Arrows of Fury

8

Late in the afternoon of the day after the battle of the hill fort the 20th Legion rejoined the 6th, having completed their sweep of the ground to the south of the wall, bringing with them the governor and his staff. Shortly after their arrival the Votadini chieftain was escorted into the governor’s presence by the leader of Equitius’s bodyguard, a pair of soldiers with drawn swords guarding against the unlikely chance of his being able to shed the coils of thick rope that bound him so tightly it was all he could do to walk unaided. His face was badly bruised, testament to the harsh treatment he had received from his guards since being captured, men incensed by the massacre of the Frisian cohort. Ulpius Marcellus raised an eyebrow at Equitius.

‘Do we really need the swords, Legatus? Even ignoring my unlikely contribution, there are two legates, half a dozen prefects and the same number of tribunes facing this one prisoner, who, I am forced to note, is trussed up with enough rope to restrain a prize-winning ox. What are your men going to do, cut his throat if he hops towards me in a threatening manner?’

Equitius nodded his agreement, making a subtle gesture to his stony-faced guard commander, who, with a look that spoke volumes, ordered the two soldiers out of the tent. The governor leaned closer to the helpless prisoner.

‘That’s better. Who can focus when there’s sharpened iron six inches from the back of his neck, eh? So, whatever your name is, do you speak any Latin?’

The prisoner nodded, his battered face defiant.

‘I am Martos, sister’s son to King Brennus of the Votadini, and

I speak your language well enough. In the time before this war my tribe was a friend to your people.’

Ulpius Marcellus leant back in his chair, resting his chin on his hand.

‘Yes, I know. I was governor of this country for four years, and I came to know your tribal king Brennus tolerably well. You’ll probably be aware that we’re still in communication with him, of a sort, and that we’ve offered him peace if he can deliver us this upstart Calgus in return. I would have thought that a decent enough bargain, but now I find your people implicated in a fresh atrocity against our forces. I know you took part in the attack on White Strength, so don’t think to attempt to mislead me on the subject.’

He stared unblinkingly at the prisoner, whose shoulders slumped at the accusation.

‘We fought at White Strength. Calgus… he…’

‘Lied to you? Made you believe that you could succeed your uncle under his guidance, that you would be a strong man if you helped him to victory?’

Martos nodded, his eyes on the ground.

‘So your men led the attack on the fort, am I right?’

Another nod.

‘And how many of your warriors died breaking into the fort and putting the garrison to the sword? Five hundred?’

The reply was almost a whisper.

‘More. Probably twice that many…’

Legatus Macrinus spoke up.

‘With your permission, Governor? You’re telling us that you sacrificed nearly half your strength to buy this Calgus a victory, and that in return he had you and your men dumped right in the path of our cavalry response? You want us to believe that he’d be willing to throw away so much of his strength to achieve a meaningless tactical victory and then pull the fangs from what was left of an unreliable ally’s dissent? He’d have to be mad to be so profligate with his strength, unless…’

Martos lifted his gaze to meet the Roman’s, his confidence returning.

‘Yes. Unless he has more strength than you’re aware of. Spare my life and I will tell you everything I know. Kill me, and I will take secrets to my grave that might cost you this war.’

The governor scoffed, waving away the suggestion.

‘Spare your life? When I can interrogate any number of your men and discover everything I need to know without having to consort with a man that put an entire cohort of good men to the sword and then desecrated their corpses? Why don’t you just ask me to name you emperor?’

Martos kept his gaze fixed on the governor.

‘I was close to Calgus for long enough to know more about his schemes than he was willing to reveal to me. I overheard snatches of conversation I was never meant to witness, and I saw things that were meant to stay between Calgus and the men close to him. And I’ll make you one firm vow. If you free me, and enough of my people to stand around me in battle, I will hunt down Calgus for you and bring you his head. I will swear an oath to any god you care to name to take vengeance for the lies and disaster that he has brought down on my people.’

Ulpius Marcellus thought for a moment, his eyes narrowed.

‘Have this man taken away, Legatus. I think any debate on the subject should be private.’

The stony-faced centurion marched the bound prisoner from the tent, leaving the Romans looking at each other. Equitius broke the silence, shaking his head gently with wonder.

‘I met Calgus, just before they attacked my cohort at Lost Eagle, and I knew then that he was a cunning bastard, but this is simply beyond my understanding. Leading an entire tribe’s remaining strength into our path to cement his power over the others, that’s more than just a bold step. Who’s to say there isn’t more in his plan that we have yet to discover the hard way? Another Lost Eagle might cost us this war, possibly even this province, we all know that.’

The governor raised an eyebrow.

‘Are you suggesting that we do as this murdering barbarian requests, Legatus? Give the man his freedom and let him vanish into the depths of the wild country, escaping the justice that should already have his head on a stake outside this tent?’

Prefect Scaurus spoke into the silence that followed, his voice quiet and yet clear, demanding to be heard despite the absence of drama in his tone.

‘Considering what the Votadini have been through, it’s at least worthy of consideration, Governor.’ He continued, not waiting for permission. ‘Let’s say they lost a thousand men at White Strength. We killed another five hundred or so breaking into the hill fort, and there’s probably the same number of wounded that won’t fight again for a few months, even if they weren’t badly enough hurt to rate the legion’s gladius solution. What does that leave, two hundred warriors? Two hundred and fifty? Calgus has already betrayed Martos once, so if he were to come back from the dead with that small a force I’d say the odds are excellent that the ‘Lord of the Northern Tribes’, having already told his men some story or other about how the Votadini have betrayed them all, will have his men put them to the iron without a second thought.’

He stood silently for a moment, allowing his words to sink in.

‘There’s another point worth considering as well, Governor. Before the war, the land between the two walls was divided roughly into two parts, not equal, but very distinct nonetheless. To the west, living under the control of thousands of our troops, were the Selgovae, Novantae and Damnonii, forever testing our strength with ambushes and skirmishes. A posting up the north road was no cause for celebration for any soldier I ever discussed the matter with. To the east, on the other hand, were the Votadini. Compare and contrast, gentlemen. There were no forts on their territory, no requirement to control the tribe’s gatherings, and no need to tie down thousands of our men in static positions that would make them a target for every disaffected young blood with a point to prove. I think the main question should be how we want this land of theirs to be governed after the war. Do we want to put four or five thousand more troops on to Votadini land, with all of the problems we always had with the western tribes, or would we prefer to take things back to the way they were…?’

The governor nodded, glancing at his legates for their opinion.

‘Your point, Prefect, is well made. I can take quick and satisfying revenge on this man and the survivors of his warband, such as they are… or I can play the politician and spare him, with his support and friendship the price I exact in return. Opinions?’

Scaurus glanced around him, taking the measure of his seniors’ reaction. Apart from Furius’s grim face, most of the men in the room looked thoughtful. The 20th Legion’s legatus spoke up, his lips pursed.

‘I dislike the idea of allowing this man his freedom, when he should by rights cough out his last breaths on a cross, but…’ He shrugged, shooting an appraising glance at Scaurus. ‘… the prefect does makes a persuasive case. I would recommend a subtly different approach, however. Reprieve the man by all means, but don’t allow him to run free. In fact, I say we keep him close. His men will make excellent guides as we push northwards into the hills, and when the time comes you can slip their collars and send them after Calgus when he least expects it. In fact, once he’s unburdened himself of these hints and whispers he says he can recount to us, I commend you to put his men under the stewardship of young Scaurus here. He can worry about liberating his kingdom once Calgus’s head is on the pole in place of his own.’

Scaurus hadn’t seen his first spear so much as irritated during their brief association, so the experience of triggering incandescent anger in the man engendered something between exhilaration and genuine fear.

‘I don’t give a fuck what the governor said!’ Frontinius put his pointed index finger squarely in his superior’s face, his hold on a temper of glacial slowness but volcanic ferocity completely lost. ‘You can tell him that there is no fucking way that an assorted collection of barbarian murderers are going to find a place in my cohort!’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow, apparently hugely amused by the other man’s rage.

‘That’s odd, First Spear, I could have sworn it was mine?’

Frontinius ignored the wry question, too far gone in his uncontrollable anger.

‘Those bastards should all have been beheaded the second it was proved they took part in the White Strength massacre. That they’re still breathing is bad enough, but for the senior soldier in the whole of Britannia to ask us to take them on…’ He spread his hands wide, frustration written across his face. What does he think we are? What does he think I am? I served with their first spear, he was a soldier with this cohort for a couple of years until the Frisians needed some replacements…’

Scaurus shook his head decisively, one word rapping out across his subordinate’s diatribe.

‘Enough!’

The senior centurion raised his head at the sudden harshness in his superior’s tone, finding the prefect’s face set with an implacability equal to his own. He drew breath to speak, but the words were unformed when Scaurus moved from his place by the tent’s field table, putting his face uncomfortably close to the first spear’s, features set in a snarl of anger the match of his subordinate’s and more.

‘I said “enough”, and you’d better appreciate something that you might not have been faced with for a while, First Spear. I am your fucking superior OFFICER!’ Frontinius flinched at the sudden venom in his superior’s voice. ‘When I give you an order, you may seek to debate its merits, you may tell me that you don’t especially like it, but you will carry it out as completely and effectively as if it were you own idea. And for my part, while I will listen to your views, both seek and respect your opinions, I will eventually issue commands that I believe to be correct given my understanding of the overall situation. Which may well surpass yours. As for your questions, let me sum it up for you by answering just one of them: what does the governor think you are? The governor thinks you’re a soldier of Rome, sworn to follow the instructions of your superiors, no matter what you may think of those orders.’

His voice softened slightly.

‘The governor, Sextus Frontinius, believes you to be a professional, a career soldier with the ability to bury your distaste for this order and ensure that your people bury theirs alongside it. We’ve been chosen quite deliberately for this duty, First Spear, and it’s a responsibility I neither can nor would seek to avoid. What’s left of the Votadini warband marches with us when we leave here tomorrow, whether we like it or not.’

The Tungrians paraded the next morning with more than one man staring open mouthed at the motley collection of Votadini warriors drawn up in three rough lines alongside their prefect and first spear. Soldiers nudged each other in the ranks and shared whispered speculation as to the reasons why the survivors of the battle of the hill fort might be parading in front of them.

‘Perhaps we’re going to put them to the sword? You know, for White Strength?’

Morban turned a withering glare on the 8th Century’s trumpeter.

‘Do they look like they’re ready to be slaughtered, you prick? They’re all armed, for a start.’

A man in the century’s front rank spoke up in the silence that followed.

‘Perhaps they join cohort? Like us?’

Morban spluttered with poorly restrained mirth, his gaze fixed on the barbarians.

‘Oh, fuck me, that’s even better. Yes, that’s right, we’re going to take a pack of untrained murdering barbarian halfwits into an infantry cohort. Why didn’t I think of it sooner! Tell you what, Ahmad, or whatever your name is, I’ll give you twenty to one on that… no, fuck it, I’ll make that fifty.’

‘I take bet, Standard-bearer. One-denarius stake.’

‘Easy money.’

The trumpeter, still red faced from his earlier rebuff, opened his mouth to speak.

‘And no, you fucking can’t have some of that. Now shut it, Uncle Sextus is about to let us in on what’s going on.’

The Tungrian cohorts marched to the south-west along the line of the foothills for the first two hours after breaking camp and wading across the ford, a dozen message riders from the Petriana wing walking their horses alongside the marching soldiers. The Votadini warriors, almost two hundred and fifty men strong, walked to either side of the lead century, their leader silent and uncommunicative in their midst. The Tungrians and their new comrades eyed each other unhappily from time to time, neither side capable of trusting the other given their recent history. As the day wore on towards mid-morning the troops started to sweat under their heavy cloaks, and the order was given for both cloaks and helmets to be removed, and the latter to be hung around their necks.

‘Take your cloak off, boy, roll it up and put it in your pack. Let the wind get to your skin and you’ll soon be comfortable again.’

Lupus followed Antenoch’s example, watching as the clerk bundled his own cloak into his pack, ready to be hoisted on to his carrying pole once the rest stop was done.

‘Antenoch…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why can’t I have a sword?’

‘You’ve got a sword. What’s that in your belt?’

The boy frowned.

‘Not a wooden sword. A real one.’

Glaring a warning at the nearest soldiers, Antenoch unsheathed his gladius and handed it to the child, handle first.

‘Take a grip of that. No, don’t wave the bloody thing around, just hold it for a moment… See, heavy, isn’t it?’

The boy shrugged, his eyes fixed on the weapon’s blade as it weaved unsteadily in his hand.

‘Not really. I could carry it. Everyone else has got one.’

‘Well…’

‘What if we’re attacked? How am I supposed to fight without a sword?’

The clerk looked to the sky, seeking inspiration that clearly wasn’t coming. An 8th Century soldier nudged him, quietly displaying a short dagger under the cover of his cloak and raising an eyebrow. Antenoch frowned, raised an eyebrow of his own and tilted his head to the child. The Hamian nodded encouragingly.

‘How much?’

‘To you, ten denarii. To the boy, is gift.’

Lupus watched the two men uncomprehendingly.

‘A gift?’ Antenoch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why. You fancy him or something?’

The other man laughed.

‘No, I do not like boys. Is simply gift. You were never boy, eh? You never wanted knife, shiny and sharp?’

Antenoch held his stare for a moment, then shouted up the length of the century’s column of relaxing men.

‘Morban!’

The standard-bearer stayed seated at the century’s head, raising his head.

‘What?’

‘You all right if Lupus has a knife?’

The answer took a split second’s thought.

‘How much?’

Antenoch rolled his eyes, muttering to himself.

‘Fuck me, not “do you think he’s old enough?”, but “how much?”. That’s our Morban… It’s a gift!’

‘’Course he can, if it’s free! Don’t ask stupid questions!’

Antenoch rolled his eyes at the Hamian, muttering a quiet insult.

‘Tight-arse.’

He turned back to the boy, who, having realised the subject of the discussion, was wide eyed with anticipation, the sword dangling forgotten in his hands.

‘I’ll tell you what, young Lupus, I’ll make you a deal… Here, give me that back.’

The child reluctantly held the gladius out, watching hungrily as it slid back into Antenoch’s scabbard.

‘Here’s the deal. You keep the centurion’s boots gleaming, no mud marks, and you polish his armour every night without fail, and you get to hold on to this.’

He took the dagger from the Hamian and held it up for the child to see. Sliding the small blade from its sheath, he put a finger gingerly to the blade’s silver line as it flashed in the morning’s brightness.

‘Cocidius, but it’s sharp!’

The weapon’s donor smiled happily.

‘No point in blunt knife. No point, see?’

The Briton raised both eyebrows in protest.

‘Yes, thank you for proving conclusively that the old ones are indeed the old ones. So, boy, the knife stays yours just as long as you do your jobs properly. The first time I find either his boots or armour — including his helmet — dirty when we’re dressing him in the morning, the knife goes straight back to… what’s your name?’

The Hamian bowed his head in greeting, touching a hand to his forehead.

‘I am Hamid.’

‘To your new uncle Hamid. Deal?’

‘Yes!’

‘Good. Put the sheath on your belt, like this… see?’

The child stared happily at the knife resting at his hip, putting one hand on the handle in a self-conscious pose.

‘Never mind posing for the sculptor, say thanks to Uncle Hamid here for being so generous.’

The Hamian struggled to stay upright as Lupus wrapped his arms round his neck.

‘Thanks, Uncle Hamid!’

‘Now, off with you up the column. Go and show your grandad your new weapon. Oh…’

He arrested the child’s departure with a swift grab at his belt.

‘And one more thing. No messing about with it, right? No throwing it, no cutting your initials into trees and no trying to cut your hair either. I catch you mucking about with that, or hear about it from anyone else, you’ll lose the knife and you won’t get it back. You want to be a soldier, you’d better learn to behave like one. Go!’

Lupus ran happily up the century’s length, shouting to his grandfather. Antenoch settled back on his elbows, puffing out a sigh and shaking his head slightly with a half-smile.

‘I don’t know where the child’s energy comes from.’

He held out a hand to the Hamian.

‘Thanks, Hamid, that was decent of you.’

The other man shrugged.

‘He good boy. We all been young, wanted knife. He been unlucky, we hear. Give him little happiness, eh?’

Antenoch nodded.

‘Besides, his grandfather foolish enough to make me large bet this morning. He already paid for knife.’

‘Ah, that was you, was it? Well, it was still kind of you. Here…’

He delved into his bag and pulled out a small paper parcel, passing it over to the Hamian.

‘I was saving this to share with the boy later, but I think he’d rather have the knife.’

‘Cake?’

‘Honey cake. Good too, go on, get it down your neck before we’re on the move again. I can’t see the boys in the shiny armour waiting very long before getting us on our feet again, the morning’s too good to waste when there’s still a long way to go to the river.’

Farther up the column the barbarian warriors were sitting in a tight group close to Dubnus’s 9th Century, the two groups exchanging wary glances. After a few minutes Dubnus sighed, told his chosen man to keep an eye on things and got to his feet, walking across to the Votadini group. Hundreds of soldiers watched his move with mixed feelings, one of them nudging his mate and pointing at the young centurion.

‘Fuck me, the prince is going for a chat with them.’

Frontinius overheard the comment and swivelled from his discussion with Scaurus, taking in his centurion’s approach to the diminished warband’s leader. Standing in front of the squatting Votadini nobleman, he put out a hand.

‘You must be Martos. My name is Dubnus, formerly a prince of the Brigantes people and now a soldier of Rome. If we are to walk these hills in company we might as well be on speaking terms …’

The words hung in the air for a long moment, as Martos looked the centurion up and down with blank-faced neutrality before returning his gaze to the outstretched hand.

‘Well, Dubnus, former prince of the Brigantes…’

He took the offered hand, using it to pull himself to his feet. Face to face the two men were well matched, both powerfully muscled from years of wielding their heavy weapons, their faces dark from the continual exposure to the elements and their stances confident in their ability to best any man put in front of them.

‘… it seems we have something in common, you and I, for I am a former prince of the Votadini, now reduced to running with the very wolves we sought to drive from our land.’

He stared hard at the centurion, waiting for any sign of offence. To his surprise Dubnus merely smiled grimly.

‘Oh yes, I know that feeling. And yet I have made my peace with these people, and turned my sword arm to their purpose. Will you walk alongside me when we rejoin the march? Perhaps we can offer each other some conversation of interest?’

Martos nodded slowly.

‘I will. I might better understand what put you in that uniform.’

Frontinius watched as the two men nodded to each other and returned to their respective sides of the divide between the Tungrians and Votadini.

‘Of all my officers, it would be Dubnus to make the first move…’

He turned to find Scaurus with a quizzical look on his face.

‘I’m forgetting, you don’t know the man. The centurion in question was tribal nobility south of the wall before he joined the cohort. Perhaps he understands what your man Martos is feeling in this situation better than the man himself.’

‘And perhaps we start to see the method in our governor’s apparent madness, eh, First Spear?’

Frontinius snorted and turned away, calling the cohort back on to its feet for the march, but Scaurus had seen the thoughtful look on his face, and stood waiting for the march to resume with a quiet smile.

The two cohorts marched at the standard campaign pace for most of the morning, skirting along the edge of the mountains in bright sunshine. From their path along the mountains’ outskirts, two and three hundred feet above the plain, they could see the main body of the army. The two legions were marching alongside the river as it snaked across the valley, and a mile beyond their columns the two cohorts thrown out as guards on the right flank clung to the low slopes of the hills to the south. Dubnus and Martos walked together between the 9th Century and the Votadini remnant, deep in conversation. Speaking in their own language, their initial diffidence had quickly been forgotten as the barriers of their respective causes fell under their mutual curiosity.

‘So I had little choice. Once my father was gone I knew that going back to my own people would see me dead inside a day. Besides, he made me swear to go to the Romans as he lay dying…’

Martos nodded solemnly.

‘Such an oath cannot be denied once made.’

‘Aye. It was hard for me here at first, even if Uncle Sextus…’ He caught the Briton’s uncomprehending frown, ‘Sorry, First Spear Frontinius, only he was a centurion at the time, had made a promise to my father to take me in. The men that commanded this cohort then did all they could to break me.’ He smiled. ‘The formal beatings never really bothered me, and they stopped the informal beatings after I got tired of defending myself and put three men in the fort’s hospital for a month. After that things just settled down, and we all got used to each other. Mind you, I still wouldn’t be an officer today if it weren’t for a Ro… for a man that joined us a few months ago. But that’s another story. And you, how do you come to be walking into danger alongside us, instead of waiting for us with your comrades?’

Martos recounted the story of his desire to supplant his uncle the king, and the subsequent betrayal by Calgus, his voice bitter with the recent memory.

‘I was a fool, and nothing less. I should have stood by my king, but my head was turned by Calgus and his promises that I would return to my tribal lands in victory, and as his closest ally.’ His voice fell, the words so soft that Dubnus strained to hear them. ‘I wanted to be king, and all I achieved was the massacre of my warriors and the destruction of our family. My king is probably dead by now, and Calgus will send one of his trusted men north to rule my kingdom. My children will be put to death and my woman will either be killed or more likely made a toy for the new leader’s men.’

He stared out over the plain below them in silence for a moment before speaking again, his voice stronger.

‘All these things will happen, there’s no way to prevent them, but I tell you this, Centurion Dubnus, I will have revenge on that slimy piece of shit that calls himself ‘Lord of the Northern Tribes’. I will twist his guts in my hand and tear them from his body, and I will fill his clever mouth with his torn manhood before I allow him to die. Either that, or I will die with my sword thick with his men’s blood. I have sworn this, and my warriors have sworn to follow me to either victory or death.’

Dubnus smiled darkly.

‘And such an oath cannot be denied, once made. I wish you well in your quest for revenge, and given the chance I would count myself honoured to fight alongside you. I too have a score to settle with Calgus.’

The other man gave him a scornful look.

‘You think we’ll be allowed to fight in your line? I doubt it, Centurion, our ways are too different, and I doubt that we’re trusted even half well enough for such an honour.’

Dubnus nodded, ignoring the bitter tone in the other man’s voice.

‘True enough, but we’re not like them.’ He pointed down at the two legions grinding their way across the plain below them. ‘They fight in a ponderous fashion, much as they move across the land, their movements cautious and measured, always seeking to bring their swords and shields to bear on the right ground. We, on the other hand, are faster across ground, and while we can fight their way we can also take our iron to the enemy with speed and stealth. Your chance to fight alongside us may come sooner than you think…’

After the midday rest stop, Tribune Scaurus and the first spear walked down the cohort to meet up with Furius and Neuto at the head of the second cohort.

‘The Votadini say it’s time to turn north and get up the mountain a fair way if we’re going to keep scouting along the mountain flanks. Apparently we’ll have to cross the Red River about ten miles from here, and the only good ford is above a waterfall up in the hills.’

Furius grimaced.

‘I still don’t like following these savages off into the wild. For all we know there’s a fucking great warband waiting for us up there. We’ll be cut off from the main body, probably out of sight too…’

Scaurus nodded in apparent sympathy.

‘I know. If it’s any consolation I don’t think these men will lead us astray. Their hunger for revenge on Calgus is too strong.’

Furius snorted.

‘A view based on your long experience of dealing with the locals, eh, Rutilius Scaurus?’

Scaurus leaned closer to Furius, lowering his voice.

‘You know, Gracilus Furius, one of these days you’re going to make one thoughtless remark too many for your own good. As it happens, I do know much more about this country and its people than most people appreciate, and while there are some very good reasons why I intend keeping it that way, I’m happy to tell you this; in my opinion Martos doesn’t intend us ill. Call it instinct, or call it the very simple fact that he has the strongest possible motivation for guiding us to the right place — either way I don’t think he’ll be selling us out. So I suggest that we show some balls and get on with it, before our subordinates start wondering if we’re just a little bit lacking in eagerness to do our jobs.’

He turned away without waiting for an answer from his astonished colleague.

‘First Spear Frontinius, let’s have the first Tungrian back on their feet and ready to march, please. We’ll camp beside this ford for the night and head off into the wild tomorrow morning.’

The afternoon’s march was harder on the troops than the morning’s progress, the late summer sun beating down on them without interruption, and by the time the river came into view their tunics were wet with sweat beneath their mail armour. Frontinius knew that every man in the cohort was looking at the clear cold water flowing down from the mountains above them with something close to desperation. He paraded them with their backs to the water, raising his voice to be heard above the river’s rippling cascade down its rocky bed, and the thunder of its fifty-foot drop over the falls a hundred paces farther downstream. The 2nd Cohort formed up alongside them, their first spear gesturing to him to brief both cohorts as to their previously agreed course of action.

First and Second cohorts, you will dump your kit in the places where your tents will be pitched once the wall’s built. You can have a drink from your water bottles if you’ve got any left, and then get on with building the turf wall. If you have no water left…’ He paused to gauge how many of them were straining to hear the next words. ‘… then you are an idiot and will go thirsty until the wall is up to the satisfaction of myself and my brother officers. Each cohort will build one long and two short sides to the camp, and link up in the standard two-cohort pattern. Lots have been drawn, and the guard centuries will be the Third and Eighth centuries of both cohorts.’

Which was fortunate, given that the Hamians still had little talent for cutting turf to the right dimensions or placing it to form a strong wall, and were little better than porters for the cut turf.

‘When the turf wall is complete both cohorts will use the river to wash, two centuries at a time, in strict lottery order and for the length of a five-hundred count. The guard centuries will patrol the area to ensure that we don’t get any nasty surprises, and will wash and eat last. All centurions to First Spear Neuto for camp layout and guard duties. Centurions Tertius and Corvus, to me, please. Soldiers, to your duties!’

The parade broke up into the usual purposeful chaos of camp-building, the centuries streaming away to their allotted sections of the earth wall. Marcus told his men to wait where they stood, and hurried across to the first spear, who was giving instructions to a pair of message riders who were to ride out and find the legions, and deliver the customary report as to the cohorts’ position to the governor. The two centurions nodded their greeting to each other as Frontinius turned back to them.

‘This country should be empty of any barbarian forces, since we’re supposed to have them penned up to the north-east, but you can consider me as sceptical as ever when it comes to the words “should be”. So, centurions, you’re going to scout the vicinity and tell me what you can see. Tertius, you’re going to take your boys across the river and see what’s over the next hill. Cautiously, though, I don’t want to advertise that we’re here. Centurion Corvus, you can do some climbing too. Go to the top of that hill behind us and take a good look around. Dismissed.’

The two centurions saluted, shared another brief nod and headed away to their men. Gathering the 8th, Marcus pointed up the hill to the camp’s west, its slopes rising steeply from the riverbank to a rounded summit high above the ford.

‘We’re going up there. Chosen, we’ll leave our shields here with a tent party to watch over them. Tell them I want every one of them washed clean by the time we come down again, just in case they think they’ve drawn easy duty.’

The century started to climb, at first grumbling quietly at the renewed exercise but then, as the view below them expanded with their progress up the slope, and as the cooling breeze dried their sweat, with less complaining and more chatter about what they could see from their elevated viewpoint. After a few minutes of climbing Marcus stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath to slow down his racing heart. Qadir, following close behind him, took the opportunity to pause in his turn.

‘This is harder work than I expected.’

Marcus nodded, pointing down at the marching camp.

‘Yes, but look at the view. See, there’s my old century toiling away at the ankle-breaker.’

‘Ankle… breaker?’

‘Sorry, I don’t suppose you’re familiar with our terms. It’s a ditch that is dug all the way around a marching camp, if time allows, and the spoil is thrown to the inside of the ditch to form the basis for the turf wall. It’s called the ankle-breaker because the sides are cut straight, and at least two feet deep. If you fall into it in the darkness you’ll almost certainly break your ankle. We haven’t bothered with it until now, not with two legions within earshot, but now that we’re well and truly alone out here it’s a necessity.’

His chosen man nodded, gazing down at the labouring troops.

‘I see. And you know they are your former troops because…?’

‘Ah, that’s easy. I can see Dubnus striding round and shouting at the idlers. There, see? Add to that the fact that there seem to be a gang of barbarians carrying turf for him…’

Qadir nodded.

‘Should we perhaps resume our climb? Some of the men are already close to the top.’

Marcus turned back to look up the hill.

‘Gods below, you lot might not like marching, but give you a peak to climb…’

The view from the top of the hill was worth the climb. Down in the valley below they could see some of Tertius’s men working their way up the hill on the far side of the river, while other tent parties had split off to left and right to follow the line of the river to north and south. The marching camp was already half built, its wall casting an appreciable shadow in the late afternoon sunshine. The land was pretty much bare of any vegetation bigger than small bushes except for a number of trees scattered down both banks of the Red River to the south of the falls. To the north and west were rolling hilltops of much the same height, although a succession of gradually higher peaks rose towards the highest of all, a good ten miles distant. To the east, the southern slope of the hill facing the ford ended abruptly in a near-vertical drop.

‘That’s interesting.’ Marcus pointed down at the river. ‘See, there’s a shelf of hard rock running through the hillside, that’s what makes the waterfall so tall. This side of the river it’s hidden under the ground, but on the other side of the river it’s been uncovered.’ He stared down at the seam of rock running away into the distance. To the south of the outcrop was gently sloping land seamed by tributary streams of the Red. ‘You know, that makes the riverbank below the falls much easier to defend. It would take a good while to get a body of men down that rock face to the far bank, it’s steep enough to make for a slow climb, and far too tall to jump.’

‘Yes, but look over there.’

Marcus followed Qadir’s pointing finger. Off to the east, almost at the limit of visibility, a line of smoke was rising from a valley three or four peaks away.

‘Might that be the barbarian camp?’

Marcus nodded.

‘I’d guess so. And if we can see that…’

They turned to the south-east, taking in the view down the Red River’s valley. Far away, down on the flat land out of the hills’ undulations, they could see the occasional flash of sun on polished metal.

‘The legions. They’ll be camping for the night too, probably busy doing exactly the same as us. Hacking out a marching camp and dreaming of a dip in the river.’

‘Yes. Unaware that up here there are two cohorts who have already washed their sweaty backsides in the water that will flow past them in an hour’s time.’

Marcus laughed at him, unable to contain his amusement at the Hamian’s turn of phrase.

‘If I didn’t know better, Chosen Man Qadir, I’d say that you’ve spent too much time consorting with Morban of late. “Washed their sweaty backsides…?”’

Qadir grimaced.

‘It’s inevitable. You should hear some of the things that our men have started coming out with.’

First Spear Frontinius caught Tertius watching him again as they reached the crest of the valley’s eastern slope. The 2nd Cohort centurion had been shooting him surreptitious glances ever since the first spear had declared his intention to join them in fording the river and exploring the ground on the other side. The river’s fast-flowing water had been delightfully cold, cooling and refreshing the troops of Tertius’s century and breathing fresh vigour into their tired bodies as they waded across the calf-deep stream.

‘Amazing what a bit of running water will do for a man, eh, Tertius? Ten minutes ago this lot were puffing and groaning at the thought of more marching, and now they’re off up the hill like fourteen-year-olds on a promise.’

Tertius answered with a non-committal grunt, continuing his climb up the valley’s side. The first spear smiled to himself. This was a game he played with loaded dice.

‘So tell me, Centurion, since we’ve not met before, how long have you served with the Second Tungrians?’

The other man took a long moment to answer, his tone cautious.

‘Thirteen years, First Spear. I joined a year after the cohort moved to Fair Meadow.’

‘Local boy?’

Tertius’s reserve was still evident in the guarded tones of his reply.

‘Not really. My father was a centurion with the Twentieth Legion, he retired to Veteran’s Hill with my mother before I was born.’

Another officer that had settled down with a girl from a fortress vicus, Frontinius mused, a marriage of convenience for both parties. An older man with money and influence, but lacking a companion with whom to share his retirement, and a woman past her youth and staring into the abyss of approaching middle age, with soldiers’ money getting harder to come by as her looks started to fade. She would have provided him with company and comfort in return for respectability and security. A new start in one of the veterans’ colony towns was the usual way to provide suitable anonymity to such a union.

‘A soldier’s son, then. He must have told you a good number of tales about his time following the eagle. The Twentieth was heavily involved in putting down the last bit of local stupidity, back in the sixties.’

Tertius smiled.

‘That he did. I grew up with the old man’s stories, that and his mates forever showing up to sit round and relive their glory days…’

‘And so you ended up on the wall, eager to make him proud.’

‘He died five years ago, before I made centurion. It was his last ambition to see me with a vine stick in my hands, but making it to officer rank takes the time it takes… for most of us.’

The last comment was added in a tone so quiet that Frontinius half wondered whether he had imagined it. He pushed on, as the men in front of them turned up the slope towards the saddle, the lower ridge between two hills.

‘You have a good first spear, one of the best. And how’s that new tribune shaping up… Furius, isn’t it?’

Tertius grimaced slightly, although it could have been the effort they were now having to put into climbing the valley’s side.

‘Tribune Furius is a strong man, First Spear. He does what he thinks is right, and allows the consequences to fall out as they will.’

Frontinius snorted.

‘Don’t I know it! I’ve a double century of archers to prove that. I hear he’s a man with a taste for the crucifix as well.’

Tertius looked startled, his mouth working without anything coming out, the sudden reminder of his brother turning the words to dust in his mouth. Frontinius ploughed on in a gentler tone, recognising the emotion washing over the centurion.

‘I heard about your man falling foul of him, and the way that Neuto and the rest of you spared him the indignity of the nails. I would have done the same in my colleague’s place.’

Tertius took a moment to reply, his eyes moist as he stared out across the rolling hills.

‘All I can tell you, First Spear, is that if there’s an irregularity to be found, anything this tribune can turn to his own advantage, he will find it and he will use it.’

He turned to face Frontinius for a moment, taking a deep breath of the cool breeze.

‘Anyone with a secret to hide would be better off somewhere else …’

Frontinius nodded his understanding, then clapped a hand on the centurion’s shoulder.

‘Well then, Centurion, let’s get to the top of this pimple and see what we can see. Look, the Eighth Century have already got to the top of their hill.’

‘So then he as good as told me that Furius already knows about young Corvus, and advised me to move the lad or risk discovery. He was less subtle with Marcus yesterday…’

Tribune Scaurus took a sip from the single cup of wine to which he had rationed himself for the night before replying. The first spear had come to his tent soon after the evening meal was finished, and double-strength sentries had been posted both around the marching camp and as listening patrols out across the river.

‘Which means not only that Furius has a pretty fair idea that Corvus is not what he seems, but he’s not doing all that good a job of keeping the fact to himself. So, First Spear, what to do?’

Frontinius scowled darkly into his own cup.

‘Not as simple as you might think, Tribune. The boy’s a member of the cohort now, not the friendless fugitive he was six months ago. He’s fought and killed alongside these men, formed the kind of bond that sometimes takes a lifetime. The Ninth Century would fight to the death for him, almost to a man, and my centurions count him as a brother. If we send him away to uncertainty, even with the best intentions, we’ll have a very unhappy cohort on our hands, I can promise you that.’

‘And yet if we keep him here, and that meathead Furius denounces us to Ulpius Marcellus, neither of us is going to see many more sunsets. And don’t forget that there are at least two senior officers embroiled in this nasty little affair, both your former tribune and tribune Licinius. I can think of half a dozen heads that will end up on stakes if this goes public. No, he has to disappear into thin air, and it has to happen soon. Once we’re south of the wall again, the same day we pass through the north road gate, he has to vanish, and take his doctor with him or she’ll be the next subject of Furius’s ill intentions.’

Frontinius nodded sadly.

‘I’d hoped that we could keep him here a while longer, and that the excitement would die down and allow him to settle and make a new life. If any man has earned some peace then that young man is a decent enough candidate.’

Scaurus tipped the rest of the cup down his throat.

‘And you, of all people, First Spear, are well placed to know just how unfair life is. As it happens I have an idea that might just keep the lad alive for long enough that he gets to enjoy a little of the peace you describe, and his woman too, but it requires him to leave this cohort at the first opportunity. Preferably with ‘killed in action’ noted against his name in the pay records. It’s either that, or watch your command be torn apart around you while Furius has a cross built for you. It may not be much of a choice, but it’s the only one you’ve got. Oh, and by the way…’

He pointed a finger at the view through the tent’s open end. In the 9th Century’s lines the Tungrians and Votadini were indulging in a temporary weapons swap. The soldiers were hefting the barbarians’ heavy swords above their heads, marvelling at the strength required to make more than a couple of the chopping attacks the long blades were made for, while the tribesmen were laughing at them from behind a row of borrowed shields, grimacing through the gaps between the shields and the brow pieces of the helmets they had donned to complete their impersonation.

‘Amazing, isn’t it, how quickly fighting men find the things that make them the same, and learn to ignore the things that make them different?’

Dubnus strolled into the 8th Century’s section of the camp an hour later, Martos walking alongside him with a hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his sword. The Hamians were already asleep in their tents, exhausted by the day’s march, but, as the young centurion had expected, Marcus was still wide awake, discussing possible tactics for the next day with Qadir and his watch officers. All four men were wearing their heavy woollen cloaks, in contrast to the two Britons, who seemed not to notice the evening’s chill. Marcus stood, clasping hands with Dubnus and turning to regard Martos steadily, his expression neutral.

‘Martos, this is my brother-in-arms Marcus. Marcus, this is Martos, a prince of the Votadini tribe, now our ally and, as of today, my friend.’

Marcus nodded his greeting, extending a hand. Martos took it, sustaining the grip for a moment.

‘Your hand is cold, Marcus. That, and your face, tells me that you were not born in this land.’

Marcus nodded.

‘I was born in Rome, and lived there for most of my life. This may be a pleasant evening to you, but I’m used to warmer.’

‘And your soldiers?’

Marcus smiled, extending a hand to Qadir, who took his cue to bow his head slightly.

‘My chosen man can speak for himself, but since his homeland is even warmer than my own, you can probably draw your own conclusions.’

The Briton looked at the Hamians bleakly for a long moment before speaking again.

‘I asked Dubnus to show me the men who broke my warriors’ will in the battle for the hill fort. I was curious to meet the soldiers who rained death on to my people, to look into their eyes and see what kind of men they were. I expected cold-hearted killers, and yet, as with the other men of your cohort, find only ordinary men like my own. If anything, your men look even more out of place here than mine.’

Qadir stood, offering his hand to the Briton.

‘I must ask your forgiveness, Prince Martos. My men have been trained for years to regard their targets as simply that… targets.

I am not proud that we killed so many of your warriors, although I am in honesty pleased that they managed their first battle as well as they did. Please accept my sympathy for your losses.’

Martos nodded, his eyes locked on the big Hamian.

‘My heart is still bleeding for the men that have preceded me across the river, and I have hardened it for revenge on my enemies, but I cannot number you among them for simply fighting as you have been trained.’

His eyes flicked on to Marcus, narrowing with curiosity.

‘A few among my men, warriors that managed to fight their way clear of the slaughter you called down upon us, speak of a lone officer who stood against a dozen of them two and three at a time. This man, they say, fought with two swords, and possessed both speed and skill they have not seen before…’ He looked at the Roman expectantly, gesturing to the two swords at his sides. ‘This man was you?’

Marcus smiled.

‘My archers are new to this style of fighting, and to war itself, and even a few of your warriors would have put them to flight in minutes. I had no choice except to get out in front of them.’

The Briton surprised him by bowing slightly.

‘Necessity or not, you have the respect of my tribe. To stand alone against so many angry men will have taken great bravery…’

‘Either that, or he’s had the sense knocked out of him by too many blows to the head.’

Martos tossed his head back and laughed uproariously at Dubnus’s jibe.

‘That’s good, I’ll tell my warriors that the man who bested several of their number single handed was punch drunk at the time.’ He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, his focus on the Roman intent. ‘It’s a good thing I didn’t manage to get free of the press of my men, or I too would probably have ended up face down under your blades. I look forward to the opportunity to wield my own sword at your side, now that fate sees us both looking for the chance to take the same man’s head. And now, new friend Dubnus, I’d better get back to my men before they grow restive.’

Dubnus turned to follow him, raising a fist to Marcus for a tap in parting and nodding to Qadir. The chosen man watched the two men walk away towards the 9th Century’s tents.

‘They have a different approach to life, these Britons. In my country a man in his position would take his first opportunity to put a knife between your ribs, and mine too in all probability.’

Marcus pursed his lips, considering the point.

‘I can’t say that it would be any different in mine. And yet to all appearances the man’s happy to treat the whole thing as water under the bridge. Let’s hope he feels the same way when we’re toe to toe with his former allies.’

The next morning started out fine enough, the cohorts’ stand-to, their breakfast and preparations for the march illuminated by the early morning’s soft red light. The supply carts were to be left in the marching camp’s shelter for the day, each man carrying a double ration in his pack in case, as seemed likely, they were unable to return to the camp that evening. Morban, freed from his duties minding Lupus by Antenoch’s reluctant agreement to remain at the ford with the boy and a tent party of men to guard the supply wagons, stared sourly into the sky above the hill to their east, nudging the 8th’s trumpeter with an elbow.

‘Red sky…’

The youth followed his pointing arm.

‘And?’

The standard-bearer raised his eyebrows despairingly, looking around at the equally uncomprehending Hamians.

‘Fuck me backwards, you really don’t have a clue, do you. Didn’t your dad ever tell you what happens when the sky’s that colour?’

‘What colour? Pink?’

‘Don’t get funny with me, you little prick. ‘Red sky in the morning, soldier’s warning’? No? Never mind, just make sure that your cloak’s packed at the top of your gear, you’re going to be wanting it out before the midday stop.’

As it happened, and as the trumpeter took great pains to point out to him at the midday ration break, the day stayed clear and bright all morning as the two cohorts slogged across the largely treeless hills and valleys. Nevertheless, dark clouds were indeed building up behind them in the south-west. Eventually, after the fifth or sixth comment at the expense of his weather-forecasting abilities, Morban judged that the moment had come.

‘Very good, smart-arse, if you’re so confident that it’s not going to rain, how about a small wager. Or are you only brave after the event?’

The cohorts moved on again a few minutes later, the Votadini reckoning that they were only a few miles from the warband’s presumed stronghold. Scaurus and Furius, in a spirit of some reconciliation after their falling-out the previous day, agreed that their respective units would switch their cohorts’ modus operandi from the march to a more tactical approach. Frontinius gathered his centurions, a note of quiet satisfaction in his voice.

‘Right, we’re now officially the point of the spear. The First Cohort takes the lead from now. So, it’s quiet routine from here, brothers, no trumpets, no singing. We advance at the walk rather than the march and I want eyes on the horizon to all sides at all times. Dubnus, you’ve got the scout century so you’d better get your idle bastards to start justifying their boasting and get right out front. I want you as far out as you can get without being out of sight, and I want every blade of grass turned over for signs of the enemy. They’re somewhere out there, probably lying in wait for the legions, and our job is to find them without being spotted. If you do find them, you make the signal; you pull your horns in and wait for me to come forward to join you. No heroics. And yes, you can take your new friend with you just as long as you don’t let him any farther forward than you, and the rest of his men stay well back. This advance will be scouted exclusively by Roman forces from this moment.’

The 9th went forward in the manner they had perfected in the previous months, individual tent parties scouting forward in complete silence and communicating with Dubnus by hand signals. They advanced cautiously across the hilltop’s broad expanse, every seam and fold in the otherwise bare ground explored carefully by the advancing soldiers. An hour later, with dark clouds gathering overhead, the leading tent party probed cautiously into a copse half a mile in front of the cohort’s advance. The soldier Scarface motioned to his mates to stay where they were at the trees’ edge, and raised his spear ready to throw as he slid noiselessly into the copse, weaving carefully around the gnarled trunks of the clustered oaks. The veteran soldier sniffed the air with a furrowed brow, then silently laid his spear and shield down on the grass to ease his stealthy movement through the trees, drawing his sword and once more motioning for his troops to hold their positions. Advancing cautiously around the rock outcrop that dominated the thin collection of trees and scrub, his sword held ready to fight, he froze into perfect immobility.

In front of him, with his back turned to the wide-eyed scout, a barbarian warrior was squatting with his breeches around his ankles, grunting quietly in an apparently fruitless act of defecation. Inching forward, his attention locked on to the back of the barbarian’s head for any sign that his lurking presence had been detected, Scarface stalked the tribesman with his sword raised until he was less than a foot from the man’s oblivious back, hardly daring to breathe for fear of alerting his target. He paused for a moment, unconsciously rehearsing with tiny movements of his hands before taking a decisive step forward and wrapping a big hand across the barbarian’s face, stifling his surprised exclamation and pulling his head back to open his throat to the sword’s blade. Ignoring the blood sluicing from the massive wound opened across the barbarian’s neck as the man tottered to his feet, Scarface stepped back to reverse his grip on the sword’s hilt before pivoting forward on one muscular thigh to punch the point into the dying man’s back and through his heart, dropping him lifeless on to the grass. Sheathing the bloody blade, he grabbed the dead man’s corpse by the arms and weaved back through the trees the way he had entered the copse.

Dubnus ran forward to meet the eight men struggling back towards him, Martos and his four-man bodyguard running alongside him. The soldiers were gathered in a tight group as they came to meet him, apparently weighed down by something large and heavy. As he reached them they dropped their burden to the ground and stepped aside, revealing the dead barbarian warrior with his throat ripped wide open and a gout of blood down his chest. The dead man’s eyes were bulging in testament to his last frantic struggles. Scarface stepped forward, still breathing heavily from his retreat pulling the man’s dead weight.

‘He was in the trees. I caught him with his back to me, so I cut his fucking throat to stop him shouting out to his mates and then put my iron through his back. We grabbed him and got him out of there before anyone noticed, but they’ll be looking for him soon enough…’

Dubnus looked more closely at the dead man.

‘So why are his trousers round his knees?’

The veteran’s expression was a study in pained explanation.

‘Because, Centurion, he was trying to have a shit when I did him. Why do you think I’ve got the bloody stuff all over my feet? Seems my iron unstoppered his arse better than all the grunting he was doing while I crept up on him.’

The young centurion shook his head in disbelief, looking at Martos with a raised eyebrow. The other man returned the gaze, his face set grimly.

‘This is worse than I expected. We’ve thrown a stone into a wasp’s nest, and we have only a matter of minutes before the swarm is upon us.’

Dubnus nodded, drawing his sword and hacking off the dead man’s head, picking it up by the mane of greasy hair and turning back to Scarface.

‘Did you actually see any more of them?’

The veteran shook his head, but his expression spoke volumes.

‘No, but as I was stalking this boy I could smell wood smoke, and plenty of it. Could be a dozen of them, could be the entire bloody valley full for all I know.’

‘Cocidius help us. Given that the warband’s supposed to be five miles farther east, and given that…’ The young centurion pointed to the severed head staring slackly back at them. ‘… I’d say we’re in deeper shit than what you’ve had sprayed on your boots.’ He pointed to one of the younger soldiers. ‘You, boy, you fancy yourself a runner, so you take this and you leg it back to the first spear as fast as you can go…’ He pushed the barbarian’s severed head into the soldier’s hands. ‘… and you tell the first spear there’s a camp over the hill, cooking fires lit, strength unknown, and make sure he gets to see that. He’ll know what to do.’

He turned to his men as the runner bounded away.

‘Right, one man runs to each tent party and tells them to get back here, quiet over quick, mind you, and save their wind. I reckon we’ve got a long run ahead of us.’