Wounds of Honour

9

Marcus stared across the half-mile that separated the 9th from the forest’s dark bulk, watching the enemy irregular cavalry trot briskly from their hiding places under the trees’ canopy. Forming a rough line, the horsemen accelerated to a canter, starting up the gentle slope towards the century’s fragile square. He looked about him at his men, their attention focused on the oncoming cavalry, their faces fixed in disbelief at the cruel twist in their fortunes. Even Dubnus seemed diminished, leaning on his pole as if suddenly tired, and for a second the hope went out of the young officer. He stared beyond his men, at the smaller group of horsemen that had drawn away to wait a short distance upslope of their position, just short of the slope’s crest, close enough for them to see their mocking grins. Then, with an intensity that shocked him as much as the men he commanded, his temper ignited, firing a burning fury into his voice.

‘Ninth Century, spear drill!’

A few men turned to look at him, their faces numb with the shock of their ambush by the horsemen, stoking the fire of his fury.

‘Ninth Century, spear drill! Prepare to assault the horsemen to our rear!’

Dubnus came to life with a start, slapping the man next to him across the back.

‘You heard the fucking officer. Spear drill!’

The century seemed to shiver for a moment, as if a powerful wind was blowing through the thin ranks, then snapped to attention. Dubnus’s voice boomed again, stirring them with a fresh purpose.

‘On the command form line, form a double line facing the front. Ready… Form line!’

The 9th moved quickly, months of drill practice taking over and dropping them into position without conscious thought. Within twenty seconds they were drawn up in line facing the still-distant oncoming horsemen, their spears held ready to throw. Marcus looked behind him, seeing that the smaller group of cavalry was still in place on the slope to their rear, watching curiously as their enemies apparently abandoned the small degree of safety given by their shields, but still not bothering to do any more than sit and watch. As the last men moved into their places, Marcus drew his sword, turned and pointed it up the slope.

‘About face. Charge!’

The tribesmen’s ponies reared in surprise as the line ran towards them, every man bellowing at the top of his voice. The more skilled horsemen among the Britons managed to wrestle their mounts out of place, and ride away up the slope, but the majority were too slow, struggling to control their beasts. As the soldiers’ battle cry died away, Marcus shouted the last command necessary to launch his attack.

‘Throw!’

The line of men threw almost simultaneously, exhaling a collective whoosh of breath as their spears flew from straining arms, a short vicious arc of wood and metal that slammed a rain of razor-sharp steel into the milling horsemen. Men and horses were impaled by the missiles, their screams blending into a cacophony of pain.

‘Swords!’

The 9th, barely breaking step, charged in over the fallen, stabbing at men and animals with the carefree ferocity of victory, offering no mercy to those unable to run. A short, frenzied melee ended the fight, leaving half a dozen soldiers with assorted flesh wounds while almost a dozen of the dead and dying tribesmen and their mounts were scattered across the tiny battlefield.

Marcus turned back to the larger body of horse, their pace accelerating at the sight of their fellows’ slaughter, and now barely four hundred paces distant.

‘Form square.’

His men nodded grimly at the quiet command, retrieving their spears and moving swiftly into their allotted places, ready to receive the enemy charge and die. As the square formed, Marcus looked about him again, noticing with surprise the few survivors of his men’s vicious attack, having galloped away over the slope’s crest, now flying past the century in the direction of their fellow horsemen at a breakneck pace. As they passed the oncoming mass of horsemen, a couple turned back and pointed back up the slope, shouting at their fellows.

The tribal cavalry faltered, seemingly losing purpose for a second, and in the moment of their hesitation a sound came to Marcus’s ears that puzzled him. It was a distant rumble, as if thunder was grumbling somewhere beyond the clear horizon, but apparent as much through his boot soles as his ears. The rumble swelled in volume, making the soldiers’ heads turn as they realised that it was coming from behind them, from the direction of the Wall.

With a sudden explosion of movement and noise, a wall of horsemen came over the crest and charged down the slope, parting to either side of the 9th’s tiny square. Armoured cavalrymen bent over their horses’ necks and thrust long spears towards the tribesmen, who had already turned to ride for their lives, fighting horses rooted with fear by the noise of the oncoming wave of heavy cavalry. A decurion rose in his saddle, lifting his spear and shouting encouragement to his men as they passed the 9th, their shouted response lifting the hairs on Marcus’s neck with its bloodlust.

‘Petriana! Petrianaaa!’

The cavalry swept past the 9th’s square and hammered into the rearmost of the enemy riders while the century stood in amazement, watching the tidal wave of horsemen wash across the open space between the crest and the forest. A scattered detritus of dead and wounded barbarian riders and horses studded the ground over which they passed. The mass of native horsemen became thinner by the second, their blown horses easy prey for the stronger and fresher Roman mounts. Spears were thrust into the backs and necks of the fleeing Britons, making their backs arch at the moment of impact.

A group of horsemen cantered up to the tiny defensive square, pennants below their spear heads fluttering prettily in the strong breeze blowing across the open ground. A long dragon standard, twisting and flapping in wind-blown serpentine twists, rode proudly above the formation, which opened to allow a magnificent grey stallion to approach the 9th. Like those of its fellows’, the beast’s eyes and long face were protected by a decorated armoured plate that curved around the snout, vision enabled by a delicate pattern of holes drilled into the half-globe bulges over each eye. Its rider searched the ranks, age-wrinkled eyes peering from beneath the peak of a heavily decorated helmet, while the riders of his bodyguard rode out to either side, watching their surroundings with professional wariness. Marcus stepped out from the 9th’s ranks, snapping a salute at the prefect while he admired the man’s heavily muscled bronze cuirass, secured by the customary linen band. The senior officer jumped down from his horse, passing the reins to an attending trooper before returning the salute. He stared at Marcus with unveiled curiosity, turning to survey the slaughter without any change of expression, speaking without returning his eyes to the young officer, his voice a patrician rasp.

‘Y’were lucky that we happened along, young centurion, or your head would be decorating some hairy fellow’s spear point by now. I’m Licinius, prefect commanding the Petriana cavalry wing. Your unit?’

Marcus stiffened to attention and saluted.

‘Ninth Century, First Tungrian Cohort, Prefect!’

The other man turned back to look at him again, one eyebrow slightly raised. Marcus met his stare directly, noting the experience lines that ran down from either side of his nose and his furrowed forehead. The older man was, he calculated, soldier through and through, an experienced prefect with two or three previous postings behind him before being favoured with such a prestigious cavalry command.

‘Tungrian, eh? Y’don’t sound Tungrian, y’sound Roman, youngster. Look it too. So, how does the Ninth Century of the First Tungrians come to be all on its own on the wrong side of the Wall, getting ready to die on the spears of several times its strength of enemy horse, eh?’

Marcus told him the story of the last two days in quick, economical sentences that reduced their achievements to their bare bones, while the prefect watched dispassionately as his men dismounted to finish off the wounded and take souvenirs. He reached the slaughter of the oxen before the other man interrupted.

‘Wait a moment… Decurion!’

An officer detached himself from the waiting troop of horsemen, trotting across to his commander and saluting precisely.

‘Sir?’

‘Dispatch a message rider to Cauldron Pool, message to read…’

The troop commander fished out his writing tablet, the stylus poised over its wax.

‘From Petriana Wing. Rescued First Tungrian Ninth under barbarian horse attack to north of Wall at mile fort twenty-seven. Debriefed centurion. Fifty-plus oxen found ten miles to north-east of the Hill. Cattle slaughtered and burned to deny enemy supply. Number of oxen and enemy horse suggest enemy warband ten to fifteen thousand strong in vicinity, now likely to be falling back for alternative supply. Attack on Wall in this sector temporarily unlikely. Forward to commander Sixth Legion immediately. Ends. Give the rider a twenty-man escort. Go!’

The officer turned away to his task.

‘Carry on, Centurion.’

Marcus completed the story, explaining their return to the barbarian side of the Wall in defence of their comrade. The prefect pulled his helmet off and tossed it to a trooper, running a hand through his thick head of hair. Streaks of grey ran through the black. After a moment of thought he turned back to Marcus and his waiting soldiers, nodding with pursed lips.

‘Well, Centurion, either Fortuna herself smiles down on you, or you’re an exceptionally competent officer. Either way, you have a century to be proud of. Not many infantrymen of my experience would have taken the risk your men did in seeking to safeguard your friend. I salute you all!’

And, to Marcus’s amazement, he did just that, clapping him on the shoulder in congratulation.

‘I would regard it as a privilege to escort you and your men to Cauldron Pool, and to take a cup of wine with you once you’ve had time to get your unit settled. Trumpeter, sound the recall, those layabouts have had long enough to take every blasted head on the battlefield. Now, young man, I’m intrigued by your accent. Tell me more about yourself.’

Marcus, caught in the full glare of the man’s piercing intellect, and unprepared for another explanation as to his origins, thought frantically. Antenoch stepped forward neatly, saluting with a gusto that raised eyebrows throughout the 9th.

‘Prefect, sir, excuse me, but our centurion has omitted to inform you that there is a young Roman lady waiting for us at the Wall gate. Your eminence might want to detail an escort to her, to ensure her personal safety in these rough circumstances?’

The prefect nodded sagely, a faint smile creasing his lips.

‘Quite so, soldier, and right of you to point out the fact. Let us get back on the road to the east, Centurion, and perhaps you and I can talk further in the more relaxed atmosphere of Cauldron Pool.’

He remounted, pulled his helmet back on and rode away, spurring the magnificent grey into a canter back towards the Wall, his bodyguard wheeling their horses to follow. By late afternoon Legatus Sollemnis was forced to admit to himself that he felt more relaxed with the circumstances of his command than at any time in the past week. He relaxed in his chair while the 6th Legion’s staff officers briefed him on the current situation and felt, for the first time in several days, as if a measure of control over the whole awful mess had come his way. The sounds of tree-felling came distantly into the command tent, as his engineers laboured to perfect the field defences that would protect their flanks and rear, and reduce any frontal attack to a vulnerable crawl. With these defences, and the legion artillery commanding murderous firing arcs, his six thousand men could hold such a well-founded position at the forest’s edge against thee times their number.

At length Titus Tigidius Perennis took centre stage as the legion’s senior tribune, moving to the map and pointing to their position astride the road to Yew Grove ten miles south of the Wall, then to the auxiliary battle group’s location at Cauldron Pool.

‘So, Legatus, in summary, we face a loose enemy formation of about fifteen thousand men. Our current dispositions limit the enemy warband from doing very much other than burning a few garrison forts. If Calgus attacks south to attempt a breakthrough towards Yew Grove, we can provide the defensive anvil while Prefect Licinius and his auxiliary cohorts, plus the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings, swing the hammer into their rear. On the other hand, if he tries a push to the west, the auxiliaries can hold him if they choose the right ground, and we can break from our defensive position and do the hammering. Either way, if he moves to attack either force we’ll have him straddled like a Robbers counter, ripe for a battle of annihilation. Our good fortune in the discovery and destruction of the supplies for their presumed western force, and the Petriana’s annihilation of their cavalry, has made Prefect Licinius’s rear safe for the time being. The only question now is how we should capitalise on this development.’

Sollemnis nodded, staring intently at the map in front of him.

‘Yes, we seem to have Calgus in a trap of his failed strategy. Without his western force he’s unable to remove Licinius’s threat to his flank, and effectively unable to move either west or south without dire risk. And to attack to the east would be both largely pointless and risk hemming himself in between Wall and sea. I think we have him, gentlemen, or at least we’ve balanced the situation enough to have stopped his rampage for the time being. My opinion is that we keep sufficient measure of the initiative just by digging in where we are, and so forcing Calgus to decide what to do next. If he attacks he puts himself at risk of being assaulted from two sides; if he waits he plays into our hands by bringing the Second and Twentieth Legions into play. Any other opinions?’

His First Spear spoke up.

‘I agree, Legatus. We must stay defensive until the other legions arrive. Fighting from behind our temporary defences, with our artillery positioned to support the line, we can hold his barbarians off for long enough to let the auxiliaries strike to flank and rear. Moving forward would be suicide with only our six thousand spears.’

Perennis nodded his support.

‘I agree with the First Spear, with one small addition. When Calgus moves back to the north, as he is bound to do given his position, we should follow up smartly and get north of the Wall. I have a perfect location for a forward camp in mind once we’re free to advance.’

Sollemnis stood with the decision clear.

‘Very well, we hold what we have for now, and push the decision on to Calgus. Let’s see what he does with several barbarian tribes baying for our heads but no safe way to give them what they crave.’ The road to the fort at Cauldron Pool was uneventful enough, a gentle stroll by the standard of their regular exertions, but the spectacle of the cavalrymen riding easily to either side, heads dangling from saddle horns and spears, eventually started to rankle. Morban rattled his standard at the 9th Century, leading them off in a spirited rendition of a favourite marching song. ‘Oh, the, cavalry don’t use latrines. They piss in their leather britches, They drag their arse in the tickly grass, Those dirty sons of bitches!’

Marcus gave the decurion riding alongside him a wry smile as the song progressed into a description of the sexual habits of the cavalry, guessing that he’d probably heard it a few times before.

After a while, as clouds rolled over the landscape and threatened rain, they concentrated on covering ground, eager to rejoin the cohort at Cauldron Pool and get the chance to eat hot food. When darkness fell, finding them still a good five miles from their destination, the horsemen lit torches and illuminated their way, triumphantly escorting them to the walls of the fort, where the First Spear was waiting for them in front of twenty men with torches. He stepped forward, gesturing them to follow him into the temporary defences of a six-foot-high turf wall, within which burned the watch fires of dozens of centuries. The 9th marched into the Tungrian section of the camp with their heads held high, to be greeted by a respectful silence from their peers as they paraded.

Marcus stepped out in front of the century, turned on the spot and saluted the waiting chief centurion, who returned the salute with a grim face.

‘First Spear, Ninth Century reporting back from detached duty.’

Sextus Frontinius stared back at him, still deadpan, before speaking.

‘Ninth Century, if the reports we have received of your activities are correct, you have reflected much pride on the cohort. For now you will be tired, and in need of a wash, food and rest. Your colleagues will show you where your tents have been erected, and will have washing water and hot food ready for you. Morning parade is cancelled for the Ninth Century, you will parade at midday before lunch. Without your current coating of blood and soil, that is. Dismissed.’

He turned to Marcus, putting a hand on his arm.

‘Not you, Centurion. You come with me.’

He took Marcus through the darkened camp, threading between the leather tents until they reached the headquarters tent, three times the size of those designed to house a ten-man tent party. Inside, dimly lit by the guttering flames of oil lamps, a large wooden table dominated the space, scrolls neatly stacked across its width indicating that it would be a hive of administrative activity during daylight hours. In one corner a hanging screen rendered the prefect’s quarters private, a pair of fully armed soldiers from the 5th Century providing immediate protection for their commanding officer. Frontinius coughed discreetly, the slight noise summoning his superior from behind the screen.

Equitius nodded to them both, indicating the seats that clustered around a low table in another corner of the tent.

‘Centurion, news of your exploits travels before you. If I am to believe the dispatch relayed to me by the local prefect, your century, in the course of a simple search mission, found and destroyed not only a barbarian scouting party, but fifty head of cattle that had apparently been gathered to feed an enemy warband. Is this correct?’

Marcus nodded, dropping wearily into the proffered chair.

‘Yes, sir.’

Frontinius remained silent while the prefect pulled at his beard in a distracted manner.

‘I was afraid of that. You present us, young man, with something of a quandary. On one hand, you are still, had you forgotten, a wanted man, with a hefty price on your head. On the other, you are the hero of the hour, responsible for turning back an enemy warband, which might well have been ten or fifteen thousand strong, for the loss of two men. Prefect Licinius is singing your praises to anybody that will listen, and has already sent me a formal request for an interview with you. Probably wants to offer you a position with the Petriana, something better fitted to the well-bred young man you so obviously are… And there’s the main problem. Once the euphoria wears off it’ll take him about five minutes to start asking all sorts of difficult questions, and it doesn’t take a top-class mind to see where that’ll end up. If, however, I refuse him permission to speak to you, his questions will be addressed to a wider, and infinitely more dangerous, audience. I am still undecided as to my best course of action…’

Marcus nodded.

‘Prefect, I’ve given it much thought in the last few hours. Perhaps I have a solution, for tomorrow at least.’

He spoke for a moment, gauging the other man’s reaction. Equitius mulled over his idea briefly, nodding his assent.

‘From first light, mind you. Let’s not risk Prefect Licinius being an early riser. Very well, dismissed.’

Marcus and Frontinius stood to leave. Equitius turned away and then back again as a thought occurred to him.

‘Oh, and Centurion…’

‘Prefect?’

‘Excellent work. Sleep well.’

Outside the tent, Frontinius put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder to detain him. His eyes glinted in the torchlight, his face expressionless in the heavy shadows.

‘You took your whole century back over the Wall to save the life of a single soldier?’

Marcus nodded soberly.

‘Yes. In retrospect it seems a little far fetched, but yes, First Spear, I did.’

He waited for the storm. To his amazement, the older man looked at him strangely for a moment, nodding slowly.

‘In the best traditions of the Tungrians, whether you knew it or not. Very well done, Centurion, very well done indeed.’

Marcus frowned.

‘But what if I’d lost the whole century trying to save one man? I’ve thought of little else since it happened.’

Frontinius looked at him in the torchlight, shaking his head.

‘There are two types of successful officer, those that do the right thing, and those that are born with Cocidius’s favour. The latter can take audacious risks and get far better odds than just following the field manual. You’re lucky, Centurion. Keep it that way.’ Antenoch woke Marcus before dawn, shaking insistently at his shoulder until the centurion stirred, swinging his feet from the camp bed and on to the floor.

‘Dawn, centurion, and time you were dressed for the day. Here, drink this.

A beaker of warm honey, diluted by a substantial quantity of wine, opened Marcus’s eyes well enough. The tent’s interior, lit by a single lamp, was dark and oppressive, while a steady drumming on the tent’s oiled leather roof puzzled his senses for a moment.

‘Pissing down. A great day for serving out your penalty. The night watch took great delight in pointing out that it’ll probably rain until midday at this rate when they woke me up. Fucking 2nd century.’

Marcus groaned softly, struggling to his feet. A swift wash in the bowl of water Antenoch had brought in with him enlivened his senses, while the rest of the honey drink warmed his stomach sufficiently to make the task of getting into uniform a welcome distraction from dwelling on the conditions outside. Antenoch helped him into his cloak, and then went to look out of the tent flap while Marcus took a final deep breath, resigned to being soaked to the skin within ten minutes of stepping out into the downpour.

‘Your escort’s here.’

Puzzled, he went to look through the flap. Outside, grinning happily through the rainswept grey morning, were four of the 9th’s soldiers wrapped in their own cloaks, each man holding a wooden pole attached to some kind of hastily improvised wooden framework, across which was strung what looked suspiciously like the remains of a ten-man tent. The scout they had rescued the previous day was closest to the tent door, solemnly gesturing him under the shelter of their portable roof. Antenoch shook his head in amused wonder.

‘Stupid bastards, spent half the night putting the bloody thing together. I told them that standing about in the rain all day might make you think twice about taking on five times our number of enemy horse next time the chance presents itself, but they insisted…’

Marcus walked out under the sheltering leather, shaking his head with speechless wonder. Cyclops, the one-eyed miscreant, freed one hand to salute.

‘Where to, sir?’

Stirring himself, Marcus found his voice.

‘To the headquarters tent… gentlemen, I really don’t…’

Another of the soldiers, a gaunt-faced man with a heavy facial scar down one cheek, spoke up gruffly, holding up his right hand to contain Marcus’s protest.

‘The entire century wanted this, sir, so don’t be worrying about us. There’ll be another four men along in a while so’s we can go and have a warm. Now, lads, on the command march, to the head shed, march!’

They paraded through the camp’s empty streets, drawing amazed stares from the guards mounted at each century’s section of the camp, men huddled together against the rain peering incredulously in the growing light, until they reached the headquarters tent. Frontinius peered through the tent door, stepping out into the rain with his eyes wide. The four soldiers stared resolutely at the lightening sky, while Marcus squirmed uneasily at the prospect of his superior’s opinion. Having walked around the contraption once in complete silence, his immaculate boots beading with rain drops, the First Spear turned to address a nervous Marcus.

‘I have to say that for the first time in twenty-two years of service I am quite genuinely amazed. You, Scarface, what’s the meaning of this?’

‘The Ninth Century cares for its own, sir. We won’t be letting our young gentleman catch his death of cold…’

And he shut up, his face red with the pressure of having answered the cohort’s senior soldier back.

‘I see…’

Centurion and men waited with bated breath for the law to be stated.

‘Nothing in the manual specifically states that an officer on administrative punishment can’t be sheltered from heavy rain by four soldiers with a tent lashed to a wooden frame. Even if at least one of the soldiers concerned is famous throughout his cohort for holding the opinion that most officers aren’t fit to scrape out the latrines after him…’

‘Scarface’ went an even deeper shade of red.

‘… so, is there room for another under there?’

Marcus gestured to the space next to him. Ignoring the indignant eyes of the roof-bearers, Frontinius stepped in from the rain, taking his helmet off and shaking the drops from its bedraggled crest. He regarded Marcus with a sideways glance, sweeping a hand across his pale scalp to catch the odd raindrops gleaming there.

‘And now, Centurion Two Knives, since you have me as a captive audience, you may tell me all about your exploits of yesterday.’

When Prefect Licinius appeared after breakfast, he too came up short at the sight of the rain cover. What put the honey in that particular cake, Morban later confided to Dubnus, was the fact that custody of the four poles was in the process of being transferred from one four-man group to another. The cavalryman had watched, speechless, while the eight men transferred the cover from one group to another with the precision of a legion parading its eagle. When the handover was finished, and the outgoing men had completed the effect by marching smartly around the corner of the headquarters tent before collapsing in stifled laughter, the prefect approached, taking in the silent centurion and his First Spear. The latter was happily chatting away about the fighting habits of their enemy, and affecting not to have noticed the senior officer.

‘… whereas the warband, you see, is usually a one-shot weapon. The tribal leader points them in the right direction, whips them up into a frenzy, and then lets them run wild. Which can be a problem if they need to be turned around for any reason, since you can’t just…’

He snapped to attention, shouting to Marcus and the roof-bearers to follow his example. Licinius, having thus been formally recognised, strolled forward, nodding to Frontinius and staring with visible envy at the mobile roof while rain beat at his oiled leather cape.

‘At ease, First Spear.’

Frontinius relaxed, throwing the tribune an impeccable salute.

‘Prefect Licinius, sir, welcome to the First Tungrian camp.’

The prefect returned the salute with casual ease, stepping close enough to gain some shelter from the incessant rain.

‘First Spear Frontinius. Might one ask the purpose of this…?’

He waved an arm vaguely at the scene, raising an eyebrow at the sober-faced Frontinius.

‘Prefect this centurion is under administrative punishment, one day’s parade in full uniform and withdrawal of speech. For exceeding the remit of written orders specified by Prefect Equitius in that he took his century over the Wall to rescue one of his men and ended up having to be rescued by you.’

‘And the prefect himself?’

‘Out with four centuries, sir, patrolling down towards the North Road.’

‘And this?’

He gestured again at the rain cover, its roof sagging slightly with the weight of water soaked into the oiled leather.

‘Simple, sir. It would appear that this young officer has instilled sufficient pride in his men that they regard the punishment of one as a collective duty.’

The other man smiled gently, recognising the deflection of any comment he might have regarding the shelter’s legal irregularity.

‘I see. Very well, First Spear, please inform the centurion that I’m sorry to have missed the chance to meet him properly. The Petriana is ordered to conduct a reconnaissance in force to the west, to discover the exact dispositions of our blue-nosed friends. Doubtless we’ll get another chance, though. Quite amazing…’

He turned and walked away, shaking his head in disbelief. Frontinius waited until he was out of sight, stepping out from beneath the rain cover and eyeing the steadily lightening clouds with a critical gaze.

‘It’ll have stopped within the hour. Very well, Centurion Two Knives, I hereby commute your punishment to confinement to your tent until dusk. Get some sleep; your century has the night guard. Doubtless the Prince will be keen to introduce you to the art of aggressive night patrolling…’

Marcus slept soundly, despite the noise of the camp, until Antenoch shook him awake again at sunset; he wolfed down a plate of cold meat and bread and went in search of his chosen man, closely followed by his clerk. Dubnus was detailing the guard roster for the night, counting the century off into tent parties and giving each one a part of the Tungrians’ area of the camp to patrol. When he was finished, one last eight-man group of soldiers remained in front of the headquarters tent, a collection of older men, more than one bearing the scars of previous skirmishes. He spoke quietly into Marcus’s ear.

‘These are the best men for a night patrol, steadier than some of the others. We’ll go over the Wall, up into the trees on the high ground, then wait and listen. This is a good camp, but we’ve used it many times before, so it ought to be known to the enemy. The tribes will have scouts out, and will try to infiltrate men in to watch the camp, perhaps even snatch a sentry or an officer from his tent. We hear them, we stalk them, and we kill them. Simple. You’ll learn some new skills tonight. Morban can stand in as watch officer while we’re out in the forest.’

He passed Marcus a thick wooden stave and a length of black cloth.

‘Your cloak will hide you in the forest and keep you warm. Wrap the cloth around your head until your helmet’s full, it’ll keep your head warm and offer some protection if you get hit on the head. The club’s a lot better for fighting in the dark than a sword, but the other side will be using clubs of their own.’

Turning to Antenoch, standing to one side with a large and distinctly non-regulation sword strapped across his back, he waved a hand dismissively.

‘We won’t need you tonight. Stay here, and guard your tent.’

Antenoch turned away impassively and disappeared into the surrounding shadows.

‘I still don’t trust him. Better if we leave him behind, and avoid the risk of a knife in the back.’

He led the party through the gap in the earth wall and up a shallow slope towards the dark treeline at a slow trot. As they reached the trees the patrol flattened themselves against the cold earth, waiting in silence for Dubnus to decide whether it was safe to move. Marcus stared out into the maze of tree trunks, his night vision slowly improving as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Dubnus muttered into his ear.

‘Look to one side of what you want to see. Seeing in the darkness is better from the corner of the eye than the centre.’

It was true. He looked into the forest, seeing the tree branches sway gently as a breeze lifted their leaves, and heard the distant hoot of a hunting owl. Below them, huddled into the river bend, the camp squatted in its solid bulk, studded with the pinprick light of torches at each guard position. Behind it loomed Cauldron Pool’s fort, its whitewashed walls standing out in the gloom to his now completely night-adjusted eyes. At length Dubnus nodded to the patrol, splaying three fingers forward. Two groups of three men moved silently into the trees, heading to left and right, while Dubnus led Marcus and the remaining soldier forward to their own listening position, a hundred yards inside the forest wall.

They padded slowly and quietly through the tree trunks, fallen twigs crackling minutely under their boots. Marcus copied Dubnus’s exaggerated steps and slow, cautious footfall, each foot searching for larger twigs as it sank to meet the ground, avoiding making any loud noises. At length they settled into their listening post for the night, a space between two fallen trees that Dubnus had clearly used before from the ease with which he found the sheltered spot. Marcus and the other soldier huddled into their cloaks at Dubnus’s whispered suggestion, leaving him to stare out into the silent darkness. Down in the camp, with the troops asleep for the night, and night patrols padding morosely around the perimeter fence, Annius slipped quietly through the ranks of tents, through the doglegged gap in the six-foot-tall earth rampart and up to the stone-built fort’s walls. A pair of soldiers stepped forward with their spears levelled, letting him past and into the fort once it was established that he was on official business. Since the fort was more or less a duplicate of the Hill, he found his way to the supply building quickly enough, and knocked quietly on the door, slipping quickly inside as soon as it opened.

The storeman closed the door behind him, sliding a pair of massive iron bolts into their sockets, turned and silently beckoned Annius to follow him. At the rear of the storeroom he opened another, smaller door, gesturing the quartermaster through in front of him. A small personal room lay beyond, well lit by oil lamps, the walls insulated against the cold air outside by hanging carpets, while a flask of wine and a tray of small honey cakes decorated a delicately carved wooden table. A man lounged on a couch by the room’s far wall, nodding graciously to Annius and indicating the couch’s companion on the other side of the small table.

The quartermaster arranged himself on the couch in a dignified silence, waiting for his host to speak first. With this, as with any other negotiation, every tiny advantage was to be sought. The other man waited another moment before stirring himself to lean on an elbow, baring his teeth in a cockeyed smile below calculating eyes.

‘So, friend and colleague Annius. When your mob marched in yesterday I wondered how long it would be before you and I were doing business. Are you buying, or selling?’

Annius pursed his lips, forcing his face to stay neutral.

‘A little of both, my trusted friend Tacitus.’

‘Excellent! Here’s to a mutually profitable exchange!’

They drank, both sipping politely at the wine rather than risk its effects on their skills. Tacitus gestured to the cakes, and took one himself in the age-old gesture of trustworthiness. Annius nibbled at another.

‘These are good.’

‘My own baker, in the vicus. You’ll take a dozen, as my gift?’

‘I’m grateful.’

And down a bargaining point already. He fished in the folds of his cloak, passing the other man a small wooden box.

‘Saffron?’

‘The best Persian. I remembered your affection for the spice. Perhaps your baker can use it to good effect.’

And up two. The spice had cost him a small fortune, but put Tacitus in his debt by the rules of the game they routinely played.

‘Well, if you have more of this to sell, our bargaining will be a memorable event…’

‘Unfortunately not the case. That was the last of the traveller’s supply.’

‘A shame. So tell me, brother, what is it you bring to the table?’

‘Little enough — we marched too quickly for detailed preparation. Five jars of Iberian wine, a small quantity of a precious ointment from Judaea… and money.’

‘Money, indeed? You must be keen. And what is it that you seek?’

Damn him for a cool bastard.

‘Information, Tacitus. I have a small local difficulty to manage, and remembering how good your sources have been in the past…’

Tacitus adjusted his position, rising up on one elbow.

‘Ah. Problems with your First Spear? I wondered how long he’d tolerate your ways of making money. I…’

‘No, it isn’t Frontinius. He keeps me on my mettle, makes sure that his men have effective equipment, but he tolerates my provision of the better things in life as a necessary evil. And makes sure that my business pays a healthy percentage to the burial club. No, the problem’s a step lower down the ladder than Frontinius.’

Tacitus’s eyes narrowed with the admission.

‘A centurion? Tell me more…’ Marcus woke again when Dubnus shook his shoulder, nodding silently at the big man’s silent instruction to watch the arc to their front. The chosen man rolled into his cloak and was still, leaving Marcus alone in the darkness. He watched the silent forest with slow head movements, remembering the instruction to use the corner of his vision rather than looking directly at the subject. After a few moments purple spots started to dance in his vision, making him close his eyes for a moment before starting the process again. After an hour or so a faint sound caught his attention, a tiny click out in the trees, but sufficient to snap his senses alert. A moment later there was another, louder, and then again, the almost imperceptible but unmistakable sounds of men moving across the forest floor.

He reached out with a foot and nudged Dubnus awake, keeping his attention focused on the scene to his front. The chosen man rose silently, moving his head alongside that of his centurion.

‘Breaking twigs.’

He pointed in the appropriate direction to back up his whispered warning, then kept silent. Dubnus listened for a moment and nodded, bending close to Marcus’s ear.

‘They’re here. Perhaps too many for us. We’ll sound the alarm and get back into camp. The others will do the same.’

Marcus nodded, shaking the sleeping soldier awake and whispering in his ear to be ready to run. While Dubnus prepared to put the signal horn to his lips, ready to blow the note that would alert the camp, Marcus prepared for the short run back through the surrounding trees. He leant his weight on the stub of a branch, readying himself to vault the fallen tree that formed the rear of their hide. With a rasping cough the stump, rotted through beneath the bark, tore away from the trunk under his weight, the noise echoing out into the forest’s silence. For a moment the silence returned, but then, with a sudden chorus of shouts and yells, came the sound of men running across the forest floor towards them.

With a curse Dubnus put the horn to his lips and blew one high note that drowned out all other sound, tossing the horn away and hefting his club, shouting into the darkness.

‘Ninth, to me!’

Their chance to run was gone, the enemy, alerted by the snapping wood, charging in at them too quickly for flight to be a realistic option. Marcus readied himself, stepping alongside Dubnus and bracing himself for the enemy’s assault with his stave held ready to strike.

A body hurled itself out of the darkness, and was met by a vicious swing of Dubnus’s club. Two more followed, both men going down under the defenders’ blows, and then a torrent of tribesmen assaulted the trio, splitting them into tiny islands of resistance. Marcus swung his stave into one attacker’s belly, releasing it as it caught in the reeling man’s clothing, swept his sword out and stepped forward to strike at another, hamstringing the man as he shaped to attack Dubnus from behind. A massive tribesman stepped into the fight, swinging his own club in an expert backhand to deal a fearsome blow to Marcus’s head. He fell, vision dimming as consciousness slipped away, vaguely aware of a figure standing over him with a sword held high, screaming incoherently as the sword poised for its strike. Frontinius briefed Prefect Equitius an hour later, once the excitement of a full cohort stand-to was over and the centuries had gone grumbling back to their interrupted sleep. He’d been on the scene in minutes with the duty century, but only in time to greet the 9th’s men as they carried their casualties off the hill.

‘It was nothing really, just a few barbarian scouts running into our listening patrols. It was too dark for much serious fighting, and what there was seems to have been scrappy. More like a vicus bar brawl than a real fight. The turning point appears to have been one of our lads going into a blood rage in the middle of the skirmish and slicing up several of the barbarians, after which they seem to have thought better of the whole thing. We’ve got a man dead and two wounded, one light sword wound and a nasty-looking concussion. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the man with the concussion is our very own Roman centurion, his helmet stove in by a barbarian with a strong club arm.’

Equitius groaned.

‘So now he’s stuck in the fort hospital for any and all to see?’

Frontinius shook his head.

‘No, I spent a few minutes with the doctor and had him hidden away in a quiet part of the building, away from curious eyes. I’ve also told the Ninth to keep the news of his injury to themselves. The Prince can run the century for the next day or two.’

Equitius nodded thoughtfully.

‘So this might even work to our advantage, and keep him out of sight until it’s time to deploy into the field.’

Frontinius snorted a mirthless laugh.

‘Yes. And we get to find out if his skull is thick enough to keep his educated brains in one piece, or whether the blue-noses have just solved our problem for us.’ Light pricked at Marcus’s eyes as they struggled to open. He could see only a ball of light, with a dark figure floating behind it. Closing his eyes, and surrendering to the darkness again, and whatever it was that was happening, seemed much the easiest thing to do.

When he woke again the metallic taste in his mouth was gone, and the light that greeted his cautious gaze was that of weak daylight, a pale shaft through a window in one wall of the room in which he lay, still exhausted, in a narrow bed. Underneath heavy blankets he was naked, while his head ached awfully. A familiar voice called out from close by.

‘Orderly! Orderly, you dozy bastard! Fetch the doctor! He’s awake.’

The owner of the voice came back into the room and, fighting his eyes back into focus, Marcus recognised an exhausted-looking Antenoch.

‘Lie still, the doctor’s coming.’

He sat down in a chair at Marcus’s bedside, running a hand through his disordered hair.

‘We thought for a while you might not live, you were out of it for so long. Only the helmet saved you, and you should see the dent in that! You won’t be…’

He stopped in mid-sentence, as another figure entered the room. Marcus gingerly turned his head to see the new arrival, blinking at the sunlight, recognising the doctor with a shock.

‘You… but you’re a…’

‘A woman? Evidently your concussion hasn’t entirely removed your cognitive powers, Centurion Corvus.’

It was the woman from the farm… an image of her fury at the sight of slaughtered cattle flashed into his mind. Felicia…? His memory grasped for the name, making his brow knot with the effort.

… Clodia Drusilla? Felicia Clodia Drusilla! He raised an arm, the limb seeming heavy.

‘Water… please?’

Antenoch put a cup to his lips, the liquid ungluing his mouth and throat.

‘Thank you. Madam, I am…’

‘Surprised?’

Her eyebrow arched in a challenge that Marcus knew was completely beyond his faltering capabilities.

‘… grateful for your care.’

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his body sag against the bed with exhaustion. Her voice reached him, as if from a distant place.

‘And now, Master Antenoch, it’s time for you both to get some proper sleep. Go back to your unit and sleep for at least ten hours. Here, I’ll make it a formal written command… there, “to sleep for ten hours without interruption”. Give that tablet to your chosen man. And tell him that the centurion will be ready to receive visitors tomorrow afternoon at the very earliest…’ Calgus stood astride the Wall with his adviser Aed as the sun set that evening, watching his warriors pouring back to the north through the North Road’s smashed gates. They were moving in good order for the most part, one or two supporting comrades clearly the worse for drink, but if individuals had overindulged in captured wine it was of little concern to him. Behind them the fortress of the Rock was still smearing the sky with the grey reek of its smouldering timbers, while torches were being lit by his marching troops to provide illumination for the night movement. All things considered, he mused, he had enough reason to be satisfied as his first attack played to its close. At length his adviser Aed spoke, his opinions delivered with the customary candour that Calgus valued, where most others would tell him simply what he wanted to hear.

‘So, my king, their Wall is broken, the garrison troops huddle anxiously around their forts to east and west, and their Sixth Legion seems content simply to prevent our advance on Yew Grove. Some of our people see this as victory enough, while others argue for striking west or south and destroying the Roman forces before they can join. We must explain our next moves soon, before the tribes fall to arguing among themselves. A lack of Roman shields to batter will have our peoples at each others’ throats before long.’

Calgus spat on to the Wall’s flat surface, his face twisting into a sneer.

‘I will gut the first men who take swords to their brothers myself, you can let that be known. As for the Romans, I’ve told the tribal leaders that our cleverest move is the one we’re making now, to pull back from the Wall and let them follow into the uncertain lands to the north if they dare. The right move is to pull back, and invite them onwards on to our ground. Of course, it would have been different if our western warband had not failed to break the Wall to the west, behind the traitor cohorts. If we could have put the soldiers waiting to the west between two forests of spears and with no place left to run, that would have been a blade to their guts I would have twisted without hesitation.’

Aed nodded, his face impassive.

‘I understand, my lord. Yet I must tell you that at this moment our only real fear is the warband itself, or more particularly its urgent desire for battle. Real battle. The tribes grumble that their war so far has been one of chasing after fleeing Romans and burning empty forts. Lord Calgus, the northern tribes are clamouring for a proper fight, a fight we currently deny them.’

Calgus nodded at the advice. After the council of the tribes the previous evening he was already aware of the problem. He had called the gathering of tribal leaders knowing that he would at the least have to listen to their arguments for their warriors to run amok down the line of forts that garrisoned the Wall. These were arguments made stronger by the speed with which the defenders had evacuated their forts, rather than fight for their homes. Put simply, the defenders seemed ripe for taking, ready to fall under the tribes’ attacks. He’d listened patiently until their arguments dried up in the face of his silent contemplation. When silence had fallen and all men in the gathering he’d called were waiting for him to say something, he’d voiced his opinion.

‘What you propose is exactly what the legatus commanding that legion down the road to Yew Grove wants, for us to waste our time and strength destroying empty forts. They will simply retreat in front of us, leaving us to spend our energy on pointless destruction. Or worse, they will attempt to pin us between their two forces. I’m not entirely sure our warriors would stand their ground if that happened.’

One of the tribal leaders had stalked forward to stand in front of him, a dead Roman’s head held casually by the hair in one hand, a Roman infantry sword in the other. He turned to the assembled chiefs, holding both in the air above his head.

‘I say we fight! My people have tasted Roman blood, taken heads, taken weapons. To retreat now will bring shame upon us in the eyes of Brigantia — who knows whether she will look with anger upon a retreat in the time of victory, and punish us for avoiding battle.’

The gathering held its collective breath, waiting for Calgus to pounce from his chair, perhaps even draw the sword that hung from his waist and take the other man apart with it for the slur. He was more than capable of such sudden violence, as they all knew from experience. After a long silence, allowing time for the suddenly isolated noble to realise what he had done, Calgus laughed softly. A collective sigh of released breath greeted the sound.

‘Balthus bids us storm more of the Wall forts, while the legion to our south hide in their camp, and yes, we could easily fire another half-dozen of their camps, knock the gates out of a dozen gateways, kill a few hundred careless Romans, take more swords and spears…’

He paused, looking around the gathering, meeting each of the leaders’ eyes in turn.

‘How many heads have we taken already? Five hundred? A thousand? What good will another five hundred do us? Do any of your men lack for swords, or shields? And as for their weapons, well, I ask you… Balthus, would you fight me here and now, man to man, you with that toothpick and me wielding the sword of any other man here?’

He paused again, waiting for the implication to settle in.

‘I thought not. If we delay here we simply give the Romans more time to bring their legions together in a massive armoured fist that will smash our warbands. I have information on that subject, and it isn’t good news. The southern legions started moving north several weeks ago, anticipating our attack, and will be on the Wall inside a week. And when they arrive, my brothers, the western legions will move through the Wall farther to the west, and move east to pin us here on the wrong side of their defences. And then, in all truth, we will be done for, outnumbered and unable to fall back to join the other warbands, and all because we were desperate to win a few more heads and some Roman spears?’

He turned to encompass the gathered nobles with opened arms.

‘We need neither a few hundred heads more nor any number of the Romans’ weapons, suited to their tactic of hiding and stabbing and not to the way we fight, man to man. What we need is to take not five hundred heads, or a thousand, but ten thousand. When a legion’s standard lies on the ground before us, when we have the head of a Roman general pickled in a jar, that will be a victory! On that day, I am certain, the other legions will think carefully before coming north to punish us, but will instead send negotiators to buy peace with us, at a price of our naming. But to achieve that victory, we have to lure that single legion out on to our ground, where we, and not the Romans, choose the place and manner of our meeting. So tell me, my brothers, should we stay for a while here, and win more useless trinkets for our warriors to play with, or shall we follow our intended plan and take a prize worth having?’

He’d prevailed, of course; his argument had been all the more convincing for being correct. Finding the stores at Noisy Valley all but emptied in advance of their arrival had validated the Roman traitor’s other revelation, that the western legions would arrive weeks earlier than he had expected. Now the warband was pulling back from the Wall in good order, its leaders happy enough to follow his direction and keep a muzzle on their men’s urge to fight. Calgus turned to face his adviser, the older man’s face inscrutable in the dusk’s failing light.

‘Your counsel is true, as always, Aed. I’ll give the tribes all the heads they can carry, granted their patience for a few days.’

The Romans could skulk behind their defences for the time being — his warband would have vanished into the north by the time they stirred to follow. The trick now would be tempting the 6th’s legatus to follow them on to a killing ground that Calgus would choose with care. That, and a little inside assistance.