The Legions of the Mist

by Damion Hunter

  ‘Well, we can fight the Picts or we can fight the Brigantes,’ Hilarion said, ‘but I don’t fancy tackling both of them. Best to let them chew each other up as much as they can.’

  ‘Speaking of chewing,’ said Lepidus, eyeing his dinner plate with distaste, ‘if I see another piece of barley bannock, I think my mind will begin to go.’

  ‘It isn’t that I mind so much,’ Justin said. ‘It’s the things they put in it to make up for not having any barley.’

  ‘What do you suppose horse tastes like?’ Hilarion fished a small, winged creature out of his wine cup and regarded it with disgust. ‘I draw the line at bugs.’

  ‘We’re going to need the cavalry.’ Licinius pushed back the tent flap and dropped down beside them. ‘Good news, my bloodthirsty friends. That painted shadow we seem to have taken on as informer in chief was just in. It seems that Vortrix has sent the shadow’s kinsmen scuttling off to the highlands and now he has his horses back.’

  ‘And he’s coming our way with them,’ Justin murmured. ‘How nice.’

  ‘That means a camp meeting tomorrow night or I’m a German,’ Lepidus said.

  ‘And a pep talk by the Legate,’ said Hilarion. ‘Standard order, I should think, on our chance to win a place in history.’

  ‘All neatly written out by his scribe,’ Justin added, looking down the beak of his long nose. ‘And you mustn’t forget the bit about his long military service making the Empire great and safe for our mothers and sisters at home.’ He began to whistle a rude song about a Legate whose family took in some peculiar boarders while he was off at the wars.

  ‘One of these days someone will switch the text on him,’ Hilarion said lazily, ‘and then he will be in the soup.’

  The other three looked at him for a moment in silent inspiration, and then Justin, whose tent they were in, sat up and began to rummage around in the chest behind him for the sheaf of papyrus he kept there. Centurion Hilarion possessed a talent for mimicking the hand of others, which, in the opinion of those who knew him, had yet to be properly exploited.

  * * *

  The next evening the Legion gathered in the makeshift parade ground, the field of a farmer who had taken one look at the approaching column and shot off into the hills with everything he could carry.

  The Legate strode to the front of the group, cast an eye over the assembled troops, and pulled a roll of papyrus from his tunic. He invariably had his speeches written out beforehand. Some generals had that gift of impromptu exhortation for which the first Caesar had been so deservedly noted. Metius Lupus did not, and a scribe with the gift of oratory was his greatest asset.

  ‘Soldiers of the Ninth Legion Hispana, Triumphalis, Macedonica…’ he began in a voice pitched to reach the farthest ranks.

  ‘We march toward a victory which will see the British rebellion crushed forever… which will see the power of Rome extended from one end of this land to the other… and see your names and that of this Legion enshrined forever in the glorious pages of history. Victory lies waiting… needing only your bravery and your faith in the gods and your general. I have never yet failed in my trust… I shall not do so now! Never have I shirked my duty! From the time when as aedile I worked to ban whorehouses and dog kennels from the city limits of Rome…’

  There were a few unmilitary giggles from the officers’ ranks and a loud cheer from one of the cohorts. The Legate paused for a moment and made a mental note to speak to his scribe. Since the editors of the speech had stuck strictly to fact, however, he forged ahead.

  ‘… my dedication has been indomitable, with the reward the generalship of this glorious Legion!’ The Legate looked up dubiously, but the Centuriate of the Ninth had now regained its composure and maintained a blank expression.

  ‘Faced with setbacks, we forge forward! Faced with losses, we prevail! Follow me unswervingly, and I will lead you to your greatest victory! Be steadfast as I have been in my devotion to the Eagles, as I have led Rome’s bravest soldiers time and again to victory, as I have nurtured them as my own children, as I have upheld Rome’s laws and discipline for the strength of all, working relentlessly to enforce the marriage restrictions and to curtail the use of foul language in the…’ The Legate saw disaster leaping up at him from the page, and skipped hopefully to the next paragraph. The possibilities there were even worse. The Legate regarded the sheaf of papyrus as one who has inadvertently picked up an adder.

  ‘The, uh, glory of the Legion and a place in history are in your hands,’ he said firmly. ‘We cannot help but be victorious.’ His mind remained obstinately blank of any further revelations. Seeing his Primus Pilus at his side, Metius Lupus gratefully turned the meeting over to him.

  In a back row, the senior scribe regarded his general with horror and dismally contemplated the prospect of a posting to the Parthian front.

  * * *

  The war band was on the march, and this time there was no question of chasing Vortrix down or cutting him off before he could retreat to the hills again. The High King had dealt with his highland adversaries, and now he was spoiling for a fight with the Legion.

  He would have preferred to have taken Eburacum, left with only a skeleton summer garrison, and let them try to take it back, but Roman communications were too good, and there was little chance of success with the Legion pressing at his back. So he settled for a fight in the open with the bulk of the Hispana. With the main Army scattered, he could acquire Eburacum when he felt like it. The southern Legions would think twice about marching against him, leaving the entire south undefended and maybe rising in rebellion behind them.

  Justin and Hilarion stood on the crest of a little ridge, their cohorts already in position, and watched the war band streaming toward them. A morning of wearisome maneuvering had gained them the advantage of the higher ground, and the men, as Hilarion put it, looked quite chirpy about the prospect of another fight.

  He turned to Justin, the wind lifting his sandy hair in little wisps about his face. ‘Stupendous-looking character, the young king, isn’t he? All that blue and yellow. The Legate thinks he’d look nice in a triumphal procession.’

  ‘Whereas Vortrix merely thinks the Legate would look nice dead,’ Justin said. ‘Old Lupus is getting above himself. Picture Trajan letting a mere Legate steal his thunder. Triumphs are an old-fashioned Republican notion, my boy.’

  Justin eyed Vortrix, marking his position by the flame-colored border of his cloak rippling behind him as he surveyed the positioning of his war band from the vantage point of his chariot. The High King’s corn-colored hair was bound back with a thong and the brilliant blue of his war paint cast an unearthly shadow across his face. Justin narrowed his eyes still further. Vortrix was looking at him.

  Where the level land began to rise toward a gentle slope, the High King also narrowed his eyes. He could see the Legion strung out in a scarlet battle line across the hill, waiting for them. He also saw the beak-nosed centurion regarding him intently from beneath the rim of his helmet with approximately the same expression as the Legion’s Eagle.

  Vortrix grinned. The centurion marked his position, did he? He spoke softly to his chariot driver and regarded the battle line once more. The Legion was obviously waiting for him, with no intention of coming down and losing their advantage. So. He would go up.

  Justin saw the king raise an arm in signal, and the trumpets and war horns clashed together in grim cacophony. Around him, he could feel the Legion steady and brace itself, and then it began. Again the chariots left their mark and were forced back by the short, sharp swords of the foot soldiers while the archers and cavalry harried them as they went and rained death on the outskirts of the war band.

  As the last of the chariots pulled back across the bloody path they had cut in the front ranks of the Legion, the cohorts moved up, and this time Justin had no trouble finding Vortrix. The High King seemed to come straight for him, leaping from his chariot as the near horse went down to a Roman sword, his household guard scattered in
the confusion of the first advance. As Justin parried a blow that would have taken off his head, he saw from the corner of his eye Lepidus drawn off in a frantic fight with a burly tribesman twice his size, but there was no time for anything but a fervent hope that the boy would survive.

  Vortrix moved warily, with the timing of a born fighter, and Justin followed him with a deadly intentness. The High King’s sword came flashing out of nowhere and struck not Justin, but a man of his cohort who had moved up to his side. Vortrix parried Justin’s own blow as he pulled back his blade and thrust from below at Justin’s ribs. Justin dropped his shield barely in time and pushed forward, striving to put his adversary off balance. The young king stepped back, recovered, and came on again.

  Everywhere their struggle was mirrored in the contest between the war band and the Legion, while the sun, high and burning, took its toll of the strength of both sides. Behind Vortrix now was a solid phalanx of his warriors, and Justin moved his own cohort up to block the attack. As one by one their men dropped down around them, Justin and Vortrix exchanged blows, were separated by the press of battle, and were drawn again to each other as by a lode-stone. It seemed to Justin that he had been fighting this grim, blue-eyed man for half his life.

  In the end, though, the heavier arms of the Legion and the Brigades’ earlier losses to the Painted People took their toll. As the Brigantes began to fall back, Justin made a last desperate leap at the young king, his blade slicing deep into Vortrix’s sword arm. Vortrix stumbled and one knee seemed suddenly to give way. He struck at Justin with his shield edge, catching him across the shins and sending him stumbling back. The High King’s warriors moved to encircle Vortrix, but at a signal from Lepidus, the Eighth Cohort surged forward, driving them back over the bodies of their dead, and Vortrix went down among the feet of the advancing Legion.

  Justin, recovering his footing, found himself caught up in the advance of his own men, and turned, blundering among them, back toward the still form of the High King. A gap opened for a moment in the ranks streaming by, and Vortrix twisted out from under the murderous mailed feet of the Legion and flung himself down behind the protection of an outcropping rock. A riderless cavalry horse, his eyes wide and terrified, galloped between them, sending a spray of dirt and foam into Justin’s face. By the time he had passed, Vortrix had regained his footing and retreated further, his sword still clenched in a hand that was now scarlet with blood. Justin saw that he was making for a clump of brush and trees that marked the beginning of a wooded hill, and by the time he reached him, Vortrix had gained enough ground to put him at the edge of this slight refuge. He shifted his sword to his left hand, struck out at Justin, and backed a few feet further into the trees.

  Justin, circling to get to the higher ground and cut him off, raised his sword for a blow that would have caught the High King through the heart if it had fallen. But as he struck, his foot caught in the discarded armor of one of his own men who had crawled away to die half hidden at the edge of a thicket.

  Justin stumbled, righted himself, and saw that there had been no need for that blow. The High King lay on the ground before him, his sword still clenched in his one good hand, and blood pouring like a fountain from the wounded arm.

  He had done it. One quick stroke to slit the High King’s throat and the Brigantes would no longer be a danger. Ever. As Justin slid his dagger from his harness belt, he saw the blue eyes come open to watch him. Hades. Justin had a quick, horrible vision of cutting Vortrix’s throat while Vortrix watched him.

  ‘I shouldn’t bother, Centurion,’ Vortrix said in a whisper. ‘I’ll bleed to death anyway and save you the trouble.’

  Justin hesitated, watching the retreat now far below them rapidly becoming a rout. ‘I expect so.’

  The High King was naked except for a wolfskin fighting kilt, and Justin turned the dagger to his own tunic, hacking off a long strip. He set about applying a makeshift tourniquet to the High King’s arm.

  ‘Then to what purpose this?’

  Justin, intent on his work, did not look up. ‘I’ve been around Licinius too long. I’ve no stomach for sitting by to watch men die. Besides, it’s in my mind that you would be a welcome prisoner to the Legate. There, I think that has slowed the bleeding.’

  Vortrix still had the strength to look disgusted. ‘The Legate is a fool. The Legate might like me as a prisoner, but Rome would be better off to have me a corpse.’ His voice was so low that Justin had to turn his head to hear it, and the blue and ochre of the king’s war paint stood out sharply against his ashen face. Even the golden hair was dulled with dust and sweat. He looked like a death mask.

  ‘Why do you follow him?’ Vortrix whispered.

  ‘I don’t. I follow the Eagles.’

  ‘And that is… different?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And you go… where the Eagles go and serve… under whom they tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Justin finished his work and sat back on his heels. After a moment he stood up and stripped off his armor, and slid it, covered with his leather harness tunic, under Vortrix’s head.

  ‘Thank you, Centurion.’ Vortrix looked up and caught Justin’s eyes for a moment. He gave something that was halfway between a grin and a grimace. ‘Licinius the Surgeon is a… formidable influence.’

  Justin sat down again and propped his back against a tree. ‘He’s very civilized, Licinius. Too much so for his own good.’

  ‘Civilization.’ Vortrix bared his teeth at the word. ‘Rome’s gift to her colonies. Has it ever struck you, Centurion, that some of them would prefer to remain uncivilized?’

  ‘Forcibly.’

  Vortrix chuckled. ‘Then why do you follow your Eagles?’

  ‘I’m a Roman,’ Justin said shortly. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘A Roman. And is that all? No thought to gold or glory, Centurion?’

  ‘Of course. A great deal of thought, in fact. But that’s beside the other.’

  ‘And you love Rome, but not the way the rest do.’

  ‘As you love your Tribe, Vortrix the King.’

  ‘That, Centurion, is what… makes you dangerous. And also why I would… kill you, if I could.’

  ‘And that is what drew us always to each other in battle,’ Justin said after a moment.

  ‘Aye… and in other ways, perhaps. And now I’m dying. But I tried. At least I’ll have… that to know.’

  ‘So did I,’ Justin said, watching him. ‘Oh gods, so did I.’

  ‘Well, Centurion, you have won. No one but me can hold the Tribe together.’

  Justin eyed him appraisingly. ‘You have a remarkably swelled head,’ he said at last, ‘but I expect you’re right. You’d best try to sleep now,’ he added. ‘You shouldn’t be talking. You’ll use up your strength.’ It was beginning to grow dark and, shivering in his uniform tunic, he began to build a fire, thinking wistfully of the roaring blaze in camp, his hooded cloak, also in camp, and his leather tunic, under Vortrix’s head.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be taking your prisoner back to… the Legate?’ Vortrix inquired.

  ‘If I move you, you’ll die,’ Justin said shortly.

  But Vortrix was dying anyway and they both knew it.

  * * *

  The Brigantes were scattered and broken. Those who had escaped pursuit were moving wearily north and westward, away from the Roman Army and a rebellion that lay dead and bloody at their feet. Scattered as they were, it had not yet been borne in on many of them that they were leaderless.

  To Lepidus, as he made the rounds of the cohort, taking count of their losses and stopping now and again to speak to one of the junior officers, the possibility that he might himself be leaderless was beginning to seem all too real. He thought of his last sight of his cohort commander, caught in the press around the fallen king. Justin should have been with the cohort in its advance, but he had not… and an enemy in retreat was often the deadliest of all. Licinius had sent an orderly to him, asking Lepidus for news of hi
s friend, but he had been able to give him none. And Lepidus felt that the weight of Justin’s mantle hung heavily on his shoulders.

  * * *

  Licinius, tending the wounded in the camp hospital, looked up as the orderly came in from the picket line where he had been seeing to injured horses.

  ‘Did you see Centurion Corvus?’ He pushed his black hair back from his forehead, leaving a streak of salve across it in the process.

  ‘No, sir. Not since you last asked,’ the orderly said, giving every indication of being thoroughly tired of the subject.

  It was a few moments before Licinius brought a flicker of pure panic under control. Surgeons did not panic, and Licinius had always been outspoken in his opinion that one who did was worthless. But Justin was his friend, which made a great deal of difference.

  He finished bandaging the gashed leg he had stitched and looked around him. The worst of the work was done.

  ‘Flavius!’

  Flavius came away from the man he was treating. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘See to the rest of them. I’m going out.’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘You heard me.’ Licinius picked up a packet of ephedron, opium, some bandages, and his surgical kit. ‘You are perfectly capable of dealing with the ones that are left. And if you’re not, it’s time we found out about it,’ he snapped. ‘There’s no place in the Eagles for a man who can’t work under pressure.’ He snatched up his cloak and stalked out.

  Flavius looked after him, a hurt expression on his face.