Wounds of Honour

2

Out on the open road, even without the magnifying effect of the tightly packed buildings, the sounds of Marcus’s horse’s hoofs on the road sounded deafening. He steered the animal on to the softer grass verge, diminishing the staccato clatter to a gentle patter. When the stunted tree loomed out of the slowly lightening murk he dismounted, finding the promised sword and shield hidden in a tangle of roots that curled sinuously over the massive boulder around which the oak had flourished. His father, he mused, would have paid a fortune for such a decoration in the house’s courtyard. His father…

The sword’s edge glittered slightly in the moonlight. Marcus touched the blade, his fingers snagging against a razor-sharp line of minutely ragged steel, rough-sharpened for combat, rather than the smooth steel of a peacetime weapon. He’d heard of the practice from old soldiers, but never seen it carried out. Someone expected him to need every small advantage that could be put his way. He remounted, riding cautiously on with an ear cocked for trouble, holding the reins with the hand that gripped the sword’s hilt. Shadows moved and swirled in his vision, purple and black, each eddy in the night’s mist taunting his senses.

At the one-mile marker he thought he could just make out the distant sound of horses’ hoofs in front of him. He halted his own mount to listen in silence, but could hear nothing other than the wind’s moan. Another five minutes of uninterrupted progress relaxed him a little, and he started to worry more about exactly who he would find waiting for him at the two-mile marker than what might happen in the intervening stretch of road. He reached down to pat the horse with the back of his sword hand, as much seeking as offering reassurance.

Looking up, he saw them materialise out of the mist to either side of the road, a pair of horsemen with swords held upright like cavalry troopers on parade. Wanting him to see the weapons, he guessed. He started as a voice spoke in the murk behind him, the Latin made crude by the edges of the man’s German accent.

‘Give up now and we’ll make it easy for you. Run, and these two will have their fun with you before you die.’

Three, or more? Marcus let the sword and shield, already held low from stroking the horse’s mane, slip down against the animal’s flanks, hopefully invisible in the dim grey light of approaching dawn. Curiously unafraid, although his heart was pounding at his ribs with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer, he gently spurred his horse with his boot-heels. Riding steadily towards the horsemen he allowed his body to slump in the saddle, reassuring them that he was already in their grip. Behind him, hoofs clattered on the road’s surface, a fast trot designed to close the distance and put the third man within striking distance. Marcus kicked the horse hard, shouting encouragement into its ear as it surged forward into a gallop. He lifted the sword and shield from their resting places on the beast’s flanks, and into the positions his father’s bodyguard had made him practise thousands of times.

‘He’s armed!’

Bracing himself against the saddle’s projecting horns, and clamping his feet to the horse’s flanks, he pulled the beast towards the man on the right, flinching as something flicked past his head with a vicious whirr. The arrow’s passage was close enough for him to feel the wind of its passing. The men to his front spurred their own horses forward, but his burst of speed caught them by surprise, closing the gap before they could manoeuvre to meet him as they might have wished. Punching out with the shield at the man to his left, he felt the jar of a heavy sword blow-hammer his left arm into numbness. His own weapon, the point thrust forward towards the centre of the other horseman’s indistinct mass as they came together, rang with contact on metal. The sword’s hilt moved in his hand as the blade struck something softer. The pain of the wound was enough to make the horseman wheel his mount away with a shout of anger, leaving a gap through which Marcus’s steed burst with its gathered momentum, too swift for the other man to get in a second attack.

He rode for his life now, crouching low to avoid any more arrows, looking back for any sign of his pursuers in the greyness behind him. A frantic clatter of hoofs behind convinced him to keep the horse at the gallop, angry shouts lending urgency to his efforts. The shield fell from his numb left hand, its layered wood and leather deeply scarred by the sword-blow. Without its protection the blade would almost certainly have taken his arm off.

The horse was starting to pant heavily with the exertion when a figure appeared out of the dawn’s murk at the roadside. In a second Marcus pivoted his mount to put the new threat on his right-hand side, within his sword’s striking arc. He pulled the blade back for the sweeping cut he’d been taught up on the wooden practice horse in the villa’s sunny courtyard almost a decade before, high above the rooftops and fume of the city.

‘Marcus!’

He allowed the weapon to drop from its slashing path, pulling the panting horse up with a hard pull at the reins.

‘Rufius?!’

He jumped down from the saddle, following the older man’s frantic beckoning to bring the horse into the deeper shadow of a small copse that crept close to the road’s edge. The animal, unimpressed by the events of the previous minutes, baulked at moving into the trees’ threatening gloom. Marcus dug his feet in and pulled, and for a second it looked as if they might succeed in finding cover, but the horse’s resistance had removed the slight time gap between him and his pursuers. The two horsemen who had attempted to block his path before rode out of the darkness, as the two men hesitated between fight and flight into the trees. Marcus grabbed for his saddlebag, releasing the horse’s bridle as his hand gripped the oiled cloth, allowing it to bolt into the darkness. Tossing the bag aside, he dropped into a wide-legged fighting stance with the cavalry sword extended, ready to fight. Rufius stepped to his side, unsheathing his shorter infantry sword and lifting a round gladiator’s shield from the ground where he had let it fall. The horsemen slowed their advance and crowded in closer, leaning out of their saddles with swords held ready to strike down at the two men.

At the last moment something flew past Marcus’s head, thudding into the nearer man’s chest and pitching him prone on to the dark road. A moment later a spear arced out of the trees, forcing the other rider to twist in his saddle in desperate evasion, his horse hesitating as the trees’ shadow loomed. As the rider wrestled with his mount’s reins a powerful figure stepped swiftly past an amazed Marcus, swinging a heavy sword in a single brutal blow at the animal’s legs. With an awful scream the animal fell to its knees, hurling its rider untidily on to the ground, where the horse’s assailant finished him with an efficient thrust to the throat. Another blow silenced the animal’s agony in a steaming flow of its blood. The silent attacker stepped back into the trees, vanishing wraith-like into their dark shelter.

The third rider trotted slowly out of the slowly departing night, an arrow ready to loose from his taut bow. The arrow’s point arced slowly across the bloodied scene in search of a target. Marcus shrank back towards the trees, Rufius pulling him into the shield’s inadequate protection, but the archer saw their movement while they were still a good ten feet from the deeper shadows. Straightening in his saddle, he swung the bow to bear on them, bending the bow the last few inches before loosing its arrow. With a berserk howl their rescuer broke from the trees again at a dead run, throwing himself into a forward roll as the mounted archer loosed the arrow at him in a split-second reaction. As the rider’s left hand plucked another arrow from his quiver his attacker rolled out of his dive and sprang forward with his sword, gutting the horse with a single turning thrust. The rider went down under his screaming, dying mount, trapped beneath its dead weight. The massive figure stepped over the dying animal’s trembling neck, lifting his sword for the final kill.

‘Dubnus! No!’

The sword froze in mid-strike, and then withdrew. Tiberius Rufius strode across to the man, slapping him on the back in congratulation.

‘Excellent work, man, worthy of celebration by mighty Mars himself! What a sacrifice you have made to him! Marcus, come and renew your acquaintanceship with my good friend Dubnus!’

Marcus walked across the road to where Rufius and his companion stood over the fallen horse and rider. The other man turned to face him, one hand exploring the muscle of his forearm, and the arrow shaft that protruded from it.

‘The Tungrian…?’

‘Indeed it is. And isn’t he magnificent? I told you that this was a man who knew how to fight, but I had no idea that he would be so good!’

Marcus looked into the Briton’s eyes, seeing there a wary expression, but one lacking the hostility he’d noted there previously.

‘You’re wounded.’

Dubnus shrugged impassively.

‘It didn’t hit anything important, or there’d be more blood.’

He grasped the arrow and adjusted his big fingers experimentally around its shaft, taking a steadying breath. A swift push tore the arrow’s head, narrow but evilly barbed, through the undamaged skin at the back of his arm, the arrow protruding from both sides of the limb. The Briton growled at the pain, a rivulet of blood snaking down his arm to drip from the spread fingers. With a casual twist of the shaft, the arrow broke into two easily removable halves.

‘I wiped… the point… with my shit…’

All three turned to look at the fallen horseman, panting for breath as the injuries inflicted by his dead horse’s weight tightened their grip on his life. Dubnus laughed at him, pulling a bloody finger across his throat.

‘You’re a dead man, I’ve already killed you. I can clean this wound, use herbs and maggots to remove any poison, but your leg is broken. Badly broken, probably bleeding inside. I’ve seen it happen before, takes an hour or so. Perhaps I should help you to die?’

‘Fuck you… blue-nose.’

His eyes found Marcus, widening with recognition.

‘You… traitor…’

Marcus stepped forward, the long cavalry sword still hanging from one hand.

‘You were sent to kill me.’

‘Would’ve… been easy… except for him… keep looking… over your shoulder… no hiding place… for you.’

Rufius gently pushed Marcus to one side.

‘Dubnus, do what you must to make your wound safe for travel. We have to be away from here in ten minutes, no more. Take him with you.’

He squatted down next to the trapped horseman.

‘I need a few minutes with my friend here…’

He waited until the Briton had shepherded Marcus away before slipping an ornately handled dagger from its sheath, and addressing the fallen rider in a quiet conversational tone.

‘Yes, we’re old friends all right. I’m the “officer” you were shouting for those blue-noses to kill yesterday on the North Road. And in fact for a long time I was an officer, and a good one too. I spent several very nasty years patrolling the Tava valley, up past the northern wall, before you idlers gave up our hard-won ground and moved back south to old Hadrian’s Wall. One of the things I learnt to do with complete expertise during my time in that forsaken place was to persuade the local tribesmen we captured to tell us the things they didn’t want to tell us. And now, before you die, I’m going to share that skill with you. So, where shall we begin…?’

Dubnus dropped a heavy hand on Marcus’s shoulder, pulling him farther away from the scene.

‘You don’t want to see that. Stay here and watch my pack.’

He drew his sword and walked to the closest of the fallen horses, pausing to wrest his throwing axe from the chest of his first victim before turning to the man’s horse. Practical necessity overrode any qualms he might have felt about either the man’s death or the use he was about to make of the dead horse. From the moment he’d agreed to do what the former officer had asked of him he’d been working out how to make good their escape, once the Roman was safe from the threat of murder. The veteran officer had disturbed his sleep earlier that night with the request, one that had made him laugh out loud with its audacity once his irritation at being awakened before the dawn call had worn off.

He’d stopped laughing when a bag full of gold had landed on the bed in front of him. The former officer, it seemed, was determined to have his help, and was willing to pay handsomely. It was enough money, Tiberius Rufius had told him, to buy every man in his cohort a decent coat of mail. He’d stopped laughing all right, but the look on his face had made it clear enough to the veteran centurion that he wasn’t going to pick the money up from where it had landed, at least not without a good reason. Which Rufius had proceeded, with a half-smile that signalled how well he understood the Briton, to matter-of-factly provide.

His task complete, Dubnus returned to find Marcus waiting where he had left him. He stuffed the carefully wrapped bundle into his pack and then led the way deeper into the copse, searching in the half-light until he found what he was looking for. The plant glistened in the grey light.

‘Woundwort. Good.’

He ripped a handful of the plant away from its stem, squeezing it hard in a straining fist until a milky fluid dribbled from between his fingers on to the arrow punctures, then reached into his pack, hidden at the foot of a tree, for a strip of cloth.

‘The juice will help to stop the bleeding. Help me to tie it.’

Dubnus wound the cloth around his bulky forearm and allowed Marcus to knot it. A slow red stain seeped through the layers.

‘Tighter… good.’

A shrill scream made Marcus start. The soldier shrugged, regarding the temporary bandage with a professional scrutiny from beneath his heavy eyebrows, a slight smile crossing his face.

‘He’ll talk soon, that German. It’s inevitable. Our friend Rufius will offer him either a quick death or a slow one. Any man that runs from a fight before it is lost will take the easy way out when there’s a knife probing the root of his cock.’

A flush of anger ripped through Marcus’s body, part reaction, part frustration at the uncontrolled spiral of events, and part hot burning disgust at what Rufius was doing to the fallen rider. Spinning, he thrust his face into the soldier’s, snarling his anger into its indifference.

‘Why did you come here? Why save me? You hate Romans!’

‘You’re an outlaw now. The German called you a traitor. You’re not one of them any more.’

The simple reversal of judgement infuriated Marcus, as much for the smug simplicity of its verdict as its perpetuation of the injustice done to his family.

‘I am not a traitor!’

Dubnus pointed into the darkness, to where the screams had sounded.

‘German or not, he’s a Roman. A cavalryman. One of their elite. Why was he hunting you? He must think you are a traitor.’

The Briton watched Marcus as he frowned at the simple verdict, attempting to gauge the man’s mettle, whether he would stand up to the rigours of the coming days. He’d wondered whether the Roman would even be able to make effective use of the weapons they’d hidden for him by the roadside, after they had slipped out of the fort through a hidden door concealed in the wall. The thick oak door had answered the first of his objections, as to how they were going to get out of the fortress without word getting back to Titus. It was faced in stone to match the walls around it, with heavy stone slabs inside the wall poised ready to fall and block the tiny entry if small wedges restraining them were knocked away. He would never have known it was there if he hadn’t been guided to its precise location.

‘It’s designed to allow troops to get out and attack besiegers, or messengers to leave in secret,’ Tiberius Rufius had told him as they forded the river between the fortress and its town on carefully placed stepping stones that lay beneath the river’s slow-moving surface. ‘But it’s a good thing it hasn’t rained hard for a week or so, or the river would be trying a lot harder to pull us off this little bridge.’

They had skirted the town and headed down the road to the two-mile marker, while he hefted his spear and thought darkly about what he was going to do to the German cavalryman if he got the chance. Tiberius Rufius had made the connection for him, pointing out that the man shouting orders to kill him over the din of their little battle could not have been a tribesman with an accent like that. It had been all the bait needed to get the big Briton off his bed and into his mail coat, intended murder in his heart, revenge for the man he’d lost the previous day.

In the event, seeing the Asturian decurion trapped beneath his horse had put out the fire of his bloodlust in an instant. Knowing that the man was doomed to die in agony, his leg shattered under the horse’s massive dead weight, had been enough for him. He had still smiled to himself when the screaming started, though. A man made his choice and lived with the outcome.

Tiberius Rufius appeared out of the dawn’s murk, wiping his dagger with a tuft of grass pulled from the roadside.

‘Well, at least that was easier than it might have been. We must leave this place, and quickly. Dubnus, we need to make good speed, but be well away from the road before the first patrols get this far. Lead us, if you will.’

The Briton nodded, turning away towards the indistinct hillside above them and picking up his pack pole and spears.

‘Come.’

For a wounded man he made good time, grinding across the hard winter ground at a pace that had Marcus breathless inside ten minutes, their path climbing steadily up and away from the road. He glanced back at Rufius, bringing up the rear with an alert eye to all sides, to find that he was striding out without any sign of trouble. Returning his energy to putting one boot in front of the other time after time after time, he concentrated on the Briton’s muscular back. Weeks of travel, by sea and on horseback, had done little to help his fitness. After about fifteen minutes of increasing physical torture Dubnus stepped off the line of their march, leading them into the shade of a small huddle of trees. A patch of scorched earth in the middle of the tiny grove showed where a fire had burned quite recently. Dawn had come and gone, and the first glint of sun was edging the horizon. Below them the road was still, trees along its verges casting stripes of dark shadow across the landscape. The Briton gestured down towards the road.

‘This is a good place to camp, the fire shows as much. A moving man is easily seen from here in the dusk or dawn, his shadow will stretch across the land. It is a good defence for us, but will make us vulnerable if we move any farther until the sun gets higher. We’ll have to wait here until the sun clears the horizon.’

Marcus stood with his head back, sucking in the cold morning air with his eyes closed. Somewhere in the gloom a crow cawed hoarsely, echoing his mood. Dubnus prodded him in the stomach.

‘You’re soft. A soldier has to march all day, then dig out a camp before eating or sleeping.’

Marcus opened his eyes and grimaced in return, looking up at the Briton’s relaxed posture. Only the slight rise of steam from his skin in the half-light gave any hint of his recent exertion.

‘I am a soldier… I’ve just been without real exercise for too long.’

Rufius raised a sympathetic smile, almost hidden in the dawn’s meagre light.

‘If it helps, my legs ache too. It’s been too long since I had to cover country at that pace, but Dubnus has got us away safely, and that’s what counts. Now, let’s talk, you and I. Dubnus, do me a favour and keep watch.’

The Briton took the hint, moving quietly away to the edge of the small copse to watch the road below their hiding place. Tiberius Rufius took Marcus by the arm, pulling him down into a conspiratorial squat. The Roman huddled into his cloak, shivering as the sweat cooled on his body.

‘You met with the legatus, I presume?’

Marcus snorted, his lip curling.

‘The legatus? Yes, he had me thrown to those wolves.’

Tiberius Rufius nodded his head.

‘Indeed he did, and he no choice in doing so. Calidius Sollemnis did no more than he had to in order to be sure that he looked the model servant of Rome. In all truth it was his tribune Perennis who set the Asturians on you, the same way that he ordered the attack on us yesterday. I would have been sure of that even if our deceased Asturian friend back down there hadn’t just confirmed it. Forget the carefully posed interview, consider what else has happened in the last few hours. The legatus had a trusted centurion pick you up from the inn and stay with you all the way to the gate. Without that safeguard it’s likely that you would have been conveniently knifed before getting anywhere near your horse. Sollemnis also had me leave you the weapons that saved you from the Asturians, and wait for you down the road at a place where we might escape into the forest and evade pursuit. He knows what Perennis is capable of, and he took every step possible to fend off the man’s efforts to have you killed.’

‘And the Briton?’

‘The first time he saved your life was pure luck, and fortune of the finest quality given the fact we’d have been dead men without his intervention. I’d say Fortuna smiles on you, Marcus Valerius Aquila. The second time, well, that was my own doing. People who plan for the worst have a tendency to survive when it actually happens, so I took steps to make sure that I was using my own dice for the game.’

He paused for a moment and looked the younger man square in the eye, as if weighing up his state of mind.

‘And now, Centurion, there are things you have to know before we leave this place. None of them are pleasant, but then you find yourself in a difficult place with very limited options. You must fully understand your situation before you can decide how to face it.’

Marcus met his gaze with a level stare.

‘I’ve been sent across Oceanus to the very edge of the world on a fool’s errand, ambushed twice in two days by men I do not know intent on my murder, and informed in casual terms of the downfall of my father, previously a respected senator of Rome. I’m not sure you can make that picture very much bleaker, Tiberius Rufius, but if there’s more to tell then I am ready.’

‘Bravely put, Valerius Aquila. And you can drop the formalities. My forename is Quintus, and I’d be proud to count you as a close enough friend to use it. Now then, where to start? Legatus Sollemnis received a message from your father twenty days ago, stating that he feared for your family’s safety in the current political climate in Rome. The senator wrote to warn Sollemnis of his decision to have you sent as far away from Rome as possible. He asked Sollemnis to hide you away from his enemies, as a last favour to a friend. This, of course, was no idle request — he was asking his friend to defy the throne and harbour a man who would swiftly be named as a traitor.

‘When I met with Sollemnis last evening it was already clear to him that Tigidius Perennis would be his main problem. You’ve probably guessed by now that he’s the son of your praetorian prefect, a man closer to the throne than you may know. What you don’t know is that his appointment as a tribune on the Sixth’s staff was imposed on Sollemnis last year. At the time he took it as a clear signal that Emperor Commodus, or at least the men who stand behind him, intended to be assured of his loyalty. After all, three legions and a dozen auxiliary cohorts is a lot of spears, the biggest single concentration of troops in the entire empire, and that could be an irresistible temptation to a man of the senatorial class with ambition. Sollemnis mistakenly thought that Perennis had simply been appointed to spy on his actions, but since his arrival this new tribune’s actions have gone well beyond simple spying. He’s subverted the Asturian cavalry to do his dirty work, and Sollemnis is convinced that he’s planning to take command of the legion if ever he gets the chance.’

Marcus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘A tribune? Unseat an imperial general officer? How likely is that?’

‘With the right authority? With a scroll of authority embossed with the correct seals, and with the legion’s most senior officers in no doubt as to their fate if they jumped the wrong way? Easier than you might think, I’d say. When, at the right time, Tigidius Perennis brings out his letter of authority, complete with the imperial seal, half a dozen men find themselves harking back to quiet conversations with the man. Flattery, offers of promotion and veiled threats to loved ones from a clever young man of the highest influence and absolutely no scruples. I’d put good money on Sollemnis finding himself at the wrong end of the spear very quickly in such a situation. He knows that he has very good reason to behave in a manner that provides no opportunity for Perennis to make his move.

‘So, the legatus originally thought that it would be relatively simple to send you across to the Twentieth Legion at Deva, under the supervision of their legatus, if he could just keep you from Perennis’s attention. The Twentieth’s man owes him a favour or two, apparently. A second messenger arrived, two days ago, an urgent dispatch from Rome, and carried by a courier I’ve met a few times before. Once I got a few drinks into him he was happy enough to discuss the stories he’d heard around the palace before he left. Your father had been arrested for the crime of conspiracy against the throne, and was… questioned on your disappearance, but even in extremis refused to give any clue as to your whereabouts. All they could wring out of him, after days of suffering, was that he’d sent you to the ends of the empire, out of their reach. His remains were scattered for the crows, denied the burial rites to avoid there being any rallying point for your family’s supporters. You should be proud of him, Marcus Valerius Aquila; by dying in such ignominy, but with such dignity, he brought great honour to your name. But suspicion obviously fell on your tribune, and he told Commodus’s men everything they wanted to know as soon as they came for him. Hoping to save himself from torture, it seems. Fool. It would have been easier on him if he’d just fallen on his own sword while he had the chance. The elder Perennis was so furious that you slipped from his grasp just as he was ready to move on your family, he had his thugs torture Tribune Scarus to death just trying to prove his story false.

‘The instructions from Rome were simple enough. As far as Sollemnis was concerned, you were to be detained and returned to the capital at the first opportunity, day or night. A private message for Perennis was delivered by the same courier, and it wasn’t too hard to guess what orders that contained. Once the senior officer at Dark Pool fortress reported you as being on the road to Yew Grove, I was sent south in secret to find you. I was to provide you with whatever protection I could until you reached the city. In the meantime Sollemnis decided to take five cohorts out into the country on a no-warning exercise, to avoid your walking into the fortress before he was ready to receive you. He knew I’d keep you out of trouble until he got back.

‘When he arrived back at Yew Grove late last night, Sollemnis had no choice but to “deal with you”, and provide clear evidence of his loyalty to the throne, but he had time to set me to work again, preparing your escape from the death that Titus Tigidius Perennis had planned for you…’

Rufius looked at him for a long moment before reaching out a hand, patting his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance that was not mirrored in his troubled eyes.

‘Marcus, there comes a moment in every man’s life when he must shoulder the full burden of his fate, accept his own death or, worse, the death of those he loves. This, I regret, is your moment. Read the scroll you were ordered to bring here.’

Marcus cut away the protective wax seal and opened the box containing his father’s last message, turning the unrolled parchment to the morning’s slowly brightening eastern horizon. My son, may the gods have remained with you, you are by now safe in northern Britannia, and far distant from the throne’s vengeance. You are reading this message at the suggestion of the man to whom I have entrusted your fate. By the time you reach Britannia, I expect that Commodus and his supporters will have laid formal charges of treason at our family’s door. I will have been tortured for information as to your whereabouts, then killed without ceremony or hearing. I can only hope that my persecutors will have been kinder with your mother and our other children and relatives, although I doubt it. This emperor brings evil out from under the stones that have long concealed it, and few men display less honour in their deeds than your praetorian prefect, Perennis. Whatever the ugly detail of their ending, our kindred will be taken and killed out of hand, our honour publicly denounced, and our line almost brought to an abrupt full stop. You are almost certainly all that remains of our blood.

My purpose in bribing your tribune to send you to my friend is a simple one. He will, I am confident, undertake to send you deeper into that harsh and difficult country and hide you among his friends, out of sight of the throne’s hunting dogs. I apologise gravely for not sharing my intention with you, as should have been the case between men. Your sense of honour, so carefully instilled by years of patient teaching, would only have tripped you before you could fly. Our conversation on the night of your sister’s birthday proved to me that you had no comprehension of the fate looming over our proud house. I chose therefore to make your flight one that required no such understanding.

So now you are in Britannia, if all has gone well. You must think hard now, despite your sorrow, and act with decision and courage. You are the last of our line, the only blood left unspilt from a once distinguished family. Your task now must be to preserve that blood, to hide it from the hunters until the chase is abandoned, perhaps even until the man on the throne has changed. You alone must judge the right time to emerge from hiding, and how much vengeance to seek at that point, depending on your circumstances. Remember, my son, revenge is a morsel best savoured at leisure, rather than hot from the oven, lest you burn your own mouth. In truth, it would be enough for me to know that our blood will be passed on to later generations. For our honour to be restored would be more then I could expect.

I only ask, for your grandfather’s sake if not for mine, that you do not despair of this last request. I know that you loved the old man, and would like you to know that your military training and position were mostly at his request, a promise I gave him on his deathbed. Certainly I had no will to resist the last desire of a dying man, as I hope will now be the case with this request I make of you, since I am most certainly doomed.

I wish you, and the future of our line, the best of luck. May Mercury guide your steps and Mars strengthen your sword-hand.

Your father, Appius Valerius Aquila

Marcus looked up from the scroll and stared bleakly at the older man. Rufius took a deep breath before speaking again.

‘Sollemnis tells me that your father had the misfortune to be both wealthy and a man of honour and intelligence at a time when both made him a target. No emperor can afford to leave any survivors when he removes a perceived threat to his greatness, for the fear of their becoming a rallying point for discontent. Worse, most guard commanders will tell you that almost anyone can be killed, if the assassin has no concern for his escape once the deed is completed — if he has nothing left to live for. It’s a usual precaution for the emperor to order the death of all males in any family he moves against, an essential task of the praetorians, I’m afraid… I’m sorry, but your father is almost certainly dead. Did you have any brothers?’

The younger man nodded, swallowing painfully.

‘A younger brother. He’s… was… ten…’

‘I’m sorry… So you see, this is that moment of which I spoke. You are the only surviving male of your family, the last of your bloodline. If you die, your father and grandfather’s line will be snuffed out for ever. But you’re going to have to take a part in your own protection. Neither I nor Dubnus can run around looking after you for the next ten years, and so…’

Marcus nodded his understanding, took a deep breath and got to his feet, stooping to pick up the razor-sharp cavalry sword.

‘And I certainly won’t knowingly endanger either of you any further. You’ve both already done more than enough. I’ll find some way to escape the pursuit…’

Rufius looked up at him with a gentle smile, shaking his head in bemusement.

‘Brave enough talk, my lad, but likely to see you dead before dusk tonight. What’s needed now isn’t nobility, but mobility. You need to be somewhere else, as far from here as can be managed. And, much as it pains me to tell you this, you must also become someone else, another man entirely, and take on a name as far removed from the one you’ve used with pride all these years as possible.’

Dubnus turned to face them across the grove. Marcus met his frank stare with a shrug.

‘You’re right. This is your country, not mine. So tell me, where should I go?’

Rufius exchanged glances with Dubnus, and then continued.

‘What I was going to say was that neither Dubnus nor I can be absent from our usual routines for long. I would quickly be missed, and suspicions about my role in all of this will already be high enough, and Dubnus is expected back on duty with his unit on the Wall in a few days. We do, however, have an idea of how we can spirit you away from under your enemies’ noses, and hide you in a place they’d never consider. Your part will be to do everything and anything Dubnus tells you to, from now until he delivers you to your destination. Perhaps you can find a way of repaying him…’ He lowered his voice. ‘… although I’d advise against offering him money.’

Marcus nodded slowly, his face still white from the shock of reading his father’s message.

‘I will do whatever I have to. I have no choice. My name…’

Rufius grimaced.

‘It’s never easy to jettison something as close to your identity as the name your father gave you, especially under such circumstances, but you have no choice. You need a simple name, one to let you fade into the background of this bloody story and be lost to view from Rome. Your forename should remain the same, there’s no sense in risking your being caught out in your deception when there’s no need. As for clan and family…’

He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then thrust a hand into his bag.

‘For a clan name, I suggest this…’

Resting on his outstretched palm was a device constructed of four metal spikes heat-welded together, their points bright iron teeth.

‘It’s a tribulus. Strew a few thousand of these in front of a cohort and you’ve removed any danger of cavalry or chariot attack. See, no matter how you drop it to the ground, there’s always one nasty little point sticking up to wreck a horse’s hoof, and it’ll make a mess of a blue-nose foot too.’

Marcus picked up the vicious device.

‘It’s bent.’

Rufius nodded, taking the tribulus and wrapping his fist around it.

‘My own modification. See, a small change to the spikes’ angles makes it the perfect close-combat weapon if you lose your sword.’

A single spike protruded from between his fingers, two more poked out from either side of his fist, while the last stuck straight out from his palm.

‘However I choose to punch a man with this I’ll always have a nice length of iron in front of my fist. This one’s yours, I’ve got another one in my bag, and you never know when you might find that little toy your only weapon. So, for your clan name I suggest “Tribulus”. Seems quite appropriate, given the way you keep fighting back no matter which way up fate throws you. As for a family name…’

The distant crow cawed again, its harsh call cutting through the crisp morning air. Marcus lifted his head, looking out across the bleak landscape laid out below them.

‘There’s your answer — “Corvus” — it will serve to remind me how my father was mistreated even after his death. And it’s as good as any other name if I have to abandon the one my ancestors have used with pride since the expulsion of the ancient kings from the city…’

Rufius put a hand on his shoulder.

‘You’re not abandoning anything, just burying it here for a while, along with everything else that can betray you to your pursuers. Work the new name through your mind until you consider yourself as Marcus Tribulus Corvus. If the right gods smile on you, you’ll be safe at the Hill in a matter of days, and once there you’ll have to be comfortable with your new identity.’

‘The Hill? Where’s that?’

Rufius’s face creased in a rueful grin.

‘Where’s the Hill? At the end of the world, that’s where. Dubnus, it’s time for you both to leave…’

The Briton pondered for a moment. To their west rose the Pennine mountains, still snow-capped with retreating winter, a bleak killing field with little cover if the inevitable searching cavalry patrols came upon them. A long climb would take them to the peaks, another day’s march would drop them back on to the lowlands on the far side. There they would find safer ground, another legion’s territory, although he knew that the ripples from the slaughter he’d inflicted on the Roman’s pursuers would still spread wide. Taking the fugitive to the north, on the other hand, would take them off the road, but into the forests, dangerous beyond belief for a pair of men, one in the hated armour of Rome, the other very much an unknown quantity. Even if the cavalry sword in his grip was edged with blackened dried blood.

‘I will take him over the mountains to the west.’

Rufius nodded agreement.

‘And I need to be back about my business, away from the pair of you, at least for now.’

He embraced Marcus briefly, stepping back to appraise the younger man one last time.

‘Farewell, then, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, we’ll meet again in the north, Mars willing. My horse is safe in the woods below, so I’ll leave you to it.’

He nodded to Marcus, clasped hands with Dubnus and started back down the slope. The Briton turned to face Marcus, unwrapping a bundle that Rufius had left behind.

‘Clothes and boots, as worn by my people. Rufius bought them for you in Yew Grove. Let’s hope they fit. Also, a blanket, and a nice heavy hooded cape to keep you dry in the rain.’

Fit they did, although they were a rude surprise to Marcus after the quality of his own clothing, rough material and ill-made boots that chafed his feet before he’d even started walking. They buried his tunic, cloak and boots to prevent their discovery, wrapping his gold cloak pin and the message from his father in their folds, and marked their position with a small pile of rocks. Dubnus strapped the cavalry sword to his right hip.

‘Better I throw it to you if it comes to a fight. What would a roughly dressed peasant like you be doing with such a fine weapon? You can have it back when we reach the Hill.’

He wiped mud across the younger man’s face to complete the transformation, standing back to admire his handiwork.

‘You’ll pass. Your hands are too soft, you need to get some dirt under your nails, and your hair is too short, but we’ll cut it even shorter once we’ve got the time, make it look military. You’re a tribesman now, my nephew in fact, and I’m taking you to join my cohort at the Hill… Cocidius forgive me. Anyone talks to us, you keep your mouth closed, your head down and you let me do the talking. Very well, let’s march.’

He turned to leave, shouldering his pack pole and spears. Marcus tested his new boots by walking a few paces, grimacing at their fierce grip on his feet.

‘So how far is it to the Hill?’

‘One hundred and fifty miles, seven days’ march for a legionary. We’re going to march at that pace, like legionaries. Your legions use the roads they build to move fast and concentrate dispersed forces to gain superior strength before they attack, it’s their strongest weapon against the rebel tribes because it multiplies their strength. Now we’re going to use their roads to get you away from their patrols.’

Marcus nodded his acknowledgement of the point.

‘I’m impressed with your knowledge.’

Dubnus snorted, his nostrils flaring as he looked at the bedraggled Roman.

‘You look at me and see a barbarian in Roman armour. You view me with Rome’s contempt, or something close to it, because that’s what you’ve been taught. I’m an educated man, and a soldier in a country where soldiers are guaranteed to see action several times over their term of service, even if only in dirty little skirmishes with locals. Let me tell you, you can die in a skirmish just as easily as in a full-scale gang fuck unless you’re trained and ready. I will start to train and ready you as we travel north.’

Marcus smiled wanly.

‘At the speed you promise to travel you may kill me first.’

The Briton shook his head slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his eyes.

‘Far from it. Instead I’ll give you the stamina of a Tungrian by the time we reach the Hill.’

Marcus rolled his eyes to heaven in mock despair.

‘Or kill me trying. Gods help me!’

Dubnus, unable to retain his outrage, replaced it with an evil smile.

‘Roman gods won’t save you now. You belong to me, and you’re just a recruit as far as I’m concerned, and therefore subject to a new god. My god, Cocidius, a warrior god, a hunter god. So run, master recruit. Run!’

They ran, Marcus gulping the cold upland air deep into his bursting lungs. Between education and exercise it threatened to be a long week.