Arrows of Fury

3

Later, in the evening’s chill, Marcus left the headquarters and walked slowly through the flickering torchlight to the hospital. The soldier on guard duty saluted at the sight of his cross-crested helmet, and the young Roman returned the salute distractedly. Inside the building he paused for a long moment in a darkened corridor, lost in thought. Legatus Equitius had broached the subject of Felicia Clodia Drusilla with diplomatic care, mentioning as if in passing that the doctor, kept busier than ever she had been caring for a single cohort’s medical needs now that she had several thousand men to look after, might appreciate a visit from an old friend.

‘The legion’s lucky that she was on hand to step in when her predecessor got himself killed on the road from the Yew Grove fortress. Luckier still that her father took the trouble to impart his surgical skills to her rather than abandoning her intellect to preparation for marriage and motherhood. I’ve requested a pair of replacement surgeons, of course, but there’s no word on when they’ll be forthcoming. Until then it’s either the good lady or nothing. Not even the camp prefect can complain at her presence under those circumstances.’

While he had kept his face straight and his feelings to himself, in truth Marcus had thought of little else since their last meeting, or at least during those times when his mind had not been occupied by the duties of his command. Given both the circumstances of that brief encounter, and those of her husband’s death, he had been prey to a host of doubts in the intervening weeks. And so the young centurion lurked in stealthy indecision. He and Felicia had briefly been close, but that was before…

‘Centurion?’ Marcus jerked out of his reverie, realising that he had been close to dozing in the quiet warmth of the hospital. An orderly stood before him with a dim lamp, the oil almost exhausted. ‘Can I help you, sir? Do you require treatment?

‘Marcus shook his head, removing his helmet. ‘No, thank you, I have come to visit Doctor Clodia Drusilla. I’m told that she is here, and I would appreciate a moment of her time, if the hour is forgivable.’

‘Yes, sir, I will pass your request on. Your name, Centurion?’

‘Corvus. Just that.’ He waited a moment, the fears of a thousand dismal reflections on their situation crowding back down on him. She must see that his life was not for her, she would have met another man, a safer man, she would be dismayed with his unheralded arrival, she…

‘Marcus!’ Felicia hurried down the corridor with her skirts flying, and wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace that dispelled his fears in an instant. ‘I’ve missed you! I’d almost given up on you as a lost cause, it’s been so long. Come into my office.’ She took his arm and drew him down the corridor, pulling him into the privacy of her room and closing the door before pressing him up against the wall in a long searching kiss. Breaking away after a long moment, she held him out at arm’s length in the flickering lamplight, appraising him as if in comparison with her memories before poking his armoured chest. ‘I’m sure I promised myself that you wouldn’t be quite so sturdily dressed the next time we kissed. It’s been so long, Marcus, I was sure you weren’t coming back for me.’ Her voice sounded small, almost lost, and her eyes moistened with repressed emotion.

He took both of her hands, her fingers warm between his. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been tied up patrolling the border area. The locals have reacted badly to not being liberated by their northern brothers, so they’ve taken to hit-and-run raids on Roman outposts and farms. The only way I might have seen you earlier would have been to get in the way of a blue-nose arrow. Besides, last time we met you were…’ He dried up, not wanting to say the words for fear of offending her.

Felicia sighed and shook her head, staring at the floor. ‘I know, I was distant, and I’ve cursed myself a thousand times since. I suppose it was just a reaction to my husband’s death… That and being told that he was killed by a wound in the back.’

Marcus trod carefully. Prefect Bassus had been stabbed in the back at the height of the pursuit that had followed the barbarian rout at the battle of Lost Eagle. He was widely reputed to have brought his death, presumably at the hands of his men, upon himself. His harsh leadership, combined with an inability to see his soldiers’ growing anger with their treatment, had seemingly driven them to deal with him in the only way left open to them. ‘You know he was…?’

‘A difficult man to like? Of course, who knew that better than I did? Why else would I have run away from him, although I thank the day I made that choice every time I pray to Fortuna. He didn’t deserve to die that way, though…’ She was silent for a moment, her hands clenched in her lap. ‘And I still feel guilty. When I heard he was dead my first reaction was joy, joy to be free of him, and to have my chance to be with you.’ She turned her head away, staring into the room’s shadowed corner. ‘Nobody with a calling to healing should be able to take even the slightest pleasure in death, and he was still my husband. I felt so… ashamed of myself.’

Marcus put a finger to her chin and turned her face back to his own. ‘He spoke to me on that bloody hill, when the Second Cohort pulled our chestnuts out of the fire at the last moment, before the barbarian charge, and I swear he knew what had happened between us, or at least guessed. He made it very clear that he was going to call me out after the battle, but I couldn’t have fought him. I would have been forced to kill him, and that would have brought disaster on both of us. Whoever put that spear in his back saved me from taking my own life to avoid implicating us both, me for treason and you for adultery.’ He paused for a moment to stare into her eyes. ‘Anyway, he’s gone. We can either decide to make the most of where we find ourselves, or just waste our lives worrying about our mutual guilt. I know which I prefer.’

She looked back up at him, her eyes soft in the lamplight, shrugging the sleeves of her tunic off her shoulders, so that the garment was held in place only by its friction with the slope of her breasts. ‘And you’d like to know what my choice is? Why don’t you lock that door and ask me properly?’

It was another two hours before Marcus made his way back to the transit barracks, bone weary and yet elated beyond expectation. Rufius looked up expectantly as he opened the door to the barrack the four centurions had agreed to share. Julius and Dubnus were already asleep in their bunks, huddled down into straw mattresses. ‘Ah, so there you are. I had half a mind to call out the guard to look for you, it’s been so long, but Julius convinced me that you were likely just guzzling down the legatus’s Iberian red without concern for your elders and betters. Anyway, what have you been up to… you look like you’re dead on your feet, but you don’t smell of drink…’

The veteran centurion sniffed ostentatiously, his eyes widening as he did so. He leaned back in his chair and prodded the recumbent form behind him. ‘Hey, Julius! Julius, wake up, man!’

Their brother officer woke with red-rimmed eyes, sat up, shot Marcus a glance and subsided back on to his bed. ‘He’s back. Big deal. Let me sleep, damn you.’

Rufius shook him by the shoulder. ‘I think you’re going to want to see this. Or rather, I think you’re going to want to smell it.’

Julius sat back up with a frown, looked Marcus up and down and drew in a long breath through his nose. He stared at Marcus with a look of dawning amazement. ‘Bugger me…’

Rufius snorted. ‘I wouldn’t turn over tonight or the horny young sod probably will.’

Julius tried again. ‘You’ve… you’ve been…’

Marcus reddened, and Rufius pounced. ‘Yes, he bloody well has. While we’ve been sat here worrying that some nasty little thief might have clouted him and left him for dead in the dark, he’s been playing hide-the-cucumber. Not only that, but he hasn’t even washed the lady’s smell from his skin before coming back to gloat over us poor celibates. Didn’t they teach you to go to the baths after a tumble, eh, boy, or least get a washcloth and a bucket and do your best with that?’

Marcus opened his mouth to retort, only to get Julius’s cloth square in the face, still damp from his end-of-day wipe-down. ‘Have one on me, lad. Just don’t be settling down to sleep in here reeking like that or I’ll be as stiff as a crowbar all bloody night. Go on, there’s a bucket of water outside the door, go and wash it off like a decent comrade.’ He stopped, caught off guard by the look on Marcus’s face. ‘Hang on, look at you. You look like every lovestruck prick I’ve ever had the misfortune to bunk with over the last twenty years, about as sharp as a ragman’s donkey. You didn’t even see that washcloth coming. I know who you’ve been with… what’s her name, the doctor…’

Marcus turned for the door, the cloth dangling in one hand.

‘Felicia. Her name is Felicia. And she promised to marry me.’

Julius and Rufius exchanged amazed stares, then Julius reached over to shake the only man in the room who was still asleep. ‘Dubnus. Dubnus! You are not going to want to miss this.’

Calgus and his bodyguard left the warband’s camp in the dawn’s first light. They slipped away unnoticed, save for a few words with the men patrolling the camp’s western face, men of the Selgovae tribe and still fiercely loyal to their tribal leader. Calgus whispered fiercely into the ear of the warrior commanding the watch on the camp’s western wall.

‘You’ve seen nothing all morning, Vallo, clear?’

The guard’s leader, a grizzled and scar-faced veteran of two uprisings against the hated invaders, and fiercely loyal to Calgus, nodded impassively. He had been on guard the previous day, when the messenger he had been warned to expect had walked out of the forest from the west, stopping fifty paces from the camp’s wall. When Vallo had gone forward to speak with him the northerner had simply uttered his message for Calgus and then turned impassively away, without any apparent regard for the dozen Selgovae warriors standing behind their leader. Now Vallo stood in front of his king, looking unhappily at the half-dozen men of Calgus’s bodyguard as they clustered around their chieftain.

‘We will keep silence, my lord. We will guard your tent, and tell any that ask that you are ill.’ He leaned closer to Calgus, his voice tense for all the softness of the muttered whisper. ‘But I do not like the risk you take in doing this.’

Calgus nodded and slapped the veteran’s shoulder, looking round to ensure they remained unseen in the sleeping camp before replying in equally soft tones.

‘I know. The Votadini will complain more loudly in my absence, and their king will continue his plotting, but this thing has to be done in absolute secrecy if it is to bring us the victory we need.’

‘So you walk out into the forest with a handful of warriors. My lord, it is a mistake! It is the same mistake as when you were ambushed by the Romans when you went hunting. Your bodyguard all killed, and you spared only by the strength and speed of your sword arm?’

Calgus laughed softly, recalling his first encounter with the Roman traitor who had proved the key to their initial triumph over the Roman 6th Legion.

‘Aye, there’s a story. I’ll recount it to you in full one night, when we’ve run the Romans off our land for good, but for now trust me when I tell you that this is a risk I cannot avoid. Not if I am to bring about the great victory we need to get their dirty feet off our land.’

The warrior bowed and stood aside, watching as the men of his chieftain’s bodyguard ducked through the artfully concealed opening in the palisade that surrounded the camp and moved out into the trees ahead of the king, their spears ready to throw and their eyes on the forest about them. Turning back to his men, he gestured for them to continue their guard duty, looking across the camp long and hard to ensure that no early riser had spotted Calgus’s quiet departure. When he turned back to the forest, the small group of men was already out of sight, hidden by the profusion of vegetation that flourished between the thick trunks of the oaks.

The small party made cautious progress through the silent forest, using a hunter’s track through the dense undergrowth which had seen little recent use, to judge by the luxuriant foliage growing across it. They broke off the line of their march several times to wait quietly in the cover of the thick undergrowth, in hopes of surprising any attempt at following them through the forest’s gloom. By midday they were crouched in the shelter of a fallen tree at the bottom of a valley about five miles from their camp.

‘No, my lord, we are not followed.’ The leader of the warlord’s personal guard shook his head with absolute certainty, his voice pitched low enough that only Calgus could hear him. ‘The forest is quiet, and anyone following us along these overgrown paths would be heard from two hundred paces.’

Calgus nodded his satisfaction.

‘Good. Then I can push on without fear of being observed.’

The warrior pulled a face, looking around at the deep forest’s confusion of trees and bushes.

‘In all truth, my lord, I have a greater fear of what lies ahead of us than with what might or might not lie behind. What I have said is as true for us as for any man tracking us…’

Calgus nodded his understanding.

‘I know. Once we start moving we’ll be making as much noise as a herd of pigs on the hunt for nuts. But nevertheless I have to move on and take that risk. I have an appointment on the far side of this hill that I am unwilling to miss.’

‘My lord.’

The bodyguard stood, gesturing to his comrades to prepare to renew their march. Calgus shook his head.

‘“I”, not “we”. This is a task that I must carry out alone, and you men must wait here for my return. While I’m away you can prepare torches, in case I’m later coming back over the hill than would be ideal, but you will under no circumstances attempt to follow me.’

‘And if you don’t return before dark?’

Calgus nodded.

‘It’s possible. In that case you are to build a large fire, and take turns in watching out for me, but you are still to stay here.’

He turned away and headed on up the hill, pushing aside a branch that was overhanging the path.

‘And if you still don’t return, my lord? How long should we wait?’

Calgus paused for a moment, calling back over his shoulder.

‘As long as it takes.’

He turned back to the path, muttering under his breath.

‘Which, if I’ve misjudged my gamble, won’t be very long. If I’ve got this one wrong we’ll all be dead before dark falls.’

He climbed the hill with a hunter’s caution, his eyes and ears straining for any hint of a presence in the trees around him, but neither saw nor heard anything to give him pause, continuing his careful ascent until he reached the top of the hill. Sliding into the shadow of a tree, he became absolutely still, so quiet that he could feel his own heart beating, and listened again. After a moment he caught a sound through the incessant drone of the forest’s insects, only a faint fragment of noise, but enough to tell him that he was in the right place. As he eased back to his feet a spear slammed into the tree’s trunk a foot from his face, stopping him dead as a warrior rose out of the foliage, another spear pointed straight at him, more men at his back. Each one of them was heavily tattooed, swirling blue patterns decorating their hands and faces. The king of the Selgovae raised his open hands, careful to make no move that might be interpreted as threatening.

‘Well, that’s the hardest part of the trick done; I’ve found you without getting myself killed. Shall we go down the hill and see who’s waiting for me at the bottom?’

The man behind the levelled spear scowled at him, gesturing his men forward.

‘Take his weapons and tie his hands.’

He watched as the rebel leader was relieved of his sword and had his wrists tied together in front of him. Calgus’s return stare remained steady throughout the swift process of disarmament and restraint.

‘Do your people always treat invited guests in this way?’

The spearman snorted mirthless laughter.

‘We are a long way from home, and the Hunting Hounds have learned the hard way to trust nobody until they are proved worthy of it. Bring him.’

Prefect Furius paraded the Second Tungrians after breakfast the next day, waiting next to his first spear as the cohort marched on to The Rock’s parade ground. The older man spoke after a moment’s silence.

‘You intend going through with what we discussed?’

The prefect nodded confidently.

‘Absolutely. I’ll have Prefect Bassus’s murderer underground before we leave here, that or the local crows will eat well for the next few days. My only concern about dealing with the matter today is that you haven’t managed to find the bastard over the last two months.’

They stood in uncomfortable silence until the last century had marched on to the square, and the entire cohort was stood at attention. Furius strode out to face them, self-assured confidence in his authority apparent in his stride and bearing.

‘Second Cohort…’ The ranks of troops waited expectantly to be ordered to stand at their ease. ‘… normally I would order you to stand easy for my morning address, but this morning isn’t normal, so you can all stay at attention. In point of fact, there hasn’t been a normal day in this cohort since one of you put a spear through the spine of your last prefect.’ If anyone had been dozing in the ranks before, it was certain that nobody was doing so now. ‘Until now, nobody in this cohort has taken the trouble to find the man that killed Prefect Bassus. By rights he should long since have been avenged by the penalty that military law demands of his murderer — public execution. It seems, however, that this cohort is content to brush its problems under the mat. Until today, that is. Today, Second Tungrians, that failure to act will be rectified in the most public way possible. Before you leave this parade ground I will know who killed him. Either that, or you’ll all rue the day you ever set eyes on him. I’ve sworn to Mars to take the murderer’s life as revenge for Bassus’s, sworn on an altar with witnesses and a noble sacrifice, with no way back from the promise. And I will, I promise you, exact revenge for him. How many more men die here alongside the prefect’s killer depends entirely on you.’

He took a breath and looked across their packed ranks, playing the moment out, feeling the tension crackling through the men arrayed in front of him.

‘Since I seem to be the only man seeking justice here, I’m going to need some help. I know that the first spear will stand alongside me, so now I want to know where the other officers stand. Any centurion that is willing to support justice for Prefect Bassus, stand forward three paces from your centuries.’

There was an instant ripple of movement, so fast that Furius suspected that his first spear had blown quietly in a few ears some time since he had first briefed the man as to what he intended. All ten of his officers stood forward of their men, having crossed, whether they realised it or not, their own personal Rubicons from which there would be no turning back.

‘Very good. At least this cohort’s officers recognise the enormity of the crime we’re going to take retribution for. So, we have one man out of the eight hundred of you facing me to expose. What will it take to make that happen? I wonder. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it for the last five weeks, ever since the moment I found out about my new command, and the way in which it became available.’ He paused for a moment, allowing a powerful silence to settle on the gathered soldiers. ‘Some years ago I served in the Moesian border wars with the Twelfth Thunderbolt. There was a unit with true Roman discipline.’ He stared across the cohort, sneering into his troops’ collective wide-eyed stare.

‘Yes, the Twelfth knew about crime and punishment, and any example of cowardice was met with the harshest of penalties. I’m tempted to follow their example, and decimate this cohort, literally to condemn one man in ten to death at the hands of his peers as punishment…’ Furius paused again, sweeping his gaze across the rows of stony faces. ‘… but I realise that while that would be a fitting punishment, the odds of killing the murderer would be far too low to justify the lost fighting strength. So, I have decided on a different approach.

‘You men are a disgrace, willing to allow the death of your commander to pass unpunished, and so I’m going to punish you collectively to the maximum extent I can without causing any loss of your fighting capability. As a result, the following punishments are effective immediately. First, you will all be fined an amount of pay equal to that which you have earned since Bassus’s murder. On top of that, no further pay will be issued until his killer volunteers himself for punishment.’ He waited for a moment, allowing the enormity of three months’ lost pay to sink in. ‘Second, if the killer is found, and justice granted to Prefect Bassus today, before the sun sets, I will commute that fine to one month’s pay. And lastly, if the prefect’s killer is not identified today, I will randomly select a man from each century for execution by his comrades. Execution which will be carried out without the use of any weapons other than your bare hands.’

He looked across their ranks, staring hard at faces whose gaze was locked firmly to the front, not daring to meet his eyes.

‘You choose. I’ve got no orders other than to scout this area for barbarians, so we can stay here as long as you like while the man I’m looking for makes his mind up to come forward, just as long as you’re all clear that every new day will start with each century choosing a soldier to be beaten to death… not to mention someone to do the dirty work. I’ll be in my tent…’

The quartermaster’s meaty hand made a loud thwack as he smacked it down on the counter. His pale eyes flicked between the two men on the other side of the desk, one hand distractedly smoothing his slicked-back hair.

‘Are you pair mad? You pitch up as if you own the place, and then you offer to relieve me of two centuries’ worth of equipment?’ He glared across the wooden expanse at Marcus and Qadir. ‘An officer fresh out of his napkin, and a chosen man in fancy dress with a bad suntan. Well, the pair of you can fuck right off.’

Marcus’s face hardened, his well-being of the previous evening already forgotten.

‘You’re making a big mistake, storeman, I…’

The quartermaster’s eyes widened.

‘Storeman. Fucking storeman!? I eat storemen for breakfast. I shit storemen when I go to the latrine. You, boy, do not call me a storeman, you piece of auxiliary shit.’

Qadir raised an eyebrow at the tirade, and then turned his head minutely as if only very slightly surprised as Marcus put a hand to his sword. A voice from behind them pulled his attention away from the scene of impending violence. It was Rufius, speaking from the shadow of the store’s doorway.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you, young Two Knives. I’ve known the big-mouthed idiot for longer than I care to remember and he’s been the same for all those years, all piss and vinegar just as long as there’s a nice wide counter between him and the men he’s robbing. There’s two ways we can do this. Either you can argue with him, show him your requisition all nice and official with all the right names and a pretty seal, and eventually jump the counter and offer him a new set of lumps in the time-honoured fashion, or I can simply remind him of one of life’s oldest rules. I suggest we try it my way first, and if that fails you can have another go at doing it your way. Now, Storeman Brocchus, let’s see how well you remember your old comrades, eh? Let me give you a clue. I retired from the legion after twenty-five years only eighteen months ago. No?’

Brocchus frowned with concentration, thrown off balance by the as yet unknown officer’s supreme confidence.

‘No? Here’s another clue. I was the best first spear ever to grace the parade ground at Yew Grove. No? I thought not, you never did recognise quality in either supplies or soldiers. One last clue, then. I never did tell anyone about you and that lady you used to see on the side, did I? Despite her being very close to a rather unpleasant centurion of our mutual acquaintance, a man who would bite your throat out if he ever even suspected you of diddling his woman.’

Brocchus recoiled from the counter with a look of combined amazement and horror. ‘Tiberius Rufius? But…’

Rufius walked out of the shadows, swept his helmet off and slapped it down on to the counter’s surface, a wolfish grin painted across his face.

‘I know! It’s the sheer delight of seeing me again. I heard you shouting the odds like a stallholder’s wife from outside and I thought, “Bugger me, it’s that old fool Brocchus giving out just like old times.”’

‘But you retired. I saw you go…’

Rufius grinned hugely, reaching across the counter to give the quartermaster’s cheek a painful tweak.

‘And now you see me back again, back in uniform… sorry, fancy dress… and having the best fun of my life. Yes, here I am again, with my mate here just out of his napkin and his over-tanned chosen man, and we’re here to rob your stores of everything and anything of value to the hundred and sixty men standing outside that door. Not your legion issue, of course, no, we’re looking for equipment fit for auxiliary shit, and I’m betting you’ve got enough hidden away back there for our purposes, given your love for squirrelling away anything and everything you might be able to sell.’ He grinned widely at the quartermaster’s amazed stare. ‘And do you know just how much you can do to stop me? Given that we’ve got a signed requisition from the Sixth’s legatus? A man who recently saw battle alongside myself and Napkin Boy here? And given that I know absolutely everything about your sordid little encounters with a certain officer’s wife? Encounters I’m sure you’d prefer never got back to him? Nothing, eh, Storeman? So, muster your work dodgers and let’s be about equipping a hundred and sixty brave men to go and stand between you and those nasty barbarians I’m sure you’ve heard so much about.’

The quartermaster paled, turned and fled back into the storehouse’s gloom, calling for his men. Rufius smirked after him, raising a self-satisfied eyebrow at Marcus and Qadir.

‘There you go, lads, definitive proof that it isn’t who you know that matters, but who you know they’ve been shagging. Full infantry equipment for a double century of bow benders coming right up.’

If the 8th Century had made poor time the previous day, their progress with sore feet and their new burden of armour and weaponry made the previous efforts look sparkling. Qadir walked alongside Marcus as the Hamians struggled up a slight incline in the road from The Rock towards Cauldron Fort, sweat beading his brow from both the warmth of the day and the weight of his new equipment. Each man was now shod with the standard heavy-soled combat boots, the hobnails lazily rapping out their laboured progress.

‘This mail must be at least twice the weight of our previous shirts.’

Marcus smiled grimly back at him. ‘Not to mention the arming vest, which you’ll curse all day when it’s this warm — until it saves your delicate skin from being cut by the rings when they stop a blade. Anyway, that’s twenty pounds of heavy iron rings from neck to thigh, the best armour in the empire. Strong enough to stop arrow, sword or spear, just as long as a ring doesn’t break or a rivet pop, and flexible too. The first time you see combat with the blue-noses you’ll wish it was longer and thicker.’

‘Blue-noses?’

‘Yes. Our affectionate name for the tribes we’re fighting. They have a tendency to paint themselves up for battle.’ He raised an eyebrow at the Hamian’s disbelieving smile. ‘Oh, you can laugh now, but the first time you see a wall of screaming blue-painted lunatics charging at you you’ll not be quite so amused.’

‘I see. And the spear?’

‘Six pounds each. You should be carrying two, but we decided that one would be enough, given you still have your bows. Before you ask, the sword weighs three pounds, the shield twelve, the helmet five, and there’s another five pounds of kit on the carrying pole.’

‘And you fight in this? I can barely walk for the weight.’

Marcus nodded. ‘I know. The first week is the worst. Once your men get used to the extra weight they’ll find they’ve grown muscle where there was little before. The…’

A scream from the century of Tungrians marching to their front snapped his attention to their ranks. A man had fallen out of the column, an arrow protruding from his thigh.

‘Buckets and boards!’ Dubnus’s voice rang out in the sudden shocked silence, stirring the stunned troops into a flurry of movement as shields were pulled from the troops’ backs, and helmets thrust over their heads. Marcus turned to his own men, his own order for increased protection dying in his throat. Qadir, his bow already in his hand, gestured with an open hand towards the distant treeline. ‘With your permission? Before they realise what we are?’

Marcus nodded blankly, unprepared for the sudden turn of events. ‘Be my guest.’

A half-dozen tribal bowmen were standing a few paces from the safety of the trees, ready to dart into their shelter just as they had during the outward march three days before. Nocking a wickedly barbed arrow to his weapon’s bowstring, the Hamian effortlessly pulled the bow back to the limit of its ability to store the energy he was forcing into its stressed wood-and-bone frame. He took a moment longer to compose his shot, breathing in and half releasing the breath before loosing the arrow in a long shallow arc. As the arrow punched into his first target he was already nocking a second missile, sending it after the first before the barbarian had completed his nerveless slump to the ground, dropping the man standing alongside his first victim even as he gaped at his fallen comrade without quite comprehending what was happening. A third man fell as he started to shout a warning, and a fourth as the remaining tribesmen turned to run, the Hamian loosing his arrows with a speed and accuracy unlike any that Marcus had seen before. Morban, standing alongside him, gaped in astonishment. His mouth hung open unnoticed as the big Syrian’s bow spat arrow after arrow at the now terrified barbarians.

Two men were left now, another shot dropping one of the pair as they sprinted for the trees in terror of the arrows that were killing them in remorseless succession. The last man reached the treeline and darted behind the trunk of a massive oak, peeping back out at the watching troops. Morban roared his approval, shaking the century’s standard in triumph.

‘Five men dead in twenty heartbeats! Cocidius’s hairy nuts, but you’re…’

He fell silent as the Hamian chosen man nocked a last arrow, ignoring the standard-bearer’s noisy approval. Qadir waited for a long moment, holding another deep breath with his eye fixed on the distant tree, then loosed his last arrow just as the Briton looked out from his hiding place again, turning away to resling the weapon across his shoulder without any apparent interest in the shot’s success. For a moment nothing happened, but then the last of the tribesmen staggered from his hiding place behind the oak with the last arrow protruding from his neck, and fell full length to the ground. Qadir turned to Marcus and repeated his small bow of the previous morning, hands open wide at his side.

Julius ran down the road towards them, a broad smile on his face. ‘Bloody good work, that’ll make the stupid young bastards think twice before any of them try that again. Let’s get on the move again.’

Qadir inclined his head respectfully. ‘I would, with your permission, Centurion, prefer to retrieve my spent arrows. And some of those men may not be dead… I think I can see one of them moving.’

Julius clapped him on the arm, pointing to the forest’s edge, and the wounded barbarians. ‘You’re shit-hot with a bow, that’s clear enough, but you still have a lot to learn about war here on the frontier. Those men you just put down can lie there and bleed to death for all I care. They might all die where they fell, or one or two of them might well make it back to their village. Either works well enough for us, since either way the message gets round the locals in double-quick time. Your arrows will give them pause for thought, and that’s a price worth paying. Centurions, saddle your men up and get them moving!’

The exhausted Hamians trailed the other centuries on to The Hill’s parade ground late that afternoon, wearily forming up for review alongside the replacement Tungrians as Acting Prefect Frontinius marched down from the fort.

Morban nudged Qadir in the ribs, muttering from the side of his mouth. ‘Right, mate, that’s First Spear Sextus Frontinius, or ‘Uncle Sextus’ when he’s not within earshot. He’s a decent enough officer, straight enough, and doesn’t even mind being told when he’s wrong as long as you don’t rub it in. If he asks you a question don’t try to be clever, just answer him and then shut up. If he wants to know more he’ll ask you quick enough.’

Frontinius’s step was lively enough but the waiting officers saw the obvious stiffness in his gait and exchanged meaningful glances.

‘You can stop pulling faces at each other when you think I’m not looking. Yes, my bloody knee is still as stiff as a spear shaft and yes, it still hurts like buggery when I bend it first thing in the morning, and not much less at any other time. That’s the price you pay for offering an easy target when there are blue-nose archers within bowshot. All of which is of far less importance than exactly what you’ve brought back from Arab Town. “A double order of tunic lifters” was the term the officer of the guard used when he put his head round my office door five minutes ago… and it doesn’t look like he was far off the mark, for all the nice new armour they’re struggling to keep upright. So, who’s going to enlighten me?’

Julius stepped forward, snapping a crisp salute before walking across to his superior, leaning close enough that his words would be for the first spear’s ear alone.

‘Our rules, Sextus?’

Frontinius shot him a penetrating stare, raising an eyebrow. ‘Our rules? Twice in one year? This ought to be good…’

The centurion nodded to acknowledge his old friend and superior officer’s point.

‘Our rules, then. The Second Cohort has a new prefect, some hothead fresh from Germania with a point to prove. The bastard bribed the Arab Town replacements officer to let him walk off with one of our centuries, which left us with two choices, either to come back eighty men short, or to bring back enough of these Hamians to get us back to full strength.’

The first spear raised an eyebrow, looking out over the centuries paraded in front of him. ‘And you went for numbers.’

‘It wasn’t my first choice. I’ll live with it, seeing as we’ve got them re-equipped somewhat more like soldiers than dancing girls, and given that one of them killed a half-dozen of the local idiots on the way back, but left to me they’d still be sitting in Arab Town wondering why it’s so cold in the middle of summer.’

‘I see. We’ll come back to the local idiots. So exactly whose first choice was it?’

‘Our young gladiator, who else? Oh, I ought to mention that he’s asked a certain lady doctor, recently widowed, if you get my drift, for her hand in marriage. Which, Cocidius the mighty hunter be forever mystified, she seems to have agreed to. You can expect the boy at your table one evening soon now asking for your formal permission.’

The first spear raised a sardonic eyebrow, shaking his head gently.

‘That young man’s been nothing but a source of entertainment ever since Prince Dubnus walked him through the gates, but let’s concentrate on the Hamians for the time being. We’ll worry about the marriage later. I presume he’s intending to practise his transformation skills on his new century?’

Julius nodded sagely. ‘Looks like it. I’m not sure that he understands the difference between what he managed with the Ninth Century and turning untrained men into soldiers, never mind untrained men quite so lacking in muscle. He did persuade Legatus Equitius to cough up the kit to make them look respectable, although they talked him into letting them keep their bows.’

‘Hence the dead idiots?’

‘Yes. Amazing shooting by their chosen man, too, he knocked over half a dozen of them in less time than it takes to tell the story. The fools never knew what hit them until it was too late. They were trying the usual shoot-and-run stuff — in fact they’d already hit us on the road east, killed one man and wounded another. We left him with Centurion Corvus’s wife-to-be in the Noisy Valley base hospital.’

Frontinius snorted without mirth. ‘So, the locals bit off more than they could chew? Good. Perhaps they’ll think twice in future. So, these are useful tunic lifters then, despite appearances?’

Julius shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes lifted briefly to the sky in unspoken comment. ‘They’ll shoot well enough, but the rest of the picture’s just one broken tile after another. They’re nearly all twenty pounds underweight and a hand’s length too short, they handle their weapons so badly the blue-noses will piss themselves laughing if we ever have to put them into a battle line, and their feet are as soft as silk. Or at least they were two days ago. Now they’re just a bloody mess. Like I said, I’ll live with it, and I’ll give Two Knives all the help I can, but I think it’s a lost cause. Two minutes of toe-to-toe with the locals will see half of them dead and the other half running.’

Frontinius nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the Hamian ranks. ‘I can see your point from here. On the other hand, we’re likely to be back in the action before very long, and a double-strength century isn’t a thing I can afford to turn my nose up at. Perhaps we need to allow Centurion Corvus the benefit of the doubt for a little while. Parade them properly.’

Julius spun away, bellowing for the four centuries to come to attention, and the two men waited for a long moment for the soldiers to settle down into immobility under the spirited goading of their watch officers. The Hamians, Frontinius noted, for all their obvious exhaustion, settled first and with a minimum of fuss. Nodding his satisfaction, the prefect paced out towards the Tungrian replacements and walked the front rank with questioning eyes. ‘They still make big lads in Tungria, I see. Nice tidy equipment… you, air your iron.’

The soldier obediently unsheathed his sword, presenting the weapon’s hilt to the officer.

‘Clean, sharp, nice quality too. A good result, I’d say. This is your century, Centurion Rufius? Yes? You’re a lucky man, although

I’m not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. Now, let’s have a look at our archers…’

He walked along the 8th Century’s front rank, assessing their tired but erect stance. ‘Nice armour. New swords and spears too. Well done, Centurion Corvus, good use of initiative to have Sixth Legion re-equip your men, although quite how you got equipment this tidy out of their stores is something of a mystery to me.’

Marcus met his questioning stare. ‘I had a little help from Centurion Rufius, First Spear. Local knowledge still counts, apparently…’

‘Good. Well done, Rufius, I’ll buy you a cup of wine later on for saving our young colleague the trouble of going through that whole “do you know who I am?” routine. This is your new chosen man, I presume, Centurion?’

‘Chosen man Qadir, First Spear.’

‘Thank you. Chosen, might I take a look at that bow?’

Qadir saluted smartly and handed him the weapon. Frontinius tested the bow’s draw, grunting quietly with the effort, then handed it back.

‘I hear that you killed half a dozen men with this earlier today?’

The chosen man nodded.

‘Yes, First Spear.’

Frontinius handed the weapon back to him with a look of respect, then stepped up to address the century, raising his voice to be heard clearly. ‘Soldiers of the Eighth Century, you may have been born and trained in Syria, but you are now part of the proudest and most respected auxiliary cohort on the northern frontier. The First Tungrians have faced battle in these hills many times and always come out on top. Always. We win, gentlemen, no matter the odds. We win, we bury our dead, we mourn and we move on. You will find your comrades hard bitten… uncompromising… and this may be offputting to you, but you will adapt to our way of going about our business. I suggest that you start adapting now, for I fear that your time to do so will be shorter than might have been ideal. Welcome to the war.’

The sun was close to the western horizon by the time the 2nd Cohort delivered forth Prefect Bassus’s murderers. Respectfully summoned by First Spear Neuto, Furius strode out on to the parade ground, where the cohort had stood for most of the day. The soldiers were standing to attention, their faces fixed and sullen. Two soldiers stood out in front of the cohort’s third century, half a dozen of the cohort’s officers arrayed around them. Furius strolled up to the group, eyeing the pair carefully. Both men fixed their gazes on him, both wide eyed and pale with the gravity of their situation. The prefect turned to First Spear Neuto, gesturing to the men. ‘So these are Prefect Bassus’s murderers?’

Neuto nodded grimly.

‘Yes, Prefect. Centurion Tertius commands their century. Centurion?’

Tertius stepped forward and saluted briskly.

‘Soldiers Secundus and Aulus, Prefect. They have admitted to killing the prefect.’

Furius walked up to the pair, looking both men in the eyes for several seconds before speaking again. ‘You both admit to the crime of murdering your commanding officer?’

Aulus said nothing, simply turning his bruised face away. Secundus nodded, his face a mask of contempt. ‘I done the most of it. Put my spear through his bronze and his spine in one go and dropped the bastard face down. All he did…’ jerking his head towards the man standing alongside him ‘… was take his iron to him once he was down. You want to take your revenge, you take it from me.’

‘Why?’ The soldier spat on the ground in front of the prefect’s feet, sneering into his face. ‘He wasn’t an officer, nor a gentleman, he was just a right bastard. Punishments for this and punishments for that. Never a nice word for a good job, never a day off for the lads when we made him look good. I did it, but there was plenty more that wished they had. I never had to buy a drink for weeks that followed, not until they all started to worry about how revenge might be taken.’

Furius looked to Tertius with a raised eyebrow. The officer shook his head, never taking his eyes off the man in front of them as he spoke. ‘Soldier Secundus is an inveterate waster, Prefect. He drinks, he idles whenever he can, he whores. He’s a good fighter, but he lacks discipline.’

‘I see. And this one?’

Aulus’s face was turned away from his officers, and his eyes turned to the ground as if to deny the weight of events now pressing down hard on him. Furius pulled his sword from its scabbard, putting the blade’s point under the silent soldier’s chin and forcing it round until they were face to face. The blade’s tip dug into the soft flesh, starting a trickle of blood down the terrified man’s neck. ‘Why? Why attack your prefect when he was already dying?’

There was silence for a long moment before the soldier found his voice, quavering with desperation. ‘I hated him. He had me flogged…’

Furius looked to Tertius for confirmation.

‘Twice, Prefect. Ten lashes the first time, and twenty-five the second. Soldier Aulus is good for nothing, slovenly, lazy, not even a decent fighter. Prefect Bassus had hoped to knock some sense into him.’

Furius nodded, scowling into the soldier’s face.

‘And then there he was, helpless on the ground and you with a sword in your hand and your blood up from chasing barbarians, eh? What did you do?’

Aulus’s eyes closed with the memory. ‘I stabbed him in the neck. Just once. He didn’t move, so I didn’t do it again.’

Tears ran down his cheeks, provoking a weary sigh and a sad shake of the head from his centurion. ‘You see the problem with the man, Prefect, he can’t even make his confession like a man.’

Furius nodded decisively, then lunged forward without warning, burying the sword’s point deep into the weeping soldier’s throat, angling the blade upwards under the man’s jaw. The man crumpled nervelessly, his blood spraying across both the officers’ polished armour. Furius stepped back from the falling corpse, swinging the bloody blade back to point at the other man. ‘I made it easy for your comrade here, because he was misguided and ineffectual in his complicity with your crime. You are the real murderer here, and for that you will pay a little more dearly than this simpleton did. Tie his hands!’ He stepped back, the blooded sword still clamped in one hand. ‘Second Tungrians! Hear my words…’ The cohort stood in absolute silence, every man straining to hear whatever their new officer was about to proclaim, their former disdain suddenly fascinated attention. The prefect pointed to the horizon, where the sun was dipping to almost touch the hills to their south and west. ‘You have given your comrades up to justice in time to save yourselves two months’ pay. This man’s crime…’ he pointed to the corpse huddled on the ground in front of him ‘… was to be weak, and to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This man, on the other hand…’ he pointed the bloodied blade at Secundus ‘… deserves the heaviest penalty I can award against him. Tomorrow morning he will be scourged, fifty lashes to be administered by the cohort’s centurions. And then

…’ He paused, smiling slightly with a clear relish for the sentence he was about to pass. ‘… once the scourging has been completed to my satisfaction he will be crucified, and the cohort will parade past him to receive an example of the punishment to be expected for a crime of this severity. His legs will not be broken, since he does not deserve anything other than a slow and painful death.’

At the mention of crucifixion the cohort started visibly, and even Neuto’s eyes widened as he stood behind his new commanding officer.

‘I know that you will be wondering how I can order such a punishment. I know that it is more usual for the crime of murder to meet with death by beating with staves, to be administered by the killer’s tent party, but this man will meet his fate like the criminal scum that he is.’ He paused for a moment, jaw jutting, and stared out across the cohort’s ranks in challenge. ‘He will be guarded tonight by his own century. If he dies before the time I have appointed for him, or escapes in some amazing and unexpected manner, I will have that century’s officer, chosen man and watch officer crucified in his place, and the rest of his century decimated, not once but three times. Thirty men will die tomorrow if this man fails to make his appointment with the hammer and nails for any reason.’

He turned to First Spear Neuto, inclining his head to indicate that the senior centurion should carry on, and then turned and walked back to his tent, the bloody gladius still held in his right hand.

Centurion Tertius turned to the first spear in amazement once the prefect was safely out of earshot. ‘Crucifixion? First Spear, in Maponus’s name…’

Neuto snapped at him, his tired face contorted with anger. ‘Don’t you dare bring shame on this cohort by appealing to the gods for the life of a senior officer’s murderer, you fool! You told me you had no idea who killed Bassus, and I’ll continue to believe that since you swore an oath, but that man dies tomorrow and that’s an end to it.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘In the meanwhile you can work off that bitterness by getting your man nicely secured against any unforeseen accidents. I expect you’ll find your chosen man and watch officer more than happy to make sure nothing remiss happens to him. Then you can build me a cross. You’ll find plenty of wood and nails in the remains of the fort. More importantly, we’ll need something to hold your man upright tomorrow while he’s being flogged.’

Tertius frowned, puzzlement written across his face. ‘Upright? All the scourgings I’ve seen have only needed one thick post. You bend the victim over it and tie his hands and feet to keep him there while he’s having his back opened up.’

The first spear rolled his eyes upwards. ‘Yes. I know. And this one’s going to be different. I want that idiot to be held upright while we’re flogging him to death, if you take my point. So I want two posts set in the ground, tall enough to hold him up and wide enough to stretch him out standing up with ropes tied around his wrists. You can angle them forward just a little too; make sure he’ll stay up even if he loses it halfway through. Angle them away from the parade ground, mind you. Dismissed.’

It was close to midnight before Tertius was done with his preparations for the next day. Labouring by torchlight, his men had set up two stout posts to hold the prisoner up during his ordeal the following day. Alongside the whipping posts they had erected a simple rough cross formed from two scorched wooden beams, one nailed horizontally across the top of the other once it had been sunk deep into the soil that underlaid the parade ground’s thick gravel. Dismissing his work party to wash and find their beds, he walked exhaustedly to the tent inside which the century’s watch officer sat patiently, showing no sign of weariness. ‘I’ll watch him for an hour. Go and get a wash and a bite to eat, he’s not going anywhere.’

The man nodded his respect, his backward glances at the prisoner expressing with perfect eloquence what military discipline forbade him to say out loud.

The prisoner smirked at Tertius across the tent. ‘That’ll be him shitting roof tiles for the next hour. I’d bet you every denarius I have he’ll go no farther than behind the nearest tent, if I hadn’t already spent the lot on the Noisy Valley whores. That and if I weren’t going to be flogged to ribbons and then nailed to a plank for the entertainment of the cohort in the morning.’

Tertius shook his head sadly. ‘I could find it in my head to feel sorrow for you, brother, if only you had any idea why you speared the prefect. You didn’t really know at the time, I seem to recall, and you still haven’t got a clue today, do you?’

The condemned man shrugged under the heavy ropes securing him to the tent post. ‘Not really. He was there, shouting the fucking odds, I had the spear… you know how it is…’

Tertius shook his head again. ‘No, I really don’t. Mother always wondered how on earth she produced two boys so very different…’

‘I know. Just look at the state of you.’

Tertius laughed quietly, despite himself. ‘You’re going to die in horrible pain tomorrow, Secundus. Doesn’t that dent your humour just a little?’

The other man shook his head. ‘It’ll be over soon enough, and I’ll be on the other side of the river. So fuck ’em all.’ He sized his brother up with an appraising glance. ‘You’ve come to say goodbye.

Consider it said. You’ve come to ask me if I’ll take our secret with me to the grave. I will. You’ve done well for yourself, young ’un, better than I ever reckoned you would, you little bastard. Make an offering for me whenever there’s an altar to Bacchus handy, there’s a good lad.’

The centurion looked up, his eyes wet with tears. ‘I didn’t come to ask you to protect me. I came to tell you that I’ll have revenge for you. You’ve earned a death sentence right enough, but not this way, not like a bloody barbarian slave. That bastard’s got it coming, and I’ll take his blood for doing this.’

His brother laughed without mirth, nodding approval. ‘I expect you will, you’ve done everything else you ever set your mind to. Just don’t end up tied to a tent post and waiting to be nailed up after you’ve done it. Now dry your eyes and share one last smile with me. You don’t want to be caught crying over vermin like me.’ He waited while the centurion wiped his eyes and face with the hem of his tunic. ‘Now, before anyone else turns up, let’s get one more thing agreed, eh?’

Tertius tilted his head in question. ‘What?’

‘Tomorrow. When the prefect hands the scourge round to the officers and invites you all to do your bit for military justice…?’

The centurion took a long breath, composing himself. ‘What?’

‘Lay it on me like you’ve got a pair of swingers the size of apples, eh? No good my taking our little secret with me to the grave if you can’t do your bit.’

Furius was relaxing in his tent with a beaker of wine when the tent flap opened and a centurion stepped through the gap, coming smartly to attention in front of the astonished Furius.

‘What the bloody…’

‘Centurion Appius reporting, Prefect.’

The prefect stared at the centurion, recognising him as one of the two officers sent to escort him from Arab Town to join the cohort.

‘So it is. Is it usual in this cohort, Centurion, for individual officers to make their entrance to the prefect’s tent late in the evening, and without any formal request relayed via their first spear?’

Appius shook his head, still staring straight ahead at the tent’s far wall but without any of the nervousness that the prefect would have expected his admonishment to provoke in the man.

‘No, sir. I am, however, responding to your request of a few days ago.’

‘My request…?’

‘Yes, sir. Back in the guest house in Arab Town, you told us that any man that could point you at the fugitive that’s reputed to be in hiding with one of the wall cohorts would be well rewarded.’

Furius smiled slowly.

‘Indeed I did, Centurion…’

‘Appius, sir.’

‘Indeed I did, Appius. So what do you have for me?’

‘There’s a young lad serving as an officer with our sister cohort. Myself and Centurion Tertius met him in the Arab Town mess, before we came to meet you. He looks very…’

‘Roman?’

‘Yes sir, dark hair, brown eyes, and darker skin than we usually get round here unless the men have been shipped in from a lot farther south. On top of which he wears a sword with an eagle’s head as pretty as anything I’ve ever seen, beautifully engraved.’

He had meant to mention the cloak pin whose inscription he’d read at Arab Town, but the sceptical look on the prefect’s face changed his mind.

‘And you think he’s the missing man, eh? Just because his eyes are brown and he has a nice sword?’

Again Appius didn’t flinch from the harsh words.

‘I didn’t say I was sure he’s the one, Prefect, but I do wonder what a young Roman would be doing in such a position. I believe it’s more usually the case that young lads from the right background go to serve with the legions, prove themselves fit to command and end up as legion commanders…’

He stopped talking as he realised that an evil look had crept across the prefect’s face. After a moment Furius realised that he was no longer speaking, and wrenched himself from his bitter reverie.

‘What? Oh… yes. You’re right, that is more usually the case. So why not bring this to me through the first spear? I shouldn’t imagine he’d be very happy to discover you were here without his permission.’

Appius nodded, still apparently untroubled by the prefect’s comments.

‘Happy, sir? He’d have my balls off with a rusty dagger. I just thought, given that he’s a good friend of the First Cohort’s first spear…’

‘That we ought to keep this discussion between us?’ For the first time in the conversation the prefect smiled. ‘Absolutely right, Centurion. In which case you’d best be on your way and come back when you’ve got some slightly better evidence to offer me, eh? And don’t worry, man, I won’t be letting on to dear old Neuto that we had this conversation. I don’t intend to give either the fugitive, if that’s what he is, or the men hiding him from justice, any warning that he’s been uncovered. You find me the evidence and I’ll do the rest. And I’ll make sure you’re well rewarded for your loyalty to the throne.’

The Tungrian officers gathered in The Hill’s gloomy headquarters building for morning reports as usual just before dawn, the main hall’s only illumination the torches burning along its cold stone walls. A hulking brown bearded centurion crossed the floor and clasped hands with Julius and Rufius before turning to Marcus, accentuating his welcome with a hearty slap of the young man’s shoulder. ‘Well, young Two Knives, I hear you’ve taken pity on us lonely men and recruited in a double century of Syrian girlie boys.’

Marcus nodded in mock resignation. ‘It’s true. I knew that if I returned with a century of infantrymen you’d be after me for your cut, so I settled for Hamian bow twangers instead. There are no axemen for you to be lusting after in the Eighth Century, brother, you’ll just have to pester Tiberius Rufius for your replacements.’

The 10th Century’s centurion slapped his shoulder again, laughing easily in the quiet gloom. ‘You cunning dog, you always were the smart one…’ He turned to Rufius, his hands spread in supplication. ‘… and as he says, Grandfather, you do have a full-strength century of big strong lads. Surely you can spare me a few? Half a dozen would be a start, ten would be perfect. Will you help your brother?’

Rufius raised his hands defensively, backing off from the big man in apparent dismay. ‘Oh no, it just isn’t possible, Titus. You know I’d like to help you, but these new boys of mine are all well-educated and house-trained young men, drilled in the fine arts of infantry combat and military etiquette. I couldn’t in good faith condemn any of them to descend to the degraded standards of behaviour your men have sunk to. I…’

‘Attention!’

The gathered officers turned to face the door and snapped to attention. First Spear Frontinius had entered the room with the prefect following him.

‘Brother officers, stand at ease. Make yourselves comfortable. I know that you’re not used to seeing the prefect at morning reports, but we received a courier just before nightfall yesterday with the message we’ve all been waiting for. The new governor has taken command at Noisy Valley and his first order is for several cohorts, including ourselves, to march in and join up with the legions. As of now the war with the northern tribes is back on again, and there’s still enough campaigning time left in the year for us to finish Calgus and his rabble off if they’re unwise enough to offer us a straight fight.’

He paused for a moment, looking around his brother officers.

‘We’re ordered to report for attached duty with Sixth Victorious by dusk tomorrow night, which gives us one day for preparation and then a day’s march to join the legion. You’ve got today to get your men and their gear ready for a good long stint in the field, so I suggest you make the most of that time and make sure we won’t have anyone’s boots falling to pieces or spearheads coming loose at the wrong moment. You, Centurion Corvus, had better start educating your Hamians as to just what it feels like when the blue-noses come knocking, and I think you’d better have some help with that, given the amount of time we’ve got. Prefect?’

The man waiting patiently behind him stepped out of the shadows.

‘Gentlemen, for those of you that have been away putting down the Carvetii, my name is Gaius Rutilius Scaurus. My orders from the governor were quite straightforward, to get ready for a month’s campaigning and bring my cohort across to join with the Sixth Legion by the end of tomorrow. Given the sparse nature of those orders there isn’t all that much to be said on that particular subject, but I can give you an insight into this new governor. I believe that the last man to hold the post tended to take a back seat to the legion commanders when it came to setting the pace of operations. That will not be the case under Ulpius Marcellus, I can assure you. We’ll soon be up in Calgus’s face and looking to provoke him to come out of whatever hidey-hole he’s hidden himself in and fight. I know this cohort has a proud reputation, and I know that reputation only got stronger given the fight you won against the odds earlier this summer. I think you can confidently expect the governor to be keen to make full use of your abilities, so make sure your men are ready for action, because make no mistake, gentlemen, it’s coming your way. First Spear…?’

Frontinius stepped forward.

‘Thank you, Prefect. We parade at dawn as usual, full kit and marching order, please, both practice swords and iron to be worn. Today, my brothers, is going to be a long day for us all. Dismissed, gentlemen, with the exception of the following officers: Corvus, Julius, Rufius and Dubnus. I need a discussion with the four of you on the subject of getting our newest recruits ready to fight before this new governor puts us back into the war.’

The 2nd Tungrian cohort paraded soon after first light. Once the cohort had marched on to The Rock’s parade ground, found their places under the grey sky and settled down, Prefect Furius walked out in front of them with a grim face. He nodded to Neuto, and the First Spear rapped out a crisp order.

‘Bring out the prisoner!’

Soldier Secundus was marched on to the parade ground and tied to the whipping posts, his arms stretched tightly out to either side to keep him upright. Ropes strung between the posts at chest and groin level waited to catch his body when, as was usual with heavy floggings, he passed out with the pain and loss of blood. The men guarding him stripped away the loincloth that had been his only garment and stepped away from the whipping posts. Prefect Furius squinted across the parade ground at the posts, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

‘An interesting arrangement, First Spear. Not exactly standard.’

Neuto nodded, shrugging.

‘It’s my usual method in these circumstances, Prefect. Once the scourging’s well under way he’ll faint away from loss of blood and pain, and I like to keep them on their feet. Keeps the blood in the body longer, and lets the troops see the mess we’re making of the man. Sets an example, if you like.’

He watched the prefect carefully as the man raised an appreciative eyebrow.

‘Good thinking, First Spear Neuto. Sets an example indeed.’

Neuto muttered a silent prayer of thanks to his gods, nodding his respect to the prefect with his face an inscrutable mask.

‘Thank you, Prefect. Now, if you’ll permit me…?’

He walked out in front of the cohort, shouting for the waiting men to come to attention.

‘Second Cohort!’ The silence while the soldiers waited for him to speak again was almost tangible. ‘Second Cohort, you will this morning witness the execution of the man that murdered Prefect Bassus. Let this be an example to you of how we deal with criminals within our ranks.’

He walked grimly across to the helpless prisoner, readying himself to play his part as the first officer to wield the scourge, shaking its leather ropes loose with an impatient gesture before pulling his arm back in readiness for the first blow.

‘Hold!’

Furius stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

‘I think I’ll take the first five, First Spear. You did the hard work yesterday in getting the fool to confess…’

He hefted the scourge for a moment, letting all gathered see him examine the braided ropes, jagged pieces of bone knotted into the leather at each finger-length from the handle, then flicked the whip high over his shoulder before delivering a fearsome blow across Secundus’s back from right shoulder to left kidney. He struck again, aiming at the left shoulder to paint a rough cross of deeply scored wounds on the condemned soldier’s back. Blood began to seep slowly down the valley of the man’s spine. The third blow was delivered horizontally across the small of the prisoner’s back, the prefect swinging his whole body into the whip’s vicious strike. The fourth blow scourged his backside, clawing deep into the soft flesh of his buttocks, while the fifth was delivered with shocking power straight down the back of his head, ripping away lumps of hair and scalp. The last blow tore a moan of pain from the previously silent soldier.

Furius turned back to his suddenly wide-eyed troops, walking the few paces to the third century and handing the whip to Tertius. A soldier from a century to his left suddenly bent double and noisily puked his breakfast up on to the parade ground, momentarily unable to comply with his centurion’s barked command to get back in the ranks.

‘Five lashes per centurion, starting with the prisoner’s own officer, and all to be delivered with the same force I’ve just demonstrated. Two to the back, one to the kidneys, one to the arse and one to the head. Any man going easy on this piece of shit at any time will be ordered to repeat the blow and be subjected to administrative punishment and loss of pay. I know that’s five more than I ordered, but let’s call it five more for luck, eh? Begin!’

Tertius stepped forward, the tremor in his right eye hidden from the watching soldiers by his helmet’s brim, hesitating for a second that seemed to last a lifetime as he looked down at the scourge’s bloody leather ropes. A piece of skin was caught on one of the whip’s bone teeth, almost translucent in the early morning sun, and he bent to flick it away into the parade ground’s dust.

‘Go on, lad.’

The words, snarled through his brother’s gritted teeth, snapped him back to the moment. He bent over the whip, readying himself to swing it back over his head for the first stroke, and muttered a reply that only his brother would hear.

‘I’ll be making a sacrifice in your memory, brother, but not to Bacchus. My offering will be to Nemesis.’

He arched his back to put the maximum possible power into the first stroke before swinging the bloody leather ropes across his brother’s back, that part of him which quailed at the horrible damage wrought by the scourge’s bone teeth buried deep beneath both the need for survival and the possibility of sparing his brother the cross’s final indignity. Wielding the scourge with such power that his feet left the ground momentarily during each stroke, he hammered the whip’s flailing tails into Secundus’s body with all his strength. With the fifth blow delivered, raking as powerfully into the helpless body suspended in front of him as the first, Tertius turned back to the cohort with a stone face, seeing Neuto’s nod of approval out of the corner of his eye as the first spear took the scourge from him.

As Tertius settled into the parade rest at the head of his century he saw the senior centurion deliver his first blow, grunting explosively with the force he put into the scourge’s application. More than one of the whip’s tails flew astray, their bone teeth flicking across the prisoner’s throat unseen by most of the men on parade. As he watched his eyes narrowed with the realisation as to just why Neuto had bid him set up the unusual whipping posts. The first spear delivered the same blow to the other shoulder, and again the whip strayed fractionally in its path to rake across the helpless soldier’s neck. The prefect stood contentedly to one side as the whip was passed to the next centurion with a few quiet words of encouragement from Neuto, his satisfaction evident as this officer also laid into the prisoner with all his strength. Again the first two strokes flicked around his brother’s throat, and, watching the man’s legs carefully, he saw a thin rivulet of blood twisting round the bared thigh. A sharp-eyed soldier to Tertius’s right muttered a comment to his mate and he whirled round, rapping his vine stick across the man’s arm with a meaningful stare.

‘Silence in the ranks!’

After thirty or so lashes Secundus sank against the ropes stretched across his body, the agonising pain and blood loss robbing him of his ability to stay upright. The blood running down his neck no longer sheeted down his chest and legs to merge with that flowing from his ruined back, but now fell in a shower of heavy drops into the gravel a foot in front of his feet. Still the prefect did not seem to realise that the prisoner was now fighting for his very life, and the officers continued to take their turn with the scourge, now heavy with torn flesh and an accumulation of drying blood. The cohort’s mood had subtly changed as the scene had played out in front of them, and as more of the soldiers had realised that their prefect was being robbed of his crucifixion with every heavy drop of blood that fell from their comrade’s neck. Previously standing in sullen resignation, they now watched with hawk-eyed attention the vigour with which each centurion prosecuted his share of the flogging, realising with something approaching gratitude their officers’ determination to kill the man with the whip, and spare him the cross’s agonising asphyxiation. With the punishment’s completion, the first spear stepped forward and put an expert finger to the motionless prisoner’s bloody windpipe, pulling a face and turning back to the cohort with a shout for assistance.

‘Bandage carrier!’

While the field medic fussed around the prisoner, seeking a pulse, the senior centurion grimaced to Furius.

‘It happens sometimes. The Jews, I believe, limit the practice to forty lashes for fear of killing the offender…’ He paused as the bandage carrier turned and shook his head. ‘… as seems to have been the case here. No matter, Prefect, justice has been done, and been seen to be done. We have a cross ready. Shall we nail him up and parade the men past his corpse?’

The prefect stared closely at his deputy for a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, but the first spear’s return gaze was blameless. Furius nodded, his face sour.

‘Indeed, First Spear. A shame to be robbed of the man’s last agonised breaths, though…’

The wistful look on his face told Neuto everything he needed to know about his new commander.