Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two

by Riches, Anthony

  He paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the younger man.

  ‘You offer to … protect me, Prefect?’

  The prefect smiled, his teeth a white flash in the gloom.

  ‘I offer you rather more than that, Valerius Aquila. I offer you friendship, a kind of kinship if you like. I can never replace your family, but I can give you something to which you can belong without forever endangering it simply by your presence.’

  ‘And as the price for this bargain you will take me from this place and these people?’

  ‘When the time is right, you will leave here.’

  Marcus frowned slightly.

  ‘There is a lady …’

  Scaurus nodded.

  ‘I know. First Spear Frontinius enlightened me on that subject. And when the time is right she can accompany you to wherever you travel, if she will. Mithras wants your service, for you to live the life of a warrior, not for you to cut yourself off from the world. There is room in your life for both your god and your woman.’

  Marcus nodded slowly, his face creased in thought.

  ‘It is a generous offer, Prefect Scaurus, although I still wonder exactly how you can protect me from the empire’s hunters.’

  Scaurus smiled tightly.

  ‘So do I, given your apparent talent for drawing attention to yourself. In time you will come to better understand both the forces hunting you and those arraigned behind me, but for the time being it will be enough for you simply to trust me. So, your decision?’

  Marcus thought for a long moment, staring into the room’s shadows.

  ‘I will do as you bid, Prefect. I will follow you as you command, and I will serve your god to the best of my ability.’

  Scaurus nodded decisively.

  ‘Good. Perhaps in this way we’ll be able to keep you from the throne’s hunting dogs, and avoid the danger of your friends and comrades being taken down alongside you. Quite how we are to keep you out of public scrutiny in the meantime is a different question altogether.’

  2

  The first arrow missed its target by less than a foot, hissing unheard past the heads of the rearmost rank’s soldiers. Of the other four arrows, fired a second later, one flew cleanly past the astonished faces of four soldiers near the back of the century’s column, another fell short owing to a weak bowstring, and the last two found targets among the marching soldiers. The first flicked off the metal boss of a shield slung over its owner’s shoulder in the marching position, ricocheting into the throat of one of the soldiers in the following rank, while the other hit a man three ranks farther up the marching column in the calf. He stumbled out of the line of march, hopping a couple of paces before falling to one knee. The century’s chosen man, marching in his usual place at the column’s rear, pointed at the treeline with his brass-knobbed pole and shouted a warning to his centurion.

  ‘Archers!’

  Julius reacted immediately, drawing his sword and pointing it at the trees.

  ‘Buckets and boards! Get your bloody guard up!’

  He turned to the leading century, gesturing urgently for Dubnus to take his men around to the right through the trees that ran almost to the side of the road as the forest’s edge curved around from the barbarian archers’ position.

  ‘Dubnus, hook right! Get into the bastards!’

  Another flight of missiles arced across the space between the forest and the road, hammering into shields hurriedly swung from their carrying positions to face the unexpected threat. Julius bellowed again, ignoring the arrows flicking past him.

  ‘Fifth century, face the threat! Get ready to attack. The Ninth will attack into the trees to our right! At the march, advance!’

  The troops obeyed the order without thought, their obedience drummed into them over long years of drill and practice fighting and reinforced by the shouts and pushes of their chosen man and his watch officer. The 5th Century advanced to their left into the scrub between road and forest, their shields raised against the continual harassing rain of arrows from the trees a hundred paces away, while the 9th Century to their right advanced briskly into the forest to their front in broken order, hunting through the trees for the rebel archers. Marcus, who had been marching alongside Dubnus, snatched a spear from the man closest to him and sprinted ahead of the advancing soldiers, outpacing even the fastest of them as he weaved around the massive oaks at a dead run, bursting through the scrubby bushes that dotted the gloomy forest floor.

  The half-dozen Brigantian archers took fright in the face of the 5th Century’s advance across the open ground in front of them, their attack only ever intended to harass the auxiliary soldiers rather than bring them to open battle, turning in their retreat to loose one last volley at the advancing Romans. As they turned back to run for the shelter of the deeper forest, Marcus, now a good twenty paces ahead of Dubnus and his men and still running hard, drew back his spear arm and fixed his gaze on the rearmost of the barbarians, slowing his run to a trot, and drawing back the spear until its razor-sharp iron head was level with his ear. He hurled the weapon with a power and artistry that made light of his sprint through the trees, his arm extended to follow the missile’s trajectory to its target. Caught in the act of turning to run from the vengeful soldiers, the archer had only a split second’s realisation, a fleeting glimpse of the weapon’s blurred flight, before the spear arced down out of the trees and spitted him cleanly through the thigh. He toppled to the forest floor, his mouth gaping in a howl of agony as Marcus covered the remaining distance to stand over him with his sword drawn, watching the remaining tribesmen vanish into the forest’s gloom as he sheathed the weapon. Julius and Dubnus joined him, his hands on his hips as he stared down at the fallen barbarian, apparently breathing normally in spite of his exertions.

  ‘Nice throw, Marcus, that’s worth a few cups of wine once we get to Arab Town. You didn’t even hit the bone …’

  The younger man scowled, stretching out his arm and spreading the fingers wide before bunching them into a fist and looking down at his knuckles, crisscrossed with scar tissue from his long years of tuition at the hands of his father’s bodyguards.

  ‘I must be losing my touch, Julius. I was aiming for the middle of his back.’

  His brother officer laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘And nevertheless, tragic though it is that you missed your mark by a foot with a spear slung on the run between trees, here we have that rarest of commodities …’ He extended an arm to gesture to the tribesman, still writhing with the pain of his wound. ‘… a live barbarian captive. A bit soiled, I’ll give you that, but in no real danger of dying any time soon and ripe for a few questions, I’d say.’ He reached out and rapped on the spear’s wooden shaft, then took a hold of it and twisted it sharply, rotating the wooden shaft inside the man’s wound. The tribesman screamed again, louder than before, his eyes bulging with the effort wrung from his pain-racked body. The centurion smiled down at him. ‘I thought that might hurt. Anything you feel like telling us?’ The barbarian snarled back at him, spitting defiantly at his armoured chest. Julius smiled back even more broadly, looking down at the spittle dribbling down the shining metal rings. ‘Oh, good, a challenge …’

  Hearing a voice behind him he stood up, turning away from the fallen tribesman. Rufius had crossed the gap between the road and the forest’s edge, and now stood staring into the shadows cast by the trees. He had picked up a fallen arrow and was examining the barbed head closely, talking in conversational tones to his comrades.

  ‘One of ours, I’d say. That puts paid to the story that they were all burned when we put the Noisy Valley stores to the torch. Just a shoot-and-run, do you think, or were they hoping to lure us into some nasty little ambush? That was the way in my day.’

  Julius shrugged his indifference.

  ‘Your day, Rufius? Well, my friend, these days it’s just shoot-and-run. These are simple village boys, not tattooed Tava valley head jobs. I suppose it beats shooting at the squirrels. Casualties?�
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  The older man nodded, his face solemn.

  ‘You’ve lost one man, he choked on his own blood before I could even get a bandage carrier to him, and you’ve one man with another one of these stuck in his leg. It’ll come out easily enough once we get him to Arab Town.’

  The centurion shook his head disgustedly, and then squatted back down next to his captive, batting away the man’s hands from their ineffectual fretting at the spear wound and switching to the man’s native language as he addressed the captive.

  ‘I’d leave that well alone if I were you, it’s going to hurt a lot more when it comes out.’ He took a firm grip of the spear’s shaft, the fallen tribesman’s eyes slitting in expectation of the pain to come. ‘And now, my lad, and without any further delay since we’re in a hurry to get off down the road to collect some more soldiers, you can tell me which village you’re from.’

  The wounded man closed his eyes and shook his head, a tear trickling down his cheek. Julius slapped his face gently, shaking his head with mock sadness.

  ‘Come on, sonny, you know you’re going to tell me sooner or later, just cough it up now and save us both the unpleasantness.’

  The tribesman shook his head grimly.

  ‘You’re going to kill me anyway. Just get it over with …’

  Marcus squatted down alongside Julius, his expert eye appraising the tribesman’s wound as he spoke.

  ‘He’s got a point.’

  ‘Piss off, Two Knives, I’m going to get the name of this stupid bastard’s village, and then …’

  ‘And then you’re going to do what, exactly? Burn it to the ground? Kill every adult male? The place will probably be deserted once his mates get back there and tell their story. All we’ll ever achieve if we seek to punish these people for the crimes of a very few is turn more of them against us than ever attacked us in the first place.’

  Julius stood, his face a picture of exasperation, one hand gesturing back to their captive.

  ‘So what do we do then, eh, Marcus? Just how do you propose to send these bastards the message that if they take us on they’ll end up regretting it?’

  The younger man shrugged, pointing down at the wounded tribesman.

  ‘Kill him. Either that or get that spear out of his leg and get us back on the road. Just don’t fool yourself that if you kill him you’ll achieve anything other than to turn another dozen men from neutrals to enemies.’

  The older man stared at him with a troubled expression.

  ‘And what about the fact that he was part of an ambush that killed one of our men?’

  Marcus nodded, extending a hand to indicate the tribesman’s wound.

  ‘He’s got a spear through his leg. I’d say that’s a decent down payment on what he’ll have to suffer for the rest of his life. He’ll probably never run again, he’ll most likely walk with a limp … he’ll pay for his stupidity over the next thirty years, but this way he’s not a martyr for these fools to shout about, just a constant reminder of what happens when you cross the wrong people. Bandage carrier!’ He reached out and pulled the weapon smoothly up through the horrified tribesman’s thigh, easing its blade out of the wound’s opening with delicate care and passing it to Dubnus. The wounded man’s eyes rolled up as he lost consciousness, sagging back on to the hard ground. Marcus turned to the medic summoned by his call. ‘Get that leg tied off, enough to stop the bleeding and keep him alive.’ Wiping his hands on a handful of grass, the young officer turned back to his colleagues. ‘There you go. He’ll live, but he’ll be crippled for the rest of his days, a burden on his tribe, and every time he walks past it’ll send a powerful message to everyone around him. If you want to roll the dice with the big boys, you’d better be sure you can afford the stakes. Come on, let’s put your casualties on a cart and get back on the road to Arab Town. I suddenly find myself in need of a drink.’

  * * *

  Night was falling across the fortified port of Arab Town by the time the Tungrian officers had their men bedded down for the night and were free to head for the officers’ mess. The fort’s looming stable blocks and barracks were silent silhouettes against the sunset’s red glow, and only the port’s pilot boat was anchored at the wooden pier that jutted out into the German sea, in stark contrast to the barely organised chaos that had greeted their previous visits during the summer to collect supplies shipped in from across the empire’s northern provinces. Infantrymen and cavalrymen, their mounts, weapons, armour, boots, shields, supplies and more, had flowed through the port over the previous few weeks, drawn from legions and supply depots across the German frontier and beyond, as the Roman forces in Britannia scrambled to make good the disastrous losses incurred by the imperial 6th Legion at the battle of Lost Eagle. For the first time in all those weeks the fort’s officers’ mess was quiet, a relief from the hard drinking and inevitable boisterous behaviour of officers passing through to new roles with units in the field, determined to get thoroughly drunk one last time before months of enforced abstinence.

  The Tungrian centurions had just settled down around the stove for the evening when the door opened to admit two officers, the newcomers shrugging off their cloaks and luxuriating for a moment in the room’s warmth. Rufius turned to greet them, frowning up from his chair.

  ‘You two look familiar. Aren’t you …?’

  The older of the two newcomers nodded.

  ‘Second Tungrians. I’m Tertius, this is Appius.’

  Rufius stood and offered his hand.

  ‘I’m Rufius, formerly Sixth Legion and now an adopted member of the First Tungrian cohort. These cheeky young bastards have taken to calling me “Grandfather”. This big arrogant specimen is Julius, or “Latrine” to his men, for reasons I’ll leave you to ponder, he commands the lead century, while this even bigger young lad is our newest centurion, Dubnus. The quiet man in the corner wearing, you’ll note, two swords, is “Two Knives”.’

  Tertius narrowed his eyes.

  ‘“Two Knives”? Like the gladiators?’

  ‘Just like the gladiators. Only faster. Much faster.’

  Tertius raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Now that I’d like to see.’

  Rufius laughed grimly.

  ‘You’ve missed the last performance, at least for a while. He only really waves them around at full speed when there’s blood to be spilt, and we haven’t seen much of that since Lost Eagle. Speaking of which … Steward! Wine for our friends here. You lads saved our bacon on that shit-spattered hillside, and we haven’t forgotten it.’

  The two newcomers pulled up chairs and made themselves comfortable, while the steward ferried cups of wine to the group.

  ‘A toast.’

  Tertius raised his cup.

  ‘The lost eagle.’

  They drank, and then Tertius wiped his mouth on his sleeve and spoke again.

  ‘You know there’s a hefty reward for the soldier that recovers the standard?’

  Rufius nodded. Tertius took another mouthful of his wine.

  ‘Aye. And we’ll be out looking for the bloody thing soon enough. That, and the head of the idiot that lost it. Once we’ve collected our new prefect and legged it back to join the rest of the cohort we’re slated for a tour up north to see what’s going on along the main road to Three Mountains.’

  Marcus Tribulus Corvus pulled a face and stared at the floor.

  ‘What’s the matter with your mate?’

  Rufius took a sidelong glance at his companion.

  ‘Not everyone has a bad opinion of the late Legatus Sollemnis. We were there when a nasty little shit by the name of Perennis sent the Sixth Legion into that ambush by lying through his teeth that the ground for their approach march was safe. He tried to kill our prefect too, except Dubnus here put his axe through the would-be executioner’s spine and then shot the traitor off his horse at thirty paces. Beautiful piece of work, that shot …’

  He darted a warning glance at Marcus, an imperceptible shake of his head, befor
e turning back to the newcomers.

  ‘Anyway, a new prefect? Where’s he come from, to be coming ashore here?’

  Tertius took another mouthful of wine.

  ‘Germania, apparently. Supposed to be some kind of fire-eater from what we’ve heard, keen as black seed mustard apparently. We’ve come down the wall with two centuries to escort him back to join up with the cohort at The Rock before we go north. And you lads are here for reinforcements?’

  Julius spoke up, his voice a deep rumble.

  ‘Two centuries’ worth of real Tungrians, trained, armed, armoured and ready to march. Just enough to get us back to something like full strength after the losses we took in that goat-fuck at Lost Eagle, and the only troops left in the port if I don’t count a couple of centuries of Hamian fairies twanging their bows in the next barrack. We’re lucky to be getting them, with so much competition for replacements, but our old prefect’s commanding the Sixth Legion now, which counts for something. Grandfather and Two Knives have command of our two empty centuries, broken up to provide replacements to bring the other eight up to strength, and we’ve come to collect their replacement soldiers. Dubnus and I are along for the ride with our boys, just to make sure they got here unmolested. And just as well, given the fun we had on the way.’

  Tertius nodded grimly.

  ‘Barbarian bowmen, between Fine View and White Strength?’

  ‘Yes. We lost one man and had another wounded. You?’

  ‘Two wounded. Local boys showing off to each other, most likely. They know we’ve got better things to do than take the time required to catch them in the act. One of these days, though …’

  He tipped the rest of the wine down his neck.

  ‘My shout. More wine, Steward, and a beer for me. Make it a large one.’

  An hour and several drinks later the Second Tungrian officers got to their feet. Appius, previously more or less silent, inclined his head in salute, his tongue clearly loosened by the wine.