had another wounded. You?’

‘Two wounded. Local boys showing off to each other, most likely. They know we’ve got better things to do than take the time required to catch them in the act. One of these days, though…’

He tipped the rest of the wine down his neck.

‘My shout. More wine, Steward, and a beer for me. Make it a large one.’

An hour and several drinks later the Second Tungrian officers got to their feet. Appius, previously more or less silent, inclined his head in salute, his tongue clearly loosened by the wine.

‘You’ll have to excuse us, brothers; we have an appointment at the guest house with our new officer. Let’s hope this one’s a little more balanced than the previous idiot. That way he might get to live a bit longer.’

Even with the wine’s effects, Rufius was instantly alert, despite his apparent torpor. He nudged Marcus’s foot beneath the table to warn him, raising a curious eyebrow and smiling slyly up at the two men.

‘We did hear the rumours. It’s true, then? Prefect Bassus really stopped a friendly spear?’

Tertius grimaced, but his colleague Appius kept talking without any apparent concern.

‘Well now, if you ask the question that way I’ve got no idea what happened. But if you were to speculate that Bassus had pissed off the wrong men one time too many, I’d have to agree that there’s a certain kind of officer who takes a risk when he turns his back on his own men in a battle.

‘Anyway, enough said. Good luck with your recruits. And watch out for those bloody archers.’

He scooped up his helmet and reached for his cloak, dragging it across the pile of garments and pulling loose the pin from Marcus’s in the process. He bent and picked up the gold shield from the floor, giving its intricate workmanship an appreciative glance and turning it over and noting the words engraved on the obverse before he held it up with an apologetic face.

‘Sorry, I’ve pulled this loose from someone’s cloak.’

Marcus put a hand out with a tight smile and tucked the pin away in his pocket, ignoring a pointed look from Rufius.

Outside the mess, pulling his cloak tighter about him in the evening’s cold as they headed for the guest house, Appius nudged his colleague.

‘Did you see that quiet lad’s sword? Not the long cavalry blade, the other one with the eagle’s-head pommel? Prettier than a whore’s make-up box, proper flash. I’ll bet you he’s the one they’re saying got left a blade by the dead legatus, and you have to wonder why that would be, eh? And that cloak pin, that’d make big money from the right buyer, and it had an interesting inscription too. ‘Keep warm, my son’, and an aquila carved beneath the words. No way he’s local, that’s for certain — in fact I’ll bet he’s the same one that was supposed to be putting it to Bassus’s wife before the lads in the Third Century perforated his back.’

Tertius shook his head, his face thoughtful.

‘No idea. Not that I’d blame the boy if he was, there’s no denying she’s a tasty little piece. Right, here we are. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.’

They entered the town’s official guest house and were shown into the back room. A massively built man sat picking at the remains of a chicken in the light of several lamps, his thick brown beard slick with the bird’s fat. He reached for a towel and wiped his hands and face.

‘Sit down, gentlemen. Wine?’

Tertius took a chair, motioning to his colleague to do the same.

‘Thank you, Prefect, a cup would be nice.’

The senior officer waited until the wine was poured and the housekeeper had withdrawn before speaking again, raising his cup in salute before drinking. His voice was hard edged, clearly accustomed to being heard without interruption.

‘Second Tungrians, eh? I was told you’re a battle-tested cohort. I was told that I’m lucky to be getting a cohort here, at this time, with the barbarians still in the field and plenty of glory left to be had. And I was told lots of things about the Second Tungrians that should make for an interesting discussion once we’re north of the wall with some time to spare. In the meanwhile there are a few things I’d like to know.’

Tertius put his cup down and sat up straight.

‘We’ll do our best, Prefect…’

‘Furius. Gracilus Furius. First things first. Cohort strength?’

‘Seven hundred and twenty-four men fit for duty, sir.’

The prefect pursed his lips.

‘Under strength, then. Casualties?’

‘Yes, sir, all from the battle of Lost Eagle.’

‘Almost a century. So, it’s a good thing I’ve already found a century of prime replacements. Tungrians too.’

Tertius exchanged glances with Appius.

‘That’s good news, sir. I’d heard the only replacements left in town were already spoken for.’

Furius smirked at his circumspection.

‘No need to be coy with me, Centurion, of course they’re supposed to go to our sister cohort. I sought out the officer responsible for replacements and helped him to reconsider his priorities earlier this afternoon. He hummed and hawed a bit, but he soon changed his mind when he saw some coin.’

Tertius frowned unconsciously.

‘There’s a bit of a relationship between us and the First Cohort, Prefect. I’m not sure…’

‘I think you’re more than not sure, Centurion, you think that taking a century of replacements from under the First’s noses would be unfortunate. Dishonourable, even?’

The centurion, sensing that a trap lay before him, trod carefully.

‘Not at all, sir. All I was thinking was that the First Cohort is almost two hundred and fifty men down, that’s all. Their first spear’s going to be pretty unhappy if we have it away with half his replacements.’

Furius’s face took on a sly look.

‘You fought at the battle of the Lost Eagle, Centurion?’

‘Yes, sir,’

‘And that was where my cohort took the casualties for which we need these replacements?’

‘Yes sir,’

‘And, I’ve heard, it was only the intervention of the Second Cohort that saved the First from being overrun by barbarians?’

Tertius realised where the prefect was taking the discussion.

‘Absolutely true, Prefect, we saved their skins all right. One of their centurions said as much to me not an hour ago. Of course, it was the First Cohort that did most of the damage to the barb…’

Furius spread his hands and shrugged.

‘Well, there you are. We take a century’s worth of damage saving our sister cohort from the mess they’d managed to get into, and they get all the replacements. That can hardly be right, now, can it? Eh, Centurion?’

Tertius knew which side to be on in this discussion.

‘Of course not, sir. In which case we ought to be up and away no later than dawn, or run the risk of an unpleasant argument on the subject. I’ve met the officers who’re here to collect those men, and I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong end of their unhappiness.’

Furius smiled knowingly.

‘Yes, I guessed as much. The replacements’ centurion has promised to have our century paraded and ready to go at first light, so let’s get some sleep. Dismissed, gentlemen. Ah… one more question.’

The officers paused expectantly.

‘Another story I’ve heard a few times is that there’s a fugitive believed to be sheltering with one of the wall cohorts. Apparently this fellow is the last living member of a family that the emperor chose to liquidate, but his father sent him away to the northern frontier before the axe fell. There would be great imperial favour for the man that turned him in, perhaps a promotion. So spread the word, the man that identifies this traitor to me will be handsomely rewarded. Very handsomely.’

The First Tungrian officers rose early, and made the short walk to the transit barracks just as the sun was inching clear of the horizon. Expecting to find the barrack office empty, they were surprised to find the transit centurion already on duty. Rufius sized the man up with a swift glance, looking around the white-walled office with apparent indifference.

‘Greetings, Centurion. We’re here for two centuries of Tungrian infantry, reserved for collection by the First Tungrian cohort by order of Legatus Equitius, Sixth Imperial Legion. Point us at them and we’ll get them off your ration strength.’

The transit officer was a sparsely haired man of about forty, his uniform clearly legion issue. He rose from his chair with an apologetic expression and crossed the small room with two limping paces.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen; I have only the one century for you. There’s a lot of demand for replacements, as I’m sure you’ll be aware …’

He dried up under the stare of four suddenly very hostile men. Julius stepped in closer to him, raising a finger to silence his apology.

‘We were here last night, Centurion, probably long after you’d gone to hide in your quarters. And we saw two centuries of prime infantry ready for collection. So how, I wonder, does that become one century overnight?’

He raised an eyebrow and waited for a response. The other man spread his hands helplessly.

‘Another officer turned up an hour ago, a prefect with two centurions in tow. He gave me a direct order to sign him out a century of the Tungrians to replace battle losses, so I… I did.’

Rufius nudged Dubnus.

‘Go on, lad, you know the routine.’

The powerfully built young centurion stepped past the transit officer, looking carefully at the wooden floorboards. Rufius spoke conversationally, his attention apparently focused on the barrack dimly visible through the office’s open window in the early morning light.

‘We know how it is, Centurion. You’re in possession of one of the most valuable resources for a hundred miles and more. It must be quite a temptation when you’re stuck here in this shitty little port with, what, five years left to serve? So when a senior officer turns up and offers you a combination of stick and carrot to sign him out a few dozen men, well, you find yourself wondering why you should end up with a load of grief when there’s money to be made, don’t you? This officer had a name, I presume?’

The transit officer watched Dubnus’s progress round the office with increasing trepidation.

‘He… ah… he signed as…’

He opened his record tablet with trembling fingers, scanning the words inscribed into the wax with a speed borne of fear.

‘… as Prefect Furius, Second Tungrian cohort.’

Julius’s scowl deepened.

‘The bloody Second Cohort. I should have known it. This new prefect of theirs must be keen. Uncle Sextus will shit a cow when he finds out.’

‘Found it!’

They turned to see Dubnus levering a loose floorboard away with his dagger. Throwing the wood to one side, he fished inside the cavity between floor and ground, pulling out a purse. He tossed it to Rufius, who hefted the small leather bag in his hand.

‘Nice and heavy. Must be a decent enough sum. You know what they say, though — only take a bribe if the sum involved will compensate for the punishment you’ll get for taking it. And in this case the punishment’s going to be quite severe.’

‘But I…’

Julius stepped forward, taking a handful of the wilting centurion’s tunic in one meaty fist.

‘No, I don’t think so. “But I…” isn’t going to be enough to get you out of this one. First off, you’ve pissed us off. We came here for two centuries to replace our losses from the battle of Lost Eagle. You heard about that one? You know, how one cohort was sent to take on the whole barbarian army. How that cohort held its line for an hour and more, and kept the blue-noses in place until the rest of the army turned up? Well?’

He prodded the centurion to get a response.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. And the bad news for you is that cohort was us. We all had good friends killed that day, and we’re not in much of a mood to be messed about. Ever noticed how the road officers tend not to take their usual liberties with men who’ve recently seen combat? Ever wondered why?’ He slapped the centurion twice, lazy blows that twisted the man’s head to the left and right. ‘Now you’re about to find out. Second, our prefect that morning now commands Sixth Legion. You’re still part of Sixth Legion, so when we report this balls-up to him, he’ll likely have you dismissed the service. He hates this sort of corrupt behaviour. Third, my first spear is a right nasty bastard. He’ll want to have you strangled with your own guts when he finds out he’s been done over for a century of men he badly needs, men whose absence could place the entire cohort in peril.’ He clenched his fist tighter, lifting the now terrified man on to his toes without any apparent effort. ‘So, first we’ll beat seven colours of shit out of you, take our one remaining century and leave, and in about a week or so you’ll be a civilian, with no citizenship and no pension. And some time later, some time you’ll never predict, the First Tungrian cohort will find you and leave you in a ditch with the life running out of you. It’s nothing personal, it’s just what you get for pissing off front-line troops. Dubnus, you can have this one.’

‘The Hamians!’

The centurion’s voice was little better than a squeak. Julius snorted his disdain.

‘What about the Hamians? Useless bow-waving women. All they’re good for is hunting game. There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed. We need infantrymen, big lads with spears and shields to strengthen our line. Archers are no bloody use in an infantry cohort.’

He raised his meaty fist.

‘No, mate, you’re going to get what’s coming your way.’

The other man gabbled desperately, staring helplessly at the poised fist.

‘There’s two centuries of them, two centuries. Take them and the Tungrians and that’s two hundred and fifty men.’

Marcus spoke, having stood quietly in the background so far.

‘So we could make a century of the best of them, dump the rest on the Second Cohort when we catch up with them and take back the century he sold them in return.’

Julius turned his head to look at the younger man, keeping the transit officer clamped in place with seemingly effortless strength.

‘Are you mad? There won’t be a decent man among them. They’ll be arse-poking, make-up-wearing faggots, the lot of them. All those easterners are, it’s in the blood. They’ll mince round the camp holding hands and tossing each other off in the bathhouse. Let’s just …’

Marcus spoke over him with quiet assurance.

‘I’ll tell you what, Julius, Rufius gets the Tungrians and I’ll take the Hamians as a double-strength century and weed out the weaklings for dumping on the Second Cohort when next we meet. Or shall we just go back to The Hill still one hundred and seventy men light?’

Julius sighed deeply, then turned back to the transit officer.

‘It must be your lucky day. Here’s the deal. We take the Tungrians, the Hamians, both centuries, mind, and the money. You keep your place here, and perhaps, just perhaps, we don’t hunt you down and kill you. Deal?’

‘Yes!’

He pushed the terrified centurion away, hard enough to bounce him off the office’s wall.

‘Right, Two Knives, you’d better go and get your men ready to move. Let’s see just how bad this is going to be. Oh yes, and there’s this…’

He turned back quickly, jabbing a fist into the transit officer’s face and breaking his nose with an audible crack, then threw a right hook into the reeling man’s jaw which dropped him dazed to the wooden floor.

‘Prick.’

Marcus crossed from the transit office to the closest barrack and opened a door at random. Inside the barrack’s stone-built cell, packed in like sardines on a market stall and dimly lit by the single small window through which the dawn’s chill was seeping into the room, eight Hamians were waiting quietly, fully equipped and ready to march. Raising an intrigued eyebrow, he walked briskly up the line of eight-man rooms to the officers’ quarters, rapped once on the door and walked in. The three olive-skinned men waiting for him snapped to attention, the tallest of them making direct eye contact in a way he guessed was designed to communicate status. He was well built, with wide-set brown eyes above a strong nose and a broad jaw, black hair cropped close to his scalp. Making the instant appraisal of all first meetings, Marcus was struck by the apparent unassuming confidence in the man’s gaze, direct but without any challenge.

‘At ease, gentlemen. Who’s the ranking soldier here?’

The tall Hamian nodded briefly, keeping eye contact.

‘I am, Centurion.’

‘Your rank?’

‘I am Acting Centurion Qadir ibn Jibran ibn Mus’ab, Centurion. I currently command both this century and the other, barracked across the way.’

Marcus nodded, looking at the other two men with a raised eyebrow.

‘These men are my seconds, Hashim and Jibril, Centurion.’

‘I see. Very well, Acting Centurion, I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, your new centurion. Your two centuries are to join the First Tungrian cohort as an over-strength century, as replacement for our losses in recent battle. You shall be my chosen man, and these two men your watch officers. You’ll need two if you’re to manage that many men. Perhaps it would be better if you were to provide your men with their commands for the time being, until I have the measure of their command of Latin?’

The Hamian nodded with an impressive imperturbability.

‘Certainly, Centurion. Shall I parade the men? We are ready to march, as you may have seen.’

Marcus frowned.

‘Yes. I’m sorry, your name again?’

‘Please simply call me Qadir, Centurion.’

‘Thank you. And why… why are you ready for the road, I mean? I expected you all still to be sleeping.’

Qadir smiled, placing both hands behind his back and bowing minutely.

‘It was not hard to predict your arrival. The noise of the Tungrian century departing ensured that we were awake, and once it became clear to us that they had been bribed out of the transit officer it was easy enough to guess that we would be part of the compensation he would offer to you. I saw one of your colleagues checking the Tungrians last night, and he didn’t look like a man who would take disappointment quietly. We have been here for three weeks now, watching other centuries arrive and leave, but now the barrel is clearly empty.’

Marcus fought the urge to smile.

‘I see. Very well, Chosen Man Qadir, please parade the centuries for inspection.’

The big man nodded deferentially and spoke a few soft words to his comrades. They left the room in silence, leaving Marcus and Qadir alone in the quiet of the small room. The Hamian seemed content to wait for Marcus to speak first.

‘How long have you been acting centurion, Qadir?’

‘Six months, sir. And eight years before that as a soldier, watch officer and chosen man.’

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

‘Eight years from recruitment to centurion? They must make officers very quickly wherever it is that you’ve come from. Either that or you’re something special. I apologise for taking your command. You’ll get it back soon enough, once we catch up with our sister cohort.’

‘And exchange us for the men they stole this morning? I think that will take longer than you imagine, Centurion, and even when you do there will be another man posted to command my archers. Do not trouble yourself on my behalf. As long as I am with my people and have the strength to bend my bow I need nothing more.’

Marcus paced to the window, looking out into the grey dawn at the mustering Hamians.

‘Archers. I’m afraid that archers are not what’s needed now, not while there are barbarian warbands in the field.’

The other man appeared at his shoulder, his soft voice close to Marcus’s ear.

‘We had guessed as much. While we sat here and waited, centuries of men with heavy armour and spears were in and out in less than a day. It soon became clear enough to us that our having been sent here was a cruel mistake. Now that we are yours to command, it is my expectation that we will soon have heavier armour than this…’ He fingered the thin rings of his light mail vest, drawing Marcus’s attention to its insubstantial nature compared with his own mail, which was both longer and significantly heavier. ‘… and spears of our own.’

Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed in appraisal of the soldiers parading outside the window. They were wiry for the most part, a few simply skinny, more bone and sinew than muscle, though they shared the broad powerful shoulders that defined their skill at arms. Their mail looked too flimsy to resist a determined spear or sword-thrust, their conical helmets lacked cheek guards, and their impractically light shields were circular rather than being shaped to fully protect a soldier’s body. None of the equipment on show would act as adequate protection in a pitched battle.

‘Can your men run?’

‘If you mean over a distance, the answer is yes, Centurion. We are hunters, for the most part, used to covering ground in search of game. How they will perform weighed down with mail coats and heavy shields such as your men carry is another question. But I make one request of you, Centurion, and that is not to take their bows from them. To do so would be a grave mistake.’

Marcus turned to face the Hamian, his face creasing into a frown.

‘As soon as I can manage it they’ll be issued with a thigh-length coat of heavy ring mail capable of stopping a spear, a leather arming vest to wear underneath it and protect their skin from the mail’s rings when that spear-thrust arrives, an infantry gladius, two spears, an infantry helmet and a full-length shield. All of which weighs more than you might imagine until the first time you put it all on. Then they’ll have to march, or run, up to thirty miles a day once we’re on campaign. The additional burden of a bow isn’t going to help them cope with the load.’

Qadir spread his arms, palms upwards, and bowed, his eyes remaining fixed on Marcus’s.

‘I understand, Centurion, and I can see that you are right. And yet…’ He paused, searching for the right words to make his point without angering his new officer. ‘… Centurion, to take their bows will be to take their souls. Each man has grown close to his weapon, over long years of practice. He has fired thousands of arrows in practice, until he can put an iron head into a target the size of a man’s chest at one hundred paces, and can do this six times in one minute. The very core of what these men have learned over those years is that to hit the target time after time after time they must lose all awareness of themselves, simply focus on the centre of their target and become servant to the bow that seeks that target. These two centuries contain some of the best bowmen I have ever seen loose an arrow, capable of great accuracy with weapons they have come to love as dearly as their own children. And so I tell you, with very great respect to your rank and obvious character, that if these men lose their bows then they will also lose their hearts. And a century of men without heart…’

‘… would be of little use to anyone?’

‘Exactly so, Centurion. Exactly so. And now, with your forgiveness, perhaps I have embarrassed myself enough for one morning. Shall we review your new command, Centurion Corvus?’

Marcus inclined his head, gesturing for the Hamian to precede him through the quarters’ low doorway. Outside, in the early morning chill, the two centuries were paraded along the barrack’s frontage in a long double line. He walked along the length of both centuries, looking intently at the faces that stared fixedly to their front. Their eyes were bright enough, although their skin was sallow with lack of sunlight. Dubnus strode across from the transit office to join him, casting an unhappy glance down the line.

‘Maponus help us. Two centuries of underweight bath dodgers whose only skill is hunting game for the pot. Quite how we’re going to turn this lot into infantrymen is beyond me. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, you take the Tungrians and I’ll have these. I can…’

He stopped talking as a smile spread across Marcus’s face.

‘Dubnus. Brother. I wouldn’t have amounted to anything better than a rotting corpse in a ditch on the road south from Yew Grove without your help over the last few months. Nor can I pretend that I was responsible for turning the Ninth from a waste of rations to a fighting century, that was mostly you too. But trust me when

I tell you this, these men will not respond to your style of leadership. They are lonely, frightened, but worst of all they feel worthless. They’ve sat here for the last month watching Gaulish farm boys in armour get snapped up like the last cake in the bakery while they, with all their abilities, are demeaned as incapable of fighting our war.’

His friend rolled his eyes.

‘But they are! What are this lot going to do when a warband comes howling out of the forest? Run like fuck, I’d say!’

‘I know. But there’s something here I think we can use. Call it determination; call it desperation if you like. Whatever you call it, I think we can make a fighting unit from them. Quite what kind of fighting is still open to question…’

Dubnus gave him a long stare.

‘They carry shields made out of wicker. They wear armour made with rings so thin it wouldn’t stop a half-decent spear-thrust, no spears, no helmets to speak of, and a decent wind would carry half of them away. Just equipping them is going to be difficult enough, never mind what’ll happen the first time they try to carry all that weight more than a few hundred paces. They could be a real problem in the field.’

Marcus nodded.

‘Worse than not having a hundred and fifty replacements? Worse than not having two more centuries of men following our standard?’

Dubnus shook his head in weary resignation.

‘I know better than to argue with you. Though I don’t think your standard-bearer’s going to see the funny side of this.’

Dubnus’s and Julius’s centuries were arrayed on the Arab Town parade ground, the soldiers’ breath steaming in the grey dawn’s chill as they waited for the command to head away down the road towards The Stronghold, five miles to the west. Morban and Antenoch, respectively the 8th Century’s standard-bearer and Marcus’s personal clerk, waited with equal impatience a small distance from Dubnus’s 9th Century. Morban cast occasional dirty looks at the 9th’s standard-bearer, and more particularly the standard held proudly in the younger man’s hands.

‘He isn’t keeping that statue clean, the lazy bastard. I’ve got a good mind to go and take the bloody thing away from him.’

Antenoch gave the 9th Century’s standard a sideways glance and shot the alleged offender a sympathetic glance, raising an eyebrow in commiseration and drawing a hurt rebuke from his friend.

‘I saw that.’

The clerk shrugged his indifference, huddling deeper into his cloak.

‘It looks fine to me. Anyway, leave the man alone, you grumpy bastard. I don’t remember you cleaning it all that often either. You should worry more about helping Two Knives get a brand-new century ready to fight, and leave the Ninth to Dubnus now that he’s their centurion. Hang on, here they come…’

The first of the replacement centuries appeared around the corner of Arab Town’s bathhouse, its soldiers stepping out strongly under the close scrutiny of Tiberius Rufius and his newly acquired chosen man and watch officer. Morban’s face split into a beaming smile.

‘Yes! Look at that! Eighty sides of prime Tungrian beef. Look at the muscles on those boys! The Bear’ll be after slipping a few of those lads into the Tenth to replace the axemen who fell at Lost Eagle.’

Antenoch nodded, keeping his eyes on the advancing century.

‘Yes… Grandfather looks happy enough with his new men, doesn’t he?’

Morban squinted at the advancing Rufius’s grinning face, seeing the smile turn into a laugh as the veteran officer found him among the waiting soldiers.

‘That isn’t happy, that’s pure piss-take. Look, he’s pointing back down the road. What’s he on about…?’

Antenoch craned his neck to see over the marching troops.

‘There’s Two Knives, I can see his helmet’s crest, but where the hell are his men? Hold on a moment…’

Realisation dawned upon him with a sickening thud.

‘I can see their helmets, but only just. It’s a century of fucking dwarves!’

Morban stood rooted to the ground as the first century marched past them and the second came into full view, his eyes widening with genuine horror. Rufius stopped alongside the staring pair, his face distorted with laughter.

‘Oh, Morban… if only… you could see… your face!’

He staggered away, clutching his sides. A grim-faced Julius, marching alongside Marcus, gave him a dirty look as the front rank of the Hamians drew level with them and halted at Marcus’s shouted command. He shook his head in disgust at the older man’s uncontrollable laughter.

‘I thought age blessed a man with wisdom as it took away his strength, but clearly not in your case, Tiberius Rufius. And what’s your problem, Standard-bearer?’

Morban came to sudden indignant life.

‘Rufius gets a century full of big strong lads, and we get a gang of… of… underfed Arab bow benders? What use are they going to be when the blue-noses come hammering at our shields? I…’

Marcus stepped between Julius and Morban, then bent to put his face an inch from the indignant standard-bearer’s, his finger dimpling his mailed chest to emphasise his point. His voice was low but insistent, his face dark with anger.

‘Be quiet and listen, Statue Waver. We’ve been bilked of a century by the bloody Second Cohort, who bribed them out from under our noses this morning. These men are the only troops left in the port, and probably the only ownerless soldiers in the whole of Britannia, so these are the troops we’re taking home with us. We’ll swap them with the Second at the first opportunity, you can be assured of that, but in the meantime you will treat them with the consideration due to the poor bastards. What’s more, these “underfed bow benders” speak Latin just as well as you do, in fact probably with a good deal more eloquence and a lot less profanity, and I doubt they’re all that happy with your reaction. It isn’t their fault they’re stuck here, and if they’re going to be a part of our cohort we’d better make them feel just a tiny bit welcomed. If you don’t like that you can always go back to the Ninth, and I’ll ask Dubnus for his new boy in return.’

Morban’s indignation melted to anxious disbelief in a second.

‘Not fair, Centurion, not fair at all. You know young Lupus ties me to you.’

Marcus kept his face stony, tipping his head towards the waiting Hamians with arched eyebrows.

‘In which case you’d better get your head out of your backside and greet your new century. Chosen Man Qadir, allow me to introduce the Eighth Century’s standard-bearer, Morban. He’s a good man, if a little overfond of drink and whoring. Not to mention the occasional wager. In fact, if Morban offers you odds on anything, the sun coming up in the morning, rain being wet, just anything, consider very carefully before putting your money down.’

Morban smirked just a little, his dignity sufficiently restored by his officer’s carefully chosen insults, and stuck out a meaty paw to the tall Hamian chosen man.

‘Welcome to the Eighth Century, Chosen.’

Qadir took the hand carefully, looking about him in mock incomprehension.

‘My thanks, Standard-bearer, although I see only one other man besides yourself. Perhaps it would be more fitting if the Eighth Century were to welcome you?’

Rufius, having recovered from his earlier fit of laughter, slapped the stocky standard-bearer on the shoulder.

‘He’s got a point, Morban. If Antenoch’s your century you’d best go and join these lads. I’m sure they’ll follow your standard round if you’re nice to them.’

Marcus nodded agreement.

‘And if you want them to regard it as something more than your personal badge of office, perhaps you’d better give them a bit of education?’

The standard-bearer nodded, squared his shoulders and stepped out in front of the Hamians. The voice of Rufius’s man was already ringing through the still morning air as he addressed the new 6th

Century. He cleared his throat before shaking the century’s standard at the wide-eyed archers.

‘Eighth Century! I am your standard-bearer, Morban, and this is your standard. I am entrusted with carrying this symbol of our century, and with keeping it safe from any threat at the cost of my own life if all else fails… which means if you’re all dead. You are collectively charged with a sacred duty to guard the standard, which is the heart and soul of our century, and to protect it during battle at any cost.’

He ignored Antenoch, who was making cross-eyed faces at him from behind Marcus.

‘You will follow the instructions of our centurion, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, which I will repeat through movements of the standard for those of you who do not understand them. If I lean the standard to the left, we’re turning left. To the right, we’re turning right. If I dip the standard, we’re starting the march, if I raise it we’re stopping. If I dip it two times we’re marching at the double, and if I reverse it we’re retreating. My mate here…’ He nodded to the trumpeter alongside him, who promptly blushed scarlet. ‘… will sound his horn when I’m about to issue an order with the standard, so pay attention and you’ll always know what we’re about to do.’

He paused for breath and stared at the men closest to him with a fierce intensity.

‘In battle, this standard is your rallying point. If we advance, the standard will be close to the front of the century, and if we advance to the rear it will be with the century’s rearmost troops. Where the shit flies the thickest, you will find me and this statue right behind you. And you will make us proud. Just don’t let us down. Centurion?’

Marcus stepped out in front of the Hamians, nodding to Morban as the standard-bearer waddled back to join Antenoch.

‘Soldiers, you may not be Tungrians, you may be what our esteemed standard-bearer calls “bow benders”, and I guarantee you that getting you ready for life in an infantry cohort is going to be a challenge for us all. However, and listen to me very carefully when I tell you this, because it means a lot to your new brothers-in-arms, all those difficulties mean nothing to me because you are now Tungrians. Let me say that again. You are now Tungrians.’

He paused, staring across the silent men, aware that Julius was standing just behind him and glaring at the wide-eyed Hamians with equal intensity.

‘At the moment that means little enough to you. I’m just another officer spouting off about his cohort. But you will learn what it means to be one of us. And when you understand that, you will be one step closer to reaching the standards we will be expecting of you. Now, make ready to move. We’re marching to Noisy Valley, and that’s a marching distance of twenty-six miles, which at four miles an hour will take us about eight hours including rest stops. Easy enough work for a fully fit soldier carrying the light equipment you’ve been issued with. This is our first chance to see how you men measure up to our standards.’

Prefect Furius rode into The Rock’s temporary camp in the middle of the afternoon with three centuries of soldiers marching easily at his back. Forewarned by a tent party of men sent running ahead for the last mile by Centurion Tertius, the cohort’s first spear was waiting at the camp’s entrance with his officers, ready to formally greet their new commander. He bellowed an order as the prefect’s horse drew level with their small group, snapping the cohort’s officers to attention. Furius dismounted, and a soldier assigned to the task ran forward and led the horse away.

The prefect looked about him, taking in the stone shell of the burned-out fort huddled under the wall’s unbroken defence. The turf-walled camp alongside it was a picture of order, the lines of tents perfectly aligned and the men set to guard the turf walls alert and crisp in their movements. Finding nothing to excite comment, he turned to address the gathered officers.

‘First Spear…?’

‘Neuto, sir.’

‘A local name, First Spear?’

‘A Tungrian name, Prefect. I was born in Gallia Belgica.’

Furius nodded.

‘I rode through your capital, Tungrorum, on my way here. You must miss it.’

The first spear inclined his head.

‘I do, sir, although it’s a very long time since I saw the old place.’

‘There are some men behind me who have seen your settlement somewhat more recently. I have reinforcements for you from Tungria, a full century of freshly trained men.’

The first spear smiled thinly.

‘So I see, Prefect. I must admit that I wasn’t expecting such a welcome addition to our strength. Reinforcements have been hard to come by with six full legion cohorts needing replacement.’

The prefect smiled broadly, either ignoring or simply missing the slightly disapproving note in his senior centurion’s voice, and spread his hands like a conjuror soliciting applause for his latest trick.

‘Then it’s a good thing for our cohort that I happened to be in the right place at the right time and with the right, ah… influence, shall we say? I suggest that we get these three centuries into quarters, and you and I can have a discussion as to how we’re going to demonstrate some old-fashioned Roman military justice to this cohort. There’s an officer-killer at large in this cohort, and we’re going to find him and make him pay for his crime with his blood.’

He smiled into Neuto’s suddenly expressionless face before turning to the men unloading his effects from the wagon behind them.

‘And now, let’s get my kit off that wagon and safely into my tent, shall we? Be careful with that jar, it contains enough naphtha to burn down a legion fortress!’

The Tungrians reached Noisy Valley shortly before dark that evening. Passing The Rock an hour before, Julius had shot a hard scowl at the smirking 2nd Tungrian soldiers standing guard at the entrance to their earth-walled marching camp. Pausing for a moment to allow Tiberius Rufius to catch up with him, he’d tipped his helmeted head to the 2nd Cohort men, his face sour with disgust.

‘Look at those smug bastards. There’s nothing those thieving arse bandits like better than to get one over on us, and there they are with a century that belongs to us happily camped fifty paces the other side of their turf wall.’ He spat on the ground, his face hardening as the sentries nudged each other, clearly barely restraining themselves from hysterics as the Hamians hove into view. ‘I’ll fucking…’

Rufius restrained him with a hand on his arm, shaking his head in gentle admonishment.

‘You’ll only regret it. Their first spear will be forced to send you packing, and from what I’ve heard he’s a good enough sort. And his prefect will probably send a complaint to Frontinius and make it all our fault…’

Julius shrugged off the older man’s hand, but to the veteran centurion’s relief simply stood and stared at the sentries until they decided that discretion was the better part of valour in the face of his obvious anger and slunk off behind the section of turf wall that masked the fort’s entrance. Marcus strode past alongside his struggling men, a jaundiced glance at the fort’s walls the only sign of his disgust.

‘See, young Marcus has it right. Save your anger for a time when it can be put to good use.’

The big man grunted, shaking his head as he turned back to the march.

‘I’ll have blood for this. Just not today…’

The 6th Legion’s temporary headquarters was a sea of tents clustered around the partially rebuilt ruins of the northern command’s Noisy Valley supply depot. Rufius, having strolled back down the marching column to walk a while with Marcus and Qadir, wrinkled his nose. ‘This place still stinks of burnt wood, even now they’ve cleared away most of the wreckage. At least the Sixth is getting on with putting it back to the way it was.’

Despite the hour, the warm late summer air was filled with the sounds of hammering and sawing, as the legion’s troops laboured to restore the camp to its former magnificence from the burned-out shells of armouries and supply sheds torched to prevent their being looted by the triumphant barbarians three months before. The wooden bridge at the foot of the quarter-mile slope from the camp to the river had already been completely rebuilt, and the valley’s slopes on both sides of the fast-flowing River Tinea had been stripped of most of their remaining trees to supply wood for the reconstruction. The result was a bare landscape studded with tree stumps, their removal a low priority compared with the work of reconstruction, and across which half a dozen bonfires etched their sooty stains into the late afternoon sky as conscripted Brigantian labour collected and burned the unwanted debris left behind after the trees had been felled and cut up into usable sections by the legions’ artisans. Marcus nodded distractedly, his attention focused on his men. The replacement Tungrians marching in front of them under Dubnus’s command, accustomed to marching from their recent training, were still relatively fresh. By contrast, most of his Hamians looked fit to drop. They had taken almost all of the day to cover the distance from Arab Town, and the centurions’ faces had grown darker by the hour as the archers struggled to maintain even the standard marching pace.

‘Their feet must be as soft as babies’ arses. Look, that poor bastard’s got blood leaking out of his boots.’ Julius pointed to a man in the front rank as they paraded the replacements on the Noisy Valley parade ground. Both of the archer’s feet were visibly bleeding, the raw flesh visible between his boots’ leather straps. ‘This lot are going to need some serious sorting out before they can get back on the road. You go and chat up the legatus for any equipment he can spare; I’ll get them into quarters and boots off.’

Marcus nodded unhappily, ordering Qadir to stay with his men and follow Julius’s instructions. He presented himself in front of the rebuilt headquarters, one of the few buildings already completed by the repair gangs, greeting the duty centurion with the appropriate degree of respect the man would consider his due from an auxiliary centurion.

‘Centurion Corvus of the First Tungrian cohort, requesting an audience with Legatus Equitius.’

The legion officer leaned forward to put his face a foot from the younger man’s, and stared down his nose disdainfully, his jaw jutting out between his helmet’s gleaming cheek pieces.

‘Requesting an audience with the legatus? And what makes you think the commander of Sixth Victorious has any time for you?’

Retaining his cool, Marcus returned the hostile stare with a calm regard.

‘Mainly the fact that we stood together on a hillside quite recently, while a barbarian warband battered itself to pieces on our shields.’ His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward in turn to put his face inches from the centurion’s. ‘Which cohort, Centurion?’

‘What?’

He repeated the question with deliberate and obvious patience.

‘In which one of the Sixth Legion’s cohorts do you serve, Centurion?’

The older man saw quickly enough which way the conversation was going, and his answer was a fraction less gruff.

‘The Second.’

Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed coldly on the other man’s.

‘I thought so. You’re a replacement, from Gaul or Germany, I suppose, and so you weren’t here for the battle of Lost Eagle. But I was, and so was the legatus, or Prefect Equitius as I knew him at the time. I served with him after his promotion too, hunting your legion’s lost eagle through the northern hills while you were still on the road to this place. So, Centurion, all things being equal, I expect the legatus will be happy enough to see me.’

He settled into a comfortable parade rest and waited, while the officer stamped away and the headquarters sentries smirked quietly under their helmets. A few minutes later a soldier came to the door to fetch him inside the imposing building, leading him to the legatus’s office. Equitius was seated behind an impressive desk with a scroll open in front of him, one hand teasing at his thick brown beard as he read, but he got quickly to his feet when he saw the young officer and greeted him with a smile of genuine pleasure.

‘Centurion Corvus, you are quite literally a sight for sore eyes. Quintus!’

A uniformed clerk appeared at the door from an anteroom.

‘Legatus?’

‘That’s it for today, my eyes seem to be getting old before their time. Clear up those papers, we’ll make a fresh start tomorrow morning. And have some wine sent in please.’

Papers cleared and wine poured, the legatus raised his cup to Marcus. ‘Here’s to you, young man, and your apparent continued anonymity. Your false identity seems to be holding up well enough so far, for all the fact that the name Marcus Valerius Aquila hasn’t been entirely forgotten yet.’

Marcus nodded, sipping at his wine.

‘And you’re still in command of the Sixth then, sir? There’s no danger of the legion being cashiered for losing its eagle?’

Equitius frowned reflexively at the question.

‘Oh yes, I believe there’s been plenty of talk on the subject, but I think we’re past the worst of it. No legion has been disbanded in over a hundred years, not since First Germanica and Sixteenth Gallica were broken up for joining the Batavian revolt back in the Emperor Vespasian’s day. I’m told that some of the men around the throne were all for making an example of the Sixth, to “put some backbone in the other legions”, but we’ve been fortunate in having Avitus Macrinus in command in the absence of an effective governor. Not only did he rubbish the suggestion before it was even made, but he’s also got enough influence in Rome to squash the idea flat. The Sixth Legion may have been humbled by the deceptions of a traitor, but we’ll survive to take our revenge for the loss of our eagle the only way we know, on the battlefield.’

He tipped his cup back, savouring the wine for a moment.

‘So anyway, “Marcus Tribulus Corvus”, what brings you to this gloomy supply dump when you could be enjoying life on The Hill, or else be out in the field hunting down our old friend Calgus? I’ll warn you now that you won’t sleep a minute past dawn for the hammering of the armourers. My idiot of a camp prefect set their new forges up right next door to the transit barracks.’

Marcus told him the story of their day, getting a smile for his impression of Morban’s indignation on first seeing the Hamians.

‘… and then ten miles later he’s already trying to talk his way into my new chosen man’s purse.’

Equitius nodded sagely.

‘That sounds like the Morban I recall. How do you rate their chosen man?’

Marcus pulled a face.

‘He’s disappointed with his demotion, I’d say, but he’s hiding it well enough. Almost inscrutably, in fact.’

‘He’s a politician, then?’

The younger man shook his head slowly.

‘No, I’d say he’s something better than that. Call it maturity, or call it simple acceptance, he’ll serve happily enough until the time comes to take his position back.’

‘When you reclaim your Tungrians from the Second cohort?’

‘Something like that.’

Equitius raised an eyebrow, calling for his clerk again.

‘Ah, Quintus, I’d like any information we have on the Second Tungrian cohort’s new prefect, straight away please.’

The clerk saluted and left the room.

‘One of the privileges of senior command, access to rather more information than I’m used to. Another cup of wine?’

The clerk returned five minutes later with a record scroll.

‘Updated only today, sir. Prefect Furius has joined the Tungrians from the German frontier, from the First Minervia to be precise.’

‘I see. Anything else?’

‘No, sir, just the bare facts of his previous service. A spell with Twelfth Thunderbolt in Moesia some years ago, more recently six months with First Minervia, then over the sea to join us.’

‘Thank you, Quintus, that will be all.’

The clerk withdrew, and the legatus raised an eyebrow.

‘What my clerk is far too careful to say, at least in front of a man he doesn’t know, is that serving six months with a legion before being pushed off into auxiliary service is something of a kick in the teeth for a gentleman. It certainly wouldn’t have been a step for his former commanding officer to have taken lightly, given that Furius appears to have been sufficiently well connected to be favoured with a legion tribunate in the first place. And whether auxiliary or not, cohort commands weren’t growing on trees when I was looking for mine, so he must still have influential friends given that he’s probably been quite a naughty boy. He certainly must have some pull to have snagged a tribune’s posting with First Minervia in the first place.’ He gave Marcus a cautionary look. ‘Mark my words, Centurion, the Second Cohort’s new prefect might well have a colourful recent past, so I wouldn’t bet on getting those troops back any time soon, not until both cohorts are in the same place as a sympathetic senior officer. So, let’s get down to it, eh? You’ll be keeping those archers for a while, so what do you need to get them into the field with a half-decent chance of survival?’