The Eagle's Vengeance

2

The next morning was clear and bright, overnight mist burning off in less than an hour as the Tungrians prepared to march north. Marcus stood with his helmet under one arm and watched as the Sixth Legion’s three centuries readied themselves to escort Tribune Sorex’s gold chests back to their fortress at Yew Grove. He nodded in wry recognition as their centurions undertook the ritual final preparations, inspecting the waiting soldiers alongside scowling chosen men who had already scrutinised their troops’ readiness with sharp and unforgiving eyes. Camp Prefect Castus stood and watched beside Marcus with a look of satisfaction at the scene before him.

‘Is there any better sight in the entire world than a few centuries of battle-hardened infantry commanded by men at the peak of their powers? I’ve trodden parade grounds across the length of the empire, from the burning sand of Syria to the ice and snow of Dacia, and nothing has ever put a lump in my throat like the sight of good soldiers ready for whatever the day might throw at them.’

He paused for a moment, and Marcus sneaked a sideways glance that found the older man gazing misty-eyed at the ordered lines of men before him.

‘This is my last posting, young man, and I had to beg the powers that be for this chance to be a fighting man one last time, even if I am only supposed to be the officer who organises the legion’s food and pay. Take a lesson from where I find myself, Centurion, suddenly clinging on to the arse end of my career and wondering where all those years went. Make the most of each and every day you have under the eagle.’ He laughed, shaking his head to dispel his melancholy. ‘Well at least Procurator Avus should be happy that his precious cargo will be travelling under suitable protection. Doubtless he’ll be expected to report to some exalted person or other as to the state of affairs he discovered here …’

Marcus followed his gaze to find the imperial official standing a short distance away with a look of approval at the soldiers’ ranks. Looking back at the column his eyes found his wife Felicia and her assistant Annia, an island of femininity in the column’s sea of iron. The young centurion stared wistfully as his wife handed their infant son up to the now heavily pregnant Annia, who had already taken her place in the cart that had been procured for them at Castus’s order. The camp prefect had readily agreed to take his wife, his baby son Appius and the doctor’s assistant with him to the Sixth Legion’s fortress at Yew Grove, as part of the well-protected convoy of wagons that would deliver Tribune Sorex’s gold to the buried strongroom safe behind its heavy stone walls. The final member of the women’s small party was his standard bearer’s grandson Lupus, whose furious protests at being made to accompany the women had fallen on deaf ears. Marcus had taken him aside once his initial anger at the decision had burned out and the boy had been reduced to tearful silence, squatting down on his haunches to look up into the child’s resentful eyes.

‘We don’t always get what we want, young man, and nor should we. What use is a life that doesn’t contain the occasional disappointment to remind us just how pleasant success tastes, eh? This time you have to go with Felicia and Annia, and that’s all there is to it.’

Lupus had shaken his head, his reply petulant even though he knew that when the centurion spoke so firmly his will was not to be questioned.

‘But I came with you last time you marched to fight.’

Marcus had smiled, conceding the point.

‘And we were lucky enough not to get you killed. But this time I need you to go with the women. Besides, I’ll feel happier with one of us close to them.’

The boy had nodded solemnly at him, his eyes widening at the centurion’s words, and put his hand to the hilt of the half-sized sword strapped to his waist, much to the amusement of the soldiers. Catching the direction of his companion’s stare, the Prefect nudged him with an elbow and nodded towards the two women.

‘Don’t worry, Centurion, I’ll make sure they’re not bothered by the soldiery. Indeed it will be a pleasure to escort two such agreeable ladies to a place of safety. I believe that your woman is a doctor with some experience of treating battlefield wounds?’

Marcus smiled wryly.

‘She has saved the lives of several men I would have said were fit for nothing more than a quick and merciful release from their suffering, but she has experience at inflicting damage as well as repairing it, if the need presents itself. And I suggest that you approach her assistant with care. Annia is, as you can see, somewhat heavy with child and she is not, I can assure you from recent experience, particularly happy with that condition. I think the father of her child is looking forward to facing off with the Venicones as a relief from her vividly expressed disappointment that his manhood hasn’t yet dropped off as the price for putting her through such discomfort.’

The older man snorted a laugh.

‘Your first spear is keen to jump out of the skillet, is he? In that case we’ll just have to hope that the fire isn’t too hot!’ His expression softened as he watched Felicia climb up into the cart and take the child from her friend. ‘As for your woman, you needn’t worry yourself as to her safety while you’re away pulling barbarian beards. I have a woman in the vicus at Yew Grove who’s well accustomed to the life of a soldier’s wife, and she’ll make sure that they’re both looked after.’

Marcus nodded his thanks, tensing slightly as he saw that Julius was beckoning to him.

‘Excuse me, Prefect, my presence is being requested by my superior officer.’

The prefect nodded, his face creasing into a smile.

‘It’s time then, is it? Have fun …’

The young centurion saluted Castus and turned away, walking towards the parade ground across which the First Tungrian Cohort was arrayed. As he made his way between two of the convoy’s gold carts he found his path blocked by the Sarmatae, Ram and Radu, who stood waiting for him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. He paused for a moment, waiting for them to step aside, but neither man showed any intention of moving.

‘Gentlemen?’

Ram stepped forward, a broad grin on his face as he closed to within a foot of the Roman.

‘We fight. Now.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘No. We march now. There’ll be plenty of time to fight later, and besides, we have no practice weapons to hand.’

The answer was instant, and delivered in a tone of voice which raised the hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck.

‘Now! We practise like we fight, not with wood, but with iron! We fight like men! We promise not to cut your pretty face, Centurion …’ Ram looked back at his brother with a smirk, missing Marcus’s quick pace backwards, and the sudden narrowing of his eyes as he readied himself to fight. ‘But perhaps he not a man, perhaps he a-’

Whatever insult the Sarmatae had intended to throw at Marcus was lost in the sudden woosh of air from his lungs as the centurion stepped forward swiftly and put a hobnailed boot into his groin, sending him reeling away from the wagons, clutching at his abused testicles and fighting for breath. Regaining his balance to toss his helmet aside and unsheathe his swords in a flicker of polished metal, the Roman barely had time to raise his defence before Radu was upon him, his swords a whirling torrent of sharp iron, and for the next dozen heartbeats it was all he could do to parry the other man’s cuts and lunges.

Only distantly aware of an uproar of noise from the gathered soldiers, and wondering what his wife was making of the unexpected display, he bared his teeth in a snarl of naked aggression and sprang forward at the Dacian with a ferocity born of the anger that had swiftly replaced his initial surprise at the nature of the twins’ challenge. Matching his opponent blow for blow he began to force the pace, his retaliatory cuts and lunges delivered so fast that the Sarmatae’s eyes widened as he found himself unexpectedly on the back foot in the face of the Roman’s speed and power. Parrying a thrust of the long spatha’s evilly sharp patterned blade, Radu spun away to his right, escaping from Marcus’s incessant attacks for a moment and shouting to Ram in a tone laced with urgency.

Flicking a glance at Ram, Marcus realised that while he was bent over with his hands on his knees and his chest heaving, still struggling to breathe, he was clearly already over the worst of the kick’s physical impact. Looking back to Radu just in time to steer a vicious stab aside with his gladius, he realised that his opponent would simply seek to hold him at bay until his brother regained his wind and returned to the fight, at which point the two men would clearly overwhelm him with their combined pace and ferocity. Realising that he needed to overcome the man facing him in the next few strokes or face inevitable defeat, the Roman stepped into the next attack and pushed Radu’s swords wide before snapping a vicious butt into his face, the crushing impact sending the Sarmatae reeling away with blood streaming down his face from his broken nose.

Grasping at the fleeting opportunity he had created, the Roman took two quick strides to Ram, tossing his own weapons aside and smashing the stooped tribesman’s head back with a vicious uppercut before grasping his tunic and spinning him round, wrapping one arm across his face. Whipping out his dagger he put the weapon’s point under his captive’s jaw, pressing its point on the spot where a simple thrust would open the blood vessel beneath the skin. The Sarmatae reacted instinctively, biting down hard on the tunic-covered arm that was holding his head back, stiffening with a squeal of pain as Marcus quickly moved the knife’s point to the soft flesh beneath his ear and pushed it into the gap between cartilage and skull to send a thin runnel of blood down his captive’s neck.

‘If you bite me again I will make a gift to you of this ear, as a memento of our fight today. That, and your brother’s head.’

Radu shook his head and advanced towards the two men, ignoring the blood that masked his lips and chin, crabbing sideways in search of an angle at which he could renew his attack on the Roman only to be frustrated as Marcus manhandled his brother round to negate the threat.

‘You’ve lost. I could cut his throat and take his swords in less time than it takes to tell, and you wouldn’t be much of a challenge now that I understand your rather crude style. Stand down.’

Before the younger twin had time to reply a commanding voice rapped out from behind him.

‘Leave it!’

Marcus craned his neck over Ram’s shoulder, jerking the dagger’s blade fractionally to ensure that the Sarmatae stayed quiet. Drest was approaching them across the parade ground with a hard grin, and as he passed Radu he patted his man on the shoulder.

‘You lost to a man with more battlefield experience. Learn from that, eh? And next time, you might want to give him a little more warning. It seems that the centurion here has something of a temper once he’s roused.’

Radu shook his head dourly, re-sheathing his swords as he spoke to Marcus with a dismissive tone to his voice.

‘If this fight were real I would have killed you by putting my iron through my brother. We take no prisoners!’

Marcus pushed Ram away, bending to wipe the dagger’s point on the grass before dropping it back into its sheath and reaching for his swords.

‘I will remember that. And perhaps next time we spar you can give me a little more warning, so that I won’t have to resort to such ungentlemanly conduct to fight the pair of you off.’ He turned to Drest. ‘That was a little more intense than I was expecting, not to mention somewhat sooner than I thought we’d planned it?’

The Scythian shrugged.

‘This way it looked somewhat more convincing than would otherwise have been the case. And this way we had an audience of men all baying for blood, and one man in particular who was sufficiently distracted for Tarion to perform his magic.’

The Roman resisted the temptation to look around at the spot where Procurator Avus had been standing a moment before.

‘And it worked?’

Drest shrugged again.

‘I have no idea. But I hear no cries of “thief”, which is always a good sign …’

The Thracian tipped his head towards the waiting cohort, and Marcus turned just in time to see the thief pass something to Tribune Scaurus and slip away between two centuries, a wink of gold catching his eye as whatever it was changed hands. He glanced at Drest before walking away towards his place in the cohort’s line, shaking his head at the cheers that were now echoing off the Arab Town transit barracks as the Tungrian soldiers roared their approval of his victory. His Fifth Century greeted his return by beating their spear shafts against the brass rims of their shields until Quintus called for silence, and the Roman settled into position next to Morban with a sidelong glance at the standard gleaming atop its pole.

‘How much did you pay to have it polished up that well?’

The standard bearer opened his mouth to protest, but a familiar voice from behind him pre-empted his complaint.

‘Two denarii, Centurion.’

The young centurion shook his head in bemusement at Sanga’s interruption.

‘Which you doubtless recouped handsomely with a wager on that unexpected display of extemporisation?’

‘Extemp …?’

Marcus spoke over his shoulder, an acerbic note in his voice.

‘Extemporisation, Soldier Sanga. It means making it up under pressure, an ability to which I believe you’re no stranger given some of the legendary excuses you’ve offered up for your misdemeanours during the short time I’ve been your centurion.’

Morban shook his head, stiffening his back as Julius called the cohort to attention and speaking out of the side of his mouth.

‘Didn’t make as much as a sestertius. None of these cowards would gamble on the outcome.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘You can’t blame them, there were two of them against one of me.’

Sanga’s voice grated out again.

‘It weren’t that, Two Knives-’

‘Call the fucking Centurion “Centurion” Sanga, or I’ll put another fucking dent in your helmet!’

Marcus heard the soldier mutter an obscenity under his breath before shouting out the answer that he knew Quintus was waiting to hear.

‘Yes, Chosen Man!’

‘That’s better! Carry on with your little story …’

‘Morban was trying to get us to bet against you, and none of us was having any.’

Marcus frowned, unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed.

‘Really?’

‘Yes sir. No bugger here’s going to bet against you in a sword fight, not given what a mad bastard you are once your temper’s lit, beggin’ your pard-’

A sharp rap of brass on iron silenced the soldier in mid-sentence, and a moment later the command was given for the cohort’s seven hundred men to turn to their right. Lifting spears and shields from their resting places the soldiers swivelled into the line of march, ignoring the sniggers of the Votadini warriors who had accompanied them all the way to Dacia and back. Morban scowled at them, shaking his head in disgust.

‘I don’t know what that lot are laughing at, they look like a right bunch of mongrels.’

The Votadini warriors were clad in and equipped with a widely varied assortment of Roman and Sarmatae armour and weapons, equipment taken from dead friend and foe according to need and circumstance. ‘Legion plate armour, barbarian dog caps, and of course they’re all wearing our hobnailed boots. Poor old Uncle Sextus would have been ripping his hair out, if he’d had any …’

Marcus frowned down at him.

‘They do have a rather informal appearance, I’ll give you that, and yes, perhaps our last First Spear, the gods grant ease to his departed spirit, would have found their mixture of kit a little challenging. Should I point out that harsh truth to Martos on your behalf, do you think?’

A warrior of fearsome countenance who had lost an eye in the liberation of his tribe’s fortress city from Calgus’s men two years before, the Votadini prince had long since settled into a state of contentment with his place in the cohort as an ally, but still kept his men apart from the centuries and guarded both their independence and their reputation jealously. Morban recoiled visibly, shaking his head vigorously.

‘There’s no need for that Centurion, I was just saying …’

Marcus ignored the standard bearer’s grumbling and raised his hand in salute to Martos.

‘You’re whining because they get to go home while we have to march north.’

If the Roman had expected that stating the obvious would silence Morban’s complaints, he was to be disappointed.

‘It don’t seem all that fair, now that you raise the matter, sir. How come they get to wander off to enjoy themselves while we’re straight off to the north without even the chance to put our noses round the door at the Hill?’

‘Because, Standard Bearer, as you might be reminded by the prince’s missing eye, their home was ravaged by Calgus’s Selgovae and left under Roman control once we recaptured it. He’s going to make sure that none of the tribal elders have had any clever ideas about taking the throne from his nephew, and to make an offering at the shrine to his wife and son. And besides, it’s not your nose you want to put round the door at our old fort, is it?’

‘You’re right, Centurion, it ain’t his nose! Not that his old chap would reach round a door! It can barely poke its head out of his bush unless he gives it a good old tugging!’

Sanga’s gruff voice and the answering laughs of the soldiers around them were lost in a sudden bray of trumpets as Julius decided that the cohort was ready to march. Knowing that the soldiers would be quietly seething at having their return home snatched away from them so suddenly, the first spear only waited long enough for the last century to be clear of the fort before ordering his trumpeter to sound the signal for the double march. The ferocious pace soon quelled the unhappy mutterings of his troops as they threw back their heads to gulp down the cold morning air. After an hour or so the harsh pace started to tell on men whose previous few days had been characterised by the forced inactivity of waiting around in barracks for the transport convoy to assemble, followed by the cramped circumstances of the crossing itself. Marcus and Morban, marching at the Fifth Century’s head, exchanged knowing glances as the Fourth Century’s chosen man stalked down the line of his men looking for strugglers, pouncing on one soldier who was marching with a slight limp.

The hard-faced chosen man had been deliberately selected by Julius to pair up with his centurion, Caelius, as a means of counterbalancing the officer’s quiet and reasonable demeanour in any other circumstance than the chaos of battle, where he was transformed into a warrior leader of legendary ferocity. His chosen man’s reputation for driving his men along with an assortment of well-used jibes and threats was widely known and well founded, and the panting soldiers in the Fifth Century’s front rank cocked their ears expectantly as he bellowed a challenge at the labouring man, his face inches from the hapless struggler’s ear.

‘Having a hard time of it, are you sonny?!’

Whatever it was that the soldier said was inaudible to the men marching behind, but his inquisitor quickly satisfied their curiosity.

‘Blister?! A fucking blister?! You’ll just have to march through it, won’t you boy?! I don’t care if your boots fill up with blood until they squelch like a whore’s cunt on pay day, you’ll keep marching until the tribune decides it’s time to stop!’

Marcus shared a glance with Morban.

‘That’s come depressingly early in the day. This is clearly going to be a long and painful march …’

With the usual turf-walled marching fort constructed, nestled beneath the walls of Fort Habitus on the road that speared north from the wall built at the command of the Emperor Hadrian sixty years before, Marcus turned away from his supervisory duties to find two of his soldiers standing to attention, both men saluting neatly and waiting for their centurion to speak.

‘Ah yes, Sanga, and Saratos isn’t it? Chosen Man Quintus told me the pair of you had requested permission to see me. What can I do for the pair of you?’

Sanga spoke for both men, his voice nervous at dealing directly with the centurion.

‘This is the settlement where my mate Scarface was born and raised, Centurion sir. Me and Saratos here thought it might be nice to pay the local mason to carve him an altar, and when we come back this way we can make an offering to his memory. He was a daft sod, begging your pardon, sir, but the lads in our tent party wanted to find a way of remembering him.’

He shut up and waited for Marcus to speak.

‘Scarface …’ The Roman put a hand over his eyes and shook his head slowly before lowering his arm and nodding at the men standing before him. ‘May Mithras above us forgive me, but to my great shame I must admit that I’ve not thought of him lately. Thank you for the reminder, Soldier Sanga.’

Sanga smiled.

‘I can still hear his voice in my head, when it’s quiet in the tent and the rest of the lads are all snoring and farting. “Are you still keeping an eye on that young gentleman like you said you would, Sanga?” or “Don’t you forget our agreement, Sanga. If he won’t look after himself we’ll just have to be there to stop him getting hurt, won’t we?”’

Marcus nodded soberly.

‘He always did seem to believe it was some sort of sacred duty he had to keep me from harm. There was a time when I couldn’t turn around without finding him lurking about close at hand, looking in another direction and trying to avoid my eye. Which is how he got himself killed, of course.’ He fished in his purse, pulling out a handful of silver coins. ‘Whatever Morban’s spared you from the burial club for the altar, add this to it, and make sure there’s a good carving at the top of the stone. Morban has given you some money?’

Sanga grinned back at his officer, raising one hand to display his scarred knuckles.

‘Yes sir, and there was never a danger that he wouldn’t come up with the coin. Morban knows when to take liberties and when he’s safer just putting his toes on the line rather than risking getting them stamped flat.’

The gold convoy halted for the night some twenty miles down the road south from Arab Town, in a spot that had clearly been the point which the day’s march had been intended to reach. Leaving the road at the leading centurion’s pointing signal, eschewing the blare of horns that usually accompanied tactical manoeuvres in favour of a more stealthy approach, the column moved up a rough track that sloped away from the cobbled surface and wound around the base of the hill that overlooked the route south, gradually climbing until it opened out onto the flat summit.

‘Another night, another turf wall.’

Felicia nodded at Annia’s words, pulling on the horse’s reins to halt the cart, as the three centuries’ officers issued a flurry of orders to their men. The orderly ranks dissolved into what at first glance seemed like barely organised chaos, although the two women, long used to the routines of marching camps, watched with experienced eyes as some of the soldiers dug turfs and quickly built a four-foot-high wall around the clustered tents that were being erected by their fellows, while others stood guard with purposeful stares at the landscape around them. Work details were heading away from the camp to fetch water and firewood, the foragers all still fully armed and armoured, and the men working to build the camp all had their spears and shields close to hand in what both women knew was the prescribed routine for camping in hostile territory. Lupus popped up from the place in the cart’s bed where he had been sulking for most of the day, his eyes bright as he watched the legionaries go about their duties to build a defensible camp out of a bare hilltop, one hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. Prefect Castus strolled down the line of carts, his eyes roaming along the line of armoured men set to stand guard on the gold wagons, before coming to a halt alongside the women’s cart.

‘Good evening ladies. I trust that your day’s ride was pleasant, or at least not too unpleasant …’ Finding Annia’s eyes upon him in a cold stare he coughed and turned away, gesturing to the camp with a raised arm. ‘Please don’t be alarmed by the fact that the men are all still in their hard kit, it’s just routine given recent circumstances. Once the tents are raised the wagons in front of you will be driven into the open space that’s been left in the middle, so that we can put three centuries’ worth of spears between them and any unfriendly natives. Just follow them in and we’ll have your equally valuable cargo just as safe as the emperor’s gold, eh?’

Felicia watched as he marched briskly back down the line of wagons, turning to look at Annia.

‘I’d say that the Prefect is one man we ought to be cultivating, wouldn’t you?’

Her heavily pregnant companion snorted, shaking her head in disagreement.

‘It’s thanks to the Prefect that I’ll more than likely be giving birth to this child in a legion fortress while my man is freed to go adventuring without a care in the world.’

Felicia smiled gently, putting a hand on her friend’s arm.

‘You must have seen a fair few babies being born over the years, given that you ran an establishment that catered to the entertainment of men?’ Annia nodded. ‘And tell me, in all those deliveries of helpless little scraps of humanity, when your women were puffing and groaning to push their children out into the world, did you ever see a man add any value to the proceedings?’

The other woman nodded reluctantly, and Felicia reached behind them to rub the boy’s head affectionately.

‘And besides, we have all the male assistance we need right here with us, don’t we, Lupus?’ She turned back to the camp before them, pointing a finger at the first of the gold wagons as it started to roll forward behind the paired horses that were straining to shift its dead weight. ‘Let’s go and take our place in the camp and then work out what we’re going to eat tonight. Perhaps the Prefect will detail us an escort and allow us to pick herbs for a stew?’

‘That was cruel, having to lead the cohort far enough to the west that they could practically smell home, then turning them north at The Rock and thrashing them up the road for another ten miles.’

Dubnus raised a jaundiced eyebrow at his friend, looking around at the roughly finished surroundings of the hastily rebuilt Fort Habitus officers’ mess in which they were sitting.

‘Not as cruel as camping here for the night. Of all the places that we could have pitched up it had to be this one, the place where I told my half century of former legionaries the story that turned them from cowards into men. Now they’re walking round like they own the place, bumping fists and muttering “Habitus” to each other as if they’re some sort of secret society. If they find out that I made up the whole thing about this place being named for a centurion who died in defence of his men then I’ll have some excitement to deal with, that’s for certain. And after all, I only did it as a way to wake up their sense of pride when they were hanging from their chinstraps.’ Dubnus took a deep swig at his beaker, wiping the excess from his moustache. ‘Ah, proper beer. That wine you lot are always sipping is all very well, but it’s not a drink for a man, is it?’

Marcus smiled and raised his wine cup in salute.

‘I thought you might appreciate it, although I don’t think I’ll ever really get a taste for the stuff.’

His friend emptied the beaker, slamming it down onto the table before him exuberantly and grinning happily at his friend.

‘Appreciate it? You have no idea how good that tastes after a year of that sour German muck.’

Marcus stared off into space, his expression wistful.

‘I think you’ll find I can do a fairly good job of imagining just how good it feels. Probably about as good as a cup of my father’s best Falernian would taste to me if I were sipping it in his garden after having spent a couple of hours bathing away dust and the smell of horses.’

‘Yes …’ The big Briton raised his refilled beaker, tapping it to the Roman’s cup. ‘I’m sorry, that was-’

Marcus shook his head.

‘Tactless? Not at all. Why shouldn’t you enjoy being home?’ He raised his cup in return. ‘I’ll drink a toast with you. To home …’ They drank. ‘And we’ll drink it again, on the day that my boots tread the Forum’s flagstones again. And here’s Julius. Pour him a beer, he’ll probably be in need of a drink.’

The first spear dropped his helmet down onto the table with a heavy thud, drawing a dirty look from the mess servant who was promptly treated to a swift rebuttal.

‘Don’t be giving me the eyes boy, fetch another jug unless you want your arse tattooing with the lace holes of my boots. We’re fighting soldiers, not the weak-kneed half-wits you’ve been used to dealing with. I came through here two years ago when this fort was nothing more than a burned-out shell, on my way to give the Selgovae a good reaming as repayment for their having it away with your fucking eagle.’

Shaking his head in disgust he turned back to his comrades, ignoring the stares his outburst had drawn from a trio of legion centurions at a table in the far corner.

‘And yes, young Corvus, you’re bloody right. I do need a beer, if only to wash away the memory of an hour of my life I’ll never get back, spent listening to a spotty nineteen-year-old trying to tell us he’s got the local area under control while his three centuries hide in their barracks sharpening their military skills by a combination of wanking and playing knuckle bones. One word from Rome to pull back and this lot will be off down the road to the south like Greek athletes racing for the last bottle of oil.’

He tipped the beaker back and drained it in a single swallow, reaching forward and pouring out the last of the jug’s contents as Dubnus watched disapprovingly. One of the men in the corner got to his feet and advanced across the room towards them with a determined expression, his comrades looking after him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Planting himself in the first spear’s field of view he waited for Julius to become aware of his presence, his eyes fixed on the big man until the Tungrian turned his head to look at him.

‘What?’ Julius looked up at the newcomer with a curled lip, sliding down in his chair a little to make himself comfortable and folding his arms to push out his massive biceps. ‘I’d be very careful, sonny, standing there with a face on you like you’ve got a pair. If you’ve come looking for a set of lumps you’ll find me ready and willing to oblige you, given the deep joy I’ve been forced to inflict on my men today.’

The legion centurion shook his head, saluting punctiliously as he spoke.

‘Nothing of the sort, First Spear. But I couldn’t help overhearing your comments about my cohort, and I just wanted to explain a few things to you.’

Julius raised an eyebrow at his brother officers with a bored expression.

‘You want to hear this tale of woe?’

To Marcus’s surprise Dubnus nodded, his face suddenly serious.

‘Why not? There’s been a lot happened since we were here last, and given that we’re marching north to put our cocks well and truly on the block I’d like to hear what the centurion here has to tell us. If you don’t like what he’s got to say you can do your usual “fuck off and die quietly” act once he’s done telling it.’ He turned to the legion centurion with a wink. ‘Take a seat brother, and have a beaker of this most excellent beer, if the idiot behind the counter ever bothers his arse to bring us a refill.’

The other man smiled wryly.

‘I can help with that much, at least.’ He clicked his fingers to get the mess steward’s attention, raising his voice in a peremptory tone. ‘Two jugs of beer, and make it quick or I’ll have a chat with your chosen man and have you put to work moving shit from one place to another and then back again with the smallest and heaviest shovel you’ve ever seen!’

With the beer swiftly delivered and poured he took a sip and then leaned forward, his voice pitched low to avoid the words carrying to his comrades.

‘I’m Tullo, Third Century. And yes, First Spear, our tribune is no more than a boy, but even if he wanted to do anything more than keep the locals’ heads down his orders leave no room for doubt. If we stir from this fort without orders from the new legatus, then he’ll find himself so deep in the shit he’ll be breathing through a reed. And as for the men …’

He sighed, shaking his head, then raised his eyebrows in question at Dubnus.

‘You know that nightmare we all have, given we command centuries made up mostly of local boys, the one where we have to order them to start killing their own people? Well it’s not a nightmare for me any more, because my lads have been through it. When the Brigantes revolted, we were part of a three-cohort force that was sent south to make sure the cheeky bastards didn’t get any smart ideas about burning out the Yew Grove fortress, while the rest of the legion got stuck in to making sure the wall forts weren’t overrun. Three cohorts wasn’t enough, of course, we needed a full legion to do the job properly, but given that we were all that could be spared the legatus told us to do our best, and put the most experienced of his tribunes in command, a man with experience from the German Wars and a right hard case.’

Tullo took another sip of beer, aware that he had the Tungrians’ full attention.

‘It was all a bit half-hearted at first. The Brigantes were scared shitless once they realised the full implications of what they’d done, which meant they kept well out of our way for the most part, and our lads were all a bit stunned by the turn of events that had their own people burning out farms, but it wasn’t until we reached Sailors’ Town that we realised just how serious it really was. We knew the auxiliaries who were based in the fort there pretty well, given that we’d marched up and down the road from Yew Grove a good few times over the years, so when we got within a mile or so of the place the men started to look pretty unhappy.’

He drank again, his eyes meeting the Tungrians’ over the rim of his beaker.

‘It was the smell that gave it away, you see, the stench of rotting meat. Putrid it was, like the smell you get on the farm when an ox dies in the summer and you don’t find its carcass for a week. I could hear the flies before we even got inside the fort, and when we saw what the bastards had done …’ He stopped, shaking his head with moist eyes. ‘You’ll think I’ve gone soft, but none of you could have witnessed what we saw without it hitting you like a kick in the balls. They’d killed everyone, not just the soldiers but every single person in the fort’s vicus as well, and then they’d piled them up on the parade ground and left them to rot. Soldiers, old men, women, children, all butchered and left for the crows, their bellies distended with the gases and their eyes pecked out. Half of the men were choking their guts up while the rest were crying like babies at the sight of the bodies of little kids with their throats cut. Once we’d burned what was left of them the tribune got us centurions together with a face like thunder and told us that it was time to teach the Brigantes what happens when they go too far. He was right, of course, and there wasn’t one of us that ever considered disobeying his orders, but …’

‘But what?’

Julius was leaning forward now, his eyes fixed on Tullo’s face.

‘We were ordered to conduct an offensive sweep of every village within ten miles of the fort.’ The legion centurion’s face was stony, his eyes fixed on the mess’s wooden wall. ‘And just what do the words “offensive sweep” mean, you might ask? The orders were made very clear, and read out to the cohorts on parade to make sure that not one of the men was in any doubt as to what would be expected of them. We were to surround each village in turn with overwhelming force, allowing no escape routes, then subdue the population and pull out every man of fighting age to be sold into slavery, without exception. Every item of any value was to be confiscated, every roof to be burned, and anyone offering any resistance was to be killed without any warning. And that’s just what we did …’

He looked around at their uncomprehending faces with the ghost of a wry smile.

‘You can’t see it, can you? The Sixth recruits its men from the area to the north and the south of Yew Grove, smart local lads who want to better themselves and see a brighter future serving under the eagle than hunting or farming the land they were born on. A good number of them were recruited from the very villages they were being ordered to ransack and torch.’

Tullo fell silent, taking a long drink from his beer, and Julius voiced the question that every one of them was thinking.

‘How did they respond?’

The legion man shrugged.

‘Well enough, I suppose, given the circumstances. A few men decided to run rather than face their own people with a drawn sword, and inevitably most of them were captured and brought back to face military justice.’

‘The usual?’

He nodded again at Marcus’s question.

‘The usual. We beat each of them to death at dawn the day after they were dragged back into camp. I say “we”, because it was clear to the officers that we’d have a mutiny on our hands if the condemned men’s tent parties were ordered to carry out the sentence, so we did it for them. Some of them hated us for it even more than they’d hated us before, and some gave us a grudging respect for sparing them the choice between mutiny and murdering their friends for doing something they’d all considered.’

He drank again, and Julius pursed his lips in appreciation of the stark nature of the war the legionaries had been required to fight against their own people.

‘So you finished pacifying the area round Sailors’ Town and then marched up here?’

Tullo lowered his beaker, nodding gratefully as Dubnus refilled it to the brim with a sympathetic grimace.

‘Yes, and we were lucky in not being posted to the Antonine Wall. We’ve heard stories from the messengers stopping here overnight on their way south as to just what it was that the cohorts up there had to cope with. What they found themselves faced with was having to live alongside forts burned out and left to rot the last time they were abandoned twenty years ago, while the Venicones raided from the north at every opportunity and ambushed the work parties sent out to cut wood for the reconstruction work. A couple of centuries were torn up so badly that the legatus had to ban any detachment of less than a half a cohort from going north of the wall. There are some nasty rumours doing the rounds as well, about men who can change themselves into wolves at night and a pack of female warriors who hunt down any man left alive after an ambush and cut off his manhood before torturing him to death. All bullshit of course, but you put men under that sort of strain and the stories are going to fly thick and fast. It wasn’t much of a surprise when the Twentieth Legion mutinied and offered Legatus Priscus the throne, if only he’d get them back south to the old wall. They were bloody fools though …’

Julius nodded his agreement.

‘If he’d taken the offer seriously he would have led you all off to fight for the empire in Gaul or Germany, with your three legions against double the number in all likelihood, and if you’d lost that battle you’d probably never have seen Yew Grove again even if you’d lived. So what stopped this Priscus from taking them up on the offer?’

Tullo sank the rest of his beer before speaking again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Simple common sense, I expect. He came through here a month or so ago, headed south to Yew Grove with our legatus after they were both relieved of command, and he looked like a man with a calm head on his shoulders, a proper Roman general. Not like that fool Governor Marcellus, it was all his fault for sending us north in the first place. And now he’s been recalled to the hardships of his estate in Rome while the rest of us poor bastards pay the price for his stubbornness in blood and terror …’

‘Look out for some ligusticum, Lupus, that’s the herb we need to bring a bit of life back to lamb that’s been dead for longer than might be ideal. You know what to look for, those broad three bladed leaves?’

The child nodded at Felicia, answering without conscious thought, his eyes bright as he searched the ground before them for any sign of its presence.

‘Yes, Mother.’

The doctor stared fondly at the child for a moment before returning to her own search, shaking her head at the speed with which he had adopted her and Marcus as his de facto parents. Behind them a tent party of soldiers were searching the trees clustered around them with hard eyes, having been warned of the dire consequences that would befall them if they were to allow any mishap to befall the woman and child.

Lupus was the first to smell it, wrinkling his nose at the faint but still unmistakable aroma of burned wood, and as he turned to Felicia with a questioning look she nodded her head.

‘I smell it too.’ They advanced down the hill’s slope, finding a faint path through the wild vegetation, but before the child could investigate any further, the tent party’s leader, a tall soldier with a fresh pink scar across the bridge of his nose, put a hard-fingered hand on his shoulder.

‘Not quite so fast, young ’un.’ He turned to Felicia with an apologetic expression. ‘I’m sorry, Domina, but we’ll lead from here. There may be things down there best not seen by the likes of you and the boy.’

The doctor smiled up at him wryly.

‘We’ve both seen rather more “things” than you might think possible, soldier, but I appreciate your concern for our safety. After you, by all means.’

The soldier nodded his thanks to her and ordered his men to form a skirmish line, advancing down the slope to either side of the path with their spears held ready to fight. Behind them Lupus drew his short sword, drawing amused smiles from the soldiers closest to him which he ignored with a face set hard in concentration. A hundred paces further down the hill the canopy of trees opened to reveal the late evening’s pink glow, and the soldiers stopped their advance to stare down into the ruins of what had clearly been a prosperous village until quite recently. Thirty or so burned-out dwellings were arrayed before them, their remaining timbers black with soot, previously straight beams that had been gnawed by fire until they had been left twisted and notched. The inferno that had been visited upon the settlement had reduced it to a ghost town, with only the skeletal remains of its once comfortable existence to bear witness to what had been there before. The tall soldier grimaced at the village’s wreckage, shaking his head.

‘Offensive sweep. Everyone in the village either killed or enslaved, anything of value confiscated and the houses and crops put to the torch. We did a few of these, back when the rebellion was getting nasty, just to show them who was in control …’ His voice tailed off, and he looked about him hollow-eyed. ‘Just like my own village, I expect. You’ll find what you’re looking for easily enough, every house had its own little patch of herbs.’

He led his men forward, putting his spear over his shoulder and shrugging at Lupus who was still holding his sword out in front of him.

‘Nice strong wrists you’ve got there, sonny, but you’ve no need for the blade. There’s no one round here to offer you a fight, that’s for certain.’ He stepped into what had been the vegetable garden of a half-collapsed house, reaching down to grasp a knee-high plant and pull it up by the roots. ‘Here you are ma’am, ligusticum.’

Felicia looked down at the herb garden, plants growing uncontrolled in the absence of their previous owner.

‘And not just ligusticum either. I see thymus and feniculum as well. Gather it all please, especially the ligusticum. That which we don’t use for cooking can be boiled up to make a very effective means of cleaning wounds and preventing infection. Oh, and I’ll have as much of that as you men can carry …’ Directing the soldiers’ attention to a plant that had grown up in the shadow of the destroyed structure’s remaining beams, she laughed at their mystified stares. ‘That bush isn’t just good for producing rasp-berries in the autumn, the leaves are wonderfully powerful sources of goodness. And we’ll have a strong need of that particular remedy before very long, I expect.’

She turned to see Lupus stretching up to pick a dark-purple berry from an overhanging bush.

‘Leave that, Lupus dear, it’s quite the most poisonous fruit known to man.’ She turned to the soldier. ‘I’ll have a helmet full of those berries though, if you could pick them for me without breaking them please? After every battle there are men whose injuries are too terrible for them to live, and who nevertheless cling on to life for hours or even days of suffering. Even a few drops of the juice of that berry are usually enough to send them on their way without further suffering.’

Tullo sat back and sipped at his beer again, looking with what Marcus took for calculation at the three men facing him.

‘So now you know what we’ve been through perhaps you’ll find it in you to recognise that in our shoes you might be looking just as shagged out and pathetic as we do now.’

Dubnus held out his beaker and tapped brims with the legion centurion.

‘Here’s to you. I don’t reckon our men would have reacted any better if we’d ordered them to sack the villages around our fort on the wall.’

Julius nodded reluctantly, and Tullo leaned forward again, slipping a wooden tablet out of his tunic and putting it on the table next to his beaker. When he spoke, his words were pitched so low that the Tungrians had to strain to hear them.

‘The rumours have it that you’re marching north to get our eagle back.’

He sat in silence, staring intently at Julius and waiting for the first spear to reply. After a long pause the burly centurion sat forward and narrowed his eyes in question.

‘That’s supposed to be a secret. Who the fuck told you?’

Tullo smiled tightly back at him.

‘My first spear. And don’t worry, I know how to keep my mouth shut.’ He pointed to the tablet with a meaningful expression. ‘As it happens I’d say he had good reason for letting me in on that little secret, since he knows what’s written in here.’

The first spear’s face set in sceptical lines and he shook his head.

‘I’ll be the judge of that, if it’s all the same to you.’

Tullo shrugged, picking up the tablet.

‘Suit yourself. Hear me out for just a little longer and then tell me to “fuck off and die quietly” if you like.’ He leaned close again. ‘It wasn’t just me that joined up, all those years ago. My brother Harus came to present himself to the recruiting centurion alongside me, two years younger than me and about twice as good at soldiering as ever I managed. He could’ve done the job of centurion without breaking a sweat, and I reckon he’d have made a bloody good cohort first spear, perhaps even got the big man’s job at the head of the legion’s first century with a little bit of luck. But all of that command stuff wasn’t for him …’ He paused for a moment and looked up at the roof, shaking his head with a smile. ‘No, all Harus ever wanted to be was the man carrying the emperor’s eagle round, the daft sod, and bugger me if he didn’t manage to get himself the job not soon after I made centurion. He was the senior officers’ golden boy you see, as honest as the day is long, deadly with a sword, the sort of strong-jawed man they take out into the villages to impress the young lads on recruiting tours, and did he love that eagle? He must have spent an hour a day polishing the bastard, and I swear he used to take it to the latrine with him to make sure nobody got the chance to put their dirty fingerprints on it.’

‘This is all very touching, but I’m starting to lose the will to live here. What’s your point?’

Tullo raised an eyebrow at the frowning first spear.

‘See this?’ He pointed to a dark stain in the tablet’s wooden casing. ‘It’s his blood. He stopped an arrow in the throat at the battle of the Lost Eagle and choked to death. I found him later that afternoon, after we’d pulled your knackers out of the fire …’ His smile hardened momentarily as he leaned across the table. ‘Oh yes, I remember that all right, how you lot had been left to fight the barbarians to the death, and how that crusty old cavalry tribune Licinius led what was left of the Sixth down that forest path to save your arses. Anyway, I knew where to go and look for him, right in the middle of the circles of dead legionaries that were all that was left of the six cohorts that Legatus Sollemnis led into that ambush. There was a sword hidden beneath his body, with a beautifully made pommel that looked just like an eagle’s head. A lot like that one, as it happens …’

He pointed at the swords resting against the wall where Marcus had left them.

‘When I saw you unfastening them earlier I wondered if that weapon looked familiar, and now I see it up close it’s clearly the same sword. And why, I wonder, does a centurion end up wearing a sword that I was told had probably belonged to Legatus Sollemnis, hidden under Harus’s body to keep it from the barbarians? None of my business, I suppose …’

‘Bloody right it’s not.’

He ignored Julius and continued.

‘So why did I go and find my brother, when there were barbarians to be taking revenge upon? Partly to be sure that he was dead, and that he’d not been taken captive by the bluenoses, and partly to see what I could salvage from his body to remember him by. The blue-nosed bastards hadn’t had the time to strip him clean, else you wouldn’t be wearing that pretty sword, Centurion, but they had taken his bearskin which was the only thing he was carrying that wasn’t standard legion issue. And they left this …’ He raised the tablet again. ‘None of them could read, I suppose. And even if they could, who could ever make sense of it?’

He opened the slim wooden box, presenting the Tungrian officers with the wax writing surface. Dubnus peered at the tightly packed words, struggling to make sense of them.

‘Not me. It’s impossible to read.’

Tullo smiled at him, tapping his nose.

‘Not if you know what you’re looking at. Allow me to explain …’

‘I’m done for the day. Come back tomorrow.’

The stone mason turned away from the two soldiers, closing the door to his workshop and fishing in his purse for the key with which to lock it firmly shut. Sanga and Saratos exchanged glances, the former reaching into his own purse to fish out an impressive handful of coins. Jingling them noisily he shrugged, speaking loudly as he turned away.

‘Come on then, Saratos, let’s go and find a mason who’s bright enough not to turn away customers who want to pay extra for excellent fast work. We’ll just take all this silver to a man who doesn’t turn good money away …’

The mason shot out an arm and grabbed the soldier’s sleeve, quickly releasing the hold when he saw the look on Sanga’s face.

‘Not so hasty, sir, I only meant to say that my normal business hours are at an end. For customers such as your good selves I’m always available to discuss commissions for fine stonework. Statues, gravestones-’

‘An altar. A nice big one with a carving of a soldier.’

The mason smiled broadly.

‘Altars are my speciality, gentlemen. What wording were you thinking of having inscribed onto the stone?’

Sanga nodded to Saratos, who passed over a tablet in which Morban had painstakingly written out the words that Sanga and his tent mates had agreed.

‘For the ghost gods …’

The mason beamed at the two men.

‘A nice traditional start, if I might say so, gentlemen. So many men seem to omit it these days just to save money, and I’ve always thought it’s a false economy not to give the appropriate reverence to the shades of the departed. I …’

He saw a look of impatience creeping onto Sanga’s face and returned his attention to the tablet.

‘… dedicated to the memory of the soldier Scarface …’

He looked up at Sanga with a look of confusion.

‘Did he not have a proper name?’

Saratos snorted.

‘Yes, have proper name, but he call Scarface by men he fight and die with. So Scarface is he name for altar.’

Sanga nodded, his eyes misty.

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

The mason shrugged.

‘As you wish, gentlemen. So … a man whose scars were all in his front. A noble sentiment for a soldier, I’m sure. How soon would you like this to be completed, and where shall I place it?’

Sanga weighed the handful of coins with a meaningful clink of metal.

‘Here’s how it is. We’re marching on tomorrow, as far as the northern wall and then some more, and we’ll be back inside a week or two. When we march back we want to see a nice, crisp new altar, with a carving of a soldier fighting, in the front rank mind you, and that wording, installed on the roadside as close to the fort as you’re allowed to put it. Think you can manage that?’

The mason drew himself up, holding up his splayed hands to display the broad, scarred fingers that were the tools of his trade.

‘With these two hands, gentlemen. I’ll put my other commissions on hold until this task is completed.’

He spat on his palm and offered it to Sanga, who took it in a powerful grip.

‘Done.’

He handed over the coins, nodding as the mason slipped them into his purse.

‘Just don’t let me down, eh? Old Scarface meant a lot to me. If I find myself disappointed, then mark me well, you’ll be wearing your danglers for earrings.’

The mason bowed obsequiously as the soldiers turned away, weighing the purse in his palm with a smile as he watched the two men disappear down the hill into their camp.

Calgus shuffled flat-footed into the eagle’s shrine, pausing for a moment to look around the room’s smoke-blackened walls. The dead-eyed gazes of several dozen men returned his scrutiny, their stares unblinking in the dim light of the shrine’s lamps, part of the mystique that the tribe’s holy man had woven around the legion standard since the crippled Selgovae leader had surrendered it to the new king as the price of his safety among the Venicones. Pride of place among the severed heads that lined the shrine’s walls was given to that of the legatus his own champion had killed on the same afternoon that his once powerful tribe had overrun the Sixth Legion early in the revolt two years before and captured their precious eagle standard. Stored for many months in a jar of cedar oil to prevent it rotting, the head had then been dried in a smokehouse until the skin was taut around the dead Roman’s skull, and its features shrunk in size to those of a child, albeit still recognisable as the defeated legion’s commander.

‘You have come to worship the eagle, perhaps?’

The former Selgovae king frowned momentarily, then smiled as his eyes found the priest in the room’s half-darkness.

‘I come to refresh my memories of the glory I won in taking the eagle from the Romans. You will recall that my tribe were at war with the invaders long before your people deigned to join us in our fight?’

The holy man stepped out from beside the wooden case in which he kept the eagle with a forbidding look on his face.

‘I recall that your leading us to war resulted in the death of my king, and the loss of enough men to force the Venicones back onto our own land. Were the Romans to attack us now, rather than huddle behind their wall, then I doubt that we would have the strength to resist. It is fortunate for all of us, but especially for you, that they seem to lack any further appetite to come north.’

Calgus nodded his reluctant acceptance of the sentiment.

‘It seems that everyone is tired of war, Priest, except for me. I still dream of one more battle, and another defeated legion to send the Romans south with their tails between their legs. We only have to tempt them over the wall and onto your tribe’s ground, and we could yet have them by the balls.’

The priest grimaced.

‘One more battle, Calgus? One more chance for my people to bleed for your ambitions? You may not be king here, but it’s clear that you still harbour ambitions that will either result in the destruction of Roman power over the north of their province or the Venicone tribe being crushed beneath their boots, if you were ever to get your own way on the matter.’

He stepped closer to Calgus, pulling a dagger from his robes to show the Selgovae the blade’s bright line, and the former king recoiled involuntarily before regaining his equilibrium.

‘You threaten me, Priest?’

The holy man laughed hollowly.

‘No, Calgus, I do not. If I wanted you dead I would simply whisper in the ear of King Brem’s master of the hunt, and have him send one of his Vixens to deal with you. Imagine the shame of that, Selgovae, dying at the hands of a woman.’ He leaned closer to the deposed king, lowering his voice. ‘They are vicious bitches, Calgus, more likely to hack your balls off and leave you to bleed to death than to give you the mercy of a clean death, and I would set them upon you without a second thought to spare my tribe the risk of your leading us to yet more disaster, if I did not already know that your death is close to hand.’ He lifted the blade again. ‘No, I show you this sacred knife, with which I perform my rites of sacrifice and augury, to make clear the means by which I have predicted your doom.’

Calgus smiled broadly, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Your bloody-handed “augury” may deceive the simpletons of your tribe, Priest, but you have no more chance of predicting what is to come from examining the guts of a dead sheep than I have of ever running again. You can take your predictions and put them where the sun-’

The priest laughed again, turning the knife’s blade to catch the lamplight and sending flickers of illumination across Calgus’s face.

‘The sun? Or perhaps you meant to say “the son”, the child of a man who suffered a sad reversal of fortune at the end of his life. The son returns, Calgus. The son.’

The priest smiled at him without any hint of warmth, and the Selgovae’s eyes slitted as the meaning of his words sank in.

‘What?’

The amusement had fled from his face in an instant, replaced by a snarl of anger, but if the priest was discomfited by the change it wasn’t apparent.

‘I read your fate in the liver of a blameless lamb, Calgus, and from your reaction it’s clear enough that you know all too well of what I speak. I sacrificed the animal in order to see your fate, Calgus, and when I laid its liver on the altar I saw three things in your future.’

Gritting his teeth at having to stoop to entertaining the priest’s tale, Calgus put his face inches from the other man’s.

‘And?’

The priest shook his head in dark amusement.

‘What, you wish to know my “bloody-handed prediction”, do you? I thought that they were only for simple-’

‘Tell me what you saw, Priest!’

The holy man opened his hands.

‘Very well, Calgus, since you insist. There were three things in your future, as revealed to me by the gods through my ability to read the sacrifice. I saw the son, still strong with the urge for revenge. Doubtless you have ordered the deaths of enough men that one of their sons has survived to dream of revenge upon you. I saw a prince, a man apart from those around him. Might he be the same person as the son? I cannot say. And I saw death, Calgus, unmistakable and implacable. Death.’

The Selgovae shook his head in bafflement.

‘The son … I know of such a man. But I know of no prince, nor of any king I killed whose son remains alive to seek revenge.’ He frowned. ‘And death? Whose death, Priest?’

The holy man shook his head again.

‘I am not blessed with such powers that I can predict the future to such a degree of accuracy. All I know is that there is death in your future. Perhaps it beckons the son, perhaps it will take the prince. Most likely this death is your own, since I named you in the sacred words I said before sacrificing the lamb. But there will be death, Calgus. And soon.’