The Wolf's gold

4

The detachment’s senior officers watched from the top of the turf wall as the Sarmatae cavalry cantered across the defensive line’s frontage in a straggling mass of horsemen. They were showing no sign of any eagerness to mount an attack beyond the occasional speculative bowshots whose arrows fell dozens of paces short of the wall. Tribune Belletor raised an imperious eyebrow as he stared out across the space that the soldiers had cleared of all vegetation for a distance of several hundred paces.

‘Well they certainly don’t seem to be in any hurry to come in and get us. I thought these barbarians were fearless animals, but all I see here is fear and uncertainty. Perhaps this is going to be easier than you expected, eh colleague?’

Scaurus nodded his agreement, staring out at the motionless infantry waiting well out of bowshot as their masters rode up and down the wall’s length in a compact mass of riders.

‘It certainly doesn’t fit with the behaviour I’m used to. In the German Wars these men would have been fighting to get over the wall since an hour before dawn.’

His colleague shrugged, huddling deeper into his cloak.

‘Perhaps these barbarians are a little more concerned for their own skins than the men you fought in Germania? It looks to me as if they’re looking for a weakness in our defences.’

Scaurus snorted his laughter.

‘Well if that’s the case, they’re unlikely to find any. We’ve had too long to get this place ready. But that still doesn’t ring true for me. .’

The ground in front of the wall was sodden, saturated with water drained from the lake high on the Ravenstone’s eastern wall and carefully channelled down a stream bed carved into the valley’s long slope by Sergius’s legionaries, then carried under the wall by pipes set in position before the first turfs had been laid. Archers waited with nocked arrows along the defence’s entire length, each of them flanked by a pair of Tungrians ready to repel any attempt to climb the earth defence. The valley’s sides to either side of the wall were defended by forests of wooden stakes backed by Belletor’s legionaries, and the watching Romans could well understand why the Sarmatae commander was loath to commit his men forward into the teeth of such a formidable defence. Julius watched for a moment longer as the horsemen wheeled and rode down the wall’s length again, still careful to stay beyond the reach of the defenders’ bows. He frowned, tilting his head to one side in puzzlement.

‘Something isn’t quite adding up here.’

His tribune raised an eyebrow, while Belletor stared morosely out at the wheeling horsemen.

‘What’s troubling you, First Spear?’

The big man stepped forward, pointing out at the warriors waiting patiently behind the line along which the Sarmatae cavalry were cantering up and down.

‘A discrepancy, Tribune. Centurion Corvus estimated that four thousand infantrymen passed his position yesterday. How many infantry can you see?’

Scaurus fell silent for a moment, scanning the men waiting in silence on the valley’s sloping floor.

‘Not many. A thousand?’

‘Exactly. There ought to be more of them. And if they’re not here. .’

‘Then where are they?’

The two men looked at each other for a moment before Scaurus nodded decisively, turning for the steps cut into the wall’s rear and ignoring Belletor’s incredulous gaze.

‘Well spotted, Julius! You stay here with Tribune Belletor in case they decide to become a little more aggressive. I’ll take the reserve centuries, and with a bit of luck it won’t be too late!’

He hurried across to the remaining four centuries of the Tungrians’ First Cohort who were waiting fifty paces behind the wall under the command of Dubnus, ready to be used as reinforcements in the event of a serious threat to any section of the defence. Before he had time to explain his fears as to the suspiciously small Sarmatae force facing them, a single soldier ran breathlessly up to him and panted out his message. Scaurus listened for a moment before pointing up at the Saddle, his voice taut with urgency as he addressed the centurions.

‘It’s as I feared. The enemy have turned what we took for a diversionary attack into their main thrust. They’ve left enough men down here in the valley to avert our suspicions while their infantry deliver the decisive blow. We have to get up there and reinforce our comrades, before they’re thrown down into the valley with a mob of blood crazed barbarians at their heels.’

The Tungrians followed him up the hill as fast as they were able to climb the steep slope in their heavy armour, hearing the sounds of battle swelling above them as they approached the crest. Scaurus stopped just short of the top, panting for breath and pointing to the ground before him.

‘Form up and prepare to fight!’

He led the soldiers up the slope’s last fifty paces in a double line of battle with his heart pounding, knowing that they might well be marching into a fight that was already lost, but found himself gaping in amazement as the scene unfolded before his eyes. The Tungrians were holding their ground by the slightest of margins given the strength arrayed against them, and for a moment the tribune’s eyes narrowed in disbelief until he realised what it was that his first glance across the scene had missed. While the Sarmatae closest to them continued their assault on the Roman line, the men to their rear were themselves under attack by a mass of warriors whose rearmost men were still emerging from the forest, throwing themselves into the attack in a manner quite different from the ordered advance in line that would have typified a Roman assault. Snapping out of his momentary amazement, he pointed down at the beleaguered Tungrian line and shouted a command that his centurions swiftly echoed with their own shouts.

‘Reinforce the line!’

His men hurried forward, calling encouragement to their comrades as they joined the embattled line and pushed past the exhausted front rankers, pulling men out of the fight and stepping swiftly in to confront the bloodied tribesmen with fresh determination. Along the Sarmatae line the barbarians recoiled in shock as the unblooded Tungrians tore into them with furious purpose, spears stabbing out over their shields to reap a fresh harvest from the exhausted men facing them. Marcus walked stiff-legged with fatigue away from the line with both of his swords bloodied and his armour sprayed black with the gore of the men he had killed, Arminius and Lugos at his shoulders. He pushed the patterned spatha into the soft turf and saluted his tribune wearily.

‘That was well timed, sir; we were all about ready to drop.’

Scaurus looked past him.

‘Where’s Sigilis?’

The young centurion hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

‘In there. He insisted on taking his turn in the front rank.’

Scaurus nodded meaningfully at Arminius, and the big German stepped into the crush, pulling the junior tribune out of the fray by the neck of his bronze chest plate. Breathing heavily, Sigilis dropped the shield he had taken from a wounded man and leaned on his sword, looking up at Scaurus from beneath the brow of his helmet as the older man nodded his head and smiled.

‘Well met, Tribune Sigilis, and indeed well done for showing these men how a Roman gentleman takes his share of the fighting, but I think you can be indulged with a moment’s rest, eh?’

Sigilis nodded blankly, looking down at his sword arm as if only just noticing the blood that painted it dark red all the way to his elbow. His knees started to buckle as his legs shook with delayed reaction to the shock of the fight, but Arminius shot out a muscular arm and held him upright with a hand wrapped around his bicep. Scaurus turned back to Marcus.

‘That was a closer run than you’d have liked, I expect, Centurion?’

Marcus nodded, his eyes still fixed on the newcomers who were forming the other half of the trap that was closing with slow but irresistible power about the embattled Sarmatae.

‘Without them we would have been broken before you reached us. Who are they?’

Scaurus shook his head soberly.

‘I have absolutely no idea, Centurion, but whoever they may be, they’ve probably saved this entire valley. And now, if you’ll permit me, I think it’s time we finished this fight and took some heads to mount over our battlements.’

Marcus nodded, and the two men stepped back up to the rear of the Tungrian line, now three men deep and holding its own with relative ease. Scaurus raised his voice to the parade-ground roar that always came as a surprise when heard for the first time, given the urbanity with which he usually spoke.

‘Tungrians, we have them by the balls! Now we finish them!’

An arrow flew past the tribune’s head close enough for both men to hear the breathy whistle of its passing, but neither of them flinched as the rear rank’s eyes turned to them.

‘Front ranks, with your spears, ready!’

A cheer resounded along the line’s length, as the fresh replacement soldiers readied themselves for what they knew was coming.

‘Rear ranks, with all your strength, push!’

The Roman line ground forward, the remorseless pressure of their shields pinning the warriors facing them against the mass of men trapped helplessly behind them, lifting some of the Sarmatae off their feet and rendering them all but powerless as the sheer crush prevented them from wielding their swords. The fresh Tungrian front rankers went to work with their spears again, stabbing repeatedly at the men three and four ranks back in the warband, plunging their iron blades deep into throats and chests before ripping them free to strike again. Marcus looked to Sigilis, who was watching the slaughter with a sick expression, and waved a hand at the battle’s bloody mayhem.

‘This is war, Tribune! Not the fighting you come to expect from the histories, but the simple bloody slaughter that leads to one side drunk with bloodletting and the other either dead or enslaved!’

The young centurion fell silent as he spotted something in the crush of men, a flash of gold that was gone in a second, then seen again as the barbarian ranks opened for a moment. Looking closer he realised that a blood-red banner decorated with a white sword waved above the spot. He strode back towards the fight, ripping his spatha free from the turf and calling a command over his shoulder.

‘Arminius, Lugos, with me!’

Muscling his way into the line with the barbarians close behind, he bellowed an order to the men about him over the battle’s furious din.

‘Tungrians! On me! Form! Spearhead!’

Grabbing the soldier in front of him by the shoulder, he bent close to shout in the man’s ear, loud enough for the men around him to hear.

‘Their king is a dozen paces in front of you, and he’s wearing enough gold to earn your tent party a fine reward. When I give the command we’re going to cut our way through to him and either kill or capture him. Are you ready?’

The soldier nodded, setting his feet ready to attack, while his mates shuffled in closer around him. Marcus glanced around to see the men to either side looking to him for the command, while Arminius and Lugos pressed close in behind the spearhead’s point.

‘Tungrians, advance!’

The formation lurched forward, spears flicking out to fell the men to either side. Exhausted Sarmatae warriors flinched away from the advance and turned away in a fruitless attempt to escape into the crush of men behind them, falling to wounds in their backs and necks as the Tungrians mercilessly ground forward. Within a dozen paces they had the Sarmatae noble who Marcus had sighted through the battle’s shifting tide in plain view, the warriors who had stood between them left dead and dying by the spearhead’s remorseless advance. A pair of giants wielding long swords pushed through the retreating tide of their fellows with contemptuous ease, stepping into the space between the Romans and their leader to assault the Tungrians with desperate ferocity.

The soldier at the point of the spear died quickly, beheaded by the sweep of a long blade, and his decapitated corpse fell forward at his killer’s feet while the warrior bellowed his defiance at the Tungrians. His partner raised his own sword high before swinging it down onto the man beside Marcus, cleaving open his helmet and sending him reeling away with an uncomprehending grunt and his eyes rolling upwards until only the whites could be seen. Before the young centurion could react Lugos shouldered past him, swinging his war hammer up and over his head with a guttural bellow of challenge. The rough iron beak’s crushing impact smashed the first man’s iron cap deep into his shattered skull, felling him like a slaughtered ox while Arminius’s sword blocked the other bodyguard’s swift attempt to take revenge. Parrying the blade’s thrust to one side the German stamped forward and punched the bodyguard in his throat with a half-knuckled fist, the crackle of cartilage loud enough for Marcus to hear over the battle’s din. With a look of fury the king himself stepped out of the press of his warriors and raised his sword to fight. In his strong bearded face Marcus saw nothing more than the desire to kill, and he crouched slightly into the two-handed fighting pose as time seemed to slow around him. As the king strode forward to fight blade to blade, beneath the banner that still flew close behind him, he screamed his defiance at the men facing him.

‘Boraz!’

The Roman met his opponent’s attack head-on, countering the shout with his own battle cry.

‘Mithras!’

Their blades met in a shriek of metal on metal, but before the king had time to raise his sword again Marcus took another step forward, swinging the gladius in his left hand in a viciously swift arc to stab its point through the Sarmatae leader’s armour and into his side. Boraz crumpled, his eyes staring up at Marcus as he sagged to his knees with a face contorted by the crippling pain. Kicking the wounded man aside the Roman slashed at the bannerman behind him, dropping the blood-red flag into the battlefield’s churned and gore-soaked mud along with the hand that still gripped at its wooden shaft.

Faced with their king’s defeat, his bodyguard smashed and the Tungrian attack driving deep into their line, while the unknown force assailing them from the forest savaged from the rear, the Sarmatae were trembling on the edge of defeat. Raising his swords to renew the fight with Lugos and Arminius to either side, Marcus grinned cruelly as the warband broke like a flock of sheep attacked by a pack of wolves, men twisting this way and that in their efforts to run from the remorseless enemies to front and rear, the fight going out of them in the space of half a dozen heart beats. Straining like hunting dogs on their leashes, the Tungrians looked to their officers for the last command that would be required to bring the fight to a conclusion. At the line’s rear Scaurus nodded, putting his head back to bellow the words every man was waiting to hear.

‘Sound the pursuit!’

The soldiers were sprinting forward even before the first notes of the trumpet call sounded, every man intent on capturing any of the tribesmen not too badly wounded to work as a slave. Sigilis watched in amazement as the tidy Roman line disintegrated into a frenzy of running men, tent parties working together to wrestle individual tribesmen to the ground and disarm them, before leaving a man with his sword at each captive’s throat and setting out to repeat the feat. Scaurus watched the scene with dark amusement, raising an eyebrow to his junior colleague as Marcus walked out of the chaos holding the king’s banner at his side, while Arminius and Lugos were carrying the stricken Sarmatae leader between them, the big Briton raising a justly feared fist to any soldier entertaining designs on the king’s gold accoutrements. Arminius held a finely made helmet and a golden crown in one hand, having discovered the latter on the body of one of the bodyguards who had been carrying it while his king’s head was encumbered with his helmet.

‘Well done, Centurion! It seems that our last-minute reinforcement and your customary loss of reason on the battlefield have turned the day.’ He turned to Sigilis, pointing at the battle’s aftermath. ‘As you can see, colleague, the financial incentives for taking prisoners alive and in fit condition for labour make defeat in a battle like this all too final, wouldn’t you agree? If we’d lost then they would have been butchering our wounded and leading the living away down that hill and into slavery, never to be seen again. But as it happens, praise to our Lord Mithras, our unknown rescuer arrived at the very last moment and pulled our grapes out of the press in good style. Which means that we are the victors, despite the skill with which this poor man fooled us as to his intentions.’

He smiled down at the stricken Sarmatae king, bending to pat the man’s shoulder.

‘My compliments on your strategy, sir, you very nearly had us at your mercy.’

The wounded man was perhaps forty years of age and clearly in the prime of his life, arrayed in armour and clothing that stood out from the rough horseshoe-scale armour worn by his comrades. The helmet that Arminius had pulled from his head was fashioned from silver inlaid with gold, and his armour was made with finely wrought iron scales, each of them polished to a shine. An ornately decorated scabbard hung from his belt, its engraving matching the designs that adorned the beautifully crafted sword carried by Lugos, and similar craftsmanship had been lavished on the greaves still protecting his calves. The tribune tapped at the heavy gold bracelets adorning his prisoner’s wrists with a sardonic smile.

‘Well done, gentlemen, I’m pleased you’ve managed to keep all of his finery intact and resisted my soldiers’ predictable desire to strip him bare. I expect we’ll need it all to convince his people that their war with Rome really is over.’

The king spat a wad of bloody phlegm onto the ground at his feet, his words grating out from between teeth gritted against the agony of his wound.

‘This victory is only temporary, Roman. My son still commands enough horsemen to wipe your presence from this valley as if you had never existed.’

Scaurus smiled back at him beatifically.

‘Quite so, I’ve already seen them riding up and down the length of our rather fine wall with no clue as to how they are to get over or around it. And since this seems to have been the only place you deemed worthy of attacking, I shall improve the defences here and make it utterly impassable, once we’ve finished burning your dead.’ He turned to his bodyguard, drawing the German away out of earshot. ‘Arminius, please be good enough to find a bandage carrier and get the king’s wound bound, then take him down to the hospital as quickly as you can. Ask the doctor to work her magic upon him, and tell her that his survival may well be the key to our achieving a negotiated peace with these people.’

He turned back to the waiting officers.

‘And now, colleagues, let us go and offer our thanks to the officer commanding these men who seem to have stepped in with such commendable timing, whoever he is. Will you come with us, Centurion Corvus, and provide us with the additional security of your swords?’

Marcus raised his spatha once more and walked across the corpse-strewn battlefield several paces ahead of the tribunes, his eyes roaming the human carnage for any sign of movement. A wounded warrior groaned loudly to his left as he passed, holding out an imploring hand for succour while the other barely held his guts in place. The young centurion reached out and pulled the hand aside, scanning the severed ropes of the wounded warrior’s intestines for a moment before whipping out his sword and cutting the Sarmatae’s throat. Wiping the weapon’s blade he stood, shaking his head and ignoring Sigilis’s horrified gaze, to resume his slow, cautious pace across the field of battle.

‘A kindness. .’

Scaurus’s words must have had the desired effect on his younger colleague, for a long moment of silence followed before Sigilis spoke.

‘The smell is just. . I mean it’s indescribable. .’

Marcus could hear the bitter humour in Scaurus’s response.

‘Revolting? Without doubt. Beyond description? Hardly. That’s the same simple fragrance that has wafted over every battlefield I’ve ever trodden. All you have to do is liberally slop the fresh blood of a thousand men across the grass, then open their bellies to let the contents release their aroma into the air. Evocative, isn’t it? But believe me, this smell of freshly spilled blood and faeces is nothing compared to the rare delicacy that results from leaving that same mixture open to the air for a day or two, and adding some decomposition to the mixture. And a week-old battlefield where the winner had no time to clean up after himself, or perhaps just no inclination, now there’s the thing. You can smell the rotting bodies from five miles distant, if you have the misfortune to be downwind of them, and by the time you’ve passed the spot it’s a hard man indeed who hasn’t thrown up the contents of his stomach, either due to the smell or simply because so many of his comrades are vomiting around him. And that’s why we’ll set a pyre and burn every corpse here, both ours and theirs, once we’ve stripped away their armour. Here we are. .’

The party stopped walking ten paces from the line of men who had intervened in the fight from the forest behind them, looking intently at their well-ordered line and obvious discipline as they collected up their dead and led the wounded out for treatment. To Marcus’s eye they seemed to bear the hallmarks of regular soldiers, their armour, helmets and shields all conforming to a single pattern, clearly the output of a single armoury, and yet as he examined their ranks he frowned at other aspects of their appearance. Each man seemed to have been allowed free choice of weaponry, and a profusion of swords, spears, axes, hammers and even clubs had resulted, while many of them wore their hair long and were heavily bearded. As he watched, a massively built man wearing the bronze chest plate and crested helmet of a Roman senior officer stepped out of the mass of his men and raised a hand in greeting. And then, to Marcus’s utter amazement Arminius took one look at him and went down on one knee, his head bowed in obeisance. Scaurus raised an eyebrow at the sight and muttered under his breath as he stood and waited for the man to approach.

‘Mithras above. .’

The big man saluted, greeting the tribunes in Latin only barely edged with a German accent.

‘Greetings Tribune, I have the honour to be Prefect Gerwulf, commanding officer of the Allied Cohort of the Quadi tribe.’

Scaurus stared at the other man in open curiosity for a moment before returning the salute.

‘Apologies Prefect, I was trying to work out just where it was I knew you from, although my man Arminius’s somewhat uncharacteristic behaviour was more than enough of a clue. You’re the Quadi prince who was captured early in the German Wars, unless I’m mistaken?’

Marcus slid a stealthy hand to the hilt of his spatha, fearing that the big man might take offence, but to his relief the prefect’s only response was a nod of recognition, his lips pursed and his head nodding in acknowledgement of the accuracy of Scaurus’s memory.

‘I’m impressed, Tribune. Not many men recall that sort of small detail. I was taken hostage in the aftermath of a battle at the very start of the war between Rome and my father’s people. .’ He gestured to the kneeling man at Scaurus’s side. ‘If I might?’

The Tribune nodded, and Gerwulf reached out to take Arminius’s hand.

‘Stand brother. The days when any Quadi warrior was expected to bend the knee to me are long gone. These days I’m more accustomed to the salutes of my men.’

Arminius stood, his face bright red.

‘Forgive me Lord. . Prefect. . I had not thought to see your face again. We were much the same age when the war started, and. .’

‘And war seemed a wondrous thing, eh? We soon learned otherwise, of course, but we both ended up on the right side I see.’ He nodded to the big German, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘And we can swap tales of how that came to pass sometime soon, but not now. Now I must make my report to the tribune here.’

Scaurus snorted, a smile cracking his face as he stepped forward to clasp Gerwulf by the arm.

‘Your bloody report can wait for a better time, man! For now it’s more than enough that you appeared in our enemy’s rear when you did, for if you’d been very much later you would have been able to do no more than watch these barbarous gentlemen as they rampaged through the valley below us. As it is, your timing couldn’t have been any better, for which reason you have the gratitude of an entire cohort of men who would otherwise either be dead or contemplating slavery. And now, once my Tungrians are done with taking slaves, we have a valley to defend, so I suggest that we get to work on improving these defences and gathering the dead for burning, before the carrion birds start their grisly work.’

‘You’re sure you still want to do this? You could back out now and not a man among us could have any complaint. Not even that idiot Belletor could complain if you had second thoughts.’

His friend’s voice was perilously loud, and Marcus shook his head, shooting a warning glance at the group of senior officers gathered barely out of earshot.

‘Keep your voice down, Julius, or “that idiot Belletor” will be taking far too close an interest in you. And now that I’ve put my hand up for the job I think I’ll see it through. It’ll be a novel experience to see inside a Sarmatae tribe’s encampment. Here, take these for me.’ He put down the Sarmatae king’s helmet and unbuckled his sword belt, handing the weapons to his friend. ‘And if for any reason. .’

The first spear grinned at him in the early morning gloom.

‘I know. You want Dubnus and me to have your swords.’

Marcus smiled darkly at his friend, feeling the tension ease from his taut neck muscles as he picked up the ornately decorated helm.

‘Not unless the pair of you want to suffer the wrath of a woman rather too skilled with the surgical blade for comfort.’

Julius nodded slowly back at him, his grin softening to something gentler.

‘You’ll be fine. Just remember-’

‘To show no weakness? How could I forget? You’ve been knocking that particular nail home ever since Gerwulf opened his mouth on the subject of our captive this morning.’

Tribune Belletor had initially been adamant on the subject of their prisoner’s fate, when he’d been informed of the Sarmatae leader’s capture at the previous evening’s command conference. He was still brimming with excitement at the close-fought victory at the Saddle, and doubtless already mentally composing his triumphant report to the governor.

‘We must execute him! I’ll have him beheaded up on the wall while his tribesmen watch and shiver with terror! That’ll send them away quickly enough!’

The reactions around the command conference table had varied from the incredulous to the politely amused, although Belletor had been too far lost in his righteous anger to notice the stares of the gathered officers and civilians. Scaurus had wisely chosen to hold his own counsel and see who would be the first to risk their commander’s ire by daring to disagree. To Marcus’s surprise, watching from where he stood behind his tribune in the role of his aide, it was Procurator Maximus who had been the first to speak, his voice shaded with doubt.

‘It seems to me that we have a delicate situation here, Tribune. Outside the walls are enough men to slaughter us all, were they to break in, but for the time being they content themselves with waiting for some news of their attack on the northern side of the valley, and the fate of their king. Surely if we keep him alive we can. .’

‘Unacceptable!’ Belletor had become used to shouting when he felt he was being disregarded, and the volume to which his voice had risen was a clue to the depth of his anger. ‘This man led an attack on the empire with the simple aim of plunder, and he can pay the price for seeking to profit from Rome’s industry. I’ll have him executed before he has the chance to die of his wounds. I’ll have his head put on a spear and see that his body is thrown to the dogs as soon as there’s enough light for those animals beyond the wall to see it carried out.’

An uneasy silence had ruled the gathering for a moment, as each of the attendees had imagined the likely response of the thousands of warriors camped in the lower valley to their leader’s execution, until Prefect Gerwulf had coughed softly. All eyes had turned to him, most of them registering surprise at the mannered way in which he waited for permission to speak. Belletor had raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless nodded to the German.

‘You have something to say, Prefect?’

Gerwulf’s blue eyes had been free of any trace of guile, but to Marcus’s ear his voice had been edged with a faint trace of irony.

‘Tribune Belletor, I have fought these people camped in front of our wall for most of my adult life. When I was taken hostage in my people’s war with Rome I determined to learn your language and adopt your customs. As both a warrior and a willing convert to the civilised way of life, I was appointed as a junior officer in the army that went to war against the Marcomanni and my own tribe. Through good fortune I was appointed to command the forces that my tribe had volunteered for the service of Rome, under the treaty that ended that war. .’

Belletor had stirred uncomfortably, clearly already bored.

‘There is a point to your life story, I presume, Prefect?’

Gerwulf had nodded equably, ignoring the impatient note in Belletor’s voice.

‘Indeed there is, Tribune. Since the treaty to end the German Wars was agreed, most of the army’s efforts have been directed at the control of the Sarmatae tribes that live on the great plain that lies north of the Danubius. And if taking part in those operations has taught me one thing, it is that killing this man will only prolong a fight that might otherwise be brought to a successful close within a day or two.’

‘Within days? How so?’

Gerwulf had bowed slightly.

‘Tribune, it is my experience that when a Sarmatae tribal king wishes to make war, he first sacrifices a bull, cooks the animal’s meat and lays the skin out on the ground. He then sits on the skin with his hands held behind his back as if bound at the wrist and elbow, and each of the men who consider themselves his followers approach to offer him their fealty. They eat their share of the meat and then place a foot on the bull’s hide, which is the symbol of their thunder god Targitai, pledging whatever strength they feel able to bring to his cause. My point, Tribune, is that this man will undoubtedly have blood brothers out there beyond our wall, and more than likely sons too. If we kill him now we will simply perpetuate their shared cause against Rome, and make it highly likely that they will attack again.’

Marcus had seen the German’s face harden slightly, as he had flicked a calculating glance at Belletor.

‘Tribune, whilst you have worked marvels given the time you had, our defences cannot be considered to be perfect by any stretch of the imagination. In the event of continued hostilities with this people, the best that we can hope for is that they will ride away to join up with the forces further to the north, and remain a problem for the empire. Whereas if we return him to them with both his skin and his honour intact, demanding that they swear to depart in peace in return for his release and perhaps even demanding hostages in return, then perhaps we can send him away with his army bound to his word not to make war against Rome. With one stroke you would have saved this valley from capture and taken a sizeable piece of the enemy’s strength out of the field.’

Belletor had fixed the German with a hard stare.

‘And you’re sure that these people will respond to such an approach?’

Gerwulf had shrugged, rubbing at his closely cropped blond hair with a big hand.

‘No Tribune, I am not. The Sarmatae have always tended to be scrupulous about their honour, but there is an exception which is the proving of every rule. And whoever goes over the wall to negotiate with the tribesmen must clearly be at some risk.’

Belletor had started with surprise.

‘Over the wall? You suggest that we send a man to speak with them?’

Gerwulf’s expression had remained neutral, although to Marcus’s ear the tone of his response was perhaps a little more strained than before.

‘Of course, Tribune. We must open discussions with whoever rules the tribe in his absence in order to show them that we hold their king, and are doing everything we can to restore him to good health. Such a matter is one for men to discuss face-to-face, not for shouting from our defences, and besides, whoever leads that warband in the king’s absence will never consider venturing within bowshot. A man will have to go down into their camp if we are to achieve a treaty. I’d do it myself if I wasn’t sure that my cohort would dissolve into chaos without me.’

He looked around the assembled officers with a sombre expression.

‘Be under no illusions, whoever goes to open discussions with them is putting himself at considerable risk.’

Belletor had looked around at his officers.

‘Your thoughts, gentlemen? Should we attempt to make peace with these savages, and if so, who should we send to discuss terms with them?’

After some further debate, with both Scaurus and the Thracian cohort’s tribune agreeing with Gerwulf that the possibility of concluding hostilities with the Sarmatae was too strong to be ignored, Belletor had reluctantly agreed with the idea. While his change of heart had come as something of a relief to the men who knew him well, the stipulation that accompanied it had narrowed Scaurus’s eyes with fresh anger.

‘Very well, if you’re all certain this is the right approach to these animals, then I am happy to go with the weight of opinion. But I won’t risk any of my senior officers being taken and butchered in front of our wall. Tribune Scaurus, you can send one of your centurions to talk to the tribesmen instead. That way if they decide to indulge their desire for revenge on the man we send to negotiate with them, we’ll have limited our losses. There, that’s a decision made. Wine, gentlemen?’

With the conference completed Marcus had promptly volunteered for the task of going over the wall, and had resisted Scaurus’s efforts to persuade him that another man might be better suited.

‘With all respect, Tribune, who else can you send with a clear conscience? Both Otho and Clodius could start a fight in a temple of the Vestals, neither Milo nor Caelius has the words needed, and if you send Titus he’ll just spend the whole time looking down his nose at the Sarmatae and making it very clear to them what scum they are without ever saying a word. It has to be me.’

Scaurus had played a calculating look on him for a moment before responding.

‘And Dubnus? I note you didn’t mention him? Dubnus doesn’t have a wife and small child to be left alone in the world, whereas you, Centurion, have responsibilities to worry about.’

Marcus had shaken his head, putting a hand to his face.

‘But Dubnus isn’t Roman, Tribune. His skin and his eyes are the wrong colour. For this to work, these people need to believe they’re negotiating with a man with the power to make decisions. And that means it has to be me.’

Scaurus was standing alongside Belletor in a small group of officers a dozen paces distant from where Julius was preparing Marcus for his descent from the wall’s top, his face set in stony lines as he listened to Belletor holding forth on some subject or other, shooting the occasional glance at his centurions. Tribune Sigilis made an excuse and walked the short distance to join the Tungrian officers, holding his hand out to Marcus.

‘You’re a brave man, Centurion, and you have my respect. I’ll pray to Mars that you come back to us without suffering any harm.’

Marcus smiled back at him, a wry grimace twisting his lips.

‘It seemed to work yesterday, Tribune.’

Sigilis laughed, shaking his head gently.

‘Up there on the hillside? I never actually got round to praying, if the truth be told. I was rather too busy discovering what it was like to take sharp iron to my fellow man.’ He gave Julius a sideways look. ‘If I might have a moment with the centurion, First Spear?’

Julius raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly.

‘Of course, sir.’

He walked away down the wall, and the two men smiled at the sight of the soldiers in his path stiffening under his scrutiny.

‘Any second now he’ll see something that doesn’t match his expectations, and then there’ll be fur in the air. .’

Almost on cue Julius snapped down on a soldier who had unwittingly attracted his ire, withering the offender with a swift and vicious tirade of abuse, and the two men shared a look of sympathy. Sigilis leaned forward and spoke quietly.

‘We still need to talk, Centurion. I had thought to wait until you decided that the time was right, but since you seem determined to put yourself in harm’s way it’s important for you to know that you may still have some blood relatives left alive. I don’t know who or where, but my father’s investigator told us that he suspected some other members of your family might also have avoided the destruction of their line, although he was unable to prove anything.’

Marcus nodded, his face set in stonelike immobility.

‘That’s not a hope I can afford to encourage, given the likelihood of disappointment should I ever find myself in Rome again, but I thank you for the concern.’

Sigilis shook his head urgently.

‘One more thing. When they lower you down from the wall, just remember that there is still revenge to be taken for all those who died unjustly alongside your father. Make sure you climb back onto this parapet, Centurion, since you are likely to be the only man left alive in the entire world with the ability to exact that revenge.’

He nodded to Marcus and turned to his colleagues. Julius walked back to join his friend, signalling to his chosen man, who promptly issued orders for a rope ladder to be lowered from the parapet. Turning to his friend, he took Marcus’s hand and put an arm around his shoulders.

‘Good luck. Come back alive.’

The Roman eased his weight up and over the raised turf parapet, climbing carefully down the ladder until he felt solid ground beneath his boots, then looked up, gesturing to Julius for the ladder to be pulled up. Turning to face the Sarmatae, he saw that his presence on the ground before the wall had already been noticed. Half a dozen men had run forward to the edge of the safe distance from the defences, just outside the Thracian archers’ maximum range, and now stood with arrows nocked to their own bows, while another ran shouting to the sprawling mass of tents that had sprung up late the previous evening when the barbarians had realised that a swift victory would not be forthcoming. Taking a deep breath he stepped forward out of the wall’s shadow, pacing slowly forward with both arms raised well away from his sides. As he walked towards the barbarian camp, a group of horsemen cantered out of the tents, trotting steadily up the valley’s slope until they were abreast of the waiting archers. Continuing at the same slow pace, he walked to within a few paces of the bowmen, close enough to see that the bone heads that tipped their arrows were blackened and discoloured with the same poison that had killed his horse. One of the riders waiting behind them called out to him, his face grim below a helmet that was the matching twin of the one taken from their captive the night before, and which Marcus was carrying in his right hand. A long lance was couched loosely in his right hand, the point only feet from Marcus’s mailed chest.

‘No further, Roman. If you’ve come to gloat then you’ve picked the wrong man to make sport of. We saw the glow of your pyres on the northern peak reflected in the clouds last night, and I see you carry my father’s helm.’

Marcus bent slowly, placing the helmet on the ground before him with what he deemed to be appropriate respect for its wearer’s status. The rider placed both hands on the horn of his saddle, bending forward to look at the Roman more closely.

‘I am Galatas Boraz, son of King Asander Boraz and in my father and my uncle’s absence, the leader of this host. State your purpose in putting your life in my hands, and do so quickly. My patience is not at its best today.’

Marcus stepped forward a pace, and the arrowheads tracked his movement, the archers’ knuckles whitening on their bows. The men arrayed around the prince were hard faced, their expressions giving him nothing beyond simple enmity, while the warrior mounted on Galatas’s right stared down at him with evident disgust from beneath the brim of a dented legionary’s helmet clearly looted from the scene of a recent Roman defeat.

‘I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, Centurion of the First Tungrian Cohort and deputed by my tribune to enter discussions with you as to your intentions. I-’

Galatas leaned back in his saddle, his laughter both harsh and terse.

‘My intentions? I intend getting my horsemen around that wall and riding down every man that hides behind it before I carry off the gold that waits for me.’ He sat forward in the saddle and regarded Marcus levelly for a moment before speaking again. ‘I will trade information with you, Roman, since you face my kontos without any sign of fear. Only a few of my father’s men have returned to our camp with the tale of defeat, and none of them know what happened to the king. Tell me truly, what was the fate of my father and my uncle?’

Marcus grimaced.

‘For a time it seemed as if your attack would force us off the hill, but we were reinforced at a vital time in the fight, and took the field with much slaughter. We burned a thousand bodies and took twice as many prisoners, including your father. He is being treated with the appropriate respect due to a king, but he is badly wounded. Our doctor is providing him with the best medical care possible, but it is not yet clear whether he will live or die. As to your uncle, I have no news.’

The rider nodded grimly, shooting a meaningful glance at an older man on his left.

‘Very well.Your turn. What would you know from me?’

Marcus looked up at him for a moment before speaking again.

‘You speak excellent Latin. I would very much like to know how this is.’

Galatas pulled a face at the unexpected mundanity of the question, but answered quickly enough.

‘My father had all of his sons taught the Roman speech and letters. He said that we could never really understand our enemy unless we could read their writings, and so it has proven. Which makes it my turn again. What is so important that you have been sent out here to discuss? The news of my father’s capture could just as easily have been shouted down from your wall without putting a man such as yourself at risk of being killed by an overeager archer, or dragged apart by my household guard. I must warn you, the men around me are eager to have you for a plaything to avenge the harm done to our king.’

The Roman looked up at the hard-faced man on Galatas’s right, meeting the murderous intent in his eyes with a flat stare.

‘You will have noted that I came to you unarmed, as a mark of our seriousness in seeking to negotiate some form of agreement to end this dispute.’ His voice hardened from its carefully controlled tone of reason, an edge of iron creeping in as his anger swelled at the looks being cast down at him. ‘But I will back down before no man. Grant me the loan of your sword and then release your dogs, and we’ll see who’s left standing by the time twenty heartbeats have passed.’

The Sarmatae leader laughed again, a little less tersely this time, and the smile that spread across his face appeared genuine.

‘If only you sat where I did, Roman! You must have fruits the size of an ox’s danglers to threaten this man.’ He gestured to the warrior wearing the captured helmet. ‘Amnoz here is the champion of my father’s bodyguard and a murderous bastard besides. There is not a man in this camp who could best him in combat.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘No-one lives forever. Arm me, Prince Galatas, and I will demonstrate the truth of that statement to him. Either that, or tell your champion to treat an envoy who has come only to talk, and is not equipped to fight, with a little more respect.’

Galatas’s smile was replaced by a frown.

‘For “an envoy that has come only to talk” you’re a little more aggressive than I would have expected. I have enough strength out here to wipe your army away without trace, given the favour of the gods, and yet here you are offering to take on my greatest warrior just for breathing heavily at you?’

Marcus smiled and bowed slightly.

‘My apologies, Prince Galatas, it’s a bad habit of mine. By all means please tell your man Amnoz that his appearance is as terrifying as it is martial, and that I am quaking with fear just to be in his presence.’ The tone of his voice, and the smouldering look he cast at Amnoz left the bodyguard in no doubt as to his real feelings, but Marcus switched his gaze back to the prince and softened his tone. ‘So, to business, your highness?’

The Sarmatae prince nodded wearily.

‘Say what you have to say.’

‘Simply this, Prince Galatas. We will do everything in our power to aid your father’s recovery from his wound, and your defeated kinsmen will not be harmed in any way as long as they remain peaceable. We have more than enough food for a long siege, and your warriors will be fed just as well as our own soldiers. You are more than welcome to camp here in the valley and stare at our wall for as long as you like, or at least for as long as you have the food to sustain you, but any further attempt to break into our defences will be met with the same rough treatment as your attempt to take the northern hill. We have an inexhaustible supply of wood for pyres, and we will burn as many men as you see fit to send at us. Or. .’

He paused, and the prince leaned forward in his saddle again.

‘Or what? Is this the point where you offer me some honeyed words to make the bad taste in my mouth go away?’

Marcus shook his head.

‘Far from it, Prince Galatas. I am simply instructed to point out that Rome and the Sarmatae people have a rich history of collaboration over the last century. We fought together against the Dacians back in the time of the Emperor Trajan, and more recently your king Zanticus sent eight thousand horsemen to serve with our army in Britannia. Might this not be another opportunity for us to unite our forces, or at least to coexist in peace?’

The man sitting to Galatas’s left laughed long and hard, then lifted a leg to jump down from his horse. Hawk-faced, and with a beard that was grizzled with grey, he stood before Marcus with his hands on his hips and a hard, challenging smile. His Latin was equally as polished as the prince’s.

‘Zanticus? That fat, bald, pop-eyed old fart? Zanticus found himself over a barrel with three legions up his arse, that’s why he gave up the horsemen, and returned one hundred thousand of your people he was holding captive. When my brother Asander heard the tidings of that defeat, he and I went out to the sacred sword that is proudly sheathed in the soil of our homeland. We poured a libation of the best wine to its spirit, and gave the blade a taste of our blood. The king swore never to give fealty to Rome, and that he would find a way to make your emperor regret his presumption that the defeat of one hapless fool is the defeat of us all.’

Marcus inclined his head in recognition of the point, glancing up at Galatas with an eyebrow raised in question. The prince sighed quietly.

‘This is Inarmaz, my uncle on my mother’s side, and my father’s strongest ally. Over one third of the men in our host owe their fealty to him.’

Marcus nodded his understanding.

‘And he was the first to make common cause with the king when he went to the ox hide?’

This time Galatas’s smile was without mirth.

‘You know our ways then, do you Roman? Yes, my father skinned a bull with his own hands and sat on the hide still bloody from the task, challenging his kinsmen to join him in this sacred deed.’

‘And if the king dies? I swear to you that I will bring his body to you should he lose this last fight, just as I have brought you his helmet as a sign of good faith. What if I stand before you again with your father’s body in my arms?’

Inarmaz replied before Galatas had the chance to respond, his answer both instant and stern.

‘We drove a plentiful supply of cattle along behind our spears, and the blade of my kontos is still sharp. Asander Boraz’s death would sadden us all, but it would change nothing, Roman. And that, I think, is enough of your efforts to turn us from the path of war. The next time we meet you would be well advised to come armed and ready to back your words with your blade, but whether armed or not you can be assured that I will put your head on my long spear. This I will swear on the bloody hide that brought me here to make war on your accursed empire.’

He spat on the ground at Marcus’s feet and turned away, and the king’s son shrugged expressionlessly down at the Roman.

‘I suggest you return to your own side of the wall, before the temptation to sheathe iron in your flesh becomes too much for my men to resist any longer.’

‘They could be bluffing, of course, to make us believe that it’s in our interests to keep the king alive rather than quietly put him to the knife in the hopes of ending the war he started?’

Marcus shook his head in answer to his tribune’s question.

‘I’d say not, Tribune. The prince struck me as being sincere enough in following his father’s lead, and the king’s brother by marriage has the look of a rabid dog. If the king dies I believe we’ll face exactly the same threat as if he lives.’

‘Whereas if he lives, perhaps he’ll feel sufficiently grateful to end the war?’

The officers turned to face Belletor, but it was left to Gerwulf to voice what they were all thinking.

‘Not likely, Tribune. Once a king has taken oaths on the bloody hide he is bound to pursue his destiny to either victory or defeat. And the men waiting beyond our walls can hardly be said to have suffered defeat yet, even if we did stop their attack on the north ridge.’

Belletor sighed with frustration.

‘Then we should strike back at them and clear them away. Surely a surprise attack, perhaps at night. .’

‘Would in all likelihood only end in disaster.’ Every eye turned back to Scaurus in his place at the far end of the table. ‘Five cohorts, all but two of which have never worked together before and most of whom are inexperienced at night fighting? It would be the toss of a coin, but my money would be on these Sarmatae being better at fighting in the dark than most of our men.’ He gestured to Gerwulf. ‘Our Quadi allies excepted, of course. It would be a brave commander who would abandon the security of a well-defended position to risk such a gamble, given the empire’s rather robust approach to punishment in the event of such a spectacular potential failure.’

Belletor sat in silence for a moment, clearly musing on the rumours they had all heard from Rome on the subject of the young emperor’s rule, tales of military officers ordered to commit suicide for the smallest of perceived failings, then spoke again.

‘So all that we can do is wait behind these walls for the enemy to get bored, or more likely to run out of supplies? In that case, I’m going to my bed. Wake me if anything happens.’

He stood, stretched and left the room. After a long silence Scaurus looked around at his remaining colleagues with a raised eyebrow.

‘For my part I’ve had far too interesting a night to get to sleep that easily, and with that many of the enemy at our walls; I think it would be wise if someone were to stay awake. An early lunch, perhaps?’

The group repaired to his tent and ate a hearty meal while Scaurus and Gerwulf exchanged stories of their respective military careers and Marcus, Sigilis and the Thracian prefect listened with interest. As Scaurus related the story of their war with the British tribes the previous year, Gerwulf listened intently, nodding as the Roman described their various actions in detail. When the story was done he looked at Scaurus with a new respect.

‘That’s quite a year you had. It seems Britannia is every bit as troubled as the German and Dacian frontiers. I’d wondered why there wasn’t more reinforcement for Dacia from the fortresses along the Rhenus.’

Scaurus reached for his cup.

‘With the Sixth Legion losing half its strength in one ugly afternoon, there wasn’t really any choice for the empire but to reinforce Britannia from Germania. It was either that or pull back to the south of the country to regroup. We would have lost the northern half of the island for years, perhaps for good, and even if it is a desolate land, good for nothing but breeding slaves and hunting dogs, it would still have been a defeat.’ He smiled at the men around him. ‘And everyone knows what happens to governors who deliver defeats to the throne.’ He took another sip as the officers nodded knowingly. ‘Mind you, even with all that extra manpower it was still hard to tell just who was more likely to end up holding the loser’s severed head for a while. .’

He gestured for Arminius to refill their cups.

‘But what of you, Prefect? How does the son of a tribal king end up in the service of Rome?’

Gerwulf leant back, smiling gently, while Arminius refilled his cup with an expression of poorly concealed interest.

‘As you may know, Tribune, the story of my people is a strange one. The Quadi tribe is a friend of Rome, and yet we have taken part in some of the bloodiest wars against the empire that the northern frontier has ever seen. And on more than one occasion, men who have been sent to serve as soldiers of Rome have found themselves facing their own people across the battlefield, although not, thank Thunaraz, myself. Not yet, at least.’

He paused for a sip of heavily watered wine.

‘I was taken hostage by Rome more than fifteen years ago, as a boy of thirteen years. My tribe took part in the invasion of Germania Superior that the scholars now tell us was the start of what they’ve taken to calling the German Wars. You have to remember that this was in the days before the plague from the east ravaged the German legions along with the rest of the empire, which meant that the forces to hand were still strong enough to defeat us with ease. I was given over as one of the royal hostages who were taken in return for the legions not simply liquidating the tribe as revenge for our incursion onto imperial territory. Of course, in reality we were only facing part of the First Auxiliary Legion and a heavy cavalry wing, but we weren’t to know that, and so my father made peace rather than risk his people’s complete destruction. I was shipped off to Rome where a rather more enlightened gentleman than most of his peers decided to take me in hand and turn me into the son he never had. By the time the war had turned hot again five years later, I was too civilised to be considered an enemy of the empire, and in any case I was on the brink of joining the army as a junior tribune due to my new “father’s” influence.’

He drank again, holding the cup up for Arminius to refill.

‘Thank you. So off I went to war, and by the Gods I loved it! I started off as a glorified message runner, but once I’d proved myself with the sword I was soon commanding my own cohort. My first proper fight was the disaster at Aquileia, when we marched under the command of the praetorian prefect Titus Furius Victorinus to rescue the city from a barbarian siege, and gentlemen what a fuck up that was! We fought our way out of the battle with half the strength we’d had the day before, and left a carpet of dead and wounded soldiers for the tribesmen to make sport of as we pulled back, still under sporadic attack even as night fell. The official histories say that Furius Victorinus died from the plague, but I saw him go down fighting. They hoisted his head on a spear to terrify the shit out of the rest of us, which worked well enough, I can tell you.’

He sipped at his wine again.

‘We spent the rest of that year on the back foot, just fighting to stop them from penetrating any further south and trying to avoid another pitched battle, because believe me, we were in no fit state. Of course, the two emperors managed to reinforce us in the end, and eventually we went back on the offensive and pushed the tribes back across the Danubius, but it’s true when the old sweats tell you that a man can learn more about soldiering from a single defeat than from a summer of victories. We were hardened by that year, my men and I, and after that we neither gave any quarter nor expected it when we faced barbarians. We fought almost a dozen times in five years, marching up and down the frontier to get to each tribal incursion in turn, and by the time the war had ground to a halt it was clear to everyone around me that I was ready to command more than a single cohort.’

‘The problem was,’ — he drank again, smacking his lips in appreciation — ‘the problem was that in the eyes of the army I was still a barbarian. A useful barbarian, mind you, handy for turning raw soldiers into veterans and enemy warriors into carrion, but not one of “us”.’ He raised an eyebrow at Scaurus, who nodded back with a knowing expression. ‘No, I was never going to get my own legion, or even command of a legion detachment if there was someone with darker skin and the right shaped nose to hand, and for a while it looked as if I’d be a junior tribune for the rest of my time with the army, until a detachment of men from my own tribe arrived at the fortress where my legion was in winter quarters. I was the obvious choice to command them, despite the fact that they already had a prefect of sorts. One of my cousins had volunteered to lead them when the Romans had demanded the service of two thousand men as the price for their latest defeat. He made the mistake of taking me for a Roman — I suppose I’d been changed out of any recognition by my experiences — and he compounded the error by insulting me in front of the cohort when it became clear to him that I was taking his place. To have backed down would have been to justify his insolence, so I took him on in single combat, there and then, revealing my true identity as I lifted my sword ready for the death stroke. I half expected the legatus in charge to stop it at that point, but he seemed to find the whole thing hilarious, and allowed it to play out to the end. The men of the cohort were a little suspicious, of course, but we soon got over that, and here we are, still fighting whichever of Rome’s enemies we’re pointed at. We were ordered out here when we marched into Apulum two days ago, and it’s obviously just as well that we were sent here rather than just being kicked up the road to the north to join the Thirteenth Legion.’

He took another draught of wine, and then looked around the tent with a questioning expression.

‘So that’s my story, how about you men? Tribune?’

Scaurus tipped his head in salute.

‘For my part, I consider myself fortunate to have reached my current rank. Like you, I am a man who was always most unlikely ever to command anything bigger than a single cohort. Whereas you suffer from your barbarian origin, I was born into the right family, only a hundred years too late. My ancestor made the mistake of siding with Vitellius during the year of the Four Emperors, and while we were fortunate that Vespasian decided to be magnanimous in victory to the extent that he avoided execution, our family was reduced to relative obscurity in one dismal afternoon.’ He raised his hand and gestured to Marcus. ‘And the centurion here goes by the name of Corvus, a young man from Rome whose letter of introduction got him a place in the cohort just as the rebellion in Britannia started.’

Gerwulf snorted his amusement, raising his cup in salute.

‘That must have been a nasty surprise for a lad fresh from the capital. You’ve seen some action since then?’

Marcus nodded, his expression solemn.

‘Yes Prefect, I’ve taken heads and lost friends.’

‘I’ll bet you have. And this young gentleman?’

Sigilis answered quickly, before Scaurus could introduce him.

‘I’m Lucius Carius Sigilis.’

Gerwulf looked him up and down.

‘Just starting your path along the sequence of offices? You’ve had a rude introduction to the ugly face of battle, but you did well enough. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. And you, my brother?’ He looked at Arminius with a raised eyebrow. ‘How do you come to be in the service of Rome? The last time I saw you, you were still little more than a child.’

The big German nodded, dipping his head in an unconscious gesture of respect.

‘I grew to become a warrior, Prince Gerwulf, and when war came to the Quadi once more I took my stand alongside my brothers. But we were betrayed by Thunaraz, and he sent thunder and lightning to bring us defeat just as we stood poised on the verge of a great victory.’

Gerwulf smiled again.

‘Ah yes, the famous Rain Miracle. You should have heard how that played in Rome at the time. Where you blame the thunder god for the defeat, the received opinion in the legions was that Mercury responded to the prayers of a Roman priest and struck the crucial blows that consigned you to your fate. But like me, you have adapted to that fate and made a new life in the service of Rome. And now, gentlemen, with thanks for both lunch and wine, I must take my leave. My men have a tendency to become troublesome without a good firm hand on their collars.’

He stood, saluting the tribunes and turned for the tent’s door. Marcus got to his feet and flashed Scaurus a quick salute, following the prefect out into the afternoon’s warmth.

‘Let me escort you to-’

Gerwulf was standing stock-still, staring down the line of tents at something hidden from Marcus’s view. The Roman stepped sideways and realised that the German was looking at Lupus and Mus with narrowed eyes as the two boys walked towards them, too busy chatting to realise that he was in their path.

‘Well now, the things a man sees when he least expects it!’

The sound of Gerwulf’s voice stopped both boys in their tracks, and while Lupus looked up in simple puzzlement, the effect on Mus was quite the opposite. Barely pausing to digest who it was standing in front of them, he turned and pelted away through the camp without looking back, clearly terrified of the big man.

‘Come back here, you little bastard!’

The German leapt after the fleeing child, knocking Lupus aside in his haste and swiftly catching Mus, grabbing him by the back of his tunic. He laughed with triumph as he lifted the boy off his feet.

‘Got you, you little fucker. You might have escaped us back then, but. .’

‘Prefect?’

Something in Marcus’s voice must have sounded a warning to Gerwulf, who turned quickly, changing hands on the struggling child and reaching for his dagger. The centurion was striding down the line of tents with a fierce scowl, and one hand reflexively dropped onto the hilt of his spatha in response to the German’s move. The German put his free hand out towards him palm first, shaking his head with a forbidding scowl.

‘This has nothing to do with you, Centurion, and I’d say you’re somewhat outranked. Back off, and I’ll be away with this thieving little bastard.’

Far from standing down, Marcus stepped in closer, his nostrils flaring with anger as he ground out his words through bared teeth.

‘Release the child.’

Gerwulf hesitated, his grip on the dagger tightening as he calculated the odds in favour of his managing to get away from the Tungrian camp, but the Roman shook his head forbiddingly, his voice cold.

‘If that knife leaves its sheath you won’t have a hand to put it back with. Release the child.’

With the two men balanced on the point of fighting, Scaurus stepped out of his tent with a look of amazement, walking quickly to stand between them with a horrified Arminius at his shoulder. He barked out an order in a voice that brooked nothing less than immediate obedience.

‘What in Hades is going on here? Give me that child. .’ He reached out and took Mus by the arm, pulling him away from Gerwulf and passing him to Marcus. ‘Hold on to him, Centurion, until we’ve got to the bottom of whatever it is that caused our colleague to react so forcefully.’

Marcus drew Mus to one side, feeling the tension and the urge to flee coursing through the child’s trembling body. The tribune turned back to Gerwulf with raised eyebrows.

‘So, Prefect?’

Gerwulf glared at Mus, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

‘We caught the child stealing from our stores a few months ago, and when we tried to catch him he put a knife through one of my men’s hands and left him unable to grip a sword. He escaped by the skin of his bloody teeth, and I swore that if we ever crossed paths again I’d have his life for that devious little trick.’

‘That’s interesting.’

Scaurus turned to find Julius standing behind him.

‘When my woman managed to get the boy to talking the other night, he told us that his village had been razed to the ground by armed men dressed much like us — and very much like your men for that matter — and that he’d escaped being killed by these soldiers by fleeing into the forest. The acts he described sounded like wholesale murder and rape to me. And here’s the worst part of it, Prefect. The boy’s village was a colonia, a village founded by veterans of the Thirteenth Legion on the edge of the province. Whoever it was that tore their world apart was knowingly murdering Roman citizens, men retired from the service with honour. What sort of man do you think could order such an atrocity, and what sort of men would follow such an order?’

Gerwulf laughed angrily, waving a dismissive hand.

‘I can recognise a lie when I hear one, First Spear. I wonder if you can?’

Julius stepped forward until he was nose to nose with the German, his face set hard.

‘I’d like to think so, Prefect. In my experience, one of the clearest signs of a liar has always been the trick of answering a question with a question, rather than the truth.’

Before the fuming German could respond, Scaurus shook his head and stepped in forcefully.

‘And that’s quite enough public argument, gentlemen. We’ll settle this discussion in private at a later date, when all the facts are completely clear and when, more importantly, we don’t have ten thousand angry tribesmen camped outside our walls. Is that clear?’

He looked to Marcus and Julius, both of whom nodded quickly, then turned his attention back to Gerwulf whose face was a study in disbelief.

‘You’re going to take his word over-’

‘Is that clear, Prefect?’

The German mastered himself with a visible effort.

‘Yes, Tribune.’

Gerwulf saluted and turned away, white-faced with rage, and Scaurus stood and watched him go until he was safely past the guards at the camp’s low earth wall.

‘Well, there goes a new enemy. And it was going so well. .’ He sighed and looked at Mus, still shivering violently in Marcus’s firm grip. ‘I think you and I need a serious conversation, young man. Bring him to my tent, Centurion, but do it gently. I think he’s been through enough coercion for one day. You too, First Spear, since you seem to know more about this than any of us.’

Back in the tent he gave Mus a long, searching stare, then turned to Julius with a raised eyebrow.

‘So what’s the story he told you?’

Julius pursed his lips wryly.

‘He didn’t exactly tell it to me, Tribune. As far as he’s concerned we’re all soldiers, and soldiers aren’t to be trusted. He told it to Annia, while Centurion Corvus and I sat in the background and did as she told us.’

‘Which was what?’

Marcus spoke up.

‘Which was to keep our mouths shut and allow the boy to tell us his story in his own time.’

Scaurus sighed.

‘I’ve always known in my heart there was a reason why soldiers aren’t allowed to marry. It seems we break some rules at our peril.’

Julius raised an eyebrow.

‘With all due respect, Tribune, the lady and I aren’t married.’

Scaurus laughed hollowly.

‘From what I’m hearing it sounds as if you might as well be. No matter, tell me what it was that the boy had to tell you.’

Julius and Marcus looked at each other, and after a moment’s pause Marcus spoke.

‘The boy seems to have witnessed the massacre of his entire village. They were prosperous enough from the little he could tell us about the place, and their status as retired soldiers made the tribes wary of raiding them, knowing that the Thirteenth Gemina would come down on them like a collapsing bathhouse if they took any liberties with the legion’s veterans. The army even supported them by buying food from them on a regular basis, it seems, because the boy talked about a soldier with a crest like ours that he saw several times. And then one night it was all torn apart by armed men who ripped through the place in minutes, killed all of the men whether they fought to defend their homes or not, raped the women and butchered their animals for food. Mus saw his father and brothers die, and he gave a description of his father’s murderer that sounds quite a lot like our new friend Prefect Gerwulf. And-’

‘It was him.’ The soldiers turned to face the boy, almost forgotten in the corner. ‘That is the man who killed my father.’

He fell silent again, his face streaked with fresh tears.

‘The worst of it is that the boy told us his mother and sisters were being raped when he ran for his life. And then he told us how old the girls were.’

‘And?’

‘The youngest of them was seven, the oldest thirteen.’

The tribune turned away with a troubled expression, staring at the boy for a moment.

‘We have no proof, and only the word of a nine-year-old child against that of a valuable ally of the empire, a man of proven loyalty and in command of over two thousand battle-hardened troops. If, no, when Gerwulf goes to Belletor with this matter, my colleague will simply tell me to hand the boy over and be done with it, and any attempt to argue with him will be all the excuse he’s been waiting for, doubly so since I’ve had to expose him as the incompetent he is to mount an effective defence of the mines.’

He stared up at the tent’s roof with a thoughtful expression.

‘So perhaps the time has come for me to stop dancing to the tune that was set out by the First Minervia’s legatus, and to start treading on Domitius Belletor’s toes.’