The Wolf's gold

6

‘The legatus will see you now, Tribunes.’

Scaurus motioned to the door, gesturing for his colleague to enter the legatus’s office in front of him. Belletor accepted the invitation with alacrity, clearly keen to put himself in front of the man who would be the arbiter of their fate ahead of his rival. The legatus rose from the desk behind which he was sitting and walked round it to greet him, his face professionally bland as he accepted first Belletor’s salute and then Scaurus’s. Whilst his facial bone structure and hair colour were clearly North African in origin, from the coastal lands previously occupied by Rome’s ancient enemy Carthage, his skin was surprisingly pale by contrast with the darker hue that usually accompanied such an appearance.

‘Domitius Belletor, welcome to Porolissum. I am Decimus Clodius Albinus, legatus of the Thirteenth Legion and joint field commander of imperial forces in the province.’

Belletor saluted formally, a frown creasing his brow.

‘My thanks, Legatus, although I am at a loss as to how you were able to discern which of the two of us was which?’

Albinus smiled slightly, indicating Scaurus with a wave of his hand.

‘It was easy enough, Tribune, given that I’ve known Gaius here since he was a fifteen-year-old. I’m surprised that he’s never mentioned our long association to you.’

Belletor’s eyes narrowed as the implications of the legatus’s statement sank in. He dithered for a moment before speaking again.

‘In that case, Legatus, you will doubtless be aware that I am the commander of the auxiliary detachment that arrived here this morning. My command comprises a legion cohort, two auxiliary cohorts, a squadron of auxiliary cavalry and one thousand native horsemen.’

Albinus nodded easily, seating himself behind the desk again and waving to a pair of chairs set out ready for the two men. The slab of wood in front of him was devoid of any clutter, and only two objects marred its otherwise clear surface: an infantry gladius sheathed in a magnificently ornate scabbard and a small silver bell which had been polished to a brilliant shine. Once the tribunes were seated he answered Belletor’s statement, his face wreathed in a beneficent smile.

‘Indeed, Tribune, my beneficiarius arrived here two days ago with news of your impending arrival, and a detailed briefing as to the events around the successful defence of Alburnus Major. Well done gentlemen, I’m sure the governor will mention you both favourably in his next despatch to Rome.’

He paused, looking closely at Belletor to see how the tribune would react.

‘Both of us, Legatus? Since I am the commander of the detachment that defended the mine complex I would have expected. .’

Albinus smiled again, putting up a hand to silence him.

‘All in good time, Tribune. I think that our first topic for discussion ought to be this disciplinary matter my clerk tells me you wish to register. I believe it is a matter of concern regarding Rutilius Scaurus’s conduct during your recent encounter with the Sarmatae? That is, I hardly need to point out to you, a serious accusation that might well cast a severe and possibly terminal blight upon a man’s career. Are you sure you wish to persist with this request?’

Belletor responded stiffly, his suspicion as to where Albinus’s sympathies might lie clearly aroused.

‘I feel it my duty to report Rutilius Scaurus’s insubordinate behaviour, Legatus, and to ensure that he receives the appropriate penalty for his wilful ignorance of my orders.’

Albinus shrugged, holding out a hand.

‘I see. In that case perhaps I’d better have a look at that scroll in your hand, which my clerk informs me contains your orders from your legatus in Fortress Bonna. I believe it has direct relevance on the matter of who was granted command of the detachment in question.’

Belletor handed over the scroll, shooting a triumphant glance at Scaurus.

‘As you can see, Legatus, my own commanding officer’s instructions on the matter of my absolute power over the detachment are quite unequivocal.’

He waited patiently while Albinus digested the contents of the scroll.

‘I see. Well this is most edifying, Domitius Belletor. Perhaps more so than you realise.’ He looked up at the tribune with a look that redoubled Belletor’s suspicions that all was not going as he hoped. ‘Tell me, who was it that composed this order?’

The tribune frowned again, failing to see the point of the question.

‘It was Legatus Decula, the commander of the First Minervia at Fortress Bonna, as you can see from the name at the bottom of. .’

Albinus shook his head with a look of sympathy.

‘You miss the point of my enquiry, Tribune.’ He sighed, his voice taking on a tone of weary patience. ‘In every organisation, Domitius Belletor, there is usually a small group of experienced professionals who understand all too well the empire’s requirements of whatever it is that they do, and how these might best be delivered, and who endeavour to ensure that their superiors’ instructions are issued in a manner likely to bring about success. And for better or worse, that’s doubly true in the army. I’ve got one, the man who showed you in here. Yes, he’s only a soldier, but he has fifteen years of experience in the framing and the writing of orders by senior officers. I make sure to ask his opinion as to every administrative matter that crosses my desk, as I did with this order I’m holding, once you’d shown it to him when requesting this interview. It was very clear to him that this order had been written by a fellow professional as an interpretation of the original verbal order given by Legatus Decula at Bonna. Which, of course, the idiot signed without a second thought.’

He smiled into Belletor’s incensed glare with complete equanimity for a moment, then shook his head in good-natured amusement.

‘Tribune, I’ve known Sextus Tullius Decula since the bad old days of the German Wars. He’s quite the most pompous and hidebound man I’ve ever served with, utterly convinced that only men of the senatorial class are capable of leading our legions to victory and at the same time somewhat more lax with the more mundane aspects of his command than might be wise. Doubtless he barked out a diatribe based on his ingrained prejudices, and then left his clerk to convert the sentiment of whatever it was he’d ranted on about into a written order for you to carry away, as your proof of superiority over your colleague here.’

Belletor shifted in his seat, while Scaurus’s face remained rigidly set, and Albinus looked down at the order again, pointing to the paper in his hand.

‘The first part of the order is clear enough, so I will paraphrase. You, Domitius Belletor, are to assume command of the detachment comprised of the units you detailed to me earlier, less the one thousand Sarmatae horsemen you’ve been brave enough to add to your command since then. Further, you are to exercise “absolute decision-making responsibility”, with the right to remove your colleague here from his subordinate command of the Tungrian cohorts should he provide you with adequate reason to do so. That was almost word for word with the legatus’s verbal instruction, I expect?’

Belletor nodded vigorously, sensing that his argument was easing itself away from the thin ice of the legatus’s relationship with his colleague, and onto the more certain ground of his clearly delegated authority over Scaurus.

‘Indeed so. And yet when I attempted to exercise that right to remove Rutilius Scaurus from his command he refused to accept my decision.’

Albinus nodded.

‘On the face of it then, Tribune Scaurus’s refusal to accept your command to relinquish control of his cohorts is a simple question of insubordination?’ Belletor nodded sanguinely. ‘I see. It is, of course, a matter which I am compelled to punish severely. .’ He paused and fixed Belletor with a flat stare. ‘If, that is, I am unable to find any justification for Tribune Scaurus’s actions.’

The tribune recoiled in his seat as if he’d been stung.

‘Justification, Legatus?’

‘Justification, Domitius Belletor. By which I mean a good reason for your colleague to have ignored your instruction to relinquish his command.’ Albinus waved the order at Belletor, his smile now notably reduced in its friendliness. ‘And so we turn to the second part of this order, the part I suspect you read rather less well than the section we’ve already discussed, since it was perhaps less worthy of your interest. By which I mean it serves your interests somewhat less well. It is, after all, an afterthought, the usual standard order that headquarters’ clerks tack onto every set of instructions received by every detachment commander, and to which no legatus will ever take exception to since it all makes such good sense from the perspective of covering his backside.’

He flourished the order theatrically.

‘Let’s see what it says, shall we? He read from the scroll. ‘“You are commanded to fulfil the requirements of your orders with regard to the march from Germania Inferior to Dacia, and to conduct any necessary independent field operations with the required combination of necessary aggression whilst also exercising due regard for your command’s preservation.” Oh yes, this was definitely written by a professional administrator, since you are ordered to act both aggressively and in a cautious manner at the same time. The man’s covered every possible angle for his legatus, so that any disaster you might inflict upon your command is clearly your own fault and in no way capable of arriving on his desk. My man does much the same, and indeed I’m sure it’s a long-standing art passed from one clerk to the next.’

He smiled at Belletor again, but this time the expression was so thin as to be practically non-existent.

‘And so we come to the meat of the issue, Tribune Belletor. This last section, which I doubt Legatus Decula gave even so much as a second glance as he scribbled his name at the bottom of the paper, given he’ll have seen it so many times by now for it to be virtually invisible to him. “Should the requirement become obvious, you are to be replaced by your deputy until such time as you demonstrate your renewed ability to command the detachment in question.” An innocent little clause, isn’t it, and yet I fear it’s going to be the downfall of your argument for Rutilius Scaurus’s dismissal.’

Belletor’s mouth dropped open in amazement, and when he spoke again his words were an incensed gabble.

‘But there was never any need for Scaurus to replace me! I was always in complete control of the detachment, and at no time unfit to command!’ He glared at the legatus with undisguised fury. ‘This is outrageous, Legatus Albinus, I can see what you’re trying to do here and it won’t. .’

He fell silent as Albinus picked up the silver bell and rang it, the high-pitched note summoning his clerk from the side office where he had clearly been waiting as instructed.

‘And that, Tribune, all depends on how we are to interpret fitness to command, doesn’t it? Ah, Julius. If you’d be so kind as to ask Beneficiarius Cattanius to join us? And perhaps you could take some notes for me? You know how the army likes this sort of thing to be properly documented.’

‘So what’s going on here, eh? What fuckin’ mischief are you apes up to now? And put those fuckin’ buckets down!’

Sanga and Scarface snapped to attention and stared fixedly at the fort’s wall while Quintus strode up to them with a furious look on his face, Marcus trailing in his wake with his eyes narrowed at the sight before him. Much to Scarface’s delight the two soldiers had been transferred from Qadir’s century to the Roman’s, along with the remnants of their tent party after the cessation of hostilities with Galatas’s men, replacements for the losses that Marcus’s men had taken at the battle for the Saddle. Shortly thereafter their number had been reinforced by one of the warriors Balodi had offered as part of the agreement, and as the cohort’s officers had expected, the soldiers were finding ways to express their disdain for the hapless conscripts. The young centurion and his chosen man had rounded a corner to find the two veterans in the act of filling four buckets from one of the rainwater troughs that were positioned around the fort’s exterior. Their intended victim, a new soldier who Marcus recalled went by the name of Saratos, was standing stolidly by and watching the buckets being filled with an expression of faint dismay. Looking past him the young centurion spied Morban, having seemingly exercised his usual sixth sense with regard to the impending presence of officers, halfway down the line of tents and walking briskly with his attention ostentatiously elsewhere. Deciding to leave the standard bearer’s comeuppance until later in the day, Marcus stepped up behind his chosen man, pursing his lips as Quintus squared up to the veteran soldiers.

‘Think we’re clever, do we boys? Think we can have some fun with the new recruits while my back’s turned, eh? What were we doing then, loading him up with four buckets to see how many times around the camp he could carry them? A big strong lad like him? My money would be on ten, at least. What was your money on, eh lads?’

Sanga kept his mouth shut and his gaze locked on the fort’s wall, but Scarface lacked his mate’s ability to know when his mouth would be better kept closed.

‘You know how it is, Quintus, we was just seeing how tough the barbarian really is. .’

The chosen man raised a finger to silence him, pointing at the buckets on the ground in front of the two soldiers. Sanga nodded minutely, his face taking on an expression that told Marcus he knew only too well what was coming next. Quintus patted the recruit on his shoulder, pointing in the direction in which Morban had vanished and gently telling him to be on his way, then turned back to the soldiers, his voice rising to parade-ground volume as he put his face less than an inch from Scarface’s.

‘He’s not a barbarian, he’s a fuckin’ soldier! He’s in your tent party for a fuckin’ reason, you pricks! You’re supposed to be the responsible men, the lads that can help the new boys to adapt. .’ He shook his head in disgust and moved to face Sanga. ‘If I catch you pair, or anyone else in your fuckin’ century picking on the poor bastard, I’ll have your fuckin’ cocks dangling from my belt. As of now he’s your baby, so you’d better make sure you start looking after him, hadn’t you!’

The veterans nodded in swift agreement, Scarface shooting a quick glance at his mate that made Sanga shake his head in disgust. Quintus grinned evilly at him, nodding vigorously as his voice returned to a conversational volume.

‘Oh yes, I saw that. Your thick-headed mate here thinks you’re going to get away with just getting a bollocking, but you’re far too smart to agree with that, aren’t you?’ Sanga nodded, turning a jaundiced eye on Scarface. ‘So, Soldier Sanga, what punishment would you give the pair of you if you was me, eh? Get it right and I’ll let you off lightly, get it wrong and I’ll double what I have in mind.’

Sanga looked down at the buckets, then up to see Quintus nodding.

‘Good guess. And?’

Sanga thought furiously.

‘Ten times round the camp?’

‘Good guess! Get on with it then! If you’re not back here with them fuckin’ buckets still brimming by the time the centurion and I are ready to move on, then you can double the number of times each sentry gets to rip the fuckin’ piss out of you.’

The veterans took a pair of buckets apiece and hurried off, water slopping over the sides of the containers. Quintus watched them go with a smile.

‘I was only going to make them do it five times, but there’s no arguing with keenness.’

‘I wouldn’t have had you down as being soft on the new boys, Chosen Man.’

Quintus looked up at his centurion for a moment before answering, one eyebrow raised.

‘Well, sir, just because I’m a little harsh with the men on occasion doesn’t mean I’ve forgot what it feels like to be the new boy myself. I was bullied half to death before I learned that the best answer is to meet fire with fire, and started knocking men over and then kicking them until they stopped trying to get up again. That Sarmatae lad is going to be stood in line with the rest of us soon enough, and if we treat him right he’ll be trying to stick his spear in the enemy and not Scarface’s fuckin’ arse, begging your pardon Centurion.’

The Roman smiled at him with new admiration.

‘I can respect that point of view, Chosen. Shall we continue?’

Quintus nodded deferentially, then turned to stare at the veterans’ retreating backs.

‘Faster you apes! And stop spilling that fuckin’ water!’ He turned back to Marcus. ‘After you, sir. Let’s go and find out which one of the sentries it was that tipped off your pet standard bearer that we was on our way, an’ whoever it was can join those two in their fun and games.’

‘It’s not an outcome in which I can take very much pleasure, First Spear.’

Scaurus regarded Julius levelly over the rim of his cup, sipping at the wine it contained. Julius shook his head in only partly feigned exasperation, tossing back his own cupful and putting it down on the table with a bang.

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Tribune, but I’m nothing less than bloody delighted by the whole thing! I’m going to find Cattanius and get him properly pissed as his reward for making sure that his legatus knew exactly how big a fool Belletor made of himself. Between the two of you, you’ve got that prick off our backs and you’re in undisputed command of the cohorts once again. It’s a shame we didn’t keep the Sarmatae horsemen, but that’s a small price to pay.’

The tribune mused on the meeting’s conclusion for a moment, and Belletor’s incensed behaviour, as it had become clear that Albinus intended siding with his old friend.

‘Nothing good will come of this I’m afraid. He’ll be writing a long letter to Rome even as we stand here discussing the matter, telling his father how he’s been robbed of the command he was granted by Legatus Decula only as a result of my political connections with Clodius Albinus. And don’t forget he can play on his famous victory over the Sarmatae, and how he defeated the bandits in Germania before that. I’ve already told you that my family is still under something of a shadow given our previous history, and then there’s the fact that he’s from a senatorial family while I’m only an equestrian. No, my instincts are telling me that Albinus has perhaps missed his judgement in this matter.’ The tribune shook his head, reaching for the wine flask. ‘Boyhood friend or not, I suspect he would have been wiser to have stuck with the status quo in this case.’

Julius shrugged, accepting the offer of another cup of wine.

‘You did know that the legatus would take your side though, didn’t you?’

Scaurus nodded his agreement.

‘In truth, I did. From the moment that Cattanius mentioned his name I knew that I could do what was needed to defend the mines, because Albinus would ultimately protect me from Belletor’s sense of inadequacy if I stepped too hard on his toes in the process. I just didn’t realise he’d be that harsh with the man. And I don’t expect that Cattanius has made any friends in the matter either.’

He winced at the memory of the beneficiarius’s unequivocally expressed opinion on the matter of Belletor’s command of the mines’ defence.

‘He tried to avoid being too blunt, but once Clodius Albinus ordered him to stop dancing around the issue he was positively scathing about the man. “It was self-evident that the tribune was keener on his bath than on the welfare of his men” was one of the kinder things he said.’

He took another mouthful of wine, shaking his head as if to dismiss the matter from discussion.

‘Anyway, here we are again, masters of our destiny more or less. If we forget for a moment the two legati at whose whim we’ll be dancing over the next few weeks. Yes Tertius? There’s no need to raise your hand with me man, just spit it out like your colleague here does.’

The Second Cohort’s senior centurion was slowly but surely gaining confidence in the presence of his tribune, and was now willing to venture an opinion where a month before he had been content to allow his brother officer to do the talking.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but given that there’s snow on the ground shouldn’t we be setting up for winter quarters? Surely there won’t be any more fighting now until the spring?’

Scaurus smiled ruefully.

‘And so you might think, First Spear, but that would be to underestimate Dacia. This is the land of the wolf, you see, it’s literally the meaning of the name in the natives’ language, and the wolf hunts all year round. The tribes won’t be pulling back from the frontier, and consequently neither shall we. Legatus Albinus has arranged for the legion stores here to issue us with the appropriate cold weather clothing, after which we’ll be declared as fit for duty.’ He raised an eyebrow at the two senior centurions, shaking his head slightly. ‘But whether the gear we’ll be getting will genuinely be fit for the weather we’ll be facing is another question entirely.’

‘Well now, Centurion, do come in. Can I offer you a cup of wine?’

If Tribune Sigilis was surprised by Marcus’s presence at the door of his quarter he managed to hide it well enough, pulling up a chair for his fellow Roman and waiting while the other man shrugged off his cloak and sat down. Waving away the offer of a drink with a smile, noting that the bottle was stoppered and that Sigilis was drinking nothing stronger than water, Marcus took a moment to compose himself before speaking.

‘Thank you for your time, Tribune-’

The younger man raised a hand, shaking his head in gentle rebuke.

‘No. I won’t sit here and allow you to show deference to me when we both know that you’re easily as wellborn as I am. On top of which, you’re the one with the scars and experience I so badly need if I am to make a success of this way of life. When we have the privacy necessary for you to drop your mask, I would be honoured if you would use my first name.’ He gave the centurion an appraising stare. ‘In truth I’d long since decided that you and I would never have this discussion.’

Marcus nodded.

‘And in truth, Lucius, so had I. When you told me about your father’s investigations into my family’s downfall I quickly decided not to pursue the matter. I decided that I would be wiser to be content with the life I have here, and to cherish and protect my family, than to go hunting shadows and risk losing everything.’

Sigilis raised an eyebrow.

‘So I had assumed, when we marched all the way from the Ravenstone valley to this frozen extremity of the empire without exchanging a word on the subject. So what changed your mind?’

Marcus smiled wryly at the question.

‘Not so much what, as who. My wife is adamant on the subject, despite knowing the risks involved for all of us. You see. .’ He shook his head, as if in disbelief at what he was about to say. ‘As I think I told you, my father’s ghost haunts my dreams. He pursues me through my sleeping hours, sometimes accompanied by my family, sometimes alone. Last night I dreamt about a battlefield scattered with bloodied corpses and stinking of blood and faeces. .’ He gave Sigilis a knowing look which the tribune answered with a minute nod. ‘And there, in the corner of my eye, I found him standing waiting for me. His toga was rent and bloodied, and the nails had been torn from his fingers. He raised them for me to see, and told me that this was the torture to which he had been subjected before he was killed, in the expectation that he would betray my hiding place.’

He sighed and put a hand over his eyes, and Sigilis reached for the wine bottle, filling a cup and passing it over.

‘Thank you. In every dream he tells me that I have to seek revenge for their murder, and that I can only exact this vengeance by returning to Rome. But the worst dreams are the ones where my younger brother appears beside him, always silent, always staring at me without expression.’ He took a mouthful of the wine. ‘Felicia tells me that I must resolve this internal conflict if I am to stay sane, and that she fears I will turn to the bottle or kill myself to find peace. She also believes that my customary loss of any sense of self-preservation in battle is rooted in the same problem.’

Sigilis frowned.

‘Your wife does not believe that this is your father’s ghost?’

Marcus smiled, shaking his head.

‘My wife is the most rational person I have ever known. Not many women could have dealt with the ordeal she was put through last year, kidnapped by an imperial assassin who was using her as bait to lure me in for the kill. He lowered his guard for a single moment and she stuck a knife through his tongue in defence of our unborn child. She never seems to have lost a moment’s sleep over the matter either. But it makes no difference whether my father speaks to me from the underworld or simply from here,’ — he tapped the back of his head — ‘I must do as he bids, and find the men who murdered my family. Only when they are cold in the ground will I find the peace I crave.’ He raised his gaze to stare levelly at the tribune. ‘So tell me if you will, Lucius, and in as much detail as you can muster, what it was that this investigator told your father and his colleagues about my father’s death.’

Sigilis stirred in his seat, reaching for a cup and filling it with wine.

‘There was much in what he told us that you will find troubling, but one name was woven through the whole sorry story. It seems that there is a group of men who do the emperor’s bidding, or perhaps more accurately that of the man who stands behind his throne, the Praetorian Prefect Perennis. When men without conscience or compunction are needed, these men step forward without regard to the consequences of their actions. They carry out the dirty jobs that require the spilling of innocent blood in pursuit of imperial aims, and if a noble family vanishes from the city, as if they have been expunged from life itself, they are usually at the heart of the matter. He named them, not as individuals but by their collective name, a title that sent a shiver of fear through the men listening in my father’s house that night. He called them “The Emperor’s Knives”.’

‘Atten-shun!’

The gathered officers stiffened their bodies as the two legati entered the room, obeying the legion first spear’s barked command without hesitation.

‘He’s a fearsome old bastard, that Secundus.’

Scaurus nodded fractionally in recognition of Julius’s muttered comment, replying in equally muted terms.

‘Yes, he’s from the old school, a throwback to the days of the republic.’

The veteran senior centurion was apparently well known for his evil temper when his instructions were not followed instantly and to the letter, and wasn’t above publicly berating an errant tribune in the most incendiary of terms without any apparent regard for social status. Cattanius had shared a story with the two men while they had been waiting for the command conference to begin, the payoff to which had been his recounting of the man’s furious beasting of an errant junior tribune for some mistake or other only the previous day. He had looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard before continuing with his recounting of the centurion’s words.

‘All Secundus said was this: “The Thirteenth Legion is the best fucking legion in the empire, young sir. We’re the descendants of the men the Divine Julius Caesar used to conquer the world, and ever since those famous days the Thirteenth has been led by real soldiers, from the legatus down. And if you can’t manage to behave like a real soldier then you, young sir, can fuck right off!” I don’t expect his daddy warned the young man in question to expect treatment like that when he signed the boy up!’

Under the veteran centurion’s gimlet eye the officers stood to attention while the two legati took their places by the map table. Albinus looked about him with a slightly bemused smile, while his colleague Gaius Pescennius Niger’s expression was altogether more dour.

‘Very well, gentlemen, relax, and gather round the map if you will.’

The assembled officers obeyed Niger’s command, clustering round the meticulously constructed map table while he waited for them to settle into place. Julius looked down at the plaster replica of the landscape across which the campaign against the Sarmatae would be fought.

‘Lend me your vine stick will you please, First Spear?’

Secundus surrendered his badge of office to his legatus, the look on his face indicating his displeasure at having to allow his commanding officer to make free with his most treasured possession. Oblivious to the centurion’s reproving stare, Niger looked around the circle of men with the stick held up until he was sure he had every man’s full attention.

‘So, gentlemen, here we are, two full legions, or as close as one can get to such a thing these days, and eight auxiliary cohorts, seventeen if we choose to pull in the garrisons of the forts within marching distance, two of them formed of cavalry recruited from Britannia.’ He caught sight of Belletor’s raised eyebrows. ‘Plus, of course, the First Minervia’s Seventh Cohort and a thousand allied barbarian cavalry recently recruited in the south of the province. And as of now we’re all based here, at Porolissum.’

He pointed with the vine stick at the map table’s lovingly constructed replica of the local geography, and Marcus stared with interest at the contours of the ground across which the campaign to come would be fought.

‘Our opponent is a Sarmatae chieftain called Purta, who we are informed is fielding approximately twelve thousand cavalry and another ten thousand light infantry. Against our heavy infantry the foot soldiers represent a negligible threat. First Spear Secundus and his colleagues would tear through them in an hour or two of butchery and slave-taking. The enemy horse, however, represent an entirely different and more serious proposition. Gentlemen, to be very clear, that strength of barbarian cavalry, if used decisively and in mass, would without doubt represent a very serious threat, even to a force as strong as ours.’

He paused, looking about him again.

‘Some of you, those who haven’t ever faced barbarian cavalry of this type, will be wondering if I might perhaps be a little overcautious in that assessment. I can see it in your faces. Gentlemen, our military history is littered with cautionary tales of otherwise distinguished commanders who underestimated the capabilities of the Sarmatae, and before them the Parthians, and paid a heavy price for doing so. These Sarmatae are men raised on the great grasslands beyond these mountains, taught to ride at an age when most children in the empire are still considered infants. They do not need to use their hands to control their mounts, learning to do so purely by means of the pressure they exert with their knees. That leaves their hands free to use a bow on the move, and they are expert at hitting a target from a moving horse time after time, whether advancing, retreating or just riding round in a damned circle. As if that isn’t enough of a threat, they carry a long lance which they call the kontos, capable of spitting a man without having to get close enough that he can use his own spear in return.’

Niger shook his head.

‘So call me a pessimist behind my back if you like, but I will not risk my legion in battle with that strong a force of their horsemen on open ground. My colleague here and I’ — he gestured to Albinus, who inclined his head in grave agreement — ‘have decided that this is a battle that we will win by tempting a headstrong enemy onto well-defended and carefully prepared positions. Once we have the enemy horse nicely bogged down then we will unleash our legionaries to conduct their slaughter. .’ He raised a warning finger and looked around the assembled officers with a stern glare. ‘But until then, gentlemen, be warned that I am determined not to give them the chance to wreak the havoc they are all too capable of inflicting upon us, if we are unwise enough to let them do so. Colleague, will you explain our plan?’

Albinus nodded, taking the vine stick with a wink to its grizzled owner.

‘As you newcomers to Porolissum can see, we’re here, on top of this ridge which runs south-west to north-east. These are the Knife Mountains, gentlemen, and they are well named. They are largely impassable to any sort of military formation other than the most lightly equipped scouts, and crossed by passes at a very few points, most of which are laughably simple to defend due to their narrow nature. Our forts to the mountains’ rear are perfectly placed not only to resist any direct attack, but also to allow the cohorts that occupy them to move quickly in defence of these passes.’

He looked around the group of officers with a knowing smile.

‘Which means that nature has provided us with a very handy rampart against any barbarian attack from the north-west. However,’ — he pointed with the stick to the southern end of the ridge — ‘all good things will naturally come to their end, and so it is with this line of defence. As you can see, the mountains are split by a valley, here, which provides a natural point which an aggressive enemy commander would undoubtedly consider as the key that will unlock this particular door. For that reason there are three forts positioned along the length of the valley in a line from south-east to north-west.’ He pointed with the stick. ‘Lakeside Fort here, Stone Fort here, and lastly Two Rivers Fort, here.Two of them are not very much more than glorified lookout posts, but Stone Fort is a far tougher nut to crack and represents the heart of the valley’s defence. We’ve sent two cohorts of Britons, First Britannica and Second Britannorum to man the forts, since they seem to be bloodthirsty maniacs to a man, and given command of the valley’s defence to one of our more energetic young tribunes. By now I would expect him to have the place as tightly defended as the praetorian fortress in Rome.’

He pointed at the valley with the borrowed vine stick.

‘So, if the Sarmatae look to turn our line by attacking up this valley, aiming to get behind the mountain ridge and into our rear area, they must first deal with the garrisons of these forts. This man Purta’s dilemma is that he must either break into each fort in turn and destroy the garrison, or bypass them and tolerate the risk presented by their presence in his rear. Either choice is problematic, of course, since he either accepts a significant delay to his advance, and allows time for stronger forces to be moved into position to block his way up the valley, or else finds himself with our spears to both front and rear.

‘Now we have it on very good authority that Purta believes the defences arrayed against him in the valley are too strong. He fears that by the time his army has smashed a path through them, and cleared a route out onto the open ground his horsemen need, he’ll find a legion blocking his way. He therefore plans, we are informed, to turn just such a plan against us. He will make a feint up the valley, with the intention of drawing a legion into exactly such a blocking position, and then sending his full strength at a point somewhere else along the ridge. He’s going to roll the dice, colleagues, and gamble that he can weaken the province’s main line of defence enough to walk through the front door while the bouncers’ attention is distracted by a scuffle in the corner.’

The legatus smiled around at his officers, his eyes bright with the prospect of action.

‘Whereas we, armed with this inside information, are going to give every indication that we’ve fallen for his ploy whilst keeping our main strength concentrated, and ready to land the one blow that will end this war in a single battle. Whichever pass through the mountains Purta sends his main force at, he’ll find two legions massed and ready to meet him, and on ground that’s been well prepared. Questions?’

Scaurus raised a hand.

‘Tribune?’

‘Legatus, if you’re going to keep the Thirteenth Gemina and the Fifth Macedonica concentrated for the main battle, how are you going to convince this Purta that you’ve taken his bait?’

The legatus grinned back at him.

‘Perceptive, Rutilius Scaurus, very perceptive indeed. We’ll have mounted scouts out, of course, and once we know that the Sarmatae are making their move on the valley I propose to send an initial relief force from the south-western end of the line. Any enemy scouts sent forward past the river forts will see the movement and take it for the advance guard of the blocking force. The report will go back to Purta that we’ve taken his bait, and he’ll make his move on the main line in blessed ignorance of what’s waiting for him. On top of that, this apparent relief force will also serve to sweep the valley clear of scouts, and prevent them from getting so far up the valley that they realise there’s no legion moving up in support. Quite an elegant solution, I’d say. And now that you mention it, given that your Tungrians have rather more battle experience than most of our forces, I’d say they’ll make the ideal units for a task which is, of course, likely to result in an action of some kind. Do you think you can handle such a mission?’

Scaurus nodded, already hard in thought as he stared at the map table.

‘Legatus!’

Albinus swivelled his head to regard Tribune Belletor, standing at the other end of the table from his former colleague and wearing an expression of concern.

‘Tribune?’

‘My command, Legatus, is every bit as powerful as that under Rutilius Scaurus’s leadership, and has the advantage of mustering a powerful force of cavalry. I propose that the Tungrians advance along one bank of the river, while we will manage the other.’

Albinus shared a glance with Niger, but it was the older man who responded to Belletor’s request.

‘Your cavalry, Tribune, if my memory serves, are only recently recruited from the Sarmatae you defeated at Alburnus Major. I wonder, perhaps, if they represent too great a risk to be put into the field against their own tribe.’

Belletor, having clearly anticipated the response, reacted with uncharacteristic understatement.

‘I completely understand your concern, Legatus. Perhaps it would help if I were to tell you that they have already been active in scouting before us as we marched north. On more than one occasion the scouting parties of these horsemen that I sent out to clear our path brought back the bodies of Sarmatae scouts they had managed to kill, along with their mounts. My discussions with them have convinced me that they care little for these other people, owing loyalty only to their own offshoot of the tribe, and in the absence of their kindred, to me as their paymaster. And besides’ — Marcus watched his tribune’s eyes narrow as Belletor advanced his argument one last step — ‘the use of their own horsemen as part of the master plan that undoes this Purta’s invasion of the province will surely play very well in Rome, I would have thought.’

‘Hmmm. I see.’ Niger stroked his bearded chin, looking at Albinus with a calculating expression. ‘Military and political advantages combined, eh? Very well, Tribune Belletor, my colleague and I will give your proposal due consideration and inform you as to our decision in due course. Any more questions? No? Very well gentlemen, go back to your cohorts and ensure that your men are in prime condition and ready to fight. Here’s your vine stick, First Spear Secundus.’

The Tungrian cohorts marched from Porolissum at dawn three days later, heading down the military road that followed the line of the Knife Mountains to the south-west in the company of the Thracian archers who were ordered to reinforce the defence at Stone Fort, while Belletor’s mismatched force bought up the rear. The Sarmatae horsemen rode in a straggling mass at the column’s rear, as immune to any form of marching discipline as had been the case since their enlistment.

‘I presume your tribune’s riding with his new best friends, perched up on that horse of his like some kind of conquering general?’

Julius had dropped back to the rear of his men and by happy chance had found First Spear Sergius marching at the head of his legionaries with a dark and foreboding look. The two men were now marching together with their cloaks wrapped about them to fend off the bitterly cold wind.

‘Indeed he is. Since he managed to persuade Legatus Niger to put him on the right bank of the river for this march down to Lakeside Fort, he’s been puffing and preening like a man preparing to ride through Rome with the rose petals floating down around him.’ Sergius shook his head and spat on the road’s verge. ‘I’ve tried to point out to him that he has no idea as to their real loyalties, but he’s like a man besotted with his new wife. All I get back is “my tribesmen this” and “my tribesmen that”, and no concern at all for his regular soldiers.’ He pointed to Julius’s boots, their new fur linings visible around the ankle. ‘Our boots are stuffed with straw, not rabbit like yours. The storeman told Belletor that your men had already taken everything they had to spare, and since he didn’t have a legatus supporting him he was forced to walk away empty handed. He’s got fur linings in his boots mind you, and a nice fur cloak. He was given them by his bloody Sarmatae.’

The two men marched in silence for a moment, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the constant rattle of hobnails on the road’s cobbled surface.

‘They’re decent enough scouts though?’

Sergius grimaced reluctant agreement.

‘So it seems. You saw just as well as I did what they brought back with them from their patrol over the mountains.’

The deciding factor in Niger’s decision had been a patrol that Belletor had sent over the mountains, with orders to range along their northern slopes in search of enemy scouts. The thirty-man party had returned with two empty saddles, but with the heads of half a dozen dead tribesmen dangling from their saddle horns, and the legatus had been an instant convert to the idea of their being used alongside the First Minervia’s regulars. Julius nodded.

‘Exactly. I may not have very much respect for your tribune, but it does seem as if he’s picked a winner for once.’

The twin detachments ground their way to the south-west at a fast pace, reaching Forest View as the sun was dipping towards the horizon. Ushered into the sizeable marching camp alongside the fort’s walls, more usually used by several legion cohorts at a time, the Tungrians found themselves alongside men from a cohort of auxiliary infantry whose title excited a good deal of comment. Marcus overheard Morban explaining it to one of the younger men of the Fifth Century.

‘First Britannica? You know what that means, don’t you? These are men who’ve descended from the tribesmen who were enlisted in Britannia when the legions were recruiting for the wars in Dacia a hundred years ago. What’s the odds of them having come from somewhere near our old fort at The Hill, eh? I’ll give you five to one. .’

As it turned out the Britons were welcoming enough, but it had seemed that in truth they were no more from Britannia than the majority of the Tungrians were really from the farmland around the city of Tungrorum. A hard-faced veteran stepped forward to greet the standard bearer and his hopeful companion.

‘Yeah, my granddad was from Britannia. My dad told me that his old man volunteered for service at a time when the province was right peaceful, so he and another five hundred bluenoses were shipped out here to keep the locals in order.’

Morban thanked him and turned back to the young soldier, sliding the man’s stake money into his purse with well-practised speed.

‘Grandfathers don’t count, I’m afraid.’

Scaurus and Julius went looking for the Britons’ prefect in company with Belletor and Sergius, and the four of them walked into the fort to where they knew the headquarters building would be, given that its layout was prescribed by army regulations. Scaurus tapped at the wall of a barrack block with his knuckle as they passed.

‘The fort may be built to the standard design, but the materials they’ve put it up with aren’t. These men obviously live under a serious threat; you only have to look at the way their buildings are constructed to see that.’

The barrack was built with walls of stone, and the roof was an expanse of thick slate tiles. Wherever wood was used, in doors and windows, the openings were both recessed and protected as much as possible by overhanging stone lintels, designed to prevent a fire arrow from striking the timber. The four men found the fort’s commander, a harassed-looking veteran centurion, snatching a quick meal in the fort’s headquarters building. He pulled up chairs for them and then called for more food and wine.

‘I’ve only got two centuries, gentlemen, enough to stand guard and prevent the locals from ransacking the place while our backs are turned. The bulk of the cohort is concentrated further down the valley at Stone Fort, along with the Second Britannorum. That’s the spot where two valleys come together, so any attacker from the north has to pass through a narrow point in the valley, almost a gorge in truth. If we can’t stop an attacker there then we’re not going to be able to hold them anywhere else, and from here it’s an easy enough march to Napoca.’ He smiled knowingly at the tribunes. ‘And if you think this fort’s well constructed, you want to see the job Tribune Leontius has made of Stone Fort!’

The three cohorts marched on down the valley the next morning, along the road that paralleled the river’s winding path. Another hour’s march brought them within sight of the second of the three forts defending the valley, and Julius stared at the defences arrayed around its walls with a whistle of appreciation.

‘Now there, Tribune, is a fort that’s been set up by a man who knows his trade.’

Commanding the narrowest spot in the valley’s length, the fort’s walls were taller and longer than was usual, clearly big enough to house considerably more strength than the single five-hundred-man cohort that was the usual garrison’s complement. Even from a mile’s distance the structure was evidently built from stone rather than timber. Heavy towers were set on every corner, and the road ran into the fort’s eastern side through a massive stone double-doored gatehouse flanked by two more towers.

‘Are those bolt throwers?’

The first spear followed his tribune’s pointing hand and shook his head.

‘It’s hard to say with all that protection.’

The towers were topped by shallow wooden roofs set low enough that the heavy weapons’ crews would barely have sufficient headroom to work, a small enough price to pay for the resulting protection from enemy bowshot. As the Tungrians drew nearer they realised that the towers were indeed occupied by bolt throwers, one on each corner of the fort, and that the weapons’ crews were tracking their approach. Julius stared darkly up at them, shaking his head in irritation.

‘Very funny. If I find out that those things are loaded then I’m going to tear off someone’s head and shit down his neck. An accidental shot at this range would pin three or four men together.’

The ground to either side of the road was studded with lilies, the stake-filled pits that would deny an attacker any safe footing other than the road itself, and channel them into the bolt throwers’ killing zone. A deep ditch stretched across the valley’s four-hundred-pace width, a hundred paces in front of the fort’s rear wall. Julius nodded approvingly again, his ire at the bolt-thrower crews distracted by the defences.

‘Nice work. A ditch deep enough and steep enough on the far side to have a man climbing on all fours to get out of it, with a four-foot wall for the defenders on the far side and a nice little surprise at the bottom, no doubt.’

Scaurus squinted down into the ditch as they crossed the wooden bridge that spanned the gap, nodding in agreement.

‘So I see. And if this is how well they’ve chosen to defend the back door, one wonders what the side facing an enemy attack looks like?’

‘So you’re to march down the valley to Lakeside Fort on either side of the river looking for trouble, are you? That’s quite extraordinarily adventurous for Pescennius Niger, unless of course he’s been chivvied into taking a risk by his colleague Albinus!’ The tribune commanding Stone Fort laughed uproariously, tipping his head towards the other British cohort’s prefect. ‘And I thought my colleague here and I had drawn the short straw, but at least we’ve got a nice thick layer of stonework to hide behind!’

Scaurus shared a smile with him.

‘At least my men will get to sleep under proper roofs tonight, and with stoves to thaw their feet out.’

Leontius nodded.

‘Indeed. I’m sorry not to have any better hospitality to offer you, but as you can see, Stone Fort is rather spartan in its construction. No bath house for us, just enough barracks for half a legion and every other bit of spare space given over to storage. On the brighter side, we have enough rations in our storehouses to provision five thousand men for a fortnight, so nobody’s going to go hungry, just as long as they’re happy with bread and dried meat of a somewhat dubious quality. And let me tell you, gentlemen, your arrival is most welcome, not to mention the archers, given I expect to have a pack of angry Sarmatae dogs baying for blood on the other side of my western ditch within a day or two. What word do we have from Porolissum? Where do the grown-ups expect the Sarmatae will land the first punch?’

Scaurus smiled at his colleague’s irreverence.

‘The legati are convinced that any attack up the valley here will only be a feint. They have intelligence from within the Sarmatae camp, it seems. Domitius Belletor and I are ordered to reconnoitre forward from this position and attempt to locate the enemy. The ‘grown-ups’ have decided to convince Purta they’ve taken his bait by risking a couple of thousand men in a probe down this valley.’

Leontius’s face reflected his cynicism.

‘You do realise that in the event of any serious Sarmatae attack here you’ll be like a pair of boxers leading with your chins? Where I come from, Tribune, we have the saying that if it looks like a duck, waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. So in this case, colleagues, whether the legati are in receipt of secret intelligence or not, we’ll be treating any barbarian force that comes up the valley as the real thing. I don’t know about you gentlemen, but this country isn’t like any other I’ve served in, not with tens of thousands of men like those barbarian horsemen you marched in with, all spoiling for a fight not fifty miles to the north. And what starts out as a feint to deceive us might end up becoming the main line of attack overnight. You might just find yourselves marching your men head-on into an army of twenty thousand of the buggers. Go down the valley by all means, but I’d suggest that you be ready to come back up it as fast as you can, and join us here to defend the pass, if by some misfortune you find yourselves toe to toe with the entire Sarmatae nation. And now gentlemen, a toast!’ He raised his cup. ‘To secret intelligence! Let’s just pray it’s as accurate as it is secret!’

If the previous week had been cold, the next dawn found the Tungrian sentries clustered around their braziers in search of whatever heat was to be had whenever the duty centurion’s attention was elsewhere. A bitter wind was blowing from the north, sweeping curtains of snow down from the mountains onto the fort, and for a time it seemed that the weather would prevent the cohorts from fulfilling their mission. However, and to great disgust, shortly after the soldiers had taken their breakfast and were happily anticipating a day doing nothing more taxing than shivering in their tents, the storm front cleared away to leave Stone Fort under a clear blue sky and with temperatures low enough to freeze the water in the horse troughs solid. Scaurus gathered his centurions together in his quarter and issued the orders that their men were dreading.

‘We march. The legati are depending on us to deliver on our promise to make the Sarmatae believe that there’s a legion defending this pass, and deliver it we will. Make sure your men are wearing every piece of clothing they can muster, not that they’ll need much encouragement in these temperatures.’

Watched by the Britons, the cohorts marched out over the fort’s western gate and across the wooden bridge that, as with the eastern approach, was the only way over the ditch that had been dug across the valley’s full width.

‘What stops an attacker from just taking to the hills to either side and working their way around the ditch?’

Overhearing the question from one of his brighter soldiers, Marcus answered it despite Quintus’s look of disapproval.

‘What stops them from doing that, soldier, is the fact that the Britons have had weeks to prepare the ground. Their pioneers have felled enough trees up the hillsides and planted enough sharpened stakes in their branches to make an impenetrable barrier, which means that the only way to get to the fort’s other side is to go that way. .’ He pointed at a side valley to their right. ‘But that means taking a long detour around to the north, the best part of a day’s march. Titus and his boys in the Tenth Century were looking quite jealous when they saw all those fallen trees yesterday.’

The Tungrians crossed the frozen river to reach the left bank, their hobnailed boots slipping and sliding on the smooth surface, while the First Minervia’s cohort drove on down the right bank with their native cavalry in close attendance.

‘If only I’d known, I could have offered odds on my being able to walk on water. I would have made a right killing,’ said Morban.

‘Ah yes, but you have taken a bet on the very same subject, if you recall?’

Marcus smiled at the momentary look of fear that crossed his standard bearer’s face as Morban recalled the moment when he had been provoked into offering his centurion a bet of heroic proportions during the march north. Marcus turned his attention back to his men, some of whom were already clearly troubled by their numb toes, despite the fur linings in their boots.

‘They’ll live, as long as they keep moving. I had a good look at their feet before we marched this morning, and there’s not one of them with a serious problem. Those poor bastards have it worse, I’d say.’ Quintus pointed across the river’s thirty-foot width at the labouring legionaries on its far side. ‘Some of them look like they’re already struggling. .’

As they watched, a mounted patrol of Belletor’s Sarmatae went forward at the trot, the riders apparently impervious to the cold in their thick furs, quickly vanishing from view around a bend in the river. As the two forces made their way down the river’s course, the valley widened, broadening from barely a hundred paces on either side of the frozen stream to three times as much in the space of a mile. Cresting a slight rise, Marcus found himself staring down the valley’s length for the best part of two miles, squinting into the light of the winter sun as it reflected off the broad, icy expanse of a lake a mile or so distant. A soldier ran down the cohort’s line and saluted him.

‘Centurion, sir! First Spear says we’ll march as far as that lake and then we’ll take a rest stop.’

Marcus nodded and waved the man on down the line before turning to call out an order to his chosen man.

‘Quintus! They’re all yours, I’m going back for a chat with Qadir and Dubnus!’

Waiting until the Eighth Century reached the place where he had stopped, flexing his toes experimentally and finding them disquietingly numb, he fell in alongside Dubnus with a grimace of shared discomfort. The Briton laughed at him.

‘I’d forgotten you’ve yet to experience the joys of campaigning in a proper winter. How are you finding it, apart from the blueness of your toes?’

The Roman shrugged.

‘It seems I’m doomed to always either be too hot or too cold, so I suppose it’s best just to ignore the weather and think more about the job at hand. Anyway, there’s something I wanted to test out when we get to that lake, to see if the histories are true in what they tell us? I’ve just reminded Morban of the wager he made with me on the subject while we were marching up from Apulum, and he looked decidedly sick when I raised the matter.’

When they reached the lake the soldiers milled about, unwilling to subject themselves to more discomfort by sitting on the freezing ground, while Marcus and Dubnus, joined by an inquisitive Qadir and a nervous Morban, trailed by a few inquisitive soldiers, made their way onto the ice. Across the lake’s expanse they could see the First Minervia’s legionaries shuffling about disconsolately, First Spear Sergius clearly having decided to rest his men to keep the two advances aligned. The remaining Sarmatae horsemen had dismounted, but as usual showed no sign of mixing with the soldiers.

‘Buggered if I know what we’re doing out here on the bloody ice!’

Sanga turned to the soldier Scarface with an irritated expression.

‘What we’re doing out here, you idiot, is following Two Knives around like a pair of three-year-olds hanging off their mummy’s skirts as per usual. As to what he’s doing out here, did you not hear about the bet?’

He raised his eyebrows in amazement at his mate’s uncomprehending expression.

‘You really do go around with your head up your own arse, don’t you? The bet?’ Scarface shook his head and shrugged, and Sanga waved a hand at the lake’s frozen surface. ‘Seems the tribune was telling some of the lads about a battle that was fought on a frozen river round here a few years ago. He said that some of our lads were attacked by Sarmatae horsemen like those pricks over there, but they stood their ground and ended up winning the fight. I don’t know how that would work, but the officer seemed very sure about it. Anyway, seems Morban quacked on about what a load of bullshit it was and how he’d give ten to one that it was all bollocks, so your centurion slapped down a gold aurei and took him up on it.’

Scarface looked about him with new interest, peering hard at the nervous-looking standard bearer before raising his voice in an amused chortle.

‘Well he’s not looking quite so fuckin’ brave about it now, is he? Ten in gold, eh Morban? That’s the best part of six months’ takings for you, I wouldn’t wonder.’

‘Well that’s one part of the story proven.’ Marcus stood on the frozen surface with his arms open wide. ‘It’s perfectly possible to stand on this stuff, as long as you dig the hobnails in hard enough. It would be murder on the feet without these skins wrapped around my feet though. Now, pass me that shield please.’ One of the soldiers surrendered his board, and Marcus experimentally rested it on the frozen surface. ‘Hmmm. I can’t see how that’s going to be sufficiently stable to put a boot on.’

‘Here, I’ve an idea how it might work.’ Dubnus took it from him, drawing his sword and swiftly chopping a rough circular hole the depth and width of the shield’s heavy brass boss into the thick ice before dropping the board face down onto the ice, guiding the hemispherical protrusion into the hole he’d created, much to the disgust of the soldier in question. ‘And you can stop pulling faces, it’s a piece of fighting equipment, not a piece of the family silver. There. .’

He gestured to the shield, then put a booted foot onto its wooden surface.

‘See, you can stand on this ice a lot easier with one foot on the wood. Give me that spear.’

He clicked his fingers, and the now resigned soldier, whose shield was held firm to the ice by Dubnus’s foot, handed over his spear. The big centurion adjusted his footing, then posed for Marcus with one foot on the shield while he essayed a series of swift stabbing blows with the spear.

‘Very warlike. You might even pass muster as a soldier, if we didn’t know you better.’

Dubnus turned to face the approaching Julius. Scaurus was walking a few paces behind him, and both men were gazing at the spectacle with open curiosity. Dubnus took his foot off the shield, gesturing for his man to pick it up.

‘Centurion Corvus entered a considerable wager with the obvious person as to whether the battle on the ice could really have happened. And as you can see, your story was clearly well founded, Tribune.’

Marcus stroked his chin in amusement, looking at Morban.

‘Well now, Standard Bearer, it can be done. How much is it that you owe me?’

The older man raised a pitying eyebrow.

‘You should know better than that, Centurion. The bet I took was that you couldn’t prove it was possible to fight off a screaming horde of Sarmatae horsemen like that, not that you could persuade Dubnus to stand on a shield and wave a spear about. I thought you’d have realised by now sir, it’s all about how the bet is stated.’ Growing in confidence that he would once again be on the winning side of the wager, he winked at the big Briton. ‘And very fetching you look too, if I might make so bold, Dubnus.’

Marcus turned back to his friend with a smile but found the big man’s attention locked on the other side of the valley, where the river’s meandering course bent around to the east and took the road down its banks out of view.

‘Here come the scouts that Belletor sent out, back already. I wonder what they’ve seen?’

They watched as the scouting party rode around the river bend and up the valley toward the waiting legionaries, but Dubnus was pointing to a spot behind the horsemen.

‘Look! Smoke!’

A line of smoke was rising into the cold, still air further down the valley, and Julius frowned, looking across the lake at the Sarmatae scouts with a look of disquiet.

‘Whatever’s burning may be out of sight from here, but it won’t have been from where they were and yet they’re acting as if nothing’s amiss. Something isn’t right here. .’

Scaurus stepped forward.

‘I warned the idiot!’ He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting across the lake’s frozen surface. ‘Belletor! Tribune Belletor!’

Clearly visible mounting his horse, Tribune Belletor turned his head to the source of the sound. Scaurus waved, then pointed at the smoke, now strengthened to form a thick, greasy column. Belletor looked about him, then waved back to the small group before spurring his horse forward towards the returning scouts. Scaurus’s expression hardened.

‘Blessed Mithras, the bloody fool’s not listening! He can’t see the smoke for the hill beside them. Belletor! The scouts are. .’

He fell silent as his colleague’s imperious tones reached them, audible across the open ice even if the exact words were lost on the slight breeze, and the tribune raised his fist in salute. The leading rider approached the Roman, his long lance couched to point at the ground.

‘That’s their leader, isn’t it?’

Qadir squinted into the ice’s harsh glare.

‘Yes, that helmet he wears is quite unmistak-’

He gasped involuntarily as the Sarmatae leader raised his kontos, stabbing the blade forward and ramming it into Belletor’s throat. Ripping the bloodied iron free, as the tribune tottered in his saddle, he raised his arms and bellowed a command at his followers. With a chorus of answering yells the Sarmatae flooded forward and past him, their weapons flashing in the clear winter air as they fell on the unsuspecting and unprepared Roman infantry. The men to the rear of the cohort, who had quietly mounted their horses while the legionaries’ attention had been elsewhere, took their cue and launched themselves at the resting soldiers with their lances glinting evilly in the winter sunlight. Qadir turned to Marcus in horror.

‘Deasura, it’ll be a massacre!’

Julius shook his head in disbelief as the first screams of dying men reached them. The soldiers closest to the attacking Sarmatae were mounting a desperate, unprepared defence, fighting without organisation or control, and the enemy horsemen, pressing in on them from front and rear, were reaping a bloody harvest with the long spears that allowed them to out-reach the legionaries.

‘And we’ll be next!’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Rejoin your centuries!’

‘Wait!’

He frowned disbelievingly as Scaurus put a hand up.

‘Tribune?’

‘I’ve seen these people fight from horseback before. Even if we form a disciplined line, and stand ready to meet their attack with our spears, they’ll just stand off for a while and pepper us with arrows from all directions, retreating whenever we try to get to grips with them, and then when we start to weaken, from the cold and our losses, they’ll make a full-blooded charge and scatter us across the valley. If we stand and fight on dry ground we’ll lose, I guarantee you that!’

Julius shook his head brusquely.

‘But if we run they’ll harry us to destruction just like they’re doing to the First Minervia. We have to fight!’

Scaurus nodded.

‘I know. But not up there. .’ He pointed to the lakeside. ‘We need to fight here, on the ice.’

Julius stepped forward, his face, only inches from his tribune’s, set in deadly earnest.

‘It’s one thing to pull off a trick like that when you’ve been practising for days, Tribune, and quite another when it’s no more than a story in one of the histories that was more than likely dreamed up by the writer to make some bloody senior officer look good! You do realise this is likely to end in disaster?’

The tribune pointed hollow-eyed at the scene of horror playing out before them. Individual soldiers were running now, while Sarmatae horsemen spurred their horses in pursuit, some spearing their victims with swift brutality while others cantered after the fleeing soldiers at a more leisurely pace, giving them time to realise that a grim death was upon them before striking. As they watched, a group of fifty or so soldiers leapt onto the ice and ran towards the Tungrians, shouting desperately for help. A score of the horsemen followed them out onto the frozen surface, cantering on either side with their lances raised to strike. Marcus pointed at them as the first men fell under the riders’ blades to leave a trail of bloodied corpses in the runners’ wake.

‘That’s Tribune Sigilis leading them, isn’t it?’

Scaurus looked at the beleaguered runners for a moment before nodding sadly.

‘Yes, it is.’ The Sarmatae horsemen closed in around the helpless soldiers, their lances stabbing out at the Romans from beyond the reach of their spears, and Marcus turned away as his friend was spitted by first one and then two of the long spears, his spasming body held upright for a moment before falling to the ice as the blades were wrenched loose. When he looked back none of the men who had run were still standing, and the mounted tribesmen ironically saluted the watching Tungrians as they turned away.

‘Exactly. We’re next. They’re toying with those boys, First Spear, and I doubt dying out here on the ice will be any worse. Besides, I’m not of a mind to meet my ancestors without at least having some pride in the manner of my death.’

He nodded decisively, turning to the two senior centurions.

‘I’m making a commander’s decision. Get your men onto the lake and into two battle lines, back to back and ready to form a circle. Do it!’

While the Tungrians flooded onto the ice without question, the First Cohort were running to a point indicated by Julius and quickly forming a line, while the Second pressed in behind them.The tribune stalked through them to find Silus and his mounted squadron waiting at the lakeside. Silus saluted, looking down at his commander with a solemn expression.

‘What are your orders, Tribune?’

Scaurus pointed back up the valley.

‘Get out of here while you still can, Decurion. Take word of this treachery to Tribune Leontius, and to him alone. There’d be little point in throwing your lives away alongside ours, if what I have in mind fails to work.’

Silus nodded grimly and saluted again.

‘As you command, Tribune. Good luck.’

He wheeled his horse and led his men away up the lakeside as the Tungrians swiftly formed up into two lines, the discipline of a thousand drills taking over from conscious thought. Scaurus nodded to Julius, who bellowed a fresh command at the waiting soldiers.

‘Second Cohort, about turn! First and Second Cohorts, Form! Circle!’

The centuries at the centre of the two cohorts’ lines marched forward a smart thirty paces out of formation, the soldiers cursing as they slipped on the ice’s slick surface. Each century to their left and right stopped a successive five paces short of their comrades, until both lines were arrayed in an arrowhead formation with one point facing toward the enemy horsemen and the line behind facing away.

‘Dress your lines!’

Centurions and their chosen men moved swiftly to push and pull their men into position, quickly transforming the serried ranks into two curving lines that met to form a rough circle.

‘Close it up!’

Pulling their men back, the officers shrank the circle until each front ranker was shoulder to shoulder with the men to either side. Scaurus nodded to Julius and Tertius with a look of respect.

‘Excellent drill, First Spears!’

He pushed into the circle with the two men following, and Julius shouted one last command.

‘Face inwards!’

With a rattle of equipment the Tungrians reversed their facing, forming an unbroken ring of faces around the tribune. Scaurus strode into the middle and then turned a full circle with an appraising stare.

‘You see the value of all that mindless drilling?’ He smiled wolfishly at the men encircling him, working hard to exude a confidence he was a long way from feeling. ‘Just a moment ago you were standing watching those horsemen over there tear a legion cohort apart, wondering whether we’ll fight or flee and expecting to die whichever we chose. Now you stand in a tight formation that will enable us to face down those murderous bastards and beat them!’

He paused again, finding the looks of incredulity and disbelief he’d been expecting on many of the faces around him.The remaining legionnaires were in full, desperate flight now, running for their lives in all directions, and whooping riders were hunting them down as they frantically sought to escape by climbing the valley’s side, those men with bows using them to bring down men who succeeded in reaching parts of the slope impassable to the horsemen.

‘They can fight alright, and on the right ground that many of them are pretty much unbeatable for two cohorts of infantry, no matter how good we are. Out here on the ice, however, it’s a different story! On the ice, gentlemen, victory goes to the man with the best footing! A horse can walk on this surface, and even trot, but there’s more to cavalry fighting than simply charging at an enemy!’ He lowered his voice slightly, forcing the soldiers to lean in and listen intently. ‘A horse, gentlemen, will not charge into a line of soldiers. A bold enough rider might jump that line, except here on the ice there’s no footing for the beast to make the jump from. It might be persuaded to back into the line, although the prospect of you ugly characters poking it with sharp iron will doubtless be enough to put most animals off.’

He waited long enough for a few tight smiles to appear in the Tungrian ranks before continuing.

‘Make no mistake, gentlemen, they will come across this ice at us very soon now!’ The horsemen were milling about on the lake’s bank, some dismounting to strip their victims of their weapons and whatever valuables they happened to be carrying. ‘Their spears will be red with the blood of five hundred legionnaires. .’

‘And one fucking idiot.’

The men standing beside Scarface nodded their agreement with the muttered sentiment, quickly turning their attention back to their tribune.

‘. . but you men and I know full well that such displays mean nothing. Besting a few hundred untried boys caught unawares in open order is one thing! Defeating two full cohorts of the best infantrymen in the empire who are formed and ready to meet them is entirely another! They will come charging across the ice at us, but at the last moment, when they know that their horses are likely to shy away rather than collide with our line, they will pull their beasts up, looking to use the length of their lances to pick holes in our line from a safe distance. And on this smooth surface those animals will slide, gentlemen, they will fail to stop soon enough and they will present themselves at the end of your spears. And when that happens we must take the opportunity they offer us and do to them what they’ve done to those legionaries.’

He lowered his voice again, and spoke into the hush in a tone that told his men he knew something they did not.

‘You see, gentlemen, the man that leads them has made one dreadful mistake. Had he attacked us first, while we were strung out along the road on the march, then he would most likely have been successful. The legion cohort would almost certainly have run for their lives and presented him with an easy kill to finish the day. But as it is he’s chosen to start his dinner with the easy meat. We’re going to show him that we’re built from bone and gristle! We’re going to stick in his bloody throat and choke him to death!’

He nodded to Julius, ushering his first spear forward. The big man scowled around the circle, knowing that for all of the tribune’s reassurance what his men needed most now was the harsh voice of command to which they had been brutally conditioned to answer with instant obedience.

‘No more speeches, Tungrians. You either fight and win here or you’ll break and die here. And I’m not planning on dying here. Front rankers!’

Scarface and Sanga exchanged a glance, the latter muttering a comment to his mate that had heads around them nodding again.

‘Here it fuckin’ comes.’

‘On the command “Prepare to fight”, you will do this!’ Julius drew his sword and took up a shield from the ice next to him. Hacking at the ice with measured blows, he swiftly dug out a hole like the one that Dubnus had carved before dropping the shield onto it.

‘You see? Give your spear to the man behind you, use your sword to chop out a hole for the boss to sit in, then put the shield down with the boss in the hole you’ve made and your foot on the shield to give you some footing. Then you sheathe your sword, take your spear back from the man behind you, and his shield, and prepare to fight! Rear rankers! On the command “Prepare to fight”, start working yourselves up to taking on a horseman at close quarters. When those barbarians come skating up to the line fighting for control of their horses, you’re going to dive out and grab their reins and drag them in close for the front rank men to kill. If you can’t manage that, then you pull down the rider and do for him with your sword or your dagger! If you go down with him, remember that the ice is slippery. Get your feet in his body and push him away, so you’ve got time to get back on your feet and get your iron into him!’

The Sarmatae were forming up on the lakeside, their leader shouting curses and imprecations as the last of his men remounted their horses. Some of the enemy riders were laden with booty stripped from the slaughtered legionaries, wearing captured Roman helmets and weapons.

‘All ranks, about-face! Front ranks, get those shields down!’

Scarface and Sanga grimaced, drawing their swords and chopping at the ice alongside each other. The scarred soldier dropped his shield experimentally onto the frozen surface, sliding it around until the boss dropped neatly into the hole he’d made a moment before.

‘Fuck me, it actually works. Who said all senior officers were full of shit?’

Sanga spat on the ice, putting a foot on his own shield.

‘As I recall it was you, you stupid bastard. Here, you,’ — he put a hand out to the man behind him — ‘give me my spear, and I’ll have that shield. .’

His eyes met those of the rear ranker, and narrowed in calculation as he realised it was one of the Sarmatae foot soldiers who had been given to the Romans to plug the gaps in their ranks.

‘Oi, Saratos, or whatever your name is. Am I going to let you finger your blade behind me while your mates do their best to put their iron through me? Not likely!’

He grabbed the man’s mail shirt at the collar and dragged him forward, pushing the man to his right backwards into his vacated place in the circle’s rear rank. Switching places with the hapless Sarmatae so that he was sandwiched between the two veterans, he patted his spear with a meaningful glance.

‘You so much as twitch the wrong way and I’ll put this little darling up your nose!’

Scarface regarded the trembling man levelly for a moment.

‘I think you’re being a little harsh on our new friend, my old mate. Let’s face it, he’s wearing our kit and standing in our fuckin’ line, ain’t he? He either fights for his life or else he ends up with one of them long spears of theirs poking out of his arse like a backwards prick.’ He slapped the Sarmatae on the shoulder, thrusting his head forward to shout in the man’s face. ‘You fight?’

While the previous discussion had been unintelligible to the recruit, the unequivocal challenge left no room for misunderstanding. He nodded vigorously.

‘I fight! Horseman kill!’

Sanga nodded to his friend.

‘Best keep an eye on him all the same. Hold on, Latrine’s shouting the odds again. .’

Rapping the flat of his sword’s blade against his dagger, Julius was looking about the circle with a look that brooked no argument.

‘Tungrians, make some noise! Tell those horse-fuckers that we’re not going anywhere!’

Within seconds the flat tapping of blade on blade had swollen to a thunderous pulsing rattle of spear shafts on the bosses of the soldiers’ shields, a wall of sound that echoed across the lake as the horsemen manoeuvred into a rough line and began to advance on the waiting Tungrians, their horses stepping gingerly down onto the lake’s frozen surface.

‘And so it comes down to andreia. .’ Julius turned to glance at his tribune with a curious expression, and Scaurus shook his head in self-deprecation. ‘I’m sorry, First Spear, random outbursts in foreign languages are the price to be paid for having education thrust upon one at an early age, I suppose. My history tutor used to fill my head with tales of the Greek wars, and time and time again he used the word andreia to describe the nature of a man’s courage.’

‘Greek was he, Tribune?’

Scaurus laughed at the question.

‘A fair guess. Yes, he was Greek, and if my uncle had known the disregard in which he held our empire by comparison with the glories his country once knew, well then I expect that he would have had the man beaten and thrown out of the house. He used to take me out on the balcony and point out across the city, all those buildings as far as the eye could see, and tell me that “All this will one day crumble, as mighty Greece’s time in the sun came to an end, when we lost the collective andreia that allowed us to triumph over Troy and repel the Persians.”’

He watched as the Sarmatae horsemen gathered pace, the horses snorting out their breath in plumes of vapour as they accelerated to a canter across the ice.

‘And now this dirty little battle becomes a matter of whose andreia is the greater, ours or theirs. If we break in the face of their charge then we are all surely dead, but if we hold long enough for them to skate onto our spears, then we may yet hold the whip over them.’

Julius craned his neck to stare over his men’s helmeted heads, then turned to Tertius and muttered a quiet instruction. The Second Cohort’s senior centurion nodded, pacing away to the back of the circle where his own men stood. The enemy were closer now, their screams and shouts piercing the air as they waved their lances over their heads. Directly facing the riders’ onrushing wall of horseflesh, Scarface rolled his shoulders and ducked into the cover of his shield with his spear held ready to throw.

‘Fuck me, but would you look at that lot?’

Sanga laughed grimly.

‘Your leggings full then, are they?’

His mate shook his head dourly.

‘Not yet. After that shit you cooked up for dinner last night you’ll know when my ring gives up the fight, ’cause it’ll smell like I’ve dropped a week-old corpse.’ He raised his voice, as the horsemen lowered their lances in a glittering wave of polished iron, speaking to the men to either side of him with a tone that dripped with bored contempt. ‘Hold your ground, you fuckin’ women! You heard what the tribune said! We can beat these!’

Marcus stepped up behind his men, raising his voice to be heard over the oncoming horses’ thunder and the chorus of brutal reassurance and imprecation being shouted by the veteran soldiers at their less experienced comrades.

‘Ready spears!’

The front rankers leaned back, eager for the command to unleash their spears on the horsemen, but Marcus guessed that Julius would wait until the last possible moment, knowing that his men would be unable to get the usual power into their throws given that the ice would prevent them from performing the forward step to add momentum to the missiles’ flight. He watched the first spear intently, waiting for his raised vine stick to fall.

‘Ready. . wait. . ready. . throw!’

A hail of wood and iron arched out from the Tungrian line in an untidy cascade, spears raining down onto the oncoming enemy and transforming their relatively ordered formation into chaos in an instant. Riders busy aligning the points of their lances with the Roman line were caught unawares by the onslaught, their spitted bodies falling beneath the hoofs of the horses behind them and unnerving or even tripping the hapless beasts, while those men with both wicker shields and the wit to use them managed in the main only to deflect the flying spears onto the men beside and behind them. The charge faltered momentarily, giving the Tungrian front rankers time to reach behind them for a second spear.

‘Steady!’

All along the Tungrian line centurions and chosen men crouched close to their soldiers, encouraging, cajoling and simply bullying them to hold their positions as the horsemen regained their momentum and covered the last few paces at a canter. Scarface felt a hand on his arm, and glanced round to find Marcus at his shoulder.

‘Wait. .’

Staring up at the looming wall of horseflesh, even Marcus was struck by the apparent impossibility of any attempt to resist the attackers’ oncoming tide, seeing his men’s spearheads wavering in the face of the onrushing charge. He bellowed at his men, knowing that the moment of greatest danger was upon them all.

‘The eyes! Look at the horses’ eyes!’

The animals were panicking, eyes rolling as their riders goaded them forward at the Romans, eager to strike back at the waiting soldiers, but the beasts’ attempts to shy away from the waiting spear points only resulted in their hoofs sliding on the smooth ice. As the rider facing Scarface skated helplessly up to the Tungrian line, he lunged forward with his lance, cursing as the soldier raised his shield and allowed the weapon’s sharp iron blade to punch through its layered board and stick firm. Wrenching at the shield’s grip, the Tungrian fought the rider for possession of the weapon, edging to one side as the soldier to his rear squeezed between him and the Sarmatae recruit alongside him to grab at the horse’s reins. Bracing himself off the shield laid on the ice before Scarface and pulling back with all his strength, the rear ranker physically dragged the protesting animal into spear reach, and even as its rider released his grip on the lance and went for his sword the Sarmatae recruit, Saratos, stabbed forward expertly with his spear, burying it deeply in the horse’s throat and twisting the shaft before ripping it free.

With an ear-piercing scream of pain the animal reared back, wrenching the reins free from the struggling soldier’s grip and pulling him over onto the ice, but then staggered on its feet as a thick rivulet of steaming blood gushed down its neck and legs from the open artery. Bellowing incoherent rage, the animal’s rider leapt down from his stricken mount’s back, raising his sword to attack only to receive Sanga’s spear in his armpit as the veteran took his brief chance with a lunging strike. The barbarian recoiled from the blow against the horse’s flank as the beast sank helplessly to its knees, horse and rider both crippled by their wounds. The rider alongside him leaned forward and punched his lance into Sanga’s unshielded shoulder, scattering a handful of severed mail rings as the long blade sank deep into the soldier’s chest below his collar bone. He staggered back with his right hand locked on the weapon’s long shaft even as the Sarmatae tried to tear it free from the wound, maintaining his tenacious grip as his eyes rolled upwards and he fell to his knees on his own shield. Scarface bellowed his rage at the distracted rider as the man fought to dislodge his lance from the wounded Tungrian’s grasp, hurling his own spear with a ferocity that buried it deep in the junction of the rider’s trunk and thigh and dropping him writhing to the ground. Drawing his sword the wild-eyed soldier took a step forward, only to find Marcus’s hand on his arm again, the centurion’s raised voice calm amid the storm of iron.

‘No! Get him to safety!’

Pulling his gladius from its scabbard the Roman levelled the two swords’ blades, pushed past his soldier and advanced out of the line in a whirl of flickering steel. Ducking under a lance thrust he swung the spatha’s long blade at his attacker’s mount, neatly severing both of the animal’s front legs at the knee. Dancing away to the right, away from the collapsing beast, he turned another kontos thrust with the gladius, then chopped the weapon’s gleaming iron blade from its wooden shaft with a swing of the spatha. Lunging in close to the horseman’s mount, trapped and unable to move in the crush of its fellows, he ducked under the horse’s belly and rammed the gladius into its belly, tearing the blade out to sever the muscles beneath the skin. The stricken beast staggered, unable to stay on its feet, and keeled over away from the Roman, sending its rider sprawling onto the ice. Looking back over his shoulder to be sure that Scarface had managed to pull his comrade to safety, his boot caught on a shield’s rim, and he staggered for a moment before falling heavily onto his back to lie momentarily helpless as fresh horsemen pushed their mounts forward around the animals he had disabled, their long lances raised to strike.

With a roar of anger Saratos stepped forward and smashed a pair of iron spearheads away with his shield, thrusting his own spear’s point up and through the foremost horse’s jaw and deep into its head, dropping the animal to the ground so fast that its hapless rider was catapulted from the saddle on top of Marcus’s legs. The young centurion thrust his gladius into the stunned warrior’s neck, then flexed his knees and kicked him back under the advancing horse’s hoofs in a shower of dark-red arterial blood. Hands grasped him by his mailed shoulders and dragged him back into the Tungrian line, and Marcus looked up to find his chosen man standing over him with a grin as he pushed more men into the gap.

‘I knew you were a good ’un, Centurion, but I’ll buy you a fuckin’ cup of wine for that, if we ever see the inside of a tavern again.’

He nodded his head to the scene of carnage facing the Tungrians, dead and dying horses littering the ground while the animals behind them pranced and whinnied at the stink of blood and offal.

‘Sanga?’

Quintus shook his head grimly, pointing to where the wounded soldier lay helpless on the ice.

‘Scarface did well getting him out of there, and the bandage carrier’s stuck a wad over the wound, but I doubt he’ll see sunset even if we outlast these bastards.’

Marcus walked over to the prostrate veteran, his hands shaking slightly with the rage still fizzing though his body.

‘Get him onto his feet. He’ll freeze to death if he lies here much longer!’

‘And if he can’t stand?’

Marcus looked down into Sanga’s face, shaking his head grimly.

‘Then he’ll die.’ He bent to speak into the wounded man’s ear. ‘Get on your feet and stay on them, Soldier Sanga. I’ve no time to spend on you now, but when we’re done here I’ll see you safely back to the fort if you’re still upright. Either get up now or go to meet your ancestors!’

The soldier nodded weakly, his face as pale as the ice beneath him, and staggered back onto his feet to stand with his back bent, staring at his own knees. Marcus patted him gently on the shoulder and turned away, looking up and down the Tungrian line to gauge the fight’s progress. Roughly half of the circle’s circumference was embattled, with soldiers fighting for their lives along the entire length of the side facing the Sarmatae attack, and his gaze flicked to where Scaurus and his first spears were watching the fight with calm patience. The tribune nodded his head decisively, and Julius ran towards his cohort’s rear, shouting the instruction Marcus had been expecting.

‘First Cohort, pull back! On me!’

Looking to either side to be sure they were keeping pace with the line’s retreat, the men facing the Sarmatae stepped back from the half-circle of shields along which enemy riders and horses were scattered, the battle’s bloody detritus, some dead while others were still kicking and screaming in their death agonies. At a shouted command those barbarians with bows pushed through the throng of horsemen and started sending arrows at the retreating Tungrians, their leader bellowing his encouragement as he sensed the beginning of a collapse in the Romans’ morale. A soldier in Marcus’s Fifth Century fell with an arrow in his foot, writhing in agony at the pain and staring in disbelief at the long shaft transfixing his boot. Unable to stand, he pitched forward onto the ice too far from his retreating comrades to reach out and drag him back with them.

‘Hold the line!’

The soldiers around Marcus obeyed his command with sullen faces, watching in horror as one of the horsemen leaned from his saddle to push the blade of his lance through the fallen soldier’s thigh. Another spurred his mount forward, raising his kontos with a theatrical flourish and grinning at the Tungrians before stabbing it down into his throat with an ululating scream of triumph. Still the Roman line retreated, and with their spirits buoyed up by imminent victory the Sarmatae pressed in closer, forcing the soldiers to defend themselves from their relentlessly stabbing lances. The Tungrians’ formation was bowing under the barbarian pressure now, the two cohorts within a dozen paces of each other in two long concave lines, and the Sarmatae leader pushed his horse through the mass of men competing to stab down at the soldiers with a savage grin of impending victory.