The Eagle's Vengeance

7

The deeper the mounted detachment moved into the Frying Pan’s heart, the less Silus was able to shrug off the feeling of disquiet that had gripped him since the moment they had ridden away from the cohort. The forest was silent, even the birds’ song stilled as if in reaction to the presence of intruders, and the absence of any natural noise other than that of the wind through the trees was more chilling than would have been the case in the presence of a marching cohort of soldiers to fill the silence. A rider cantered easily down the path towards them, reining his horse in with a salute to the decurion.

‘Nothing to report sir! The forest is quiet, and we’ve seen nothing to make us think there’s anyone else about.’

Silus nodded, gesturing back up the path.

‘Back you go then, and when you reach your mates send another man back.’

The rider saluted again and turned his horse, galloping away back down the path to the east. Silus’s Pay and a Half muttered a comment, looking out into the sea of trees with a dour face as the party continued walking their horses down the narrow path.

‘Perhaps this place really is deserted. After all, nobody would ever describe them tattoo-boys as being overly blessed with brains, eh? They’re probably just running for the place we camped last night.’

The decurion shrugged.

‘One of the benefits of having a gentleman like the tribune for a boss is that he does tell an interesting and informative story with a cup of wine in his hand. I was lucky enough to hear him telling the first spear about a German called Arminius the other night, not that big oaf who keeps his boots clean for him, but a tribal chief who led a revolt against the empire in Germania two hundred years ago. Seems this man was a tribal prince, just a boy mind you, and he was taken from his family by our soldiers as part of a peace settlement with his tribe once they’d been given a beating. He was brought up in Rome, see, as a member of the nobility, and they taught him to be civilised. They made him into a Roman gentleman, or as much of one as he was ever going to be given where he came from, and then they put him in the army, as an officer of course. He was a tasty piece of work according to the tribune, a man with a talent for getting stuck into the barbarians and hacking them up in the front rank, rather than posing around on his horse and trying to sound noble and commanding like most of them do.’

The men around him murmured their approval, and more than one of them patted a sword hilt or reached up to rub the iron head of their spear with a silent prayer.

‘Anyway, it seems this Arminius was eventually persuaded to betray Rome by his old tribe, and so he led three full legions deep into country just like this, without any room for them to manoeuvre, and then showed his hand. The tribesmen waited until the legions were nicely bottled up in their trap, strung out along a thin forest track just like this one — ’ he looked around at his men, gesturing to the forest around them ‘- and then they stormed in from either side and tore into the poor bastards, not allowing them time or space to get into battle formation. They gutted three whole legions and took the rest as slaves it seems, captured their eagles and then sacrificed the senior officers and centurions on altars to their gods, while the ones who weren’t dead yet listened to their screams and waited their turn to be murdered. The way the tribune tells it, the emperor banged his head on the wall with rage when he was given the news, all shouting and screaming and cursing the silly aristocratic bastard who led his army into such an obvious ambush, although how obvious it was before it happened isn’t all that clear to me. Everyone’s clever after the event, aren’t they?’ He paused, looking round at his men questioningly. ‘So then, what do we learn from the tribune’s story?’

‘Not to trust fuckin’ barbarians?’

Silus snorted at the man’s offering.

‘We already knew that, you clodhopper. What about the way the Germans attacked?’

Another of the riders spoke up, his voice edged with reluctance to appear stupid in front of his comrades.

‘Is it the way they waited until the legions was all in the trap before attacking?’

Silus nodded.

‘Give that man a prize. Exactly. They kept their heads down until the mules had all marched into the killing zone, and it was only then that they gave it the old charge and hack. And that, my lads, is why Julius has sent us forward to scout the path before he brings the cohort down it. So keep your bloody eyes and ears open, and stop dreaming of drink and whores, or you’ll end up finding out what really happens once you’ve been taken prisoner and some big hairy tattooed bastard decides to make you his new girlfriend, won’t you?’

The raiding party made it to the Dirty River’s bank without any further incident, Arabus leading them to the course of a tributary river whose four-foot-high banks provided them with ample cover for the last half mile of their perilous crossing of the swamp.

‘So what do we do now? I can’t see the far bank, but as I recall it from the maps the river’s too broad for us to swim it here.’

Arabus grinned triumphantly at Marcus’s question.

‘When I was talking to the scouts at Lazy Hill they told me that the garrison’s best men used to be sent to sneak around out here under the cover of darkness, once they’d got to know the marsh as well as the locals. Their job was to fight fire with fire, and put some fear of the dark into the tribesmen’s minds by picking off individuals and cutting them up, leaving their mutilated corpses for the Venicones to find come sunrise. Apparently they would come out this way and use boats to cross the river when the mist was in their favour, rather than use the more obvious crossing further up, because they knew the Venicones would have the easier crossing points watched. He told me that there used to be a couple of boats hidden on both sides of the river in those days, their hulls well tarred to keep the damp out and pulled up into the rushes to keep them out of the water, surrounded by enough vegetation that you’d never spot one unless you knew what to look for. There’s one a few hundred paces that way — ’ he pointed south-east down the Dirty River’s course ‘- and it looks solid enough for one last crossing.’

He led the exhausted raiders down the riverbank, the men casting nervous glances at the mist about them which had lightened from dull grey to an ethereal shade of white during their trek across the marsh. The Tungrian tracker set a pace that had them gasping for breath, each step requiring every one of them to physically drag his trailing boot out of the estuary’s thick mud only to have it sink inches back into the ooze when he stepped forward, and soon their legs were burning at the effort required to advance along the stream’s margin. Marcus was about to call a halt when Arabus motioned to them to stop, darting into the thick reeds that lined the river’s bank, and the party gratefully sank into the vegetation heedless of the stinking mud that coated their lower bodies. The Roman rubbed at his thighs, the muscles trembling from the painful slog, wiping away the mud and strands of rotting plant material that had befouled his swords’ hilts.

‘The boat is here, and as I thought, it looks sound enough for a crossing.’

Marcus stirred himself from his tired reverie and climbed to his feet, crawling into the reeds behind his tracker, Arminius following while the rest of the party collapsed exhausted into the cover of the river’s bank. The three men advanced cautiously into the four-foot tall grass until they encountered a small clearing in the thick vegetation, and Arabus pulled a rotting canvas cover away from a humped shape that filled the small gap in the plant cover, revealing the shape of an eight-foot-long boat.

‘See, they put a thick layer of planks over the mud to keep the hull from getting too wet and rotting away.’

The Roman leaned forward and prodded the rough platform with a finger, wrinkling his nose at the spongy feel of what had once been sound wood. By contrast the boat’s heavily tarred hull was relatively firm to the touch, although it was clear to even a cursory examination that twenty-odd years in the open had taken its toll on the boat’s timbers.

‘That’s not going to hold all of us, not with a Briton the size of a year-old bull aboard.’

Marcus nodded agreement with Arminius’s flatly stated opinion.

‘We’ll have to do it in two trips. Arabus and I will take Drest and his men across first, and then Arabus can bring the boat back for the two of you while we scout the ground on the far side. With luck we’ll be away before the fog lifts, and the Venicones will be none the wiser.’

Arminius nodded reluctantly.

‘It’s logical enough, if you think you can trust those evil little Sarmatae bastards.’

The Roman shrugged.

‘They’ve had enough opportunities to betray us, wouldn’t you say?’

The German raised an eyebrow.

‘Perhaps. Best if you don’t turn your back on them though.’

They shared a look of mutual understanding, and then Arminius gathered the rest of the party to move the boat from its hiding place thirty paces down to the water. The men watched critically as it settled onto the river’s surface with Arabus standing thigh-deep in the river to hold it steady, and Marcus leaning into the boat to examine the bottom.

‘There’s a little water coming in, but not enough to worry about.’ He turned to Drest, gesturing him forward. ‘We’ll go first, with your men, and Arabus will bring the boat back for these two once we’re across.’

The Thracian nodded, climbing into the boat and gesturing to Ram and Radu to follow him. They leaned over the skiff’s other side to counterbalance the weight of Marcus boarding, then pulled Arabus over the side as Arminius pushed the boat away from the shore. Rowing slowly, careful not to make any loud splashing sounds that might betray their passage across the river, Marcus and Drest paddled the boat across the slow, silent river while the two Sarmatae stared out into the mist to either side, their faces unreadable to the Roman’s snatched glances. Within a dozen strokes the river’s northern shore was almost invisible, and they rowed on through the mist’s densest concentration in silence, each man alone with his thoughts. After a few moments of steady paddling the river’s southern bank materialised out of the murk, an expanse of wind-ruffled reeds and marshy ground beyond that mirrored the northern shore, and as the boat grounded on the bank’s mud Marcus gingerly climbed out, drawing his patterned spatha and advancing up into the reeds. Tilting his head for a moment to listen, he turned back to the others.

‘Nothing. Drest, get your men out of the boat and hold a position here while I scout ahead to make sure there’s nobody waiting for us out there. Arabus, you can be on your way back for the others.’

The tracker nodded and turned the boat around, settling into the prow and paddling to either side of the pointed bow with the boat’s stern slightly lifted. The boat was swiftly lost in the mist, and Marcus turned back to Drest, shrugging off the thief’s cloak and dropping it beside the Thracian.

‘Keep an eye on that for me. That way if there are men waiting for us in the mist you’ve still got the eagle, and a chance of getting it back to Prefect Castus.’

Drest nodded wearily, getting to his feet and putting a hand to his sword’s hilt.

‘It’ll be safe here. Don’t go so far into the mist that you lose your bearings and fail to find the way back, eh?’ Marcus nodded, turning away and stepping forward into the swamp that bordered the river’s bank, and Drest was clearly unable to avoid a further gentle jibe at his expense. ‘And don’t go falling into any more-’

He grunted in mid-sentence, and Marcus turned back to find the Thracian standing stock still with a startled expression. A harsh voice sounded from behind him, his pronunciation a little rough-edged but surprisingly fluent by comparison with the Sarmatae twin’s previous utterances.

‘Enough of your prattle, old man.’

Drest was staring down at his chest with a look of amazement, as if he were trying to work out where the sword point that was thrust out between his ribs had come from. As the Roman watched, Ram, who had moved to stand close behind the Thracian, raised a hand and pushed Drest off the long blade with a lopsided grin, shrugging as his erstwhile master slumped to the sodden ground with blood blossoming from the wounds in his back and chest.

‘And now you want to know why, don’t you?’ Radu stepped around his brother, drawing his own sword and pointing it at Marcus. ‘Why didn’t we just wait for you to get out of earshot before killing him and taking the eagle?’

The Roman lowered his own sword’s point to the ground, shaking his head in response.

‘I already know why. You’ve been paid to retrieve the eagle, and make sure its discovery remains hidden, for whatever purpose, but there’s something more that you’ve been offered money to deliver back to your new master, isn’t there?’

Ram stepped over Drest’s slumped body to stand beside his brother, his bloodstained weapon levelled at Marcus’s face.

‘Yes. We’ve been paid to bring back the eagle, but the price is trebled if we have your head in the bag with it.’

Radu grinned at Marcus in anticipation.

‘And it’ll be the easiest money we’ll ever make.’

The Roman raised his spatha, drawing the eagle-pommelled gladius and putting the shorter weapon’s blade alongside it.

‘You’re forgetting two things.’

The twins edged forward, their interest in the conversation clearly limited to the amount of distraction it would provide for them while they moved slowly apart, seeking to outflank the Roman and attack him from both sides at once.

‘And what are those two things, dead meat?’

Marcus grinned mirthlessly at Ram.

‘Firstly, I’ve already had a knife at your throat once, and this time I won’t be dropping my swords.’

The Sarmatae snorted derisively, and took another pace to the side.

‘And the other thing, before we cut you down and take your head?’

The Roman turned sideways on to the two men, swinging the spatha in a quick, whirring arc that left an eddy in the riverbank’s mist-laden air.

‘I’ve already held my god’s hand once today. And once was enough.’

‘We’ve ridden the path from here to the rim of the Frying Pan.’

‘And seen nothing?’

Silus nodded at Julius’s question. The cavalry detachment had met the marching cohort a mile west of the fork in the path, and the first spear had called a rest break while he consulted with his decurion.

‘And seen nothing at all. This forest is as quiet as the grave, First Spear, so if this is the path you want to use to get back to the wall then I suggest we get on with it before the ink monkeys stop being quite so accommodating.’ Julius nodded decisively, and was turning away to start issuing orders when Silus spoke again. ‘One more thought, First Spear?’

The senior centurion turned back to him, one eyebrow raised in sardonic challenge of the unaccustomed formality.

‘Decurion?’

‘My boys and I were talking through that story the tribune told us the other night, the one about the three legions that were lost to the barbarians in Germania, and one of my brighter lads came up with a decent idea to put the bluenoses on the back foot if they were to spring an ambush on us out here.’

Julius frowned.

‘I thought you said the path was clear?’

Silus spread his hands.

‘I did. And I also said that the forest was as quiet as the grave. But that’s not the same as knowing for sure that the Venicones have all taken the tribune’s bait and gone charging off to the north-east, is it?’

The first spear nodded slowly.

‘So what was the bright idea then, being ready to run like fuck at the first sign of unpleasant men with sharp iron?’

Silus nodded, his face lighting up with genuine amusement.

‘Pretty much, although he did have one small wrinkle to add to that basic tactic.’

Julius listened to the decurion’s proposal with a guarded expression, nodding slowly as the point of Silus’s suggestion became clear.

‘Not bad, even if it is as risky as anything the tribune might have come up with. You’ll soon be giving Scaurus a run for his money in coming up with devious schemes that will either work like miracles or get us all killed.’ He turned to his chosen man. ‘Fetch me the tribune and centurions, will you Pugio? I think this needs a bit of a wider discussion …’

The two Sarmatae stepped forward again, both men taking another careful step to either side in order to further spread themselves out, and split the Roman’s attention to both sides at once. Ram spoke again, his face creased into a self-satisfied smile.

‘Tribune Sorex told us that if we don’t bring your head back then we might as well not come back at all. He really doesn’t like you, Centurion, although he seemed to have a better opinion of your wife.’

On the Roman’s right Radu advanced forward another pace, putting his sword points so close to Marcus’s spatha’s blade that the slightest of lunges would start the fight.

‘Oh yes, he had an eye for her all right. He’ll have been up that pretty little thing like a prize stallion at the first chance, in fact he’s probably balls-deep right now-’

He snapped the longer of his two swords forward in a powerful lunge, bending his knee to launch the point at Marcus’s chest with the other blade held high, ready to either parry or strike. Ram leapt into the fight from the Roman’s other side, looking for the opening through which to land a killing blow. Making the snap decision to take the fight to him, the twin he had previously bested, Marcus quickly sidestepped away from Radu’s attack, parried Ram’s initial strike and feinted with the gladius in his left hand before spinning low between the two men, aiming to slice a deep cut into Ram’s thigh with a sweep of his spatha’s long blade. The Sarmatae jumped back almost quickly enough to evade the blow, the spatha’s blade slicing a gash across his leggings and leaving a thick red line of blood welling from the wound, but as the Roman took guard again a line of cold fire across his left bicep told him that Radu had managed to put iron upon him as he had spun past. The Sarmatae grinned widely at him, pacing around a dark patch in the reeds and raising his swords again, nodding at a drop of blood as it ran down the angled blade of his spatha.

‘You’re bleeding, Centurion. A few more of those will give you lead boots soon enough.’

Ignoring the jibe Marcus backed away towards the river, knowing that he needed something to provide him with the opportunity to attack one of the brothers without the other taking advantage of his distraction. The Sarmatae warriors followed closely, still split to take him from both sides, and Ram crabbed further round to his right with a slight limp from the flesh wound in his thigh, stepping over Drest’s crumpled body with his eyes locked on Marcus’s.

‘We don’t need to bleed him! I’ll have his fucking head clean off for cutting me. I’ll-’

His face abruptly contorted in pain, as Drest rose white-faced from the reeds and gripped his foot, sinking his teeth deep into the tendon at the back of the Sarmatae’s ankle. Ram turned awkwardly to hack his sword down at the stricken Thracian’s head, the heavy blade’s impact sounding like a cabbage being attacked with a heavy cleaver. Knowing that the opportunity Drest’s suicidal attack had won him would be fleeting, Marcus went for Radu with sudden, urgent speed, repeating the trick he had played on Ram on the Arab Town parade ground by parrying the Sarmatae’s blades wide and then throwing his own swords aside, stepping in close to grab the other man by the tunic. His opponent grinned in his face, pulling his head back to prevent a snapped butt from the Roman’s head and changing his grip on his short sword, angling the blade ready to stab it deep into his opponent’s defenceless left side. Marcus roared with anger and effort, hoisting the amazed Sarmatae from the ground and feeling the sting in his wounded bicep as he strained the muscle, then straightened his arms convulsively to throw Radu backwards into the mist with all his power. Not waiting to see the result he spun and sprinted forward at Ram, reaching to his belt for the small knife he’d had forged from the deadly sword blade of a bandit leader he had killed in Tungria the year before. Ram had managed to hack Drest into a state of insensibility, and with a scream of frustration and pain he reached down and levered the dying man’s locked jaws from his ankle. As he turned back to face Marcus, the charging Roman hit him hard, smashing him down into the reeds and pinning him with his free hand while he punched out with the knife’s evilly sharp blade. Once, twice, three times the rippling steel darted between the Sarmatae’s ribs, and with each impact Ram grunted as if in surprise, his eyes snapping wide open as the knife’s questing point tore into his body.

Marcus rolled away from his victim, coming up onto his feet in a fighting crouch, but realised that Ram was dying where he lay. Foaming blood was leaking onto his chest with every beat of his heart as he shook his head, eyes unfocused, and attempted in vain to raise the swords that were still gripped in his numb hands.

‘Ra … Ra-du!’

Marcus looked over to where the other twin had landed, shaking his head at the gurgled entreaty for assistance.

‘Radu can’t help you, not this time. I would tell you to go and meet your gods, but since your head will shortly be at the bottom of the Dirty River while the rest of you festers here, there doesn’t seem to be much point.’

He turned away from the dying man, listening as the sound of frantic paddle strokes grew louder. The boat scudded out of the mist and slapped into the riverbank, disgorging a pair of warriors who stopped in their tracks at the sight of their centurion standing waiting for them, cleaning his swords on Ram’s cloak. Lugos shook his head in relief, pointing back across the river.

‘We hear iron in mist. Vixens hear it too. We hear them follow.’

The Roman nodded, slotting his spatha into its sodden scabbard.

‘It seems that Ram and Radu were just waiting for their chance to strike without you two around to spoil things. I knew I had to flush them out soon, or they would probably have given us up to the Venicones and looked to make their escape in the confusion. They put Drest down with a sword in the back, but they didn’t kill him. If he hadn’t sunk his teeth into Ram’s leg and distracted him for long enough that I could deal with Radu, then the two of you would probably have got here too late to do anything but bury the pair of us.’

As if on cue the Thracian twitched, raising a shaking white hand as he stared sightlessly at the grey sky above him, his lips moving noiselessly. Marcus bent close to him, putting his ear to the dying man’s face.

‘Lord … Jesus … grant … me … eternal …’

He shuddered and lay still, and the Roman shook his head as he stood up.

‘He was a Christian, it seems. I wonder if Prefect Castus had any idea he had taken a religious maniac into his familia.’

Arminius laughed curtly, pointing at the twin whose leg Drest had savaged.

‘Christian or not, he saved your life with nothing more than his teeth. If that’s Christianity we’ll have to be careful of them if they ever manage to get an army together.’

He leaned over the gasping Ram, shaking his head at the ferocity of the chest wounds Marcus had inflicted on him. Putting the blade of his sword to the dying Sarmatae warrior’s throat, he casually pushed it down to relieve the dying man of his doomed struggle for life.

‘It seems they underestimated just what an animal you can be when you’re roused, eh Centurion?’

Marcus nodded tiredly.

‘You know how it is. Other men start fights …’

Arminius shrugged.

‘Where’s the other one?’

‘He here.’

The German turned to find Lugos looking down at something half a dozen paces away, his head shaking with bemusement. He looked back at Marcus with a raised eyebrow.

‘You put him there?’

The Roman shrugged.

‘It was a lucky throw.’

Arminius looked down at Radu, whose face was staring back up at them from the centre of a sinkhole, his mouth defiantly shut tight against the water that was lapping over his chin, then played an appraising stare on Marcus for a moment.

‘Well you of all people know just how that feels.’ He turned back to the doomed Sarmatae. ‘Have your feet touched bottom yet, eh Radu?’

The Sarmatae glared back up at them, his eyes hard in a face suddenly pale at the prospect of his impending death, holding his head back to gasp for breath before shouting up at the men watching him.

‘Fuck you! Fuck you all! I curse you! In the name of Targitai the thunder god and by the spirits of my ancestors, I curse you to-’

As he screeched his final defiance at them, Lugos reached out with his hammer, putting the flat side of the massively heavy weapon onto the top of Radu’s skull with surprising delicacy. Without waiting to find out what it was the Sarmatae wished them to suffer as payment for his life, he pressed down upon the weapon’s shaft until the helpless man’s mouth was under water, his eyes bulging with hatred. Lugos laughed down at the Sarmatae, shaking his head.

‘Curse not work if I not hear it.’

Radu struggled briefly, the rotten swamp mud covering his nose and coming up to the bottom of his hate-filled eyes, then slid silently under the surface, leaving a trail of greasy bubbles as he sank from view. Marcus lifted the cloak containing the eagle and looked about himself wearily for the path.

‘We have to get moving, before the hunters cross the river and come after us. I’m just worried that-’

‘No, Centurion, just this once let’s not speculate about what else might happen.’

Arminius sheathed his sword, turning away from the rippling surface of the marsh and shaking his head with a grimace.

‘A suicidal Christian, a matched pair of murderous barbarians and a whole pack of women with sharp iron all desperate to be the one to cut off my dick and feed it to their hunting dog is enough for one day, it seems to me. If there’s any way for this to get any worse you can keep it to yourself, thank you.’

‘Halt!’

The Tungrian column shuddered to a stop at Julius’s command for the third time in an hour, men leaning on their weapons as their first spear marched forward up the now gently climbing path, his head cocked to listen for any noise other than the wind’s passage through the trees and the background sounds of the birds. He stood stock still for a long moment, his head cocked to listen, then shook his head in bemusement.

‘Nothing, eh First Spear?’

Scaurus had followed him forward with a hand on the hilt of his gladius, an eyebrow raised at his senior centurion. Julius shook his head.

‘Nothing, and yet if there’s going to be an ambush on us anywhere, this would be the place, somewhere between here and the rim of the bowl. I wish we had Marcus’s Tungrian tracker with us, we could just send him away into the trees and he’d find anything out of the ordinary quickly enough. I-’

‘First Spear, Tribune. Might I ask the indulgence of a moment of your time?’

The two men turned back to the column to find a respectful Qadir waiting for them. Away down the path behind him a thin, almost invisible line of smoke was rising from a spot in the middle of the cohort’s long column, more or less where his century was positioned in the line of march.

‘What is it Centurion?’

The Hamian saluted, taking a tablet from his belt.

‘Sirs, when I open this tablet you will see that it contains nothing more than a list of my century’s strength from the morning meeting. I am showing this to you in order to allow us to talk without arousing the suspicions of the men that I believe are watching us.’

Scaurus nodded, pursing his lips and pointing a finger to the writing on the tablet.

‘So you believe that we have walked into an ambush?’

Qadir nodded, gesturing to the lines of script on the wax.

‘I think we are part of the way in, Tribune, and that they are waiting for us to move deeper into their trap before springing their attack. Unless, of course, we show any sign of having realised our predicament.’

Julius put his hands on his hips, forcing himself not to look around for any sign of an impending assault.

‘And you know this how, exactly?’

Qadir pointed back down the column.

‘A partial bootprint in the mud of this track, First Spear, the heel only, as if the wearer was jumping over the path so as not to leave any trace which might give us reason to suspect their presence but fell just a little short. The impression is crisp, and certainly fresh. One of my men noticed it almost as soon as we stopped, and called it to my attention. I told him to keep it to himself and then took a quick look at the foliage around the print. There are signs of recent passage by more than one man, as if a party of hunters had crossed the path without wishing to leave any obvious sign. I think that there are tribesmen very close.’

He pointed to a line of text in the tablet’s soft wax, and Julius nodded decisively.

‘Very good, Centurion, in that case we’ll just have to go with Silus’s idea. You know what to do.’

The Hamian nodded and saluted again, his face still devoid of expression.

‘I have taken the appropriate steps. I will pray to the Deasura that we will be successful.’

He turned away and marched briskly back down the column.

‘We’re actually going to put the decurion’s wild imaginings to the test?’

Julius chuckled at his senior officer’s bemused tone, turning to him with a broad smile.

‘Unless you have a better idea, Tribune? The instant that whoever’s out there realises we’re not going to take a single step deeper into the trap they’ve laid out for us they’ll do what they always do. Their archers will shower us with a few volleys of arrows and then the warriors will storm in from both sides, looking to chop us up into century-sized groups and then destroy each cluster of men individually. There’s probably a good few hundred of them waiting at either end to close the front and back doors and bottle us up, and given that they know our numbers I’d expect whoever sent them to have given their leader at least twice our strength. No, I say we go with Silus’s idea in the absence of anything better. You don’t have anything better, I presume?’

Scaurus nodded, returning his First Spear’s hard grin with a wistful smile, and Julius gestured up the track towards the bowl’s rim.

‘Let’s keep them thinking we’re about to move on and make things easier for them. And you, Tribune, can accompany me back to the protection of the first century. I’ll feel a lot happier when we’re both behind friendly shields.’

The two men walked easily down the path, and Julius’s standard bearer and trumpeter got to their feet in readiness for the resumption of the march.

‘Sound the stand-to!’

The notes of the command to take position for the march rang out in the forest’s silence, and the air was abruptly filled by the sounds of hundreds of soldiers rising and readying themselves to continue up the path. Julius watched them grumbling as they prepared to march again, their preoccupation with the minutiae of their daily lives shining through from every innocent gesture, and prayed that none of the Venicones would be rash enough to betray their ambush prematurely and ruin the plan he had discussed with his centurions less than an hour before. He leaned in close to the trumpeter, shouting in the man’s ear.

‘Sound it again, and then go straight into the call to form battle line!’

He used the moment while the musician was repeating the first call as an opportunity to tighten the thick leather cord that pulled his helmet’s cheek pieces close to his face, then raised his vine stick as the first trumpet call suddenly broke into the urgent notes of the command to form line, already agreed with his officers as the order for them to galvanise their men into action.

‘Form line, shields to both sides! Ready spears!’

All along the four-man-wide column shields were being raised, the men closest to the path’s edges lifting their boards to either side against the threat of enemy warriors bounding in to attack them with spear and sword, while the men behind them hoisted their shields over their heads to protect themselves and the outermost soldiers against the volley of arrows that was expected to be the first signal of an ambush. Centurions were bellowing at their men, encouraging their centuries to join up into an unbroken line rather than leave gaps that would enable each of them to be isolated and destroyed piecemeal. In the forest around them Julius could hear shouted commands, and he pulled the tribune deeper into the cover of the shield walls to either side.

‘Here it comes!’

The first volley of arrows hammered against the raised boards, some of the missiles rattling off the heavy iron bosses and rims while more thumped into the defence’s layered wood and linen to protrude like the spines of a hedgehog. A second volley sighed in the air for an instant before punching into the hastily formed line, the man beside Scaurus stiffening as if a snake had bitten him before slumping to the path with an arrow, which had managed to flit through a narrow gap in the wall of shields, buried deep in his neck.

Julius ripped off the dying man’s helmet, tossing it to Scaurus along with the padded liner.

‘Put that on! You’re going to need it!’

He snatched up the man’s shield, putting it back into the hole left by its absence before the gap could become a target for the next volley.

‘Pugio!’

His shout brought his deputy running up the line in the narrow space between the two banks of raised shields.

‘If he’s not already dead then put this poor bastard out of his misery! We’ll be on the move soon, and any man that can’t stay the pace either dies at our hands or theirs!’

The third volley hammered home, but as far as Julius could see the cohort’s line was holding firm. With every second that passed without a fourth cascade of arrows he knew the odds increased that the enemy warriors were already on the move. Dropping the shield he raised his head and bellowed the order that would either save them from the ambush or consign them to the horrific death he intended to mete out to their attackers.

‘Now Qadir! Now!’

From behind the shields that had protected the Hamian’s waiting archers a return volley of arrows flicked out into the forest, but as they flew high into the trees it was immediately evident that they were not intended to find human targets. Each of the arrows trailed a thin ribbon of greasy smoke, their iron heads adorned with blazing lumps of wool that had been cut from the archers’ cloaks and dipped in oil, ready to be lit from the torch that Qadir’s optio had carried from their last rest halt. Each arrow found a mark within fifty paces of the path, slapping into the upper reaches of the fir trees that marched away into the distance to either side in their confused ranks. Within seconds their bright flames had spread into the tree’s highly combustible needles, and as the Venicone warriors sprinted from the forest’s cover towards the waiting Roman line, their voices raised in a chorus of blood-curdling screams, the trees above them caught fire with a sudden crackle and fizz of burning pine needles. Julius watched with grim satisfaction as his officers bellowed the orders for their men to prepare for the Venicone charge, their soldiers levelling a bristling hedge of spearheads at the oncoming wave of barbarians.

As the warriors charged into the double wall of shields, struggling through the forest’s undergrowth onto the cohort’s waiting spears, the forest above them bloomed with the light and heat of a rapidly increasing number of burning trees, as the flames that were consuming the archers’ original targets quickly spread through the canopy. For a few brief moments the Venicones continued their assault, although more and more of them were looking over their shoulders at the roof of flame that was spreading across the trees behind them, feeling the inferno’s searing heat starting to become intolerable. Even behind the protection of a wall of shields Julius could feel the heat increasing by the moment, and he watched in grim fascination as smoke began to rise from the men at the rear of the attacking mob.

With a sudden howl of agony one of the warriors caught light, his clothes and hair flaring up and sending him screaming away from the battle in search of some escape from the intolerable pain, only to run deeper into the seemingly impenetrable wall of flame that was gathering strength about the Tungrians and their attackers. He vanished into the blaze, his screams rising to a crescendo before they were abruptly silenced, and for an instant the tribesmen dithered, staring at each other in consternation as the terrible nature of the trap their would-be victims had sprung on them became clear. With a sudden, apparently collective decision they broke and scattered, each man looking for his own escape as they ran in all directions seeking to get out from beneath the flames that were now licking through the trees above the soldiers. Even with his helmet to protect him Julius could feel the heat of the forest’s destruction becoming intolerable, and he realised that if his men didn’t move quickly they would share the tribesmen’s uncertain fate. Shaking his mesmerised trumpeter by the shoulder, he shouted into the young soldier’s face.

‘The retreat! Blow the fucking retreat and start running!’

As the first notes of the new signal blasted out over the fire’s swelling roar the Tungrians stirred from their momentary fixation with the blaze’s rippling tendrils of flame, their ranks turning away from the terrified enemy warriors to face back down the path into the heart of the forest.

‘Too slow!’

Julius stepped out of his men’s protection, putting both hands around his mouth and bellowing a single word down the length of his command.

‘Run!’

The cohort’s column lurched into motion, the soldiers obeying long-ingrained conditioning in the absence of rationality that had fled in the face of the monstrous blaze roaring around them. Goaded and beaten by their officers and chosen men, the rearmost centuries stumbled back down the path up which they had marched moments before. Grateful for his helmet and armour’s protection against the fire’s heat Julius looked about him as his men started to move, realising that the barbarian war band which had been poised to roll over them in an unstoppable wave had shattered in the face of the fire’s awful power. The Venicone tribesmen were still running in all directions in the hope of escaping the conflagration, and as he watched in amazement a tall, heavily built man still holding the axe that he would have been wielding against the Tungrian line sprinted out of the blazing trees with his hair and beard alight, bellowing out his pain and fear. A heavy branch fell from the canopy as the tree above him cracked explosively, the thigh-thick bough smashing the burning man to the ground in a shower of sparks. Julius winced, bellowing a command down the column of men in front of him.

‘Run!Run for your fucking lives!’

Led once more by Arabus, the remnant of the raiding party stumbled out of the Dirty River’s swamp and onto the firmer ground of a gravelled path more by luck than judgement. Arabus knelt to touch the packed stone surface as if to give thanks to the divine providence that had led them onto its firm footing.

‘This is the way we came the night before last. The road that leads back to Lazy Hill is half a mile or so to the south, and Gateway Fort is a mile or so further on down the road.’

In the thinning mist behind them the calls of their hunters sounded closer than before, the baying of their dogs echoing across the silent landscape in a chorus of eager howls and yelps. The tracker looked up at his comrades and shook his head.

‘The hunters have crossed the river. They’re close now, too close for us to outrun the dogs.’

Lugos clenched a fist, raising his hammer defiantly.

‘Then we fight!’

Marcus shook his head.

‘There must be twenty of them, or more. If we make a stand here they’ll attack us from all sides and drag us down with the weight of their numbers. The only place we stand any chance of defending against that many people is with walls around us.’ He pointed down the gravel track’s grey ribbon. ‘There’s no choice. We either get to Gateway Fort before them or we die here, and everything we’ve gained is handed back to the Venicones.’

Arminius and Lugos shared a momentary glance and then nodded together, the German holding out a hand to the Roman.

‘Very well, we run, but when we reach the fort we find a strong place and make a stand. Now give me the cloak. You’ve carried that weight for long enough.’

Marcus shrugged, turning to the path.

‘I’ll carry it a while further yet. My birth father’s head and a legion’s standard are no burden, and I’d rather have you and Lugos with your hands free to fight.’ The long, baying howl of a dog sounded again, closer than before as the animal threaded its way through the marsh’s paths on the trail of their bloody scent, and the four men set off into the encircling mist at a loping trot.

Knowing instinctively that his place was at the front of the fleeing cohort, Julius tossed aside the shield he’d taken up a moment before and shouldered past the men to his right, bursting through the ranks of his century into the straggling knee-high vegetation between the path and the encroaching forest, moisture steaming out of the greenery as the fire’s blazing heat grew. Freed of the obstruction of his men he ran down the length of the Tungrian column with the scrubby bushes and trailing brambles tugging at his legs, his lungs labouring as the blaze raging about them greedily sucked at the forest’s air to feed its swelling conflagration. The Tungrians’ rear had escaped from the worst of the inferno for the time being, but the first spear realised with a sinking feeling that their progress was slowing, the soldiers bunching up as their pace reduced from a run to little more than a walk. Catching the leading century he quickly realised the reason for their slow progress, the men behind struggling one at a time to a confused halt as they ran into the rear of the Tenth Century’s pioneers, who were battling to fight their way through several dozen Venicone warriors. The enemy fighters had clearly been told to close the path to any Roman attempt to retreat, and they were fighting a stubborn action against the Tungrian column’s leading ranks despite the desperate situation unfolding about them. The Tenth’s hulking axe men were tearing into the enemy with their fearsome blades, but the forest looming to either side was restricting their frontage to no more than half a dozen men, and the Venicones’ stubborn defence was holding firm in the face of their assailants’ otherwise overwhelming strength. Behind the line of struggling, screaming combatants the pioneers were hacking at the tangled undergrowth to either side of the path in a bid to outflank the outnumbered barbarians and bring the fight to a swift conclusion, but the impenetrable thickets of thick, springy brambles were soaking up their assaults with little visible sign of progress.

The pioneers’ centurion Titus stepped forward to meet Julius as the first spear stopped in momentary calculation, his double-bladed axe held in one hand, and his deep, rumbling voice was barely audible over the blaze’s growing roar as he bent close to the other man’s ear.

‘We will all die here in the fire, unless we can break this resistance very quickly now!’

Julius nodded, his face hardening into a snarl as he felt the familiar, irresistible surge of battle rage whiten his knuckles on the hilt of his sword and raise the hairs on the back of his neck. When he replied his voice was thick, and his nostrils flared.

‘You’re right, Bear, it’s time to earn our vine sticks and show these fucking ink monkeys who the real animals in this fight are!’

Titus nodded, gesturing to a pair of his men and growling a response, smashing a fist against his chest.

‘Four of us will be enough to unlock this cage. If you three open the door for me then I will paint this forest red with the blood of these sheep fuckers!’

He took a second axe from one of his soldiers while the two men he had beckoned stepped out of the packed ranks stalled behind the desperate fight with expressions of pride and resolve, both of them putting aside their shields and hefting an axe in both hands in the manner of their tribal ancestors, the heavy iron axe heads twice the size of those usually carried by legion pioneers. In a century of men selected for their physical prowess both stood half a head above their peers and almost as tall as Titus himself, their shoulders bulky with the muscle required to swing their heavy weapons in combat. Julius grinned at Titus and his men and then turned wordlessly to face the enemy, pulling off his helmet and tossing it aside along with his vine stick in readiness for the melee before sheathing his sword and stooping to pick up a shield and an axe dropped by a wounded man, screaming a challenge at the enemy warriors barely a dozen paces distant.

‘Tungria! Tungria and Cocidius!’

Planting his feet ready to charge, his gaze locked on the short enemy line, he felt the bulk of big men on either side as Titus’s selected soldiers settled themselves at his shoulders while their monstrous centurion stepped close in behind the first spear. Their voices echoed his bellowed challenge loudly enough for the enemy warriors to look past their assailants at the small knot of men.

‘TUNGRIA!’

Baring his teeth in an uncontrollable snarl Julius raised the axe in his clenched right fist and pointed its blade at a face chosen at random from the line of warriors, selecting a man with a long white scar down one side of his jaw and deciding without any conscious thought that the Venicone would be the first victim of his burning need to kill. The tribesman shouted a challenge back at him and raised his spear, his defiance wrenching an involuntary barking laugh from the Tungrian as he lowered the axe and readied himself to attack, sucking in one last deep breath. Raising his shoulders like a sprinter readying himself for the burst of effort required to take him to the winning post, the first spear took one last look at the man he had made his target, then bobbed down into a slight crouch, feeling his thighs tense in readiness before springing forward in an explosion of effort, his scream of unleashed fury piercing the fire’s incessant roar and turning all heads towards the charging knot of men. The pioneers in their path stepped hurriedly back to clear a way for them, their eyes hardening at the sight of their first spear and centurion rampaging forward at the enemy, ready to throw themselves back into the fight at their officers’ backs.

Bounding towards the man he had selected as his target, and watching as the Venicone stepped back a pace in preparation for the impact, Julius retained sufficient calculation in the last moment before colliding with the warrior’s raised shield to sidestep the man’s spear thrust, marvelling for a brief instant at the fleet-footed skill with which the big man to his left matched his movement. Without time to consider his next move the Tungrian dipped his shoulder and smashed his shield hard against his enemy’s, bursting through the line of tribesmen with a triumphant roar and scattering the warriors to either side in momentary confusion. Knowing that Titus would be a half-pace behind him he spun to the left while the Venicone was still reeling off balance from the impact, allowing the axe’s handle to slide through his hand until he held the fearsome weapon by the last few inches of the stave’s length. Judging the blade’s arc to perfection, Julius buried the brutally sharp blade deeply into the hollow just above his victim’s buttocks, snapping the Venicone’s head back with the agony of the cold iron’s brutal intrusion even as his spine was severed, and wrenching an involuntary wide-eyed howl of triumph from the first spear as his victim arched back over the axe’s head before sagging limply to the ground.

Stamping down on the paralysed warrior’s spine for leverage, Julius wrenched the weapon free with a fierce pull and then turned in search of another target, swinging the axe high over his head and slamming it down into the head of another Venicone who was in the process of raising his sword to strike at Titus, as the massive centurion carved a path into the warriors around him with both of his axes flying in sprays of blood. The heavy blade carved through the warrior’s iron dog cap and hacked deeply into his skull, lodging so firmly that just the feel of the handle told Julius that it would take too long to free from the dying man’s body in the chaos of the fight. He released the weapon, allowing the Venicone to stagger away with a long groan, his eyes rolling up as the weight of the axe dragged his head backwards. He tottered for a moment as the first spear watched, then fell headlong with the axe handle pointing incongruously at the forest’s canopy, holding the Tungrian’s fascinated gaze even as one of Titus’s men screamed a warning at him.

‘Look out!’

Julius barely had time to realise he was under attack before the shield boss hit him hard enough to rattle his teeth, a punching blow to his shoulder that rocked him back on his feet followed by a spear thrust that slithered across his mailed chest rather than punching through it purely by dint of the step back that he had taken to keep his balance. Tearing his sword from its scabbard in the knowledge that he had to step forward and counter-attack rather than wait for the barbarian’s next move, he found the Venicone ready and waiting for him with his feet set and shield raised, calm eyes in a hard face watching the Tungrian from behind a levelled spear. Julius’s sword thrust was delivered with more speed than finesse, and the enemy warrior easily batted the blade aside in a defensive move designed to leave his opponent wide open for the spear that the warrior held ready for the kill. Julius knew only too well what was coming, as the Venicone raised his front foot to stamp forward and bury the spear’s glinting iron head in his throat.

As the long blade thrust towards him the Tungrian desperately sidestepped to his left and swayed away from the attack, allowing the spear to slash past his face only to find himself on his back with the wind driven abruptly out of his lungs as the warrior expertly hooked his leg and upended him, raising his weapon again to drive its iron head down into his helpless enemy. With the polished blade poised momentarily above him, and as the Venicone pivoted forward on his right foot to deliver the killing thrust, the enemy warrior’s body suddenly shuddered, his eyes jerking wide open with shock as an axe hammered into his back. The soldier who had charged into the battle on Julius’s right tore his blade free from the gaping wound in the reeling barbarian’s torso and dropped him to the ground with a vicious kick to his knee, swinging his other axe in a flashing arc to behead the stricken warrior.

The soldier stood over Julius, his chest heaving from the effort of the brief fight as his first spear climbed back to his feet, his armour already running with the blood of the men who had died on the blades of his axes. A growling roar caught both men’s attention, and Julius’s anger was instantly rekindled at the sight of Titus embattled in the middle of half a dozen enemy warriors, the bodies of several more men at his feet as he fought furiously with his twin axes, the blades’ whirring arcs of silver flashing red in the light of the fire. As they watched he hammered one of his weapons down into a hapless warrior’s shoulder, cleaving the man’s chest down to his right nipple, staggering as another of the men around him slashed at him from behind with a long sword. Both men sprang forward towards their embattled comrade, Julius realising that the Venicone line was crumbling under the renewed attack from the Tenth Century’s enraged soldiers who were clearly desperate to rescue their officer from the enemy warriors swarming around him. Before they could reach the surrounded centurion, first one and then another of Titus’s assailants sank their iron deep into his unprotected back, his mail’s iron rings no defence against the swords’ sharp points. He sank to his knees with his face distorted into an animal snarl by the wounds’ pain, and with a roar of anger at the sight of their centurion being felled the Tungrians burst forward in a wave of berserk fury to send the remaining Venicones fleeing down the path before them. Julius caught the arm of the century’s chosen man as he made to pursue them, pulling him close and shouting in his ear over the combined din of fire and fight.

‘The Bear’s out of the fight, which means that you’re in command! Either carry your wounded or give them the mercy stroke, but get your fucking century moving down that path at the run! Pull yourself together and do it!’

The chosen man took a moment to gather his wits before nodding and turning away to shout instructions at the men following up behind those already pursuing the tribesmen away down the path. Julius sheathed his sword and took a deep breath before forcing himself to turn back to the stricken centurion lying motionless beside the path with his two comrades kneeling to either side. The man who had rescued Julius a moment before looked up at the first spear with a look of despair at his centurion’s plight.

‘I saw that.’ The big man’s voice was thin and strained, and a trickle of blood ran from his lips as he spoke, his words barely audible. Julius bent over him, putting his ear close to the wounded centurion’s mouth. ‘I felt the iron in my back, and I can feel it still. Not long left for me, is there Julius? Don’t you lie to me, boy …’

The first spear shook his head, feeling a presence at his side.

‘Lying down on the job again, eh Titus?’

A smile cracked their comrade’s face as he looked over Julius’s shoulder.

‘Just too late for the fight again, eh Dubnus?’ He raised a trembling hand, reaching out to grasp his brother officer’s shoulder. ‘You missed a good one, little brother, there were enough of the tattoo boys for all of us. Our first spear here fought like a barbarian …’

Julius smiled gently.

‘And our colleague here fought like a warrior king.’ He gestured to the grievously wounded centurion. ‘Cocidius himself would have been envious.’

Titus coughed, more blood seeping from between his lips, his voice almost inaudible.

‘He’ll have the chance to tell me so soon enough. Now, get me standing up. I’ll not die here on my arse.’

Julius and Dubnus nodded to each other, gently lifting the man to his feet and then allowing the two men who had accompanied centurion and first spear into battle to take their officer’s arms and hold him upright, tears streaking the drying blood that masked both men’s faces. The centurion’s back was sodden with blood from his wounds, and Dubnus realised that there were half a dozen rents in his armour, wounds inflicted from behind as he had laid about him with his axes. A tear ran down his face as he stared at the ruin of his brother officer’s body.

‘You threw yourself into them like a bear into a pack of dogs, didn’t you?’

Titus stared down at him with eyes struggling to focus, swaying on his feet and only kept upright by the support of his men to either side.

‘No man lives forever, Julius.’ He coughed again, and this time a gout of blood fell onto his mailed chest. ‘Time for us all to be leaving, I’d say. You have to go that way …’

He nodded a weary head at the path and the soldiers marching past, many of whom averted their glances as they passed, unable to take the sight of the seemingly indestructible centurion brought so low, while others stared numbly at the sight. The fire’s roar was growing around them, and Julius realised that the blood that coated his friend’s body was beginning to steam off in the extreme heat.

‘We must indeed leave now, before the fire you bade me start consumes us all.’ Qadir was standing behind them with a look of sadness. ‘Farewell, Brother Titus. I would have liked more time in which to know you better, but the gods clearly have another purpose for you. I will include you in my prayers to my goddess, the Deasura, and ask her to intercede for you.’

Titus smiled wearily, his eyes closing.

‘That’s good enough for me, even if you are still an eastern bum boy.’ He was silent for a moment, his body shuddering in his soldiers’ hands, and then he reached a shivering hand to the amulet that dangled from his other wrist, pulling it off and putting the charm into Dubnus’s hand. ‘Take command of my men, little brother, if you have the balls for it, and ask Cocidius to gather my soul to him. Now, prop me against a tree and let me burn with the rest of these corpses. Raise a cup to me and sing the old marching songs in my memory every now and then, will you?’

His head sagged, and the soldiers holding him up looked at Julius.

‘We could carry him away, but I think it best to do as he asks. Lean him back against that tree and let’s get away from here before the fire takes us as well as our brother.’ He turned to Dubnus and Qadir. ‘Get back to your centuries and get them moving faster. We’ve got several miles to run before we reach the lake. We’ll worry about who’s commanding what once we’re out from under this fire.’

The two men saluted and headed away down the path in pursuit of their centuries, and Julius put a hand into his belt pouch for a small coin which he pushed into the dead centurion’s mouth with a swift prayer to the big man’s chosen god. He turned away from his brother officer’s corpse to find Scaurus waiting for him, and his own First Century jogging past at the column’s end. The tribune shouted above the fire, pointing to the ground nearby where Julius’s helmet and vine stick lay in the long grass.

‘I won’t ask you what happened, we don’t have time, but you might want to collect your kit and come with the rest of us for a bit of a run. This is an unhealthy place to be now that some madman’s set light to a million bloody trees!’