Arrows of Fury

9

By chance, it was Rufius’s century that the runner reached first, and the veteran took one wide-eyed look at his grisly trophy before grabbing it from him and running back up the cohort’s column with a speed that belied his years. Finding the senior officers watching the 9th Century’s stealthy but hasty retreat with professional concern, he held out the dead barbarian’s head to his first spear, too breathless to speak. To his surprise, Scaurus was the first to speak.

‘Gods below, he’s a Venico!’

Furius wrinkled his brow.

‘He’s another dead barbarian, that’s what he is. Why so…’

Frontinius, having stared for a long, silent moment at the dead man’s head, at the face decorated with swirling blue tattoos, spoke over him as if not even aware that a superior officer was speaking.

‘How far is it back to last night’s campsite would you say, Centurion Rufius?’

‘Ten miles, give or take, First Spear.’

He nodded, and then turned to Scaurus.

‘You’re right, of course, that is indeed a barbarian of quite another tribe to those we thought we were facing. If Calgus has managed to achieve what this looks like, then we’re on very dangerous ground indeed.’

‘And you recommend…?’

‘That we get both cohorts turned around and running for their lives. In very short order this man’s mates are going to miss him, look for him and fail to find him, at which point they’ll come over that hill. The second they realise we’re here we’ll have a full warband at our heels. I’d get the message riders away to the legions too, tell them that we’ll be holding the line of the Red River at the waterfall ford.’

Prefect Furius’s frown deepened.

‘Not so fast, First Spear. We find a single barbarian several miles from our objective and we’re going to take to our heels for fear of the rest of the warband coming to find him? This is probably just a stray hunter, or…’

Rufius spoke out, having regained his wind from his run up the hill.

‘With respect, Prefect, that’s no stray. I’ve fought these bastards in the hills to the north of the River Tava, and those tattoos tell me he’s a warrior. And the scout century reported wood smoke, cooking fires most likely.’

Scaurus nodded decisively.

‘Enough chat.’ He raised a hand to silence his open-mouthed colleague. ‘No, Gracilus Furius, one moment. First Spear Frontinius, get the First Cohort turned round and headed for the ford. I’d recommend the double march, but that’s for your discretion. I’ll have a quiet word with my colleague while you get them moving.’

Frontinius saluted and turned away, then stopped and half turned back.

‘One problem, Prefect. The Eighth Century won’t sustain the double for more than a couple of miles, and I can’t risk three other officers to chivvy them along under these circumstances.’

‘I know. Tell Centurion Corvus that he’s on his own, free to make his way back to the ford by any route he sees fit, but we can’t wait for him. Now, my colleague…’

He led a protesting Furius away, ignoring the curious glances the message riders were giving the two of them as they waited for their instructions.

‘Come over here and listen to what I have to say. No, just for once, just this once, listen to another man’s opinion before shouting your own from the rooftops.’ The other man’s spluttering protests ran dry under his level stare, replaced by a thin-lipped glare as Scaurus spoke quickly, and with a hard edge in his voice that his colleague had not heard before.

‘That dead man belonged to a tribe we call the Venicones. In their own language they call themselves the “Hunting Hounds”. And if we think we’ve had a rough war this far, then I can tell you it’s about to get worse. Much worse. They live beyond the Antonine Wall and their men are tattooed, wearing their warpaint all the time and not just when the mood takes them. There are thousands of them, and they live to raid, and burn, and most of all to kill their enemies in cruel and barbarous ways. They have an utter disregard for danger, and a burning desire to see us dead. All of us.’

Furius had quickly lost any hint of his previous bluster, his eyes flicking nervously to the 1st Cohort which had now turned around and was heading back across the hill’s empty expanse at the double march. Scaurus continued to speak as he tightened his helmet strap ready for the march.

‘You want to know how I know this? You’ve doubtless heard about the Antonine Wall, and how we decided to abandon it, purely to shorten lines of supply back to Yew Grove and Fortress Deva. All of which was a carefully concocted fiction. There were nineteen forts on the northern wall, more than we have on the current border, yet guarding a frontier less than half the length. It was perfect, less than forty miles to defend, easy to build a concentration of troops that would intimidate the locals into peace.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve read the governor’s report scrolls from the period, and they were genuinely terrifying. Those inked-up bastards burned out more than half of the forts at one time or another, killing thousands of men before we decided to cut our losses and leave them well alone. So, colleague Furius, when whoever’s camped over that hill comes looking and finds our tracks beaten into the grass, I want to be as far along the march back to the Red River as possible. You can stay if you like, but I guarantee that the last few minutes of your life will be more exciting than you would have wished.’

He turned to go and Furius recovered his wits, putting a hand on his sleeve and blurting out a question. His voice quavered slightly, and his gaze flicked to left and right, like that of a man seeking a means of escape.

‘Surely the governor would want us to hold our ground? Shouldn’t we…’

Scaurus turned back to his brother officer, a softer look on his face than the hard-eyed stare he’d fixed on the other man a moment before.

‘It’s all right, Furius, I was there at Thunderbolt Gorge, remember? I know what you’re going through, because I was there the last time it happened to you. And no, there’s nothing to be gained from making a stand here except a quick and unpleasant death. The governor put us out here to make sure that nobody gets to swing a hook into the legions’ left flank when they go in to dig Calgus out from his hidey-hole, agreed? Which, you might have guessed, is exactly the reason that these barbarian maniacs are lurking out here. They won’t have come south looking for a fight in anything less than full strength, so unless we manage to alert Ulpius Marcellus to their presence, he’ll find that even two over-strength legions are not really any match for thirty thousand or more angry barbarians driving in hard from two or three different directions. Unless we manage to warn him what’s waiting out here we’ll end up with Calgus in possession of every bloody eagle in Britannia, the country aflame and probably lost for good. I suggest that you get your men moving, Prefect.’

Marcus and Qadir watched as the 1st Cohort’s centuries ground past them, the soldiers too busy gulping air to shout the usual insults at the Hamians. Indeed, he wondered whether he detected a hint of sympathy in the glances that the labouring troops were shooting at them as they left the 8th Century toiling along in their wake. His discussion with the first spear had been both brief and bleak.

‘I can’t leave anyone to help you, my main priority now is to get the cohort back to the ford and ready to fight off the Venicones when they come swarming across the Red. You’ll have to make your own way back and join up with us when you can. My advice would be not to push your boys too hard, and make sure they’re ready to use their bows on anything that catches up with you. It won’t be much use having the ability to hit a man at a hundred paces if you’re too winded to pull the arrow back.’

He’d slapped Marcus on the shoulder, wished him good luck and marched off at the head of the cohort. Prefect Scaurus had done much the same a few minutes later, having the good grace to look a little guilty at leaving the Hamians to fend for themselves.

‘It will rain soon.’

Qadir stared skywards as they marched, watching the heavy grey clouds hanging over them, a slight green tinge hinting at the downpour lurking within their dark, looming bulk. Marcus looked upwards briefly, then shot a glance back over his shoulder, past the rapidly closing 2nd Cohort at the hill behind them.

‘Let’s hope so. A decent downpour might give us the chance to get back to the ford before the Venicones catch us out here and…’

With a brilliant flash a lightning bolt crackled between cloud and ground a mile or so distant, a crashing boom loud enough to wake the dead rolling over the marching Hamians a few seconds later. Marcus tapped Qadir on the arm, shouting over the thunder’s reverberation.

‘Keep them moving, in fact push them up to a hundred and twenty paces a minute. If they get to brooding about what’s behind them they’ll be more likely to get twitchy, so let’s give them something else to think about.’

The 2nd Cohort thundered past at the double march, their glowering prefect sneering across at the single labouring century from his horse. Behind them, appearing over the hill in their wake, came half a dozen horsemen. Marcus shouted to Qadir, pointing back at the barbarian riders.

‘Have the men ready to shoot, but keep their bows hidden until the moment comes. I want them nice and close before we show our hand, so wait for my signal.’

The chosen man dropped back down the column and spoke quietly with the archers as he went, his hands emphasising his orders. The horsemen closed steadily on the century’s rear, stringing arrows to their own bows in anticipation of ranging alongside the century and shooting into their helpless mass, further slowing their retreat.

‘Qadir, chisel tips! Get ready!’

The chosen man nodded, unslinging his own bow under the cover of his men’s rank’s and reaching back to pull one of a few flat-headed arrows from the quiver hung over his shoulder, locating the arrow by a small protrusion on its base. The horsemen rode up alongside the century, their loose formation opening up as they prepared to start shooting, no more than thirty paces from the Hamians.

‘Qadir, now!’

At his chosen man’s shouted command the archers stopped marching, swivelled to face the horsemen and lifted their bows to shoot, the riders’ proximity making their marks laughably easy. Their broad-headed arrows flicked across the gap, punching into the horses’ sides with savage power, and the animals screamed as the chisel-tipped arrows did what they were specifically designed to do. The flat-headed arrows’ horrific power punched chunks of ribcage snapped free by their impact deep into the animals’ bodies, crushing their lungs and internal organs and inflicting fatal wounds on the hapless beasts. Their riders were pitched from their saddles by the sudden collapse of their horses, struggling back to their feet only to find themselves facing a line of bows that riddled them with arrows in seconds. The few horses that didn’t fall immediately struggled away in obvious difficulty, the arrows protruding from their sides slick with frothy blood spouting from their punctured lungs, and their riders made easy targets for the arrows that dropped them from their dying mounts. Inside seconds the pursuit had gone from easy chase to bloody ruin, a single rider-less horse trotting slowly out of arrow range before slumping to its knees, unable to rise as its blood sluiced from three deep chest wounds.

‘Keep moving!’ Marcus pointed impatiently at the next hill, waving the 8th Century forward. ‘Morban, a hundred and twenty a minute. Let’s get out of here.’

The 8th Century ground on up the slope, the 2nd Cohort already over the top and on their way down the other side. There were still, Marcus reckoned, another three valleys between them and the ford, a good two hours’ marching even in good weather.

With a gentle patter the long-awaited rain started to fall, the initial shower intensifying quickly until the Hamians were marching through a downpour, their bows quickly hidden from the rain in oiled goatskin bags. At the top of the slope Marcus stopped, letting the century continue past him as he squinted back through the rain. On the crest of the valley’s far slope a mile or so distant, their numbers made uncertain by the shifting curtains of rain, a mass of warriors were crossing the summit and starting to pour down the hill. They would catch his men in much less than half an hour, he guessed. He turned back to find his century’s ordered line of march suddenly disintegrating into chaos as a hundred and more barbarians charged out of the rain to their front.

The 1st Cohort reached the Red River’s ford by mid-afternoon, exhausted soldiers splashing their way through water already a good six inches deeper than had been the case that morning, the rain beating off their helmets with increasing vigour as the last centuries staggered up the Red’s western bank. One tired Tungrian slipped into the rushing water, and for a moment it was touch and go as to whether he would find his feet again or be washed downriver and over the falls on to the rocks below. It was a mark of their physical exhaustion that not a single soldier took the chance to poke fun when he rose out of the river’s icy grip, water streaming from his helmet, and made the bank in a flurry of limbs. First Spear Frontinius greeted each century that crossed with the same greeting.

‘Fill your water bottles! Get any food you’ve got down your necks and get ready to stand to. Centurions, to me…’

When the officers were all gathered, bedraggled and mudstained, he laid out his proposal for the defence.

‘We’ve no choice but to make our stand here, it’s the only defensive position for miles. It’ll be dark in about six hours, so we’ll have to hold them off that long unless the rain gets heavier and makes the ford impassable. We’ll hold the riverbank unless anyone’s got any better ideas, two-man depth and four-hundred… three-hundred-and-twenty-man width, that should be plenty to stop them getting any foothold on this side. We’ll build an earth wall on the riverbank, use the turfs from the marching camp, then fight with spears, not swords, and keep them down in the water and at the mercy of the cold and the current. One tent party per century to set up the tents as cover for the wounded, the rest of the cohort to build that wall as fast as possible. And be careful to leave a gap for the Second Cohort to cross through. Tribune, anything to add?’

Scaurus shook his head, clearly still exhausted after the punishing pace of their march.

‘Anyone else got a question? Centurion Rufius, is this about the Eighth Century?’

Rufius nodded tensely.

‘Yes, First Spear, I request permission to take a small party back out and look for the Eighth.’

‘Denied, Centurion, and you too, Julius, before you ask. The Eighth will have to take their chances. Get to work! Dubnus, you left here this morning with two centuries’ worth of Votadini but I don’t see them now. I don’t suppose you could enlighten me as to where they are?’

Dubnus grimaced, waving an arm back across the river.

‘Martos wasn’t about to leave the Eighth on their own to be slaughtered, First Spear, he said there were too many good men to leave to the Venicones.’

‘And he wasn’t about to ask me for permission to leave the cohort either, I suppose?’

Dubnus nodded tiredly.

‘For what it’s worth, I think he’ll be back, and hopefully with the Eighth following him.’

‘For what it’s worth, Centurion, I hope you’re right.’

The 2nd Cohort struggled across the ford fifteen minutes later, and Neuto found Frontinius supervising the building of the earth rampart along the ford’s western bank, pointing critically at the way the soldiers were stacking their turfs.

‘Not too close to the water, or it’ll be washed away if there’s much more rainfall farther up the valley. Like this… see? Now carry on, only faster.’

He turned to face Neuto, shaking the mud from his hands.

‘Glad you could join us. All present?’

The other man nodded dourly, shaking droplets off the brim of his helmet.

‘We lost a few that couldn’t take the pace, they’ll be dead by now, but the rest all got here. The last we saw of your boys they were shooting holes in the Venicone horse scouts, but then the rain came down like the sky was falling and we lost any sight of them.’

Frontinius nodded, his expression forcedly neutral.

‘Now you’re in we can close the wall. I doubt we’ll get it more than three feet high before they’re crossing the river but even that should be enough. Now, let’s discuss what your boys can add to the defence…’

Scaurus had greeted Furius as his horse climbed from the river, taking a grip of the animal’s bridle and leading it away from the soldiers toiling to fortify the Red’s treacherously slippery bank in the pounding rain. Arminius followed the two men as Scaurus took his colleague far enough from the troops that their privacy was guaranteed, turning his back on the officers to face the river and ensure that no one tried to interrupt them. Furius climbed stiffly down from the exhausted animal and turned to face Scaurus, but before he had time to say anything the other man forestalled him by raising a hand to silence whatever it was he had been about to say.

‘I’m taking command, Gracilus Furius. I’m sorry, but there’s no way to sugar-coat it so we’re best getting it out of the way here and now.’

Furius’s eyes widened with anger.

‘You’re taking command? By what authority…’

Scaurus smiled grimly, shaking his head in quiet amusement. ‘It’s always about power and rank with you, isn’t it, Furius? By Ulpius Marcellus’s authority, who else could give it to me? I was sent north on a scouting mission before he was even formally appointed, when it was clear to everyone but the last governor that the northern tribes were ready to boil over. Of course, it had all gone to ratshit by the time I got here, but that didn’t make my job any less valid, just a damn sight more dangerous…’

Furius interrupted impatiently.

‘So fucking what?! You’ve no more right to…’

‘Shut up.’

Furius’s head jerked back as if he’d been struck, and before he had any chance to regain his composure he found Scaurus’s face close to his own, his eyes suddenly slitted with anger in a face white with suppressed anger, and his voice a furious monotone.

‘One more word from you and I’ll take my sword to you. I know you, Gracilus Furius, I know what you’re capable of, on and off the battlefield. You’re the big man in camp all right, all spunk and swagger when there’s a condemned man to nail to a cross or some helpless girl to terrorise, but I stood next to you that day at Thunderbolt Gorge and watched you change from a self-assured bully to a snivelling coward in the time it took for you to decide that we were all going to die. If you think I’m going to let you anywhere near those soldiers once there are ten thousand Venicones on the far bank of that river, and all of them screaming for the chance to carve our balls off, you’d best think back to just how much leadership you gave your cohort that day. If you stay here alongside me and keep your mouth shut, then assuming we’re not all dead before nightfall I’ll see that you get a share of whatever good news comes our way before you’re sent home. But if you make one squeak or squeal that might sap these men’s capacity to resist, those tattooed bastards will be practising their knife work on your bloody corpse.’ He raised his voice, ignoring the open-mouthed Furius. ‘Thank you, Arminius, I’ll have the scroll now please.’

Frontinius and Neuto turned to face Scaurus as he walked up to them, the German at his shoulder holding a message cylinder with its wax seal still intact. Scaurus held out his hand and took it from him, gesturing to it as he addressed the two men. Scaurus nodded to both men.

‘Gentlemen, this scroll contains some very explicit instructions from the governor as to the limits of my authority, which, for the avoidance of doubt, are just about non-existent unless and until I’m talking to a legatus. I’m taking command of this defence in order to ensure that there are no unfortunate misunderstandings on my colleague Furius’s behalf. We stand here, gentlemen, and we either hold this position or we go down fighting.’

He stared at his subordinates, waiting for any comment. Neuto scratched under his helmet’s left cheek guard before replying, his face impassive.

‘And about time too, if you were to ask me. Let’s get on with it.’

The Venicones arrived on the far bank half an hour later, at first in a trickle down the eastern slope of the Red River’s valley but soon in greater numbers, until the eastern bank of the river was thronged with warriors. A few were waving heads and Roman helmets at the defenders, but given the rain it was impossible to make out any detail. Julius and Rufius stood and watched them, desperate to know whether Marcus had fallen victim to the barbarians.

‘Could be our boy, but then again…’

Tiberius Rufius turned away, sickened at the sight of what might be his friend’s severed head.

‘If it was him, then at least it was probably quick.’

Rufius nodded, acknowledging Julius’s point.

‘I’ll give you that. If I’d known that those bloody archers would lead to this I’d have…’

‘You’d have what? Stopped him from adopting them? Made sure that the prefect made a point of dumping them on that prick Furius? Nothing you or I, or even the first spear, could have done would have prevented what’s happened, and what is simply is. Now, if you don’t want to make your exit the same way that poor bastard did, whoever he is, then get your shit in a pile and get ready to defend this piece of riverbank.’

Rufius nodded again, breathed deeply and then held a hand out to his friend.

‘I’ll see you when this squalid little fight’s done, either here or in Hades.’

The 1st Cohort were drawn up behind the freshly built wall in battle order, their shields running with water as the rain showed no sign of abating. Each man in the front rank held a spear ready to use, while the men in the rank behind held three apiece, each with the front ranker’s spare and his own pair, ready to hold the soldier to their front in place on the slippery ground with a steady grip on his belt.

‘When they come across the river, the front rank will ready spears for defence. Take your spears to them while they’re climbing out of the water. Do not wait for them to get to the top of the rampart.’

Dubnus was ranging along the rear of the 9th Century, bellowing out his last instructions to the soldiers waiting tensely for the fight to begin.

‘Keep your wits about you and your shields ready, and watch out for their swords.’

Scarface tested his footing behind the turf wall’s modest defence, seeking a firm footing before the fighting began. He muttered quietly to his neighbour, tipping his head to indicate their centurion.

‘I’m not sure what’s worse, that lot over the river shouting the odds or having him strutting up and down like he’s an officer or something.’

The other man nodded, spitting morosely into the river’s fast-flowing water.

‘Yeah. Was better when we had our young gentleman to tell us what to do, an’ he was stood behind us with the big stick. Don’t suppose we’ll be seeing Two Knives again, though…’

Scarface nodded morosely before looking back over his shoulder.

‘You, rear rank, you’ll have to keep a better grip of my belt than that unless you want me in the river with those tattooed bastards.’

Across the river, after the expected period of time for orders to work their way down to the family groups that made up the warband, the Venicones stopped milling about and advanced into the river with fresh purpose. The water reached almost to their knees, reducing their progress to a slow walk as they fought against the Red’s continual efforts to pull them off their feet. The waiting Tungrians settled down behind their shields, crouching into their shelter as the stronger Venico warriors began hurling their spears, for the most part futilely, although one lucky throw toppled a 3rd Century soldier across the rampart with his throat torn open.

The barbarians advanced through the freezing river’s flow to the western riverbank and began their assault in earnest, attempting to climb the earth wall and get to close quarters where their swords could come into play. Hopelessly disadvantaged by the turf rampart, losing the ability to use either spear or sword against the defenders as they climbed out of the water, they were easy meat for the Tungrians’ spear-thrusts. Within half a minute blood clouded the river’s water, as dozens of men fell back from the attack with horrific upper-body wounds inflicted by the darting spearheads that struck repeatedly into their ranks. A warrior might fight on for a short time with a single wound, but with hundreds of spears thrusting at the attackers ten or twelve times a minute the slaughter was more than the Venicones could sustain. A horn blew and the remaining attackers withdrew past their dead and dying comrades, shouting insults and threats at the impassive soldiers. Scarface took a deep breath, wiping the blood from his face where it had sprayed after his spear had pierced deep into a Venico warrior’s chest. He spat over the rampart into the river’s torrent, watching the surviving barbarians straggling back to the far bank.

‘Easy enough. I did for five of the fuckers without ever even seeing a blade, never mind using my shield. They can keep doing that as long as they like…’

On the eastern hillside, in a position chosen to allow the senior officers to see over the 1st Cohort, and with uninterrupted views to both north and south, the two cohorts’ tribunes and first spears watched as the Venico warriors backed away from the earth rampart. First Spear Frontinius curled his lip dismissively, pulling unconsciously on his moustache.

‘That was a diversion, and not much more by my reckoning. There are men moving along the bank in both directions. Let’s hope your men up and downriver are up to the task, Prefect Furius.’

The bands of warriors dispatched along the Red’s banks moved quickly, the northern group climbing the gentle slope until the wide expanse of the ford gave way to the steeper and narrower banks of the river where it ran through the softer rock that had once overlain the ford’s granite shelf. Higher they climbed, seeking a narrow point at which to wade or jump the river and thus reach the western bank unopposed. To the south another warband headed downriver, skirting round the falls by way of a slow, steep climb down the sloping rock face before jogging downstream in search of their own crossing point. Frontinius watched them go, his eyes narrowed in calculation as he stared into the rain, the downpour slowing as the clouds above them started to lift.

‘The rain’s stopping. Which means we’ll only have a few hours before the ford reduces in speed and depth enough for them to rush us in real numbers.’

Three hundred paces upriver the northern warband had found what they were looking for, a narrowing in the stream caused by the presence of a huge boulder buried deeply in the eastern bank. The massive, ancient rock reduced the river’s width to less than a running man’s jump, if well judged. Half a dozen men stepped back and ran at the jump, vaulting off the boulder and landing, in all but one case, squarely on the far bank. The one exception missed the bank’s edge by six inches, floundered and was swept away downstream in an instant by the fast-moving stream.

The remaining warriors turned to signal to their comrades, and went down under a volley of spears from the nearest 2nd Cohort century as they advanced out of the thinning rain. The soldiers rushed to the bank and formed a hasty line, meeting the next wave of warriors with spear points that dumped every man unceremoniously into the Red to be washed back downstream to the ford in clouds of their own blood. The centurion gestured to his men, half of them forming a defensive line while the rest set to work behind them with their turf-cutting spades to open a gap which, when cut through to the river’s bank, would widen the river sufficiently to make the leap impossible. Without the cover afforded by the rain the 2nd Cohort’s dispositions were now becoming clear, several centuries stepped up the western bank in ambush positions for just such an eventuality. Scaurus watched as the 2nd Cohort men toiled at the riverbank, his face thoughtful.

‘They’ll get no joy that way, the river’s moving far too quickly. It’s a crossing downstream from the falls that worries me — the flow might be slow enough for them to find a way across somewhere down there.’

Frontinius grimaced into the gentle drizzle that still drifted in the air.

‘I could send more men down there…’

‘Yes, but we need to keep the whole length of the river defended as well as possible. Weaken the section upstream of the falls and they’ll find a way across there instead. We’ll just have to make the best of what we have.’

He looked to the south again, but the Venico warriors that had gone south down the Red’s eastern bank were now invisible in the afternoon’s murk, a thick mist replacing the rain as the day’s warmth steamed moisture out of the sodden ground.

The 8th Century and Martos’s warriors lay soaked, muddy and bedraggled against the northern bank of a small stream, a tributary of the Red that ran in the shadow of the long rocky shelf scarring the hillside to the east of the falls. With his feet in the fast-flowing water Marcus peeped over the bank’s crest, just able to make out the figures of the Venicones as they hunted down the Red’s eastern bank less than two hundred paces away. Within a minute, he realised, they would draw level with the stream’s entrance into the river, and have clear line of sight to the 8th’s hiding place. He looked up and down the line of his men, gesturing them to stay prone against the mud. A single warrior moved into view, his presence almost ghostly in the curtains of mist hanging in the muggy afternoon air. The man stood slightly crouched, scouting the path for the warband behind him, his head cocked to one side as he listened for any threat, then slowly moved on down the river’s bank. Another man followed, then more, these warriors less alert than their scout.

‘How could he not see us?’

Martos answered his quiet question in an equally low voice.

‘Mist. Mud. Luck…’

‘They’re looking for a way across the river.’

‘Yes. Did you see their axes? They will look for a tree to drop across the river, then call the warband down here and seek to cross it in stealth. Your people will have centuries posted along the bank, but with this mist…’

He shook his head, and Marcus understood his frustration. With such restricted visibility such a breach of the cohorts’ defences might go unnoticed long enough to allow a build-up of warriors on the far bank too strong to be contained.

‘There were only thirty of them by my count.’

Marcus turned to face the Votadini leader.

‘You propose to attack them?’

Martos pursed his lips, his gaze steady.

‘In this mist they will not see us until we are almost on top of them.’

‘And if there are more following?’

‘Then we will make a brave stand until your men’s arrows are spent. We cannot stand by while these men breach your defences undetected.’

Marcus nodded.

‘You’re right. Let’s get into them before any more of them climb down the outcrop and pitch up here.’

Martos clapped him on the shoulder.

‘That’s the way. My men will go first, and take down those few, and I suggest your men take our northern flank, get their bows uncased now that the rain has stopped and be ready to shoot. The next few minutes will be exciting for us all.’

The Venico scouts had ghosted noiselessly through the shifting curtains of mist for half a mile down the Red River’s course before they found what they had been sent to look for, a pair of trees at the river’s edge which could, with the right felling, be dropped neatly on to the far bank and so form a makeshift bridge. Sending a man back to call for reinforcement, the warband’s leader ordered his four best axemen to set about the trees’ thick trunks, watching with satisfaction as they hammered deep notches into the wood, their cuts perfectly placed to put the trees’ leafy tops on to the eastern bank as they fell. The river’s far bank was wreathed in mist that was rising from the saturated ground under the sun’s heat as the rain clouds temporarily cleared, and the sound of their axes was muffled by the murk to the degree that he doubted anyone more than a couple of hundred paces away would have any clue as to the threat they would shortly pose to the Roman right flank.

With a creaking tear the first tree fell exactly as required, its leafy branches easily reaching the far bank. The tree’s massive trunk stretched out into the misty air above the swollen river, an immovable bridge into the heart of the Roman defence. A moment later the second tree fell, bouncing off the trunk of its companion and coming to rest tidily alongside it. A man grunted behind him, and the chieftain turned to find one of his men on his knees with a spear protruding from his chest. Even as he took in the scene, a dozen indistinct figures charged out of the mist, mud-coated wraiths wielding long swords and butchering his unsuspecting men. Even as they realised they were under attack the Venico warriors hesitated for fateful seconds at the sight of the men running at them, long haired and clad in clothing identical to their own, and their weapons equally familiar. The Venico leader’s realisation that these were not his own people came to him far too late, as he saw that the mud-smeared man shaping to attack him was not only wielding two swords, one long, one short, but was wearing a Roman centurion’s helmet. The attacker brushed his sword aside with one blade, then punched the other into his chest so quickly that he hardly saw it coming. Even as he gaped at the sudden shocking pain, the mud-coated warrior drove the other sword under his ribs before ripping both blades free and shouldering him aside to fall dying on the muddy ground. As his life slipped away from him he saw a tall and muscular warrior walk up to the Roman, slapping him on the back in congratulation.

‘A good kill, Centurion.’

Marcus nodded, watching the Venico leader’s glassy eyes lose their final spark as the man’s spirit left him.

‘The poor bastard didn’t realise what was going on, not until he felt my iron in his heart.’

He shook himself free from the moment of reverie, calling out to his men, still hidden in the mist.

‘Eighth Century, to me, quickly now!’ His men hurried from their hiding place to join him, clustering round their officer with the air of lost children. Martos smiled around him, recognising the Hamians’ fear of such an unexpected and desperate circumstance.

‘That was our turn to do the killing, little brothers, but yours will come soon enough. Make your hearts hard, as they were at the hill fort, for you will soon be killing your enemies again. This I can promise you.’

The archers stared back at him without comprehension, their eyes wide at the sight of the bodies of the Venico warriors, and Marcus realised with a start that his men, for all the slaughter they had wreaked on Martos’s warband days before, had not yet been face to face with the human debris of battle. He clapped his hands to get their attention.

‘Eighth Century, the time has come for your greatest test. At the end of this day you’ll all be able to hold your heads up among the soldiers of our cohort as warriors. Now, follow me across this makeshift bridge, and once you’re across unpack your bows and get ready to shoot. Nobody looses an arrow without my command, because Martos and his men will be following us across. Martos, bring your men over as quickly as you can, there’ll be more of them along.’

He nodded to the Briton, and then clambered nimbly on to and along the trunk of one of the fallen trees with Morban following closely behind him. Jumping down on to the Red’s western bank, he turned back to wave the 8th Century across. Shapes were forming in the mist in front of him, soldiers drawn by the sound of the tree’s fall advancing to attack with their spears ready, and Marcus threw himself to the ground, pulling the standard-bearer down with him, knowing that the first spears would be thrown at chest height.

‘Roman soldiers! Eighth Century, First Tungrians!’

A soldier loomed out of the mist, his spear held low and ready to thrust, and Marcus called out again, his voice tight with urgency.

‘Roman soldiers!’

The spear’s point stopped an inch from his throat, and the soldier behind it braced the weapon, ready to drive it home.

‘Get up.’

Marcus climbed to his feet, wiping a fresh coating of mud from his face.

‘I’m Corvus, centurion of the Eighth Century, First Cohort. Those men across the river…’

The soldier turned away.

‘Centurion Appius!’

His officer came forward to the riverbank, took one look at Marcus and shouted for his chosen man. He turned back to the Roman with a wry smile.

‘Well now, look at you, Centurion Two Knives. There’s me looking all over for you, and then just when I’m least expecting it the gods drop you out of the sky, or so it seems. We’ll have to…’

Marcus interrupted him with a dismissive shake of his head.

‘No time. We can discuss whatever it is you want from me later, but for now my century is across the river, waiting to cross!’

Appius nodded.

‘We’ll talk later, then. Chosen!’

Appius’s second-in-command got the Hamians moving across the tree trunks, while the two centurions considered the threat to the cohorts’ defences. Marcus pointed into the mist towards the outcrop, hidden in the rolling mist.

‘They sent a runner back to the warband. We killed the rest of them, but he was gone too quickly. As long as it takes to get back to the ford and back again, then we’ll be knee deep in barbarians. Speaking of which, there are friendly locals on the other side too, so you’d better pass the word for your men to hold on to their spears until they hear the command to throw…’

Antenoch dropped from the tree’s curved surface, saluting both officers.

‘Centurion Corvus, there are warriors climbing down the rocks, we can hear them.’

Marcus turned to the other centurion.

‘We’ve got five minutes, no more, and there’ll be hundreds of them fighting us for this piece of riverbank. My archers can hold them off for a time, but we need to destroy these trees.’

Appius’s men took guard around the tree’s impromptu bridge while the Hamians, the last men of the 8th Century still crossing, took their positions up and downstream, readying their bows to shoot. The first of the Votadini came across the bridge at something close to a run, the urgency of the situation telling in the speed with which the warriors crossed, one or two coming perilously close to falling into the Red. Martos, the last man across, walked across the impromptu bridge at a more dignified pace, pointing back across the river.

‘They’re close, I could hear them shouting to each other. They’ll be trying to cross in less than a minute, and nothing short of burning these trees out will keep them at bay, if that were even possible.’

Appius snapped his fingers, turning to Marcus with a new light in his eyes.

‘Fire! That’s it! I know a man that keeps a ready supply. Keep them busy, eh, Two Knives? You’re in charge here until I get back!’

Marcus caught his arm as he turned to go.

‘Take our Votadini allies with you, there’s no way they can stay here.’ He turned to Martos, offering the Votadini warrior his hand. ‘Thank you for staying back to lead us to safety, we would have been found and slaughtered without your guidance. Follow this officer and he will lead you to the main body. You’ll be better off there, safe from the risk that some idiot will take you for a Venico…’

Martos nodded, taking the offered hand before beckoning his men to follow him, then ran north along the riverbank behind Appius, heading for the ford.

Marcus called Qadir to his side.

‘Right, Chosen, I suggest that you get your men ready to start shooting. There are no friendlies left to cross the bridge. Aimed shots only and no volleys, we need to make every arrow count.’

The shouts of the approaching Venicones were audible over the river’s babble now. Their excitement turned to anger as they encountered the bodies of their comrades. In the mist wreathing the Red’s far bank they milled around for a moment and then, goaded by their leaders, started their assault. Leaping on to the fallen tree with swords and spears ready to fight, they advanced along its length, hideously vulnerable targets for the waiting bows. The Hamian archers picked them off with lethal precision, dropping the warriors into the river’s fast-moving water with their blood spraying from two or three arrow wounds apiece.

As the skirmish played out before him, Marcus was looking not to the barbarians his men were killing by the numbers, but to those on the bank behind them, their number swelling by the minute as more of the warband struggled down the outcrop and ran to join their comrades. Still calculating the odds, he staggered back as an arrow punched into the mail armour covering his chest, the missile dropping to the damp grass with its energy dissipated against the stout iron rings. Another arrow flicked off Morban’s helmet, and the standard-bearer ducked for cover behind the Hamian line with an unaccustomed agility.

‘Archers! Target the far bank with volleys.’

He smiled grimly as the Hamians loosed a volley of arrows across the river which resulted in a chorus of groans and screams from the warriors milling about on the far bank, recognising the tactics being employed by whoever was in command on the far side. In an instant, whether deliberately or not, the game had been changed. Forced to fire en masse in order to kill or suppress the barbarian archers, the Hamians would run through their remaining arrows in minutes, rather than the much longer time possible if they were required only to pick off single targets.

While the first volley tore into the mass of barbarians lining the far bank, sending most of them to earth, the second and third found far fewer targets as a result.

‘Cease volleys! Aimed shots only!’

And probably a tenth of their stock of arrows were expended in less than half a minute. An astute leader on the far bank might reckon it worth the loss to throw his men back on to their feet to make the Romans run through their arrows, and remove the threat to their crossing at the cost of a few hundred lives. Without the threat of the archers, and with their bowmen to keep the defenders’ heads down, whoever was leading the men on the far bank would be able to mass twenty or thirty men on the trees’ broad trunks, ready to rush into their midst with hundreds more at their back. A few well-picked men with their feet on the western bank might occupy the defenders for long enough for their fellow warriors to reinforce them and secure the tiny bridgehead, allowing the trickle to become a flood. The warriors were on their feet again quickly enough once the iron rain no longer fell among them, barbarian arrows once more flicking through the ranks of the Hamian and Tungrian defenders.

‘Volleys!’

Another three volleys were loosed to good effect, another tenth of their arrows gone. The situation was descending into a straight trade-off, bodies for arrows, and with sick certainty Marcus watched as the warriors rose again, some with more than one arrow wound.

‘Qadir!’

The chosen man hurried across to him, keeping low as barbarian arrows resumed their irregular but potentially lethal hail.

‘How many arrows do we have left?’

The big man grimaced.

‘Perhaps fifteen per man.’

They had enough arrows for five more rounds of their deadly game, perhaps seven or eight if he restricted them to two shots each time. Ten minutes’ worth, and no more.

‘Aimed shots only. No more volleys. Tell your men I want no wasted arrows.’ He turned to the other century’s chosen man and watch officer, shaking his head in apology. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, your boys will have to take their chances with the barbarian archers. If I keep firing volleys to make them keep their heads down I’ll be out of arrows in less time than it’ll take for reinforcements to arrive.’

An ugly thought occurred to him.

‘Could either of you throw a spear across the river?’

The men looked at each other, then at the river, calculating the distance. The chosen man nodded slowly, his eyes still calculating the throw.

‘Not sure that I could, but I’ve got plenty of big strong boys that would make it easily…’

Marcus motioned to Qadir, signalling a withdrawal.

‘Get them back ten paces, Qadir, we’re in spear range. I suggest you do the same, Cho…’

The instruction died in his throat as he turned away from his men, the iron head and ash shaft of a Venico spear hissing past his face close enough that he felt the wind of its passing on his cheek. The other century’s chosen man jerked backwards a pace as the spear, having missed its target by the merest fraction, buried itself in his throat and took his life as compensation. Another half-dozen men were hit as they retreated from the river’s bank, two of them Hamians. While the first archer’s mail coat saved him from any harm worse than a severe bruise, the second man hit was less lucky, and went down with a spear through his back as his mail’s rings parted under the weapon’s impact. Qadir ran forward and grabbed the fallen Hamian by the collar of his ring mail, snatching up his shield and raising it against further attack as he dragged him back to safety. Marcus knelt by the man’s head and put a finger to his throat.

‘He’s dead.’

The men of the 8th watched him lying motionless in the mud with what the young centurion momentarily took for numb detachment, until he realised that the dead man was the first casualty the century had suffered since his assumption of command. Marcus and Qadir stood behind their men, watching as the Hamians systematically shot down any man that set foot on the fallen tree trunks, steadily depleting their remaining arrows.

‘They’re manoeuvring us neatly into position to be mobbed once we’ve run out of arrows and shot back whatever they’ve shot at us. We can’t defend the bank, they’ll just shower us with spears and bleed us dry, and that means they can throw men across until they’ve built enough strength to roll us over. Make sure every arrow finds a target

…’

He stalked away, forcing himself to ignore the arrows aimed at his distinctive helmet as he approached the 2nd Cohort soldiers cowering behind their shields. With their chosen man dead the century was leaderless, at least until Appius returned from whatever task he had decided would provide an answer to the fallen trees’ threat.

‘Watch officer and standard-bearer, to me!’

A pair of soldiers detached themselves from the century, using their shields for protection against the intermittent barbarian arrows. Marcus hefted the shield he had picked up from beside the dead chosen man, and ducked into its cover.

‘With your chosen man dead you’re the only leadership left for your men.’

The two men regarded him unhappily. Content to enforce their officer’s discipline, and to organise the more mundane duties of the century, neither looked particularly eager to assume the burden of command. He stepped in closer to the pair, leaning to put his face only inches from theirs and to allow him to speak more quietly, but with an unmistakable edge to his voice.

‘I can see that you don’t like the idea, but you have no choice in the matter. Without your leadership these men will break and run once my archers run out of arrows, and the barbarians will come across that bridge with their tails up and looking for the revenge on us for all the men we’ve killed here. And if your men run, if you let that happen, they will be hacked to pieces inside five minutes. As will we all. Within half an hour every man in both cohorts will either be running for their lives or have their guts laid out for inspection. So, gentlemen, what will it be? Death, or glory?’ The two soldiers looked at each other, each of them seeing his own uncertainty mirrored in the other’s face. Marcus changed tack, reaching for humour where the plain facts weren’t succeeding. ‘You’re both scared shitless, right?’

They nodded reluctantly, the standard-bearer cracking the thinnest of smiles as he spoke.

‘I’ll probably manage one good shit once those bastards are across the river.’

Marcus sighed gently, thanking his gods for the soldier’s unfailing gift of humour in the darkest situations. He looked quickly to Qadir, who held up a hand with the five digits splayed out. Five arrows per man, perhaps three more minutes.

‘I’ll let you into a secret, then. I’ve just led these lads, all scared out of their wits by those headhunting bastards, through rain and mud and blood to get across the river in one piece. All that time, hiding up hills and in ditches, and I’ve been busting for a good long sit-down all that time.’ The two men goggled at him. An officer, and clearly a nicely brought-up boy too, telling them that he needed the latrine? ‘And if I can hold on to my arse all afternoon on the wrong side of the river with that lot running around, then I’m sure that you two can give me a few minutes of leadership for these poor buggers. So here’s the deal. You take four tent parties each, and you deploy them to either side of my lads, one left, one right…’

His plan explained, he hurried back to his century, drawing his cavalry sword and praying for both men to find their courage when the time came.

‘How many left?’

‘One or two arrows apiece.’

He took a deep breath.

‘Eighth Century, every man without any arrows remaining, raise your right hand.’

Two dozen or so hands went up. When another dozen barbarians had been toppled from the tree trunks he shouted again.

‘If you’re out of arrows, right hand up and keep it up!’

About sixty this time. Looking back into the mist he could see nothing, no sign of reinforcement. That they would have to fight hand to hand was now inevitable. That there was only one way that they could fight successfully, and even then only for a very limited time, seemed equally likely.

‘Eighth Century, those of you with arrows, keep shooting, but listen to me! When you run out of arrows put your arm in the air. When enough men have run out, I will give the order to draw swords. If you’re still shooting, put your bow down and air your blade. Pick your shield up and form a line, two men deep just as we trained you.’

More hands went up in the air, until about ninety per cent of his men were no longer able to shoot at the attacking Venicones.

‘Draw your swords!’

The remaining archers stood, and with the rasp of metal on metal the century drew their swords and jostled into something approaching the standard defensive formation, twenty paces or so from the riverbank. The Venicones were already crossing the trees in numbers, perhaps a dozen men now visible on the western bank. Marcus muttered under his breath, judging the right moment to commit his men.

‘Mithras forgive me sending these innocents to face those animals.’ He drew breath and bellowed in his best parade ground roar. ‘Eighth Century! At the walk! Advance!’

For an awful moment nothing happened, as the archers struggled to digest the terrible novelty of their situation. From his place behind the century Qadir suddenly roared a command, his voice unrecognisable compared to his usual mannered speech.

‘FORWARD!’

Where the formal command had failed to galvanise the Hamians, the sudden bellow from their rear set them moving. Crouching behind their shields like terrified recruits faced with their first practice battle perhaps, but nevertheless advancing on the baying tribesmen. Marcus shot a surprised look at Qadir, and was amazed at the fierce stare he received in return as his chosen man spoke, his voice an angry snarl.

‘They’re dead, whether they attack or simply stand and wait for it to happen. They might as well go to meet their goddess with their dignity intact.’

Marcus nodded, stepping forward to stay close to the rear rank, pushing at their backs with the dead chosen man’s long wooden pole as Qadir followed suit with his own. The bellowing Venicones were less than ten paces away, hammering swords against their small shields to raise a din calculated to stand off the numerically superior Roman force while more men crossed the river behind them. Qadir’s voice boomed out over the tumult again.

‘Forward! Board and swords, gut the bastards!’

The Hamians edged forward, their reluctance to take the fight to the wild-eyed warriors railing at them painfully obvious. The Venico tribesmen’s confidence visibly grew as they took in their opponents’ clear desire to be somewhere else, half a dozen of them stepping boldly across the slowly narrowing gap to hammer at the archers’ shields with their long swords. One of them, his confidence in the face of such poor opposition clearly sky high, angled his sword down over a shield in a powerful thrust, putting the blade’s tip through the throat of the man behind it. The dying Hamian convulsed with the wound’s shock, his struggles disrupting the century’s line of shields and encouraging another tribesman to step in and attempt a kill. The blade flashed down in a vicious arc, missing its intended target by a hair’s breadth but, more critically, scaring the wits out of the men to either side and suddenly, decisively, splitting the century into two distinct halves separated by a two-foot gap. Unless it was closed at once the tribesmen would be in there, hacking furiously to either side and in all likelihood shattering the 8th’s already fragile confidence completely. Marcus dropped the wooden pole, drawing his spatha with a flourish and reaching for the hilt of his gladius in readiness to throw himself into the gap, but as he pulled the short sword from its scabbard and steeled himself to fight he was elbowed aside by a bulky figure.

‘Syria!’

Qadir had snatched up a shield and beaten him to it, leaving him standing impotently with both swords ready to fight, but without any means of getting at the Venicones hammering at the shield wall behind which he was trapped. Watching helplessly and aghast at his chosen man’s likely fate, he was amazed to see the previously placid Hamian bury his sword deep in the closest tribesman’s guts, then kick him off the blade while parrying an attack from his left with an almost dismissive flick of his borrowed shield. He swung the blade, already running red with blood, backhanded, hacking into another man’s neck and almost severing his victim’s head from its shoulders with the force of the blow. A spray of hot blood showered the front rankers around him, its coppery stink filling the air.

‘Deasura!’

The scream came not from the near-berserk Qadir, but from one of the archers standing close to him, and like the clap of thunder that presages the full fury of a gathering storm, it galvanised the Hamians to sudden, almost unbelievable action. In the space of a heartbeat their blood was up in a way that Marcus would never have predicted, most of the front rank screaming their defiance and, amazingly, gloriously, actually fighting back with their previously useless swords. Not all of their thrusts were anywhere near a target, but within the space of ten seconds there were half a dozen more dead and dying tribesmen at their feet for the loss of one man, who charged out of the line in the full grip of his newly discovered bloodlust, and died quickly and messily once separated from the protection of the century’s line of shields. The century had been transformed from hapless terror to clumsy but effective attack by Qadir’s sudden lunge into their front rank, and with their blood up the Hamians showed no sign of backing off their intended prey.

Thinking quickly, Marcus abandoned his original plan and gestured to the 2nd Cohort watch officers to hold their ground, then ran to the end of the 8th’s line, bellowing down its length to get his men’s attention.

‘Eighth Century!’

A brief, somehow unnatural quiet fell across the tiny battlefield, the remaining Venicones’ attention grabbed by his appearance at the end of the Roman line just as much as that of his own men.

‘Eighth Century, advance to the riverbank!’

A pair of barbarian warriors, one lean and sinewy with a pair of throwing spears and a small hand shield, the other a giant of a man with a six-foot-long broadsword, broke from the knot of surviving warriors and sprinted across the narrow gap towards him with furious purpose. Allowing no time for the Hamians to respond, Marcus stepped forward purposefully to meet their charge, ducking and twisting under the first of the thin man’s spears as it hissed past his head. Taking the spearman for his first target, given the lanky warrior’s two-pace lead on his larger companion, he slapped the man’s shield with his extended spatha before spinning in a lightning-fast full circle to the spearman’s right. The unexpected move put the barbarian between him and the broadsword’s greater threat, and Marcus scythed the long cavalry sword round in a long arc that ended in the spearman’s unprotected flank. The devastating backhanded spatha cut open his side beneath his ribcage to his spine. The grievously wounded warrior dropped his shield with a howl of agony, his bowels voiding themselves in a stinking rush as he tottered on legs turned to jelly by the wound’s fearful pain.

Shifting his balance swiftly from his bent left leg, Marcus sprang upright, kicking the grievously wounded warrior on to his comrade even as the other man drew his massive sword back, only to be thrown off balance as the dying spearman flew backwards into him. Without hesitation Marcus stepped in fast and thrust the spatha’s three-foot length through the dying spearman’s body and into the swordsman’s guts, letting go of the sword’s hilt and raising the gladius over his head. He flashed the blade down to point at the frozen Venicones, snarling at the Hamians behind him.

‘To the riverbank! No prisoners!’

The archers swept forward with the irresistible force of an incoming tide, gladius blades licking in and out of their line in silver and red flashes as they put the suddenly terrified tribesmen to the sword. The Venicone warriors that remained either went down fighting against impossible odds or broke and ran for the fallen trees’ bridge to the eastern bank. Barely a dozen escaped the Hamians’ onslaught, two of them tripping in their haste to cross the river and falling into the fast-moving flow, washed away into the mist in seconds.

The Hamians, left in gloriously undisputed possession of the riverbank, were suddenly exhausted as the brief, exhilarating combat rage washed out of their bodies. More than one man found himself yawning uncontrollably where he had felt godlike power only a moment before.

‘Now I see why you people speak of battle the way you do…’

Marcus turned from wrenching his spatha from the bodies of the two Venicone warriors to find Qadir standing at his shoulder, his sword and shield hanging loosely by his sides. This was the Qadir he had grown accustomed to, once more quietly spoken and considered.

‘It was quite amazing. One moment I was watching my men suffer at the hands of those barbarians, the next…’

He ran out of words, a small tremor in the corner of one eye evidencing his sudden exhaustion. Marcus slapped his shoulder hard, a blow calculated to sting.

‘The next minute, brother, the animal in you found his release. You took your iron to the men that were killing your men and you fought like a demon. Don’t try to rationalise your rage, recognise it for what it was, and what it will be again, if need be. Old Julius had better watch out, you could give him more than a run for his money. Oh yes, one more thing. Deasura?’

Qadir nodded.

‘She is Atargatis, our goddess. In battle we call on her as the Dea Syria…’

A sudden yelp from the riverbank had them both ducking for cover, Marcus from long practice, Qadir with a certain self-consciousness but no less speed. A flight of arrows from across the river slammed into the slumping archers, dropping one man choking with a barb in his mouth and wounding several others in arm and leg, beyond the protection of their ring mail. The 8th shuffled backwards out of the heavy rain of arrows, each man’s shield studded with feathered shafts by the time they had gained the safety of their previous position, all but invisible to the barbarian archers. Qadir stalked away up the line, counting under his breath and shaking his head sadly on his return.

‘How many?’

The chosen man’s reply was delivered in a downcast tone.

‘One hundred and forty-three men capable of fighting. We have eight dead, including the men we left by the river, and the rest are wounded in varying ways. Some of them will live… if we can get medical attention.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘Little chance of that, I’m afraid. The nearest real medic is miles away, with the legions. We’re more likely to see the Venicones face to face again. And soon.’