The Centurions

by The Centurions (retail) (epub)

  “Did you like it?”

  “I liked it,” he said, his voice husky.

  She fell back slowly into the blankets, her white legs spread to take him in. And she was beautiful, so beautiful…

  * * *

  Correus ran his hands through his hair with a rueful expression. That was nothing for a man in a marching camp to think about, with only the hairy company of the eighty legionaries under his command. Not if he didn’t want to lie awake all night. But he missed her… Mithras, how he missed her! They had divided the little time left to them between rides through a countryside suddenly turned lovely under the light hand of spring, and the bed in the timber house on the edge of town. Julius had begun to sleep in the stables of his own accord, but his expression made it plain that he found the master’s overwhelming infatuation with Freita (who was good enough in her way, of course, but still a woman) an unnecessary development. Correus suspected that Paulinus and Silvanus were also beginning to be worried about him, but he didn’t care. Freita represented something that had never touched his life before – a woman who was friend and lover both. His lovemaking developed a caring and a depth that were new to him, and he was fascinated to learn the things that pleased her. In turn, she responded with a wholehearted passion that left him awed and grateful.

  Flavius also took note of the situation, with raised eyebrows and a shrug of his shoulders that said plainly: like to like, slave to slave. Correus found that he didn’t much care about that, either. Flavius was unimportant to him in the face of this wonderful, glorious discovery. The few weeks before he marched out were a springtime idyll, marred only by the fact that, with his newfound sensitivity to Freita, he could tell that something troubled her. He had not spoiled the idyll by asking what it was. She would tell him when she was ready, or maybe never. It didn’t matter. She loved him and he her. That was what mattered.

  It had ended too soon, of course. They had marched out, and the legion had taken control of his life again. And now they were on either side of the Moenus Valley like two jaws of a trap, waiting for Nyall to put his head into it. That was how Paulinus had stated it when he had heard, in his usual mysterious fashion, of the German spy sent back to Nyall with a Roman patrol hard on his heels; a patrol that had been careful not to catch him.

  Paulinus had ridden into Argentoratum with Tullius, and settled into the best room of the best inn to observe the campaign for his History – and whatever else he observed things for. Coming into the house to catch a few precious hours with Freita two days after Paulinus’s arrival, Correus had found the rough sketch of a mural now adorning one of the shabby plastered walls. Lucius was painting it for her, Freita had told him proudly as Correus inspected the charcoal outline of a plump Bacchus, comically drunk, with a meal of roast pheasant at his feet. A pair of fat wolf puppies had come out of the forest and were stealing the pheasant off the plate while Bacchus tipped his wine cup, unknowing. There was something familiar in Bacchus’s face that Correus finally recognized as the face of Paulinus himself.

  He was relieved that Paulinus was in Argentoratum, and had drawn up yet a fifth set of Freita’s manumission papers and given them to him. Feeling a little embarrassed and theatrical, he also made his will, and gave Paulinus that, too. If anyone could insure that his wishes were carried out, it would be Paulinus. Freita must have enough money to have some choices about her future if he were killed. He hadn’t much to leave her, but Correus knew without even asking that Paulinus would add to it if necessary, and that Freita would accept it from him.

  Correus sat down on the camp bed and stared at his helmet and lorica stacked in the corner of the tent. It had never really occurred to him before that he might be killed, mostly because that was a reality that a soldier took for granted and there was little point in worrying about it. But now there was Freita, and parting with her was unbearable.

  And that was no way for a soldier to think. That was what got you killed, more often than not. A thought to put from one’s mind – fast. There was a soft rustling on the tent flap outside and he looked up, grateful for the interruption.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  A legionary stuck his head in past the flap. Quintus, released from the guardhouse on Correus’s fervent plea to Cominius that he “needed that mutinous bastard” and on his promise that Quintus would straighten up as soon as they were on the march.

  “The men are turned in, sir. And the watchword for tonight is ‘Patience.’”

  “How appropriate,” Correus said. “I trust you are exercising the same.”

  “Yes, sir,” Quintus said. “You squared me with the cohort commander, and don’t think I’m not grateful. My woman and me, we named the babe Julianus, sir. I’m hoping as that’s all right.”

  “Thank you,” Correus said gravely. “I’m flattered.”

  Quintus saluted smartly and withdrew. Correus smiled. Quintus never got into trouble when there was a fight brewing. It was the boredom of drills and parade that set him to making a pest of himself. Correus shucked off his outer tunic and put out the lamp. If the men were turned in for the night, it was time he turned in also, or he would be groggy when the sentries came to wake him in the morning. The legate had ordered no bugle calls. Their presence in the hills above the river valley was intended as a surprise, and bugle notes carried too far to be safe.

  * * *

  A stirring ran through the camp that pulled Correus out of sleep before the sentry could get to his tent. He sat up quickly in the half-dark and groped for his tunic and sandals and the cloak that served as an extra blanket on the bed. He jerked the tunic over his head and tried to shake the sleep out of his eyes. He slung on the new cloak – it had been Freita’s parting gift to him. The sandal laces were stiff and hard to fasten in the damp air, and he kicked them aside and stumbled barefoot out into the misty light.

  Half the camp was awake and shaking the other half into consciousness. Correus pushed through the flap of the eight-man tent next to his and laid his hand on the shoulder of his sleeping optio. The man sat up instantly, his hand reaching for the sword that lay with his gear beside the bed. His eyes focused on Correus and he sprang to attention.

  “Turn ’em out,” Correus said. “I think we’ve got company.” He looked anxiously into the dimness northward where the valley of the Moenus lay hidden under a thigh-deep mist, obscuring the pale waters of the river and the track that ran along its southern bank. There was no movement to be seen except for the oddly amputated shapes of a cavalry troop returning from their night’s patrol. The horses appeared as legless bodies floating in the belly-high mist, and they moved in orderly formation with no sense of urgency to them.

  Puzzled, Correus swung around. Suddenly, out of the hazy light to the southwest, he saw it – the pale flower of a beacon fire in the far distance.

  “Something’s gone wrong,” Cominius said, appearing beside him, buckling the straps of his lorica as he went. He stood, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge the distance of the beacon. As they watched, it went out.

  “That’s been burning no more than ten minutes,” Cominius said. “It’s gone out too soon! Form your men up for parade, fast!”

  Correus dived back into his tent and struggled into his sandals and harness skirt, and then his lorica, tucking his scarf in for padding under the neck edges. Abandoning his search for a comb, he ran fingers through his hair, then put on his greaves and his helmet. He reappeared, tying the strap under his chin, as his men were falling into line beside their tents. The same was happening all over the camp, and Correus could see Legate Rufinus with his staff and a crowd of senior officers around him.

  They stood in formation, waiting, as the mist began to burn away and the sun spread a wash of pale gold over the hillside.

  “What is it, sir?” the optio whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Correus whispered back, but he thought he did. That beacon meant trouble, and the fact it had been extinguished almost as soon as it was lit likely meant bad t
rouble. But where was it? He thought it was one of the Nicer River forts, and if it was, it meant that Nyall had not taken the bait. It also meant that a fort and all its men, and maybe the whole Nicer line, were gone, while they sat here over an empty trap, doing nothing.

  The legate and his staff were thrashing out much the same line of thought.

  “No,” Calpurnius Rufinus said. “We aren’t stirring a step until I find out what in Hades has happened.”

  “The scouts went out as soon as we saw the beacon,” said the primus pilus, commander of the First Cohort. “Has our spy sold himself over to Nyall again, do you think, sir?”

  “Anything is possible,” the legate said. “But no, I don’t think so or I wouldn’t have used him. He was damn near dead when he came to us. Too near to be faking it, and he had Nyall to thank for that. Besides, Nyall wouldn’t give him what he wanted, and he had an eye to be chieftain, that one.”

  “‘Had,’ sir?”

  “I don’t suppose he’s still alive,” the legate said grimly.

  “Then what happened?” Messala Cominius asked.

  “Nyall didn’t buy his story,” the legate said. “I think we can take that as evident, Centurion.”

  “Yes, sir. But why not?”

  The legate hitched his gilded breastplate to a more comfortable angle on his shoulders, and sighed. “Wood-elves, Centurion. Nyall’s spy put the finger on our spy, or something like that. It’s a question I’ll consider when I don’t have more pressing matters – such as an army of Germans that’s where it’s not supposed to be.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cominius decided that further questions would be inadvisable.

  “What I would more like to know,” the legate said thoughtfully, “is how much talking our man did before he died.”

  The primus pilus nodded. A man about to be killed might well try to buy his life with the truth. “He didn’t have much to tell, did he, sir? We kept him in the dark as far as possible.”

  “Anything it occurred to him to tell would be too much,” the legate said. “I want the legion ready to march on a two-minute notice, and I want a report from those scouts. And I want my breakfast. You will find me in my tent when the scouts come in, which had better be soon.”

  There was a crash of salutes and the officers eyed his retreating back warily. “For the gods’ sake, someone see that he gets breakfast,” the primus pilus said.

  * * *

  There wasn’t long to wait. The only scout to survive came back with a white face to say that they had stuck their heads over a hillcrest and found the whole damned German war band looking back at them, and the gods must have had their eye on him that day because every other man of the party was dead before he could reach cover. The Germans had seen them and hunted them down. How they’d missed him, he’d never know. He shook violently and threw up, and added apologetically that he’d been sitting in a tree when they’d cut a scout’s throat right under him. They’d done other things to him, too. The scout looked as if he were going to be sick again.

  The attack had come not at the Nicer River forts, but at the one signal outpost beyond, and the Germans had wiped it out because they had been seen. One man must have managed to get the beacon lit and kept it going until they came up the tower and killed him.

  “When this is over,” Rufinus said, “I’ll build a temple for the man who lit that fire.”

  The camp was moving like an anthill now, purpose in every step. The wagons were loaded and ready to move out or backward according to how the battle went. The whole legion was formed up and ready with the cohort and century standards marking each unit; the cavalry auxiliaries were mounted and drawn up on the wings. The men chewed a hasty breakfast of barley cake and made last-minute adjustments to armor and weapons at the same time. The Twenty-second Primigenia, alerted by Rufinus’s signalmen, was pouring down the far side of the river valley to the ford, while the legate watched their progress anxiously. The planned ambush had turned into a trap for its makers, with the Twenty-second Legion caught on the north bank of the Moenus and Nyall marching on them from the south.

  The ford was narrow and the Twenty-second was taking a long time to cross. They had originally been intended to keep Nyall from crossing, and their auxiliaries were heavy with archers. If Rufinus took the Eighth Augusta out immediately to meet Nyall, he would risk outdistancing the Twenty-second. If he did not, he would be forced to fight with a river at his back, as Nyall had done at Jorunnshold. He paced and thought hard for a moment and then motioned to his aides. They would hold the ground they had, a wide plateau that sloped away easily enough on either side for the Twenty-second to come up on their wings. It fell away steeply to the south, where Nyall would be forced to attack.

  “At least he’ll have to come uphill at us,” Calpurnius Rufinus thought grimly.

  Correus began to feel the familiar knot in his stomach that meant a fight coming. He could see Flavius’s century, drawn up with the rest under the Ninth Cohort standard to his right, and he raised a hand to his brother, but Flavius, eyes straight ahead on the backs of the light troops who would be the first to move, didn’t see him.

  “Commander’s compliments, sir, and you’re wanted,” an optio said to Correus.

  Messala Cominius gathered his five junior centurions around him and explained things bluntly. “We’re the lucky ones in the place of honor. Middle of the advance line, and we’d better hold it, because it’s none too easy to swim in armor. Wait for the third trumpet, and then fall back into the line behind you. We’re going to try to knock the bastards back down the hill and roll ’em into a ball, but not until we’ve got the Twenty-second with us. Comments, gentlemen?”

  “Uh, caltrops, sir?” Correus said. “Their front line’s going to be mounted.”

  The commander nodded and turned to his optio. “As Julianus suggests. Kindly make it so.” He looked at Correus. “You have a promising career, Centurion, provided you live.”

  Correus and the others saluted and turned back to their men. As he took his place beside his own optio and his standard-bearer, Correus felt the ground begin to quiver, the stirring of the earth that only a massed army on the march could make. This is it, he thought. This is our last chance to beat Nyall, or we’re going to lose this province.

  A trumpet sounded and the light armed troops in the front moved out through a concealing scrub of trees to meet the first charge. It was frustrating, Correus thought, standing there with nothing to see but trees, knowing that beyond them the battle was joined and that soon they too would split ranks through those trees to confront whatever was on the other side. A signalman in the top branches waved his hand and the legate nodded. The trumpet sang again and the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth cohorts moved at a trot through the screen of trees. Behind them in the low valley, the last of the Twenty-second Legion splashed its way through the shallow ford.

  The skirmishers had slowed the war band’s leading edge with a rain of pilums and then pulled back, leaving the sloping ground strewn with caltrops – four-pointed iron barbs that always landed point-up, and were death to horses.

  Nyall’s horsemen were on the caltrops before they could draw rein, and Correus saw a number of riders leap from their fallen horses, some going down under the hooves of the horses behind them. Then, unexpectedly, the rest swept away to the flanks and the foot fighters came pouring up the hill. The battle was joined in earnest, and the whole world narrowed down to the space of his one century and the ground it was commanded to hold as Correus locked his shield into the familiar slot at the left-hand end of his line. Behind and to either side of him were the rest of his cohort and the other two cohorts that were the center of the legate’s strategy. For Correus now, there was only the shield line and his century standard over his head, and the screaming, half-naked warriors who hurled themselves against it. Everything else had vanished behind the curtain of blood and dust and the screams of fallen horses.

  “Now! Throw!” The pilums hurtled away, and then shi
elds were locked close, the front-rank shields before them and the others overhead as Nyall’s war band swarmed around them. It was a closed formation designed only to hold ground, and Correus could feel the men’s impatience, dug in behind their shields, rocking under the weight of Nyall’s charge.

  * * *

  Nyall, astride his red roan horse in the rear, watched with satisfaction. The chieftain of the Anglii thumped his fist on his saddle and spoke urgently, and Nyall shook his head. Those Roman shields would break soon under the sheer force of numbers, and then his restive warriors would have their chance. The man who threw himself onto the enemy’s spears might die bravely and ride away to Valhalla, but he won no wars. Nyall had threatened and cajoled his lords into a grudging acceptance of this fact, and now he had his best warriors, the flower of his army, where he wanted them, held back for the right time, while the lower-ranking foot fighters cut the first openings in the enemy’s lines. It was a Roman tactic to fight a Roman.

  * * *

  The battle line rocked and swayed as the Romans fought a desperate defense. Flavius, locked into the shield line with his own century, felt his throat constrict with the claustrophobic sense of being bricked in behind those shields. A straight charge would be more endurable, even if it ended on a German spear, he thought, and his cohort commander’s brusque instructions rang in his ears: “We hold until the third trumpet. Hold and nothing more, and the first man who pulls any death-or-glory stuff on me is a dead man.”

  And then, the memory of past mistakes plain on his face, the commander had put Flavius’s century dead center of the cohort, insulated on four sides by the locked shields of the others. There would be no chance to disobey.

  The sun was full up now and it was hot pressed close together behind the shield line. The air was beginning to smell like blood. Correus’s hands were damp with sweat, and he tightened his grip on his sword. A German spear punched through the shield of the man beside him and pulled it away, and the man went down with a second spear through his breast. Correus stabbed upward with his short sword as the Germans hit the gap in his line. He rocked with the weight as he caught a German warrior under the man’s shield edge and the German fell forward onto him.