Wounds of Honour

8

Legatus Sollemnis arrived on the Wall at the Rock with the Sixth Legion’s cavalry detachment shortly after darkness fell two nights later. The rest of the legion was more than thirty miles back down the road to Yew Grove, encamped after a day slogging their way north at the forced march, and still a day away. He had raced forward to take control of the Wall forces on receiving word from his Asturian scouts, ranging across the frontier zone under Perennis’s command, reports that the barbarian warband was already in the field. Their latest dispatches had Calgus poised to strike down the North Road towards his main eastern strength, and a much greater prize besides. Once past the Rock, the Wall’s eastern gateway, it was less than a five-mile march south to Noisy Valley, his main supply base for the Wall units. This, he suspected, was the prize for which Calgus would commit his strength.

Jumping down from his horse, he hurried into the fort’s headquarters, acknowledging the sentries’ salutes with a distracted wave of his hand. As he’d hoped, not only the cohort’s grim-faced prefect but also his own senior tribune Appius were waiting for him in the lamplight, a map of the area spread across the table in front of them.

‘Gentlemen, I suspect we haven’t much time so I’ll forgo the usual formalities. What’s the situation?’

Appius swiftly painted a picture for him, pointing to the key points on the map.

‘Calgus has thrown at least two-thirds of his force straight down the main road, with no attempt at concealment whatsoever. They’re about ten miles out right now and coming straight on. They’ve already burnt out the fort at Three Mountains, Yew Tree and Red River, and we expect them to do the same to Roaring River very shortly.’

‘What about the garrisons?’

‘The cavalry detachment attached to the Three Mountains garrison seems to have attempted a defence of the fort. A few survivors have straggled in, but from their reports we shouldn’t expect to recover the unit. The Brits seem to have a substantial cavalry force in the field, perhaps five hundred horses.’

‘Fools! Of all the times that we can least afford to lose horsemen… and the detachments at the other forts?’

‘Falling back in good order, sir. It would seem that the sight of burning forts on the horizon got their attention.’

‘At least we can count them into our covering force. What about the Twentieth?’

‘A messenger arrived three hours ago, with bad news, I’m afraid sir. Twentieth Legion won’t arrive for another five days; they’ve had problems of their own with the local tribes. The Second has caught up with them as planned, but they’ve still only got as far as Veterans’ Hill.’

Sollemnis frowned at the news.

‘Still several days out, then, yet how I long for their arrival. Until they join us Calgus has the initiative, and from the way he’s acting I’d say he knows it. I should have put the Sixth in play three days ago, instead of which they’ll arrive footsore and in need of rest late tomorrow.’

He rubbed at tired eyes, shaking his head wryly.

‘I gambled that the delay was compensated by my flexibility to move either side of the mountains if Calgus’s move down the North Road were a feint to distract me from the west. It was a poor guess, despite the strategic sense it made, and so here we are scrambling to catch up with the game.’

He rubbed at his weary eyes again before slapping the table with decision.

‘We shall have to manage with what we have. Prefect Galen, have your men ready to pull out within the hour, and burn everything that will burn. Calgus won’t stop at Roaring River; he needs to keep his men on the move if he’s going to try what I think he intends, so I expect the warband to be knocking at your gates before daybreak. You’re to pull back to the east and link up with the auxiliary battlegroup forming at Cauldron Pool. Appius…’

‘Legatus.’

‘Send riders to the Sixth, I want them moving up the road at first light and no later, forced march. Send riders to the prefects at White Strength and Cauldron Pool; warn them that the Rock and Noisy Valley are being abandoned, and that they’re on their own for the time being. They’re authorised to pull cohorts from the Wall units farther down the line in both directions if they see fit to form larger formations, but I don’t want fighting men thrown away defending ground needlessly. As far as I’m concerned Calgus can mess about on the Wall as much as he wants — the forts are just wooden walls for the most part. We built them once, we can build them again. Men are more important than ground at this point, make that very clear.’

The officer nodded his understanding, scribbling notes on a wax tablet.

‘Good. I’m riding south to Noisy Valley with my bodyguard, we’ll have to prepare what’s left of their supplies for the torch if we’re going to deny Calgus that stepping stone, but I want to get as many more wagons away as possible beforehand. You’re to stay here and help make sure the local boys get away in good order, and that the fort is burned out in good time. I don’t want to be fighting outside these walls when we come north again.’

‘Yes, sir. What do you think Calgus intends after he gets south of the Wall?’

‘If I was Calgus, I’d have my eye fixed on two prizes. Firstly I’d want to take Noisy Valley intact, with its supplies and weapons. That way he can keep his men moving without having to forage for food, either south for Yew Grove or west to roll up the Wall forts. Then I’d be looking to destroy our legions one at a time, overwhelm them with sheer numbers before we get a chance to build up a proper sized army that can grind his warbands into mince. Either way I reckon he’ll come looking for the Sixth, hoping to roll us over before The Second and Twentieth arrive. Noisy Valley he’s welcome to, he can play in the ashes of those empty sheds as long as he pleases, but as Mars is my witness, I’m damned if I’ll let him anywhere near my eagle until it’s accompanied by two others just the same. Let’s be about it, gentlemen!’ The first indication to the Tungrians that the warband had struck was a distant glow against the eastern horizon. On being called by the sentries, Julius, as that night’s guard captain, took one look and called for the cohort’s senior officers. First Spear and Prefect stood on the fort’s high wall for several minutes, watching the minute flicker of light in silence. At length the senior centurion turned away from the view. Taking no pride in the vindication of his professional opinion, he turned to Equitius.

‘That will be the Rock burning, at a guess. The warband must have come down the North Road during the night and attacked the fort without much warning. Impressive discipline to make a move like that in the dark with untrained savages… sentries, watch for another fire, a little to the south of the first. Duty officer, enter orders in the night report that all men are to parade at dawn and be ready to leave the fort at short notice. Pull the mile fort units back in after breakfast, but leave a fast runner at each point to keep watch for any activity over the Wall.’

He stamped off back to his bed, leaving the guards to watch for any further sign. It came an hour before daybreak, another tiny flicker of light in the distance, and the dawn revealed a distant plume of black smoke that rose in concert with that of the original blaze, and once again the senior officers grimly gathered to view the scene. Julius, off duty but unwilling to sleep, grimaced at the sight, chewing morosely at an apple while Marcus stood silently alongside him, not quite able to fully comprehend what was happening on the horizon. Julius shook his head sadly.

‘Noisy Valley. There goes the forward supply station. We can only hope that Northern Command had the good sense to get all of the weapons and grain out before the barbarians decided to strike. I don’t much fancy tackling thirty thousand blue-noses if they’ve all got a belly full of our bread and half a dozen of our spears apiece to repatriate.’

After breakfast the cohort’s women started their journey to the safety of Waterside Fort on the west coast, thirty miles in the opposite direction from the horizon’s grim signs of battle, the older women and small children riding in mule carts while the remainder walked alongside. A courier galloped up to the walls minutes later, his horse and those of his four escorts lathered in sweat from the speed of their journey. Equitius hurried down to the gate to receive the dispatch, calling the officers together in his office. The courier party, their horses watered, rode away to the south-west, heading for the Second Tungrian Cohort at Fair Meadow.

‘The Rock and Noisy Valley are burnt out, but their units are largely intact and falling back to the west to hook up with the units gathering at Cauldron Pool. Northern Command has given orders for the prefect commanding Cauldron Pool to exercise local initiative, but to avoid any last stand that would result in heavy loss of trained men…’

The centurions waited imperturbably, wondering how they would have reacted to an order to abandon the fort. Cauldron Pool was only nine miles distant, with only the fort at Badger Holes between them to block the barbarian progress to the Hill.

‘Early reports are that two warbands of about ten thousand men apiece have been deployed through the gap in the Wall, one turned east and driving for White Strength, the other advancing south. That leaves something like another ten thousand men as yet uncommitted somewhere in their rear, and a lot of options still open for Calgus to exploit. We’re directed to deploy forward to Cauldron Pool and join the Second Asturian Horse, the Batavians, the Raetians and the Thracians, plus our neighbours the Second Tungrians, to form a strong combined blocking force. The general’s intention would seem to be that of deterring any westward movement by the forces already identified, while we wait for the legions to move in from their forward camps. After that we’ll start trying to find the warbands, and destroy them one at a time. Anything to add, First Spear?’

Frontinius rubbed his scalp, stepping out in front of the centurions.

‘Brief your men that we’re marching east to take a blocking position along with other cohorts from the line forts. Don’t tell them that the total strength of the blocking force between the rest of the line forts and the blue-noses will only be five hundred cavalry and three thousand infantry. Do tell them that we’ll be away from the fort for a long period, and that we are very likely to see combat. No, tell them that we are certain to see combat. Be ready to march as soon as the sentries are back in, guard commander to sound the recall. That’s all. Centurion Corvus, a word.’

He drew Marcus to one side.

‘What I didn’t mention yesterday, when I gave your century the reward of being first in the line of march, was the role traditionally played by the leading century in this cohort in time of war.’

‘Sir?’

‘The first-placed century gets all the kudos, carries the standard about and dies gloriously in its defence if all is lost. The second-placed century, on the other hand, gets all the dirty jobs, scouting in front of the cohort, diversionary tasks and the like. In other words, all of the fun. Are you game for a little fun, Centurion?’

Marcus straightened his back, pushing his chin out.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good. In that case I’ve got just the job for you…’

With the 9th Century detached for the First Spear’s speculative mission, the cohort marched from the fort seven hundred men strong, Julius’s 5th Century marching with the standard at the heart of the column that snaked out on to the military road and headed purposefully away to the east at the double. Marcus waited in front of his men until the last were clear of the vicus, then turned to address them over the diminishing clatter of hobnails on the road’s surface. His farewell to Rufius had been hurried, his friend simply clasping arms and tugging his head down to whisper into his ear.

‘Keep it simple, Marcus, and don’t be afraid to ask Dubnus for advice if you’re uncertain about anything. I expect to see your pretty Roman features within a day or two, so don’t disappoint me.’

Marcus nodded to himself without realising it, then turned to face the century, drawn up in parade formation.

‘Very well, Ninth Century, we’re on detached duty until our present task is finished and we head for Cauldron Pool to rejoin the cohort. Let’s go hunting.’ Four hours later, having slipped through the wall at a now unguarded mile fort, far enough from the Hill to be out of sight of anyone watching the fort, the 9th stole quietly back towards their camp in the steady light of a cloudy afternoon. The emphasis now was upon stealth rather than speed across ground, the soldiers picking each footfall with care to avoid snapping fallen branches, their passage marked by nothing noisier than the buzzing of disturbed flies in the oppressively heavy air. Dubnus, long accustomed to the hill country’s weather, looked at the sky for the tenth time in half an hour, working out how long they had before the inevitable rain started falling. The century was stretched across the rough country in a half-mile-wide net, each tent party spaced across its own hundred-pace frontage, the men at each end keeping sight of their opposite numbers in the neighbouring parties. Marcus and Dubnus moved silently in the rear, waiting for any sign that their men had made contact, their backs covered by a watchful Antenoch. If the Hill were under observation, for whatever purpose, they would know soon enough. At length, later than Dubnus had predicted, a steady rain began to fall, slowly growing heavier until water had penetrated down everyone’s necks, no matter how tightly capes were fastened.

‘At least the rain will cover any noise we’re making.’

Dubnus snorted at Marcus’s comment, flicking water out of his beard.

‘You’ve officially been here too long when you start finding reasons why it’s good for rain to fall.’

In the early afternoon, after an hour or more of painstakingly slow progress in the continuing rain, a flurry of hand signals rippled down the line of soldiers, who, as instructed, went to earth once the message was passed on. Marcus and Dubnus made careful haste up the line until they reached the soldier who had raised the alert, behind the cover of a thorn bush. He pointed forward, then pointed to his nose and sniffed audibly. Marcus sampled the air, finding the slight tang of wood smoke on the breeze, and nodded to Dubnus, who leant in close to whisper in his ear above the rain’s pattering.

‘I’ll take the two closest tent parties in.’

Marcus nodded. The rest of the century would stay in place until the order was given to move again.

‘We’re too far from the Hill for this to be the watch point. Try to do it silently, and we’ll get the watcher as well…’

After a whispered conversation with the two tent party leaders, their men gathered behind the thorn bush. Dubnus whispered a command and the group split up, one tent party remaining with the officers, the other snaking away on their bellies to move around behind the source of the smells that had betrayed their quarry.

Marcus and Dubnus crept up to the edge of the copse from which the cooking smells were emanating, allowing time for the men making their way around to the far side to get into position. As they slowly eased in between the trees the guttural sound of native conversation grew louder. Clearly the hidden men did not fear discovery. Raising his head with a hunter’s patient stealth, Dubnus peeped through the top of a bush, then sank back into place. He whispered to the nearest man, Marcus straining to pick up the words despite his proximity.

‘Three men, one well dressed, one poorly dressed, one old. Kill the young peasant, spare the others if you can.’

The whispered command was passed around the group, and a man wormed around to brief the other tent party, while the soldiers readied themselves to spring. Dubnus hefted his throwing axe, then stepped out of the shade of his bush, barking a low challenge at the startled Britons as Marcus came to his feet. A rough circle of bare ground had been created in the copse’s middle, half a dozen trees having been felled to clear enough space for a shelter of branches and turf to be erected in its middle. To one side of the clearing a man of about twenty years, dressed in rough woollen leggings and tunic, was tending a cooking fire protected from the rain by a crude turf roof, over which were suspended half a dozen gutted hares, his shocked face an upturned white blur. An old man of fifty or so, sitting on the stump of one of the felled trees, was looking up at the last member of the group, a man in his early middle age and dressed, as Dubnus had indicated, well enough to be a local noble of some kind.

The cook leapt to his feet, reaching for a sword propped against his cooking spit. A spear blurred out of the trees behind him and thudded into his body, arching his back and dropping him across the fire face first. The other two men drew swords, spinning back to back as the rest of the hunting party burst into their hiding place, snarling defiance at their attackers.

‘ALIVE!’

Dubnus stepped into the clearing, smashing the noble’s sword from his hand with a sweep of his axe, following up with a shield punch that knocked the man out cleanly. Faced with half a dozen armed troops, the older man’s resistance crumbled, and the soldiers disarmed him without a struggle. Marcus strolled into the copse, eyeing the dead cook, whose rough clothes were smouldering.

‘Get him off that fire. There may be others close at hand. We need to know what these men were about, and quickly…’

‘Yes. Put the knife to the older man.’

Marcus turned to find Antenoch at his shoulder.

‘Why him?’

The subject of conversation glowered up at them, crouched in a kneeling position under the swords of a pair of soldiers, his wrists and ankles bound firmly. Antenoch squatted to look into his eyes, smiling at him without any change of expression in his own eyes.

‘He’s seen more than most, to judge from his age. Probably fought in the uprising of ’61, killed, saw men die horribly…’

‘Wouldn’t that just harden him?’

‘For a while, but as a man grows older his own mortality begins to press upon him. I can get the information we need. But I’ll have to shed blood to get it quickly enough.’

Marcus hesitated.

‘Centurion, they wouldn’t think twice about skinning you alive if they captured you.’

‘And we have to descend to their level?’

The other man shrugged.

‘Depends whether you want to win or not.’

Marcus nodded.

‘Take the other one away, out of earshot. I don’t want to risk him hearing any of this.’

Dubnus nodded, gripping the unconscious Briton by the arms and dragging him from the clearing. Marcus squatted down alongside Antenoch as his clerk drew a small dagger. If he condoned the act of torture he could hardly walk away from its consequences. The Briton stared unhappily at the knife, only his eyes and nose visible above the heavy cloth gag that had silenced his muttered protests. Antenoch tossed the blade from hand to hand, staring at the older man until he dragged his attention away from the weapon and returned the gaze. The soldier spoke in the British language, gesturing with the knife to emphasise his point.

‘You know that you’re going to die, don’t you?’

Marcus was perturbed to see the other man nod impassively.

‘But then you’re not that far from dying in any case, five or ten years at the most. Better to go this way than slowly, with no teeth and depending on the help of your sons to eat and shelter, eh?’

Again the nod. The Briton had clearly come to the same conclusion.

‘In fact, the only thing between you and a nice clean death is the fact that you know some things that I need you to tell me. You talk, I slit your throat and make sure you’re buried too deep for the wolves to find you. How’s that for a deal?’

They waited while the Briton digested the suggestion. At length he shook his head unhappily, pulling a deep breath into his lungs, in preparation for what might be to come.

‘Shame. You see, I reckon you’re a respected warrior, with many heads on your walls. I think you’ve earned the rewards of the afterlife, all of the good things you denied yourself to live a life of training and devotion to the sword. The women will be oiling themselves up in the great kingdom over the river, ready for your arrival. Be a shame for all of you when you arrive without your manhood.’

Without warning he reached down and unfastened the bound man’s leggings, pulling them down to reveal his genitalia.

‘Not bad, not bad at all. Think what the girls upstairs are going to miss out on.’

He grasped the Briton’s testicles, separated one from the other and, with a flourish of the knife, neatly sliced it from the captive’s body, holding the bloodied organ up for him to see. One of the watching soldiers vomited noisily into a convenient bush, earning a glare from Dubnus, who had returned to witness the interrogation.

‘Show some respect.’

The Briton’s howl of pain and anguish was muted by the gag to a low moan, his eyes bulging with the pain. Antenoch stopped him from slumping to the ground with an outstretched hand, holding him up as the waves of pain washed over him, waiting until the man’s eyes opened again.

‘Now, from here it can go one of two ways. Either you can be sensible and tell us what you know, or I can remove the rest of your manhood and send you on your way incomplete. I’d imagine even one ball and your cock would be of more use to you in the afterlife than nothing whatsoever…’

The older man nodded, honour satisfied. Antenoch cut his gag away, keeping the knife close to his throat once the obstruction to speech was removed. The Briton spoke through gritted teeth, fighting back the pain with a conscious effort.

‘You’ll kill me cleanly, and put my body where the wolves can’t drag it to pieces?’

‘My word. And his.’

He gestured over his shoulder to the silent Marcus, who nodded gravely.

‘I will tell you what you want to know. But first, there’s a woman…’

Antenoch frowned.

‘What woman?’

The warrior sighed and shook his head at a memory, his breath still shaky with pain.

‘I warned him not to take her, I told him that no good would come of it. It offended Cocidius. She’s one of his people…’

He nodded his head at Marcus.

‘… although I can’t say if she still lives. Or what’s been done with her.’ The confession and burials took another two hours, during which time Dubnus took three tent parties and found the watcher’s hide post betrayed by the Briton, leaving the lone watcher’s head tied to a branch by the hair as a calling card. The century took a swift meal of bread and cheese from their packs, then headed north-east in early evening’s half-darkness, dragging the unwilling noble with them and using their intimate knowledge of the terrain to make reasonable progress under a fat full moon.

When they stopped five hours later, within thirty minutes’ march of their target, Marcus and Antenoch took the noble off into the dark, a tent party of soldiers shadowing them in a watching arc to ensure that no unfriendly strangers interrupted. Dubnus busied the century with the task of camouflaging their faces with saliva-moistened mud, each man painting broad stripes across another’s features to break up the large area of pale flesh. Out of sight of the halted century Antenoch pushed the man to the ground, and pulled his knife, finding Marcus’s hand on his shoulder.

‘My turn. Translate.’

He squatted next to the noble, pulling his regulation dagger from its place at his side.

‘I always thought I’d never use an issue weapon for a dishonourable purpose. This country is changing my mind in all sorts of ways. We’re a mile from your farm where, I’m told, you have a Roman woman captive…’

The other man shrugged at the translation, spitting at Marcus’s feet.

‘We offered your companion the chance to change his mind earlier. My bodyguard here only cut off one of his balls, and then allowed him to think again about telling us what he knew. He told us that you had already taken the woman by force, and that you intend giving her to your men as a celebration of the great victory to come.’

Another shrug.

‘You don’t get that extra chance to change your mind. You will die here, either intact and quickly, or no longer a man and in terrible pain, and very slowly. I expect that the wolves will find you quickly enough if we slit your belly and peg you out for them. Take a moment to consider your choice, but don’t expect to get an opportunity to make that choice more than once.’

The nobleman looked from Marcus to Antenoch, who nodded slowly to emphasise the threat. He coughed noisily to clear his throat, then glared up at Marcus. His Latin, roughened by lack of practice, was nevertheless clear in its emphasis.

‘Better to die without my manhood than to betray my people. You should understand that. Do what you must.’

Marcus turned away, his mind thousands of miles and several years distant. On a windy afternoon late in the year, training inside the house to avoid dust stirred up by the gusts outside, his trainer, sensing boredom in his student, had suddenly dropped his sword to the floor, and indicated to him to do the same.

‘Sometimes you won’t have a blade to defend yourself with, Master Marcus. In the arena I’ve had my blade smashed from my hand more than once, but still won the fight.’

‘How?’

‘Ah, got your attention now, have I? Simple enough, young man, know where to strike a man, and how hard to strike him. If you’re fast enough to get inside his defence and land a blow, you can choose to put your opponent on his back or simply take his life. Just hit him here…’

Pointing a finger to touch Marcus’s throat.

‘… and you’ll stop him breathing. You choose how long for. A little tap will put him down for a moment, short of breath and helpless. A decent thump, carefully measured, will probably knock him out for a few minutes. Anything harder will almost certainly kill him. Since swords obviously don’t entertain today, let’s practise that killing blow, eh?’

He raised an arm, pointing to the back of his wrist.

‘Strike here, as hard as you like… no, boy, I said hard. Your opponent just smiled at you and stuck his sword into your guts. Pick a point a foot behind the target and punch at that… Good, excellent follow-through! Again… Excellent! Now let’s work on the harder job, just knocking the man down for a little while…’

He spun back and struck the kneeling man’s throat with the dagger’s hilt with killing force, dropping him choking into the grass. After a moment or so the spasmodic jerking slowed, then stopped altogether. He knelt, and put two fingers to the man’s neck.

‘Dead. He’ll meet his ancestors a complete man, and I didn’t dishonour the blade.’

Antenoch frowned in the moonlight.

‘Why didn’t you torture him?’

‘Because he wasn’t going to talk. And we don’t have the time to waste carving one man when there’s a job to be done. Come on…’

He turned back to the century’s waiting place, leaving his clerk staring quizzically after him in the darkness.

The Tungrians made a silent approach to the farm, advancing down the dark hillside that brooded to its south until the black shapes of its round huts and fenced enclosures which surrounded them stood out against the stars. A stop group of three tent parties moved carefully around the buildings, heading for their position at the farm’s rear to catch any escapees, while the rest of the century dropped their packs into a large pile and advanced to the walls, still silent behind their shields.

In the darkness a dog awoke, smelt strangers and barked indignantly, joined a heartbeat later by half a dozen others. Marcus drew his sword and jumped the wall, sprinting across the empty animal pen and kicking hard at the door to the main building. It resisted his attack, and he stepped back to allow a pair of soldiers to shoulder-charge through the barrier, moving through the shattered doorway in their wake and peering into the gloom over the top of his shield, sword ready to strike.

A man charged out of the darkness, a faint light reflecting the line of steel brandished high above his head, and without conscious thought Marcus stepped forward into the brace and punched his shield into the contorted face, stabbing his sword upwards into the unprotected chest. He stepped back again, watching the body crumple back into the darkness. A shriek sounded from the far side of the hut as another point of resistance was extinguished. Dubnus moved swiftly past him, stepping over the sprawled body of his kill, and headed away into the darkness. Marcus followed, through a wooden archway and into a smaller hut, this one lit by a candle in whose puddle of light huddled a woman and her three children. Dubnus grabbed a soldier, pushing him at the terrified group.

‘Watch them. Kill them if they try to escape.’

On the hut’s far side, barely illuminated by the candle, was a heavy door, secured by a bar. Dubnus tossed away the bar and heaved the door open, then ducked away as a wooden bowl flew past his ear. A cultured female voice spat Latin imprecations at them from the darkness within.

‘Come on then, you bastards, come and get me!’

Dubnus backed away from the door, gesturing to Marcus to try his luck. Marcus peered around the frame, quite unable to make out anything in the dark.

‘Chosen, get me some light. Ma’am, we are the Ninth Century of the First Tungrian Cohort, Imperial Roman Auxiliary forces. You’re free…’

A slight scraping movement inside the room made him duck instinctively, but the wooden cup caught him neatly under the eye, making stars flash before him for an instant.

‘Jupiter! Where’s that bloody light? Captured Roman citizen or not, if you throw one more thing at me I’ll…’

Dubnus ducked back into the hut with a blazing torch, careful not to let it catch at the straw roofing. Marcus sheathed his sword and took the light, holding it carefully in front of him as he stepped back into the doorway.

‘Take a good look. Armour, helmet, shield. I am a Roman soldier. Satisfied?’

The woman stayed where she was, crouched behind a small knife in the far corner of her cell. Her dark hair was in disarray, straggling across a dirty face, out of which shone piercing green eyes above a snub nose and small mouth. Her chin, wobbling slightly as she fought back the tears, was delicately pointed. She was dressed in a woollen shift and little else, her feet crusted with scabs from previous cuts and scrapes, her clothes and shoes presumably stolen on her capture.

‘Very well, suit yourself. We’ll leave you here for the blue-noses to find when the fire brings them running.’

He turned away, winking at Dubnus.

‘No! Wait!’

He opened his mouth to invite her out of the cell, just as a sudden scream sounded from outside the hut. Dubnus chose the fastest way out of the structure, hacking fiercely at the wall to make a small gap through which he burst in a shower of dried mud and horsehair into the night. In his wake Marcus drew his sword, shouting at the soldier already guarding the still-terrified family to watch the woman as well. Outside, the fighting had already all but ended with two of the 9th’s men down, one not moving, and half a dozen native men in rough woollens sprawled in the light of Dubnus’s torch. Two remaining enemy were falling back under the advance of a dozen of Marcus’s men, through whose line Dubnus charged in a blaze of light, tossing the torch at one of them even as he ran another through with his sword. Leaving the sword buried in the dying man’s guts, he ripped the axe from his belt and hurled it into the distracted tribesman’s throat, a froth of blood sheeting out from the wound as the man dropped to his knees, then pitched headlong to the ground. Marcus grabbed the nearest man that wasn’t vomiting, demanding to know where the barbarians, clearly too well equipped to be farm peasants, had come from.

The soldier, still wide eyed from sudden combat, pointed vaguely out into the darkness. His voice shook with fear, rising as if a shriek was waiting to explode from his body.

‘Came from out there. Might be more!’

Marcus took the man by the throat, pinching his windpipe hard to get his attention and putting his face in close.

‘Steady! There aren’t any more of them or they’d be all over us by now. Dubnus, get these men ready to probe forward!’

He looked at the wounded soldier, seeing a great dark stain blacken the man’s right legging above the knee, a bloody spear lying near him. The man lay back against the cold earth, his eyes closing as if to sleep.

‘Bandage carrier!’

A calm voice spoke behind him, assured in its tone.

‘I’ll treat him. You concentrate on doing your job.’

He turned to find the woman at his arm, her eyes locked on the fallen soldier.

‘You…?’

‘He’s going to die, Centurion; the wound has pierced the great artery. Let me comfort his last few moments.’

He turned away in wonder, pushing a pair of soldiers towards her and telling them to watch over her, and get her a cloak, then stalked off to find Dubnus.

‘Chosen, are these men ready to scout forward?’

‘Yes, sir, I…’

‘Good, then go and organise the searching of the farm and get the rest of the century ready to move out. We’ll be back inside ten minutes.’

Dubnus stared at him hard in the gloom, then turned away to his task. Marcus looked his men over. Most of three tent parties, twenty-five men, all looking jumpy enough to run if a small boy with a wooden sword came out of the darkness.

‘Right, we’re going forward to look for signs of where those barbarians came from. We’re going to move in a line, and I want you to look for anything that might give us a clue as to what a party of warriors was doing hanging around a latrine like this.’

That got a laugh at least.

‘Form a line, two-foot spacing, and follow me. Oh, and by the way…’

They stared at him, a mixture of curiosity and dread distorting their faces.

‘… you won that one, yes? Be proud of yourselves, you’re all warriors now.’

He ignored the fact that half of them had probably stood watching in amazement when the fighting started. That was for those that had actually fought to take advantage of later. What he needed now was for them to take courage and, for the most part, they did, some of them actually standing taller under the praise.

He led them forward, using his drawn sword to feel ahead into the darkness, a tinge of purple in the east betraying the approach of sunrise, only an hour away. Not a good time to delay, in the face of an enemy of unknown strength and disposition. Fifty paces brought them to a fence, which Marcus vaulted with a bravado he was far from feeling, grateful to hear the grunts and thuds of his men crossing the obstruction even as he hissed at them for silence. Ten paces past the barrier he heard a tiny sound, a scraping rustle against the ground that made him duck into his shield and advance the sword, wrist cocked arena-style, ready to strike. A heavy breath puffed against his cheek, making him jump backwards in shock, a muted bellow of greeting bringing his heart into his throat.

The soldiers started to laugh, one of them walking forward to get a better look.

‘Cattle, sir. Lots of them!’

Marcus sheathed his sword in disgust, taking a closer look. The animals jostled around them, hoping for food. The ox that had startled him crowded in closest, nudging at his hands with its massive snout, like an overgrown mastiff, and his heart lightened as he realised that the biggest threat was being trampled if the animal thought there might be fodder somewhere behind him. Beasts like these became used to being pampered, hand fed with the best food that could be found for them, anything to make them fatter and glossier for the day when the army’s purchasing officer came to call. Children tended to get the job of looking after them, and, as children do, ended up domesticating them into pets. He sighed at the thought, and how his men, many of them the children of the local farms on both sides of the Wall, might react to what he already knew was his only course of action.

‘Very well, farm boy, they seem to like you well enough. Take a rough count and let me know how many there are. You, get me some light. You, get the chosen and bring him here, quickly!’

Dubnus arrived just as the count was completed, roughly fifty fully grown animals standing silently in the dark field. Dubnus stroked his beard.

‘I left two tent parties guarding the farm. Those enemy troops must have been guarding these, heard our noise and ran into our men. There’s flour in the farm, enough for thousands of loaves, and big hearths built into the walls, firewood too, and pine pitch and staves for making torches, lots of jars. Fifty oxen are enough to feed ten thousand men. This is a supply dump, waiting for a warband the size of a legion…’

He stared sadly at the cattle, their breath steaming in the torchlight. Marcus nodded agreement. But where was the enemy — within marching distance and hungry for supplies before they went at the Wall, or was this just a contingency, an option prepared for an eventuality that might not come to pass? They looked at each other, sharing a moment of understanding.

‘How many jars of pitch?’

‘Enough.’

‘Very well, let’s get it over with.’

The chosen nodded, then shook his head ruefully.

‘War makes for unhappy tasks…’

He swung to face the waiting troops

‘Odd-numbered tent parties, fetch firewood from the barn. Three loads each, bring them here to me. Even numbers, to me.’

The slaughter was grimly efficient, farm-raised soldiers reluctantly leading the oxen out of the enclosure one at a time, to be greeted by a party of the stronger men, who gently penned each beast in their ranks, using gentle hands and words to soothe the animals. Dubnus and two of the older soldiers, one of them a butcher’s apprentice in his youth, all of them bloody spectres after the first few animals, calmed each animal further with soft words, then dispatched each one with a swift twisting thrust of their long knives beneath the massive jaws. The soldiers dragged each fresh corpse away with ropes taken from the farm, building a pyre of their bodies with the firewood piled around them. Soon they too were liberally streaked with the animals’ blood, as it worked deep into scalps and fingernails.

The man who had first gone forward into the herd, gently touching and caressing the oxen as he counted them, turned away and wept at the spectacle. To Marcus’s astonishment, not only did his colleagues keep a respectful distance until his eyes were dry again, but Dubnus wrapped a bloody arm around his bony shoulders and spoke a few private words of comfort. After a while, tired of the smell of the animals’ blood, Marcus went back down to the farm buildings while the cull was completed, finding the Roman woman sitting quietly, the dead soldier’s head cradled in her lap while the men set to watch over her squatted on either side. She looked up at Marcus, her dirty face streaked with dried tears.

‘He regained consciousness for a few moments. He called on Brigantia to take his spirit…’

She sniffed quietly.

‘Thank you for staying with him.’

She stood, gently placing the dead man’s head on his shield.

‘Centurion…?’

‘Valerius Aquila.’

The response was automatic, the word hanging in the air between them as her eyebrows rose with interest, visible in dawn’s first light.

‘A famous name in my childhood. Your family are a powerful force in Rome.’

‘No more, lady, it seems. You’re a native Roman?’

‘Until I was thirteen, and my father was posted to the Wall. So how does the son of a famous family come to be an auxiliary officer, rather than choosing to serve with the legions…’

Her voice came to a stop as his response sank in. Marcus bent closer, whispering in her ear.

‘I’d be grateful if we spoke no more of my former status until we have the privacy for a frank conversation.’

‘I see. But I…’

A soldier ran up to them, his armour crusted with blood, saluting respectfully with more than half an eye on the woman’s body.

‘Centurion, the chosen says to tell you that the cull’s finished. We’re ready to burn them.’

Her eyes ignited with fury, scalding Marcus with their sudden flare of anger.

‘Not the oxen. Tell me it isn’t the oxen!’

He marched stony faced back up the hill, the woman running at his shoulder. When she saw the lifeless humps of flesh littering the mist-wreathed ground her anger was kindled anew. She rounded on Marcus with a snarl that made the soldiers closest to her step back involuntarily, their minds jerked back to distant memories of angry mothers.

‘You bastards! Every one of those cattle represented life or death to a crofting family, and you’ve slaughtered them without a second thought.’

Dubnus stepped forward, interposing himself between them before Antenoch had a chance to take umbrage.

‘These cattle were either taken or purchased from the crofters to feed a barbarian warband. Either way, we’re denying food to the enemy.’

He turned away, accepting a torch from one of the soldiers sadly staring at the scene.

‘Pour on the pitch!’

A dozen men hefted heavy jars, pulling their stoppers and pouring the sticky, viscous pitch, half liquid, half solid, over the dead animals, then repeated the act with fresh jars, until the pungent aroma spread across the field. More men stepped up with further jars, pouring until the fumes made Marcus’s eyes sting and water. Dubnus stepped up to the nearest corpse, muttering a swift prayer under his breath as he lowered his torch to the dead animal’s sticky fur. The pitch smoked for a long moment before catching fire, the flames slowly spreading across the pile of dead animals. The flames sent a pungent scent of roasting hair to assault their nostrils, the 9th’s soldiers standing in reverential silence at the destruction of such great wealth. Smoke from the burning beasts created an artificial fog to replace that burnt away by the heat, making the men cough, and cover their faces with their sweat rags. The century watched the growing blaze for a few moments more, every man taking a drink of beer from jars found in the farmhouse as reward for their efforts with a prim-looking Cyclops posted to ensure that nobody drank more than would be prudent so far into unfriendly country. Once everyone had taken their share, and several had been turned away with bristling indignation by the beer’s custodian, Marcus shook himself from his tired reverie.

‘Time we weren’t here. Century, form ranks for the march!’

Men ran to assume formation, transforming chaos into ordered ranks with a practised ease, half a dozen men holding the halters of ponies taken from the farm’s enclosure. Marcus turned to the woman, his smile tight lipped with fatigue and residual anger at her outburst.

‘Well, ma’am, would you care to ride or walk?’

She glared at him, then stalked away and mounted one of the ponies.

‘Ninth Century, at the quick march… march!’

They moved quickly down to the farm. The flour intended for loaves to feed the oncoming warband had been stacked in the farm’s main room, and doused with more jars of the aromatic amber pine pitch, ready for burning. Dubnus tossed a torch in through the door with a sad smile, then led them back up the hill on the far side in grim silence. At the crest he halted them temporarily, turning them to look back into the valley as the first rays of the rising sun lit the hilltops around them. The reek from the burning oxen and the newly fired farmhouse was rising in a thick dark column that would be visible for twenty miles. If there were a warband heading for the farm, its leader would shortly be doubling his efforts to reach the scene, and probably throwing whatever he had by way of mounted scouts forward at their best speed to investigate the reason for the fire. Marcus turned to face his men.

‘Ninth Century, this is a major victory. There’s almost certainly a large enemy warband within a day or two’s march of this place, probably marching in the expectation of replenishing their supplies in preparation for an attack on the Wall. Perhaps even on the Hill… What they will find, thanks to us, is their meat destroyed, the pitch for their torches burned and their flour gone up in flames with it. Unless they have an alternative source of supply, their leader will be forced to fall back on more friendly territory in search of food.

‘Now…’

He paused for effect, aware that every eye was locked on him, their sensitivities about the destruction of so many fine oxen forgotten. The responsibility of bringing the century back to its parent unit intact weighed him down for a moment.

‘… now we have to think of ourselves. There might well be scouts heading for the farm even as we speak, quite possibly in numbers that would overwhelm us on open ground. My intention is that we should make a forced march for the Wall, and get it between us and any potential threat.’

He grinned at them wolfishly.

‘Now’s the time that we get some return on all that training. We’ll eat breakfast once we’re back on the civilised side of the Wall. We move in two minutes, so make fast and get ready to run.’

The soldiers set to work, tightening fastenings and making sure that their boots were secure. Once the century was on the move, any man who dropped an item, or whose footwear loosened, would be forced to drop out, then run twice as hard to catch up again. He pulled Dubnus to one side, speaking quietly in his ear.

‘We need to know what happens here in the next couple of hours. Choose a good distance runner, share his kit out and have him find a sheltered spot to watch the fire. He waits until mid-morning, then pulls out and follows us back to the Wall.’

The chosen nodded silently, walking away into the century’s activity. The morning air was a cool relief as the 9th jogged towards the Wall; it was too early for the sun to be uncomfortable. Looking back, even ten miles from the farm, Marcus was amazed at the size of the pillar of smoke that rose into the heavens, shearing suddenly to the west where it met a high air current thousands of feet above the ground. He smiled wryly at the probable effect of the sign on his own side of the Wall, and what it might be mistaken for. At least he could expect to meet friendly faces once the 9th had crossed the border. Scout units would in all likelihood be racing for the spot from both east and west.

They reached their original crossing point at mid-morning, and set up a temporary camp on the southern side of the Wall. Marcus gave the command for field rations to be opened, and luxuriated in dried meat and the last of the previous day’s bread issue, with a little pickle from a jar that Antenoch had slipped into his pack. Climbing the rampart to survey the ground to their north, he saw that the pillar of smoke was lightening, the fire presumably having consumed the farm buildings. Its top stretched, a dirty stain in the clear blue sky, for a dozen miles or so to the west, slowly dispersing in the gentle winds. The ground in front of the Wall climbed gently for a few hundred years before falling away towards a distant line of trees. From the ground on that slope, he mused, it would be impossible to see the Wall.

He made his way back to the ground, and walked over to where the woman was taking a solitary breakfast, still guarded by the same soldiers who had shared her vigil over the dying man at dawn. Dismissing the men, Marcus squatted on to his haunches when she showed no sign of standing to meet him. Her face, seen for the first time in the daylight, bore the marks of a heavy beating within the past week, bruises past their first lividity still evident as shadows on her cheekbones and jawline.

‘Ma’am, we’ve had no formal introduction…’

She looked up at him with a quizzical gaze, then offered her hand. He noticed the wedding ring.

‘Your husband must be worried…’

‘I doubt that very much. He’s the reason I’m here.’

He caught the tone in her voice, and skirted away from the subject.

‘Marcus Valerius Aquila at your service… although that isn’t a name I’ve spoken to anybody else these last three months.’

She smiled for the first time, perhaps at his formality.

‘When I left Rome the Valerius Aquila brothers were among the most respected senators in the city. My father spoke of them frequently. What relation are you to them?’

His eyes must have clouded, since she reached out a hand to touch his arm with an unnerving concern.

‘I’m sorry…’

He smiled at her, feeling another layer of his mental scar tissue fall away.

‘That’s all right… It’s just that you’re the first Roman to ask me that question. I always wondered what I’d do when the time came — lie, and protect myself, or tell the truth and honour the dead.’

He took a deep breath, grateful that she waited patiently for him to gather himself.

‘My father was Senator Appius Valerius Aquila. He fell victim to a palace intrigue led by the praetorian prefect, and, from what I’ve been told, my entire family was murdered to prevent any danger of attempts at vengeance. I was a praetorian centurion…’

Her eyes widened momentarily as the irony dawned on her, then softened with sympathy.

‘… my father managed to bribe a tribune to send me away on a false imperial errand to this country. He told me that I was carrying a message for the legatus in Yew Grove, but it was really a last message from my father…’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you. I escaped two attempts to finish the job by killing me, thanks to the efforts of two men I count my as closest friends, and now I fight under the name Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Only five other men know of this deception and so now, lady, you hold the power of life and death over me. A simple denunciation will be enough to have me imprisoned and executed within days. Won’t you return the compliment by telling me your name?’

She smiled briefly, her face lighting up with the expression.

‘With honour, Centurion. I am Felicia Clodia Drusilla, daughter of Octavius Clodius Drusus and wife of Quintus Dexter Bassus, the prefect commanding the Second Tungrian Cohort at Vindolanda. A name with which I would far rather not have fouled my mouth!’

She glowered at the ground for a moment.

‘Forgive me, Centurion. An unhappy marriage is neither your business nor your concern.’

‘Except, perhaps, when it results in the abduction and… mistreatment of a Roman citizen?’

She laughed again, a strange reaction in someone who had endured the torments attributed to her captivity by their first informant.

‘I wasn’t mistreated in any particular way, and these bruises predate my time in captivity. I probably would have been raped senseless if the warband had arrived before your rescue, but those people were more embarrassed than excited by my presence. I ran away from my husband’s fort when his cruelty and violence towards me became too much to bear. I persuaded my serving maid to disguise me as one of her own once we were out of sight of the fort. We slipped through one of the mile fort gates a week ago, and were caught by the master of that farm a day later, heading for my maid’s home village. He locked me up, probably wanted to force himself on me, but his wife was too fiercely opposed, said it would bring the legions down on them. I think she took pity on the state of my face.’

‘She might well have been jealous too.’

She smiled again, ruefully this time.

‘Thank you for your gallantry. They still hadn’t decided what to do with me when you arrived. What made you come?’

‘We captured the husband spying on our fort at the Hill. One of his men told us that he’d already…’

He paused, embarrassed at the word’s implication. Touched by his embarrassment, she put her hand on his arm.

‘I’d guess he boasted in public to maintain his reputation. I…’

A shout from the Wall’s top grabbed Marcus’s attention. Dubnus beat him to the ladder, the pair of them bundling breathlessly on to the flat surface atop the mile fort’s structure. In the middle distance, half a mile or so from their gate, a single man was running across the wind-blown grass.

‘That’s our scout!’

Dubnus nodded grimly.

‘Yes, and he’s running too fast for my liking…’

He turned back to look down at the resting soldiers.

‘Ninth Century, stand to! Fighting order.’

Even as he spoke, a dozen horsemen broke from the cover of the trees to the north, another mile or so behind the running figure.

Dubnus hurled himself down the ladder, while Marcus scanned the distant trees for any more movement. He turned to look down at the century, each man holding his shield and javelins at the parade rest, their faces filthy from the night’s impromptu camouflage of dirt, their armour and bodies covered with dried blood. Get them moving first, his instincts told him, and then explain the dangers.

‘First tent party, open the gate!’

Marcus slid down the ladder, drawing his sword, which flashed in the sunlight.

‘Follow me!’

He ran through the open gate, turning to watch his men charge through the opening four abreast. Jogging backwards and watching their faces, he saw fear and determination written in equal proportions. He gestured with the sword, catching their attention with its flashing arc.

‘Ninth Century, we have a comrade in danger. There may be more cavalry lurking in ambush, waiting until we’re clear of the Wall. If there are, we might all die seeking to rescue one man, but think how he feels seeing us coming out to him. We’re going out to him, we’re going to bring him back with us, or they’ll have to cut every one of us down to take any one of us.’

More than a few faces stared at him in disbelief, though their legs kept them moving away from the Wall’s shelter. He sensed the situation slipping away from him, and felt the first touch of panic grip his mind. Suddenly he had no words to reassure or embolden them. He turned his back on them, mutely waving the sword forward in another flashing arc that pointed to the enemy cavalry galloping across the grass. From the century’s rear another voice sounded, deep and harsh, booming across the open space.

‘Ninth Century… at the run… Run!’

Where the appeal to reason had faltered, the whiplash of command took the soldiers and threw them forward into a headlong run without any conscious thought process. The century put its collective head back and ran, the ranks opening out slightly as men opened their legs for the task. Marcus looked gratefully back at Dubnus, but the big chosen simply waved him forward to do his job, and in that second he understood and embraced what he had to do if they were to succeed, the adrenalin kick giving his words an unaccustomed savagery.

‘Run, you bastards, no fucking horse boy beats me to one of my own!’

Grabbing a deep breath, he ran to catch the front rank, then matched strides with them and started to accelerate, pulling them out across the murderously empty ground in a race with the barbarian cavalry. They crested the gentle ridge and ran down the slope on its far side to reach the exhausted scout with seconds to spare, bundling him into the hollow square that Marcus had shouted for as he fell into their arms. The small cavalry band, shaggy-haired men on hardy ponies with long spears and round wooden shields, simply parted to either side of the square and rode around them, clearly not willing to tackle so many infantrymen readied in defensive formation. The 9th jeered and waved their spears, shouting abuse at the circling horsemen, venting their relief at the stand-off. As he stood in their midst watching the native cavalry circle impotently, Marcus felt a pull at his shoulder.

‘Oh, Brigantia! Gods help us…’

Marcus looked at the point to which Antenoch pointed, his face suddenly pale with the sickening realisation that there was in reality no need for the relatively few horsemen riding round their square to take them on. A hundred and more mounted barbarians were breaking from the trees in a dark wave.