‘All I can tell you, First Spear, is that if there’s an irregularity to be found, anything this tribune can turn to his own advantage, he will find it and he will use it.’
He turned to face Frontinius for a moment, taking a deep breath of the cool breeze.
‘Anyone with a secret to hide would be better off somewhere else …’
Frontinius nodded his understanding, then clapped a hand on the centurion’s shoulder.
‘Well then, Centurion, let’s get to the top of this pimple and see what we can see. Look, the Eighth Century have already got to the top of their hill.’
‘So then he as good as told me that Furius already knows about young Corvus, and advised me to move the lad or risk discovery. He was less subtle with Marcus yesterday …’
Tribune Scaurus took a sip from the single cup of wine to which he had rationed himself for the night before replying. The first spear had come to his tent soon after the evening meal was finished, and double-strength sentries had been posted both around the marching camp and as listening patrols out across the river.
‘Which means not only that Furius has a pretty fair idea that Corvus is not what he seems, but he’s not doing all that good a job of keeping the fact to himself. So, First Spear, what to do?’
Frontinius scowled darkly into his own cup.
‘Not as simple as you might think, Tribune. The boy’s a member of the cohort now, not the friendless fugitive he was six months ago. He’s fought and killed alongside these men, formed the kind of bond that sometimes takes a lifetime. The Ninth Century would fight to the death for him, almost to a man, and my centurions count him as a brother. If we send him away to uncertainty, even with the best intentions, we’ll have a very unhappy cohort on our hands, I can promise you that.’
‘And yet if we keep him here, and that meathead Furius denounces us to Ulpius Marcellus, neither of us is going to see many more sunsets. And don’t forget that there are at least two senior officers embroiled in this nasty little affair, both your former tribune and tribune Licinius. I can think of half a dozen heads that will end up on stakes if this goes public. No, he has to disappear into thin air, and it has to happen soon. Once we’re south of the wall again, the same day we pass through the north road gate, he has to vanish, and take his doctor with him or she’ll be the next subject of Furius’s ill intentions.’
Frontinius nodded sadly.
‘I’d hoped that we could keep him here a while longer, and that the excitement would die down and allow him to settle and make a new life. If any man has earned some peace then that young man is a decent enough candidate.’
Scaurus tipped the rest of the cup down his throat.
‘And you, of all people, First Spear, are well placed to know just how unfair life is. As it happens I have an idea that might just keep the lad alive for long enough that he gets to enjoy a little of the peace you describe, and his woman too, but it requires him to leave this cohort at the first opportunity. Preferably with ‘killed in action’ noted against his name in the pay records. It’s either that, or watch your command be torn apart around you while Furius has a cross built for you. It may not be much of a choice, but it’s the only one you’ve got. Oh, and by the way …’
He pointed a finger at the view through the tent’s open end. In the 9th Century’s lines the Tungrians and Votadini were indulging in a temporary weapons swap. The soldiers were hefting the barbarians’ heavy swords above their heads, marvelling at the strength required to make more than a couple of the chopping attacks the long blades were made for, while the tribesmen were laughing at them from behind a row of borrowed shields, grimacing through the gaps between the shields and the brow pieces of the helmets they had donned to complete their impersonation.
‘Amazing, isn’t it, how quickly fighting men find the things that make them the same, and learn to ignore the things that make them different?’
Dubnus strolled into the 8th Century’s section of the camp an hour later, Martos walking alongside him with a hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his sword. The Hamians were already asleep in their tents, exhausted by the day’s march, but, as the young centurion had expected, Marcus was still wide awake, discussing possible tactics for the next day with Qadir and his watch officers. All four men were wearing their heavy woollen cloaks, in contrast to the two Britons, who seemed not to notice the evening’s chill. Marcus stood, clasping hands with Dubnus and turning to regard Martos steadily, his expression neutral.
‘Martos, this is my brother-in-arms Marcus. Marcus, this is Martos, a prince of the Votadini tribe, now our ally and, as of today, my friend.’
Marcus nodded his greeting, extending a hand. Martos took it, sustaining the grip for a moment.
‘Your hand is cold, Marcus. That, and your face, tells me that you were not born in this land.’
Marcus nodded.
‘I was born in Rome, and lived there for most of my life. This may be a pleasant evening to you, but I’m used to warmer.’
‘And your soldiers?’
Marcus smiled, extending a hand to Qadir, who took his cue to bow his head slightly.
‘My chosen man can speak for himself, but since his homeland is even warmer than my own, you can probably draw your own conclusions.’
The Briton looked at the Hamians bleakly for a long moment before speaking again.
‘I asked Dubnus to show me the men who broke my warriors’ will in the battle for the hill fort. I was curious to meet the soldiers who rained death on to my people, to look into their eyes and see what kind of men they were. I expected cold-hearted killers, and yet, as with the other men of your cohort, find only ordinary men like my own. If anything, your men look even more out of place here than mine.’
Qadir stood, offering his hand to the Briton.
‘I must ask your forgiveness, Prince Martos. My men have been trained for years to regard their targets as simply that … targets. I am not proud that we killed so many of your warriors, although I am in honesty pleased that they managed their first battle as well as they did. Please accept my sympathy for your losses.’
Martos nodded, his eyes locked on the big Hamian.
‘My heart is still bleeding for the men that have preceded me across the river, and I have hardened it for revenge on my enemies, but I cannot number you among them for simply fighting as you have been trained.’
His eyes flicked on to Marcus, narrowing with curiosity.
‘A few among my men, warriors that managed to fight their way clear of the slaughter you called down upon us, speak of a lone officer who stood against a dozen of them two and three at a time. This man, they say, fought with two swords, and possessed both speed and skill they have not seen before …’ He looked at the Roman expectantly, gesturing to the two swords at his sides. ‘This man was you?’
Marcus smiled.
‘My archers are new to this style of fighting, and to war itself, and even a few of your warriors would have put them to flight in minutes. I had no choice except to get out in front of them.’
The Briton surprised him by bowing slightly.
‘Necessity or not, you have the respect of my tribe. To stand alone against so many angry men will have taken great bravery …’
‘Either that, or he’s had the sense knocked out of him by too many blows to the head.’
Martos tossed his head back and laughed uproariously at Dubnus’s jibe.
‘That’s good, I’ll tell my warriors that the man who bested several of their number single handed was punch drunk at the time.’ He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, his focus on the Roman intent. ‘It’s a good thing I didn’t manage to get free of the press of my men, or I too would probably have ended up face down under your blades. I look forward to the opportunity to wield my own sword at your side, now that fate sees us both looking for the chance to take the same man’s head. And now, new friend Dubnus, I’d better get back to my men before they grow restive.’
Dubnus turn
ed to follow him, raising a fist to Marcus for a tap in parting and nodding to Qadir. The chosen man watched the two men walk away towards the 9th Century’s tents.
‘They have a different approach to life, these Britons. In my country a man in his position would take his first opportunity to put a knife between your ribs, and mine too in all probability.’
Marcus pursed his lips, considering the point.
‘I can’t say that it would be any different in mine. And yet to all appearances the man’s happy to treat the whole thing as water under the bridge. Let’s hope he feels the same way when we’re toe to toe with his former allies.’
The next morning started out fine enough, the cohorts’ stand-to, their breakfast and preparations for the march illuminated by the early morning’s soft red light. The supply carts were to be left in the marching camp’s shelter for the day, each man carrying a double ration in his pack in case, as seemed likely, they were unable to return to the camp that evening. Morban, freed from his duties minding Lupus by Antenoch’s reluctant agreement to remain at the ford with the boy and a tent party of men to guard the supply wagons, stared sourly into the sky above the hill to their east, nudging the 8th’s trumpeter with an elbow.
‘Red sky …’
The youth followed his pointing arm.
‘And?’
The standard-bearer raised his eyebrows despairingly, looking around at the equally uncomprehending Hamians.
‘Fuck me backwards, you really don’t have a clue, do you. Didn’t your dad ever tell you what happens when the sky’s that colour?’
‘What colour? Pink?’
‘Don’t get funny with me, you little prick. ‘Red sky in the morning, soldier’s warning’? No? Never mind, just make sure that your cloak’s packed at the top of your gear, you’re going to be wanting it out before the midday stop.’
As it happened, and as the trumpeter took great pains to point out to him at the midday ration break, the day stayed clear and bright all morning as the two cohorts slogged across the largely treeless hills and valleys. Nevertheless, dark clouds were indeed building up behind them in the south-west. Eventually, after the fifth or sixth comment at the expense of his weather-forecasting abilities, Morban judged that the moment had come.
‘Very good, smart-arse, if you’re so confident that it’s not going to rain, how about a small wager. Or are you only brave after the event?’
The cohorts moved on again a few minutes later, the Votadini reckoning that they were only a few miles from the warband’s presumed stronghold. Scaurus and Furius, in a spirit of some reconciliation after their falling-out the previous day, agreed that their respective units would switch their cohorts’ modus operandi from the march to a more tactical approach. Frontinius gathered his centurions, a note of quiet satisfaction in his voice.
‘Right, we’re now officially the point of the spear. The First Cohort takes the lead from now. So, it’s quiet routine from here, brothers, no trumpets, no singing. We advance at the walk rather than the march and I want eyes on the horizon to all sides at all times. Dubnus, you’ve got the scout century so you’d better get your idle bastards to start justifying their boasting and get right out front. I want you as far out as you can get without being out of sight, and I want every blade of grass turned over for signs of the enemy. They’re somewhere out there, probably lying in wait for the legions, and our job is to find them without being spotted. If you do find them, you make the signal; you pull your horns in and wait for me to come forward to join you. No heroics. And yes, you can take your new friend with you just as long as you don’t let him any farther forward than you, and the rest of his men stay well back. This advance will be scouted exclusively by Roman forces from this moment.’
The 9th went forward in the manner they had perfected in the previous months, individual tent parties scouting forward in complete silence and communicating with Dubnus by hand signals. They advanced cautiously across the hilltop’s broad expanse, every seam and fold in the otherwise bare ground explored carefully by the advancing soldiers. An hour later, with dark clouds gathering overhead, the leading tent party probed cautiously into a copse half a mile in front of the cohort’s advance. The soldier Scarface motioned to his mates to stay where they were at the trees’ edge, and raised his spear ready to throw as he slid noiselessly into the copse, weaving carefully around the gnarled trunks of the clustered oaks. The veteran soldier sniffed the air with a furrowed brow, then silently laid his spear and shield down on the grass to ease his stealthy movement through the trees, drawing his sword and once more motioning for his troops to hold their positions. Advancing cautiously around the rock outcrop that dominated the thin collection of trees and scrub, his sword held ready to fight, he froze into perfect immobility.
In front of him, with his back turned to the wide-eyed scout, a barbarian warrior was squatting with his breeches around his ankles, grunting quietly in an apparently fruitless act of defecation. Inching forward, his attention locked on to the back of the barbarian’s head for any sign that his lurking presence had been detected, Scarface stalked the tribesman with his sword raised until he was less than a foot from the man’s oblivious back, hardly daring to breathe for fear of alerting his target. He paused for a moment, unconsciously rehearsing with tiny movements of his hands before taking a decisive step forward and wrapping a big hand across the barbarian’s face, stifling his surprised exclamation and pulling his head back to open his throat to the sword’s blade. Ignoring the blood sluicing from the massive wound opened across the barbarian’s neck as the man tottered to his feet, Scarface stepped back to reverse his grip on the sword’s hilt before pivoting forward on one muscular thigh to punch the point into the dying man’s back and through his heart, dropping him lifeless on to the grass. Sheathing the bloody blade, he grabbed the dead man’s corpse by the arms and weaved back through the trees the way he had entered the copse.
Dubnus ran forward to meet the eight men struggling back towards him, Martos and his four-man bodyguard running alongside him. The soldiers were gathered in a tight group as they came to meet him, apparently weighed down by something large and heavy. As he reached them they dropped their burden to the ground and stepped aside, revealing the dead barbarian warrior with his throat ripped wide open and a gout of blood down his chest. The dead man’s eyes were bulging in testament to his last frantic struggles. Scarface stepped forward, still breathing heavily from his retreat pulling the man’s dead weight.
‘He was in the trees. I caught him with his back to me, so I cut his fucking throat to stop him shouting out to his mates and then put my iron through his back. We grabbed him and got him out of there before anyone noticed, but they’ll be looking for him soon enough …’
Dubnus looked more closely at the dead man.
‘So why are his trousers round his knees?’
The veteran’s expression was a study in pained explanation.
‘Because, Centurion, he was trying to have a shit when I did him. Why do you think I’ve got the bloody stuff all over my feet? Seems my iron unstoppered his arse better than all the grunting he was doing while I crept up on him.’
The young centurion shook his head in disbelief, looking at Martos with a raised eyebrow. The other man returned the gaze, his face set grimly.
‘This is worse than I expected. We’ve thrown a stone into a wasp’s nest, and we have only a matter of minutes before the swarm is upon us.’
Dubnus nodded, drawing his sword and hacking off the dead man’s head, picking it up by the mane of greasy hair and turning back to Scarface.
‘Did you actually see any more of them?’
The veteran shook his head, but his expression spoke volumes.
‘No, but as I was stalking this boy I could smell wood smoke, and plenty of it. Could be a dozen of them, could be the entire bloody valley full for all I know.’
‘Cocidius help us. Given that the warband’s supposed to be five miles farther east, and given tha
t …’ The young centurion pointed to the severed head staring slackly back at them. ‘… I’d say we’re in deeper shit than what you’ve had sprayed on your boots.’ He pointed to one of the younger soldiers. ‘You, boy, you fancy yourself a runner, so you take this and you leg it back to the first spear as fast as you can go …’ He pushed the barbarian’s severed head into the soldier’s hands. ‘… and you tell the first spear there’s a camp over the hill, cooking fires lit, strength unknown, and make sure he gets to see that. He’ll know what to do.’
He turned to his men as the runner bounded away.
‘Right, one man runs to each tent party and tells them to get back here, quiet over quick, mind you, and save their wind. I reckon we’ve got a long run ahead of us.’
9
By chance, it was Rufius’s century that the runner reached first, and the veteran took one wide-eyed look at his grisly trophy before grabbing it from him and running back up the cohort’s column with a speed that belied his years. Finding the senior officers watching the 9th Century’s stealthy but hasty retreat with professional concern, he held out the dead barbarian’s head to his first spear, too breathless to speak. To his surprise, Scaurus was the first to speak.
‘Gods below, he’s a Venico!’
Furius wrinkled his brow.
‘He’s another dead barbarian, that’s what he is. Why so …’
Frontinius, having stared for a long, silent moment at the dead man’s head, at the face decorated with swirling blue tattoos, spoke over him as if not even aware that a superior officer was speaking.
‘How far is it back to last night’s campsite would you say, Centurion Rufius?’
‘Ten miles, give or take, First Spear.’
He nodded, and then turned to Scaurus.
‘You’re right, of course, that is indeed a barbarian of quite another tribe to those we thought we were facing. If Calgus has managed to achieve what this looks like, then we’re on very dangerous ground indeed.’
‘And you recommend …?’
Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two Page 28