Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two

by Riches, Anthony

  ‘No? Here’s another clue. I was the best first spear ever to grace the parade ground at Yew Grove. No? I thought not, you never did recognise quality in either supplies or soldiers. One last clue, then. I never did tell anyone about you and that lady you used to see on the side, did I? Despite her being very close to a rather unpleasant centurion of our mutual acquaintance, a man who would bite your throat out if he ever even suspected you of diddling his woman.’

  Brocchus recoiled from the counter with a look of combined amazement and horror. ‘Tiberius Rufius? But …’

  Rufius walked out of the shadows, swept his helmet off and slapped it down on to the counter’s surface, a wolfish grin painted across his face.

  ‘I know! It’s the sheer delight of seeing me again. I heard you shouting the odds like a stallholder’s wife from outside and I thought, “Bugger me, it’s that old fool Brocchus giving out just like old times.”’

  ‘But you retired. I saw you go …’

  Rufius grinned hugely, reaching across the counter to give the quartermaster’s cheek a painful tweak.

  ‘And now you see me back again, back in uniform … sorry, fancy dress … and having the best fun of my life. Yes, here I am again, with my mate here just out of his napkin and his over-tanned chosen man, and we’re here to rob your stores of everything and anything of value to the hundred and sixty men standing outside that door. Not your legion issue, of course, no, we’re looking for equipment fit for auxiliary shit, and I’m betting you’ve got enough hidden away back there for our purposes, given your love for squirrelling away anything and everything you might be able to sell.’ He grinned widely at the quartermaster’s amazed stare. ‘And do you know just how much you can do to stop me? Given that we’ve got a signed requisition from the Sixth’s legatus? A man who recently saw battle alongside myself and Napkin Boy here? And given that I know absolutely everything about your sordid little encounters with a certain officer’s wife? Encounters I’m sure you’d prefer never got back to him? Nothing, eh, Storeman? So, muster your work dodgers and let’s be about equipping a hundred and sixty brave men to go and stand between you and those nasty barbarians I’m sure you’ve heard so much about.’

  The quartermaster paled, turned and fled back into the storehouse’s gloom, calling for his men. Rufius smirked after him, raising a self-satisfied eyebrow at Marcus and Qadir.

  ‘There you go, lads, definitive proof that it isn’t who you know that matters, but who you know they’ve been shagging. Full infantry equipment for a double century of bow benders coming right up.’

  If the 8th Century had made poor time the previous day, their progress with sore feet and their new burden of armour and weaponry made the previous efforts look sparkling. Qadir walked alongside Marcus as the Hamians struggled up a slight incline in the road from The Rock towards Cauldron Fort, sweat beading his brow from both the warmth of the day and the weight of his new equipment. Each man was now shod with the standard heavy-soled combat boots, the hobnails lazily rapping out their laboured progress.

  ‘This mail must be at least twice the weight of our previous shirts.’

  Marcus smiled grimly back at him. ‘Not to mention the arming vest, which you’ll curse all day when it’s this warm – until it saves your delicate skin from being cut by the rings when they stop a blade. Anyway, that’s twenty pounds of heavy iron rings from neck to thigh, the best armour in the empire. Strong enough to stop arrow, sword or spear, just as long as a ring doesn’t break or a rivet pop, and flexible too. The first time you see combat with the blue-noses you’ll wish it was longer and thicker.’

  ‘Blue-noses?’

  ‘Yes. Our affectionate name for the tribes we’re fighting. They have a tendency to paint themselves up for battle.’ He raised an eyebrow at the Hamian’s disbelieving smile. ‘Oh, you can laugh now, but the first time you see a wall of screaming blue-painted lunatics charging at you you’ll not be quite so amused.’

  ‘I see. And the spear?’

  ‘Six pounds each. You should be carrying two, but we decided that one would be enough, given you still have your bows. Before you ask, the sword weighs three pounds, the shield twelve, the helmet five, and there’s another five pounds of kit on the carrying pole.’

  ‘And you fight in this? I can barely walk for the weight.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘I know. The first week is the worst. Once your men get used to the extra weight they’ll find they’ve grown muscle where there was little before. The …’

  A scream from the century of Tungrians marching to their front snapped his attention to their ranks. A man had fallen out of the column, an arrow protruding from his thigh.

  ‘Buckets and boards!’ Dubnus’s voice rang out in the sudden shocked silence, stirring the stunned troops into a flurry of movement as shields were pulled from the troops’ backs, and helmets thrust over their heads. Marcus turned to his own men, his own order for increased protection dying in his throat. Qadir, his bow already in his hand, gestured with an open hand towards the distant treeline. ‘With your permission? Before they realise what we are?’

  Marcus nodded blankly, unprepared for the sudden turn of events. ‘Be my guest.’

  A half-dozen tribal bowmen were standing a few paces from the safety of the trees, ready to dart into their shelter just as they had during the outward march three days before. Nocking a wickedly barbed arrow to his weapon’s bowstring, the Hamian effortlessly pulled the bow back to the limit of its ability to store the energy he was forcing into its stressed wood-and-bone frame. He took a moment longer to compose his shot, breathing in and half releasing the breath before loosing the arrow in a long shallow arc. As the arrow punched into his first target he was already nocking a second missile, sending it after the first before the barbarian had completed his nerveless slump to the ground, dropping the man standing alongside his first victim even as he gaped at his fallen comrade without quite comprehending what was happening. A third man fell as he started to shout a warning, and a fourth as the remaining tribesmen turned to run, the Hamian loosing his arrows with a speed and accuracy unlike any that Marcus had seen before. Morban, standing alongside him, gaped in astonishment. His mouth hung open unnoticed as the big Syrian’s bow spat arrow after arrow at the now terrified barbarians.

  Two men were left now, another shot dropping one of the pair as they sprinted for the trees in terror of the arrows that were killing them in remorseless succession. The last man reached the treeline and darted behind the trunk of a massive oak, peeping back out at the watching troops. Morban roared his approval, shaking the century’s standard in triumph.

  ‘Five men dead in twenty heartbeats! Cocidius’s hairy nuts, but you’re …’

  He fell silent as the Hamian chosen man nocked a last arrow, ignoring the standard-bearer’s noisy approval. Qadir waited for a long moment, holding another deep breath with his eye fixed on the distant tree, then loosed his last arrow just as the Briton looked out from his hiding place again, turning away to resling the weapon across his shoulder without any apparent interest in the shot’s success. For a moment nothing happened, but then the last of the tribesmen staggered from his hiding place behind the oak with the last arrow protruding from his neck, and fell full length to the ground. Qadir turned to Marcus and repeated his small bow of the previous morning, hands open wide at his side.

  Julius ran down the road towards them, a broad smile on his face. ‘Bloody good work, that’ll make the stupid young bastards think twice before any of them try that again. Let’s get on the move again.’

  Qadir inclined his head respectfully. ‘I would, with your permission, Centurion, prefer to retrieve my spent arrows. And some of those men may not be dead … I think I can see one of them moving.’

  Julius clapped him on the arm, pointing to the forest’s edge, and the wounded barbarians. ‘You’re shit-hot with a bow, that’s clear enough, but you still have a lot to learn about war here on the frontier. Those men you just put down can lie there an
d bleed to death for all I care. They might all die where they fell, or one or two of them might well make it back to their village. Either works well enough for us, since either way the message gets round the locals in double-quick time. Your arrows will give them pause for thought, and that’s a price worth paying. Centurions, saddle your men up and get them moving!’

  * * *

  The exhausted Hamians trailed the other centuries on to The Hill’s parade ground late that afternoon, wearily forming up for review alongside the replacement Tungrians as Acting Prefect Frontinius marched down from the fort.

  Morban nudged Qadir in the ribs, muttering from the side of his mouth. ‘Right, mate, that’s First Spear Sextus Frontinius, or ‘Uncle Sextus’ when he’s not within earshot. He’s a decent enough officer, straight enough, and doesn’t even mind being told when he’s wrong as long as you don’t rub it in. If he asks you a question don’t try to be clever, just answer him and then shut up. If he wants to know more he’ll ask you quick enough.’

  Frontinius’s step was lively enough but the waiting officers saw the obvious stiffness in his gait and exchanged meaningful glances.

  ‘You can stop pulling faces at each other when you think I’m not looking. Yes, my bloody knee is still as stiff as a spear shaft and yes, it still hurts like buggery when I bend it first thing in the morning, and not much less at any other time. That’s the price you pay for offering an easy target when there are blue-nose archers within bowshot. All of which is of far less importance than exactly what you’ve brought back from Arab Town. “A double order of tunic lifters” was the term the officer of the guard used when he put his head round my office door five minutes ago … and it doesn’t look like he was far off the mark, for all the nice new armour they’re struggling to keep upright. So, who’s going to enlighten me?’

  Julius stepped forward, snapping a crisp salute before walking across to his superior, leaning close enough that his words would be for the first spear’s ear alone.

  ‘Our rules, Sextus?’

  Frontinius shot him a penetrating stare, raising an eyebrow. ‘Our rules? Twice in one year? This ought to be good …’

  The centurion nodded to acknowledge his old friend and superior officer’s point.

  ‘Our rules, then. The Second Cohort has a new prefect, some hothead fresh from Germania with a point to prove. The bastard bribed the Arab Town replacements officer to let him walk off with one of our centuries, which left us with two choices, either to come back eighty men short, or to bring back enough of these Hamians to get us back to full strength.’

  The first spear raised an eyebrow, looking out over the centuries paraded in front of him. ‘And you went for numbers.’

  ‘It wasn’t my first choice. I’ll live with it, seeing as we’ve got them re-equipped somewhat more like soldiers than dancing girls, and given that one of them killed a half-dozen of the local idiots on the way back, but left to me they’d still be sitting in Arab Town wondering why it’s so cold in the middle of summer.’

  ‘I see. We’ll come back to the local idiots. So exactly whose first choice was it?’

  ‘Our young gladiator, who else? Oh, I ought to mention that he’s asked a certain lady doctor, recently widowed, if you get my drift, for her hand in marriage. Which, Cocidius the mighty hunter be forever mystified, she seems to have agreed to. You can expect the boy at your table one evening soon now asking for your formal permission.’

  The first spear raised a sardonic eyebrow, shaking his head gently.

  ‘That young man’s been nothing but a source of entertainment ever since Prince Dubnus walked him through the gates, but let’s concentrate on the Hamians for the time being. We’ll worry about the marriage later. I presume he’s intending to practise his transformation skills on his new century?’

  Julius nodded sagely. ‘Looks like it. I’m not sure that he understands the difference between what he managed with the Ninth Century and turning untrained men into soldiers, never mind untrained men quite so lacking in muscle. He did persuade Legatus Equitius to cough up the kit to make them look respectable, although they talked him into letting them keep their bows.’

  ‘Hence the dead idiots?’

  ‘Yes. Amazing shooting by their chosen man, too, he knocked over half a dozen of them in less time than it takes to tell the story. The fools never knew what hit them until it was too late. They were trying the usual shoot-and-run stuff – in fact they’d already hit us on the road east, killed one man and wounded another. We left him with Centurion Corvus’s wife-to-be in the Noisy Valley base hospital.’

  Frontinius snorted without mirth. ‘So, the locals bit off more than they could chew? Good. Perhaps they’ll think twice in future. So, these are useful tunic lifters then, despite appearances?’

  Julius shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes lifted briefly to the sky in unspoken comment. ‘They’ll shoot well enough, but the rest of the picture’s just one broken tile after another. They’re nearly all twenty pounds underweight and a hand’s length too short, they handle their weapons so badly the blue-noses will piss themselves laughing if we ever have to put them into a battle line, and their feet are as soft as silk. Or at least they were two days ago. Now they’re just a bloody mess. Like I said, I’ll live with it, and I’ll give Two Knives all the help I can, but I think it’s a lost cause. Two minutes of toe-to-toe with the locals will see half of them dead and the other half running.’

  Frontinius nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the Hamian ranks. ‘I can see your point from here. On the other hand, we’re likely to be back in the action before very long, and a double-strength century isn’t a thing I can afford to turn my nose up at. Perhaps we need to allow Centurion Corvus the benefit of the doubt for a little while. Parade them properly.’

  Julius spun away, bellowing for the four centuries to come to attention, and the two men waited for a long moment for the soldiers to settle down into immobility under the spirited goading of their watch officers. The Hamians, Frontinius noted, for all their obvious exhaustion, settled first and with a minimum of fuss. Nodding his satisfaction, the prefect paced out towards the Tungrian replacements and walked the front rank with questioning eyes. ‘They still make big lads in Tungria, I see. Nice tidy equipment … you, air your iron.’

  The soldier obediently unsheathed his sword, presenting the weapon’s hilt to the officer.

  ‘Clean, sharp, nice quality too. A good result, I’d say. This is your century, Centurion Rufius? Yes? You’re a lucky man, although I’m not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. Now, let’s have a look at our archers …’

  He walked along the 8th Century’s front rank, assessing their tired but erect stance. ‘Nice armour. New swords and spears too. Well done, Centurion Corvus, good use of initiative to have Sixth Legion re-equip your men, although quite how you got equipment this tidy out of their stores is something of a mystery to me.’

  Marcus met his questioning stare. ‘I had a little help from Centurion Rufius, First Spear. Local knowledge still counts, apparently …’

  ‘Good. Well done, Rufius, I’ll buy you a cup of wine later on for saving our young colleague the trouble of going through that whole “do you know who I am?” routine. This is your new chosen man, I presume, Centurion?’

  ‘Chosen man Qadir, First Spear.’

  ‘Thank you. Chosen, might I take a look at that bow?’

  Qadir saluted smartly and handed him the weapon. Frontinius tested the bow’s draw, grunting quietly with the effort, then handed it back.

  ‘I hear that you killed half a dozen men with this earlier today?’

  The chosen man nodded.

  ‘Yes, First Spear.’

  Frontinius handed the weapon back to him with a look of respect, then stepped up to address the century, raising his voice to be heard clearly. ‘Soldiers of the Eighth Century, you may have been born and trained in Syria, but you are now part of the proudest and most respected auxiliary cohort on the northern fronti
er. The First Tungrians have faced battle in these hills many times and always come out on top. Always. We win, gentlemen, no matter the odds. We win, we bury our dead, we mourn and we move on. You will find your comrades hard bitten … uncompromising … and this may be offputting to you, but you will adapt to our way of going about our business. I suggest that you start adapting now, for I fear that your time to do so will be shorter than might have been ideal. Welcome to the war.’

  * * *

  The sun was close to the western horizon by the time the 2nd Cohort delivered forth Prefect Bassus’s murderers. Respectfully summoned by First Spear Neuto, Furius strode out on to the parade ground, where the cohort had stood for most of the day. The soldiers were standing to attention, their faces fixed and sullen. Two soldiers stood out in front of the cohort’s third century, half a dozen of the cohort’s officers arrayed around them. Furius strolled up to the group, eyeing the pair carefully. Both men fixed their gazes on him, both wide eyed and pale with the gravity of their situation. The prefect turned to First Spear Neuto, gesturing to the men. ‘So these are Prefect Bassus’s murderers?’

  Neuto nodded grimly.

  ‘Yes, Prefect. Centurion Tertius commands their century. Centurion?’

  Tertius stepped forward and saluted briskly.

  ‘Soldiers Secundus and Aulus, Prefect. They have admitted to killing the prefect.’

  Furius walked up to the pair, looking both men in the eyes for several seconds before speaking again. ‘You both admit to the crime of murdering your commanding officer?’

  Aulus said nothing, simply turning his bruised face away. Secundus nodded, his face a mask of contempt. ‘I done the most of it. Put my spear through his bronze and his spine in one go and dropped the bastard face down. All he did …’ jerking his head towards the man standing alongside him ‘… was take his iron to him once he was down. You want to take your revenge, you take it from me.’