Frontinius briefed Prefect Equitius an hour later, once the excitement of a full cohort stand-to was over and the centuries had gone grumbling back to their interrupted sleep. He’d been on the scene in minutes with the duty century, but only in time to greet the 9th’s men as they carried their casualties off the hill.
‘It was nothing really, just a few barbarian scouts running into our listening patrols. It was too dark for much serious fighting, and what there was seems to have been scrappy. More like a vicus bar brawl than a real fight. The turning point appears to have been one of our lads going into a blood rage in the middle of the skirmish and slicing up several of the barbarians, after which they seem to have thought better of the whole thing. We’ve got a man dead and two wounded, one light sword wound and a nasty-looking concussion. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the man with the concussion is our very own Roman centurion, his helmet stove in by a barbarian with a strong club arm.’
Equitius groaned.
‘So now he’s stuck in the fort hospital for any and all to see?’
Frontinius shook his head.
‘No, I spent a few minutes with the doctor and had him hidden away in a quiet part of the building, away from curious eyes. I’ve also told the Ninth to keep the news of his injury to themselves. The Prince can run the century for the next day or two.’
Equitius nodded thoughtfully.
‘So this might even work to our advantage, and keep him out of sight until it’s time to deploy into the field.’
Frontinius snorted a mirthless laugh.
‘Yes. And we get to find out if his skull is thick enough to keep his educated brains in one piece, or whether the blue-noses have just solved our problem for us.’
Light pricked at Marcus’s eyes as they struggled to open. He could see only a ball of light, with a dark figure floating behind it. Closing his eyes, and surrendering to the darkness again, and whatever it was that was happening, seemed much the easiest thing to do.
When he woke again the metallic taste in his mouth was gone, and the light that greeted his cautious gaze was that of weak daylight, a pale shaft through a window in one wall of the room in which he lay, still exhausted, in a narrow bed. Underneath heavy blankets he was naked, while his head ached awfully. A familiar voice called out from close by.
‘Orderly! Orderly, you dozy bastard! Fetch the doctor! He’s awake.’
The owner of the voice came back into the room and, fighting his eyes back into focus, Marcus recognised an exhausted-looking Antenoch.
‘Lie still, the doctor’s coming.’
He sat down in a chair at Marcus’s bedside, running a hand through his disordered hair.
‘We thought for a while you might not live, you were out of it for so long. Only the helmet saved you, and you should see the dent in that! You won’t be ...’
He stopped in mid-sentence, as another figure entered the room. Marcus gingerly turned his head to see the new arrival, blinking at the sunlight, recognising the doctor with a shock.
‘You ... but you’re a ...’
‘A woman? Evidently your concussion hasn’t entirely removed your cognitive powers, Centurion Corvus.’
It was the woman from the farm ... an image of her fury at the sight of slaughtered cattle flashed into his mind. Felicia ... ? His memory grasped for the name, making his brow knot with the effort.
... Clodia Drusilla? Felicia Clodia Drusilla! He raised an arm, the limb seeming heavy.
‘Water ... please?’
Antenoch put a cup to his lips, the liquid ungluing his mouth and throat.
‘Thank you. Madam, I am ...’
‘Surprised?’
Her eyebrow arched in a challenge that Marcus knew was completely beyond his faltering capabilities.
‘... grateful for your care.’
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his body sag against the bed with exhaustion. Her voice reached him, as if from a distant place.
‘And now, Master Antenoch, it’s time for you both to get some proper sleep. Go back to your unit and sleep for at least ten hours. Here, I’ll make it a formal written command ... there, “to sleep for ten hours without interruption”. Give that tablet to your chosen man. And tell him that the centurion will be ready to receive visitors tomorrow afternoon at the very earliest ...’
Calgus stood astride the Wall with his adviser Aed as the sun set that evening, watching his warriors pouring back to the north through the North Road’s smashed gates. They were moving in good order for the most part, one or two supporting comrades clearly the worse for drink, but if individuals had overindulged in captured wine it was of little concern to him. Behind them the fortress of the Rock was still smearing the sky with the grey reek of its smouldering timbers, while torches were being lit by his marching troops to provide illumination for the night movement. All things considered, he mused, he had enough reason to be satisfied as his first attack played to its close. At length his adviser Aed spoke, his opinions delivered with the customary candour that Calgus valued, where most others would tell him simply what he wanted to hear.
‘So, my king, their Wall is broken, the garrison troops huddle anxiously around their forts to east and west, and their Sixth Legion seems content simply to prevent our advance on Yew Grove. Some of our people see this as victory enough, while others argue for striking west or south and destroying the Roman forces before they can join. We must explain our next moves soon, before the tribes fall to arguing among themselves. A lack of Roman shields to batter will have our peoples at each others’ throats before long.’
Calgus spat on to the Wall’s flat surface, his face twisting into a sneer.
‘I will gut the first men who take swords to their brothers myself, you can let that be known. As for the Romans, I’ve told the tribal leaders that our cleverest move is the one we’re making now, to pull back from the Wall and let them follow into the uncertain lands to the north if they dare. The right move is to pull back, and invite them onwards on to our ground. Of course, it would have been different if our western warband had not failed to break the Wall to the west, behind the traitor cohorts. If we could have put the soldiers waiting to the west between two forests of spears and with no place left to run, that would have been a blade to their guts I would have twisted without hesitation.’
Aed nodded, his face impassive.
‘I understand, my lord. Yet I must tell you that at this moment our only real fear is the warband itself, or more particularly its urgent desire for battle. Real battle. The tribes grumble that their war so far has been one of chasing after fleeing Romans and burning empty forts. Lord Calgus, the northern tribes are clamouring for a proper fight, a fight we currently deny them.’
Calgus nodded at the advice. After the council of the tribes the previous evening he was already aware of the problem. He had called the gathering of tribal leaders knowing that he would at the least have to listen to their arguments for their warriors to run amok down the line of forts that garrisoned the Wall. These were arguments made stronger by the speed with which the defenders had evacuated their forts, rather than fight for their homes. Put simply, the defenders seemed ripe for taking, ready to fall under the tribes’ attacks. He’d listened patiently until their arguments dried up in the face of his silent contemplation. When silence had fallen and all men in the gathering he’d called were waiting for him to say something, he’d voiced his opinion.
‘What you propose is exactly what the legatus commanding that legion down the road to Yew Grove wants, for us to waste our time and strength destroying empty forts. They will simply retreat in front of us, leaving us to spend our energy on pointless destruction. Or worse, they will attempt to pin us between their two forces. I’m not entirely sure our warriors would stand their ground if that happened.’
One of the tribal leaders had stalked forward to stand in front of him, a dead Roman’s head held casually by the hair in one hand, a Roman infantry sword in the other. He tur
ned to the assembled chiefs, holding both in the air above his head.
‘I say we fight! My people have tasted Roman blood, taken heads, taken weapons. To retreat now will bring shame upon us in the eyes of Brigantia – who knows whether she will look with anger upon a retreat in the time of victory, and punish us for avoiding battle.’
The gathering held its collective breath, waiting for Calgus to pounce from his chair, perhaps even draw the sword that hung from his waist and take the other man apart with it for the slur. He was more than capable of such sudden violence, as they all knew from experience. After a long silence, allowing time for the suddenly isolated noble to realise what he had done, Calgus laughed softly. A collective sigh of released breath greeted the sound.
‘Balthus bids us storm more of the Wall forts, while the legion to our south hide in their camp, and yes, we could easily fire another half-dozen of their camps, knock the gates out of a dozen gateways, kill a few hundred careless Romans, take more swords and spears ...’
He paused, looking around the gathering, meeting each of the leaders’ eyes in turn.
‘How many heads have we taken already? Five hundred? A thousand? What good will another five hundred do us? Do any of your men lack for swords, or shields? And as for their weapons, well, I ask you ... Balthus, would you fight me here and now, man to man, you with that toothpick and me wielding the sword of any other man here?’
He paused again, waiting for the implication to settle in.
‘I thought not. If we delay here we simply give the Romans more time to bring their legions together in a massive armoured fist that will smash our warbands. I have information on that subject, and it isn’t good news. The southern legions started moving north several weeks ago, anticipating our attack, and will be on the Wall inside a week. And when they arrive, my brothers, the western legions will move through the Wall farther to the west, and move east to pin us here on the wrong side of their defences. And then, in all truth, we will be done for, outnumbered and unable to fall back to join the other warbands, and all because we were desperate to win a few more heads and some Roman spears?’
He turned to encompass the gathered nobles with opened arms.
‘We need neither a few hundred heads more nor any number of the Romans’ weapons, suited to their tactic of hiding and stabbing and not to the way we fight, man to man. What we need is to take not five hundred heads, or a thousand, but ten thousand. When a legion’s standard lies on the ground before us, when we have the head of a Roman general pickled in a jar, that will be a victory! On that day, I am certain, the other legions will think carefully before coming north to punish us, but will instead send negotiators to buy peace with us, at a price of our naming. But to achieve that victory, we have to lure that single legion out on to our ground, where we, and not the Romans, choose the place and manner of our meeting. So tell me, my brothers, should we stay for a while here, and win more useless trinkets for our warriors to play with, or shall we follow our intended plan and take a prize worth having?’
He’d prevailed, of course; his argument had been all the more convincing for being correct. Finding the stores at Noisy Valley all but emptied in advance of their arrival had validated the Roman traitor’s other revelation, that the western legions would arrive weeks earlier than he had expected. Now the warband was pulling back from the Wall in good order, its leaders happy enough to follow his direction and keep a muzzle on their men’s urge to fight. Calgus turned to face his adviser, the older man’s face inscrutable in the dusk’s failing light.
‘Your counsel is true, as always, Aed. I’ll give the tribes all the heads they can carry, granted their patience for a few days.’
The Romans could skulk behind their defences for the time being – his warband would have vanished into the north by the time they stirred to follow. The trick now would be tempting the 6th’s legatus to follow them on to a killing ground that Calgus would choose with care. That, and a little inside assistance.
10
Marcus woke again in the middle of the next morning, his head relatively clear, and his stomach growling for food. Clodia Drusilla took one look at him and ordered a bed bath and a meal, both administered by a stone-faced orderly who responded to Marcus’s attempts at conversation with monosyllabic grunts. Hot water, a borrowed blade and a clean tunic lifted his spirits, even if he was still weak enough to fall back on to his bed exhausted afterwards, and a small meal of bread, dried fish and vegetables left him replete. He slept again almost immediately, and was woken by a hand gently shaking his shoulder.
It was Licinius, the Petriana’s prefect, smiling down at him with a glint of triumph. Dressed in a mud-stained tunic and armour, he had clearly come to the hospital directly from the saddle. The shutter was closed, and Licinius was carrying a lamp, adding its illumination to that of the lamp already burning by the bed.
‘Ah, there you are, Centurion.’
Marcus pulled himself up on to his elbows, subsiding back on to the pillow that his superior hastily pushed beneath his straining body.
‘The orderly tried to send me away. Now I’ve seen you, I think I understand why. Are you up to talking?’
Marcus declined the chance to put the conversation off once more, too tired to be bothered with his own safety any longer.
‘Yes, Prefect, we can talk, but tell me, what time is it? What’s happening out there?’
The other man sat on the short stool provided for the purpose, hunching forward to hear Marcus’s tired whisper. As he opened his mouth to speak again, Felicia burst through the door, her mouth a thin white-lipped slash in a face pale with anger. The prefect leapt to his feet, bowing respectfully.
‘Clodia Drusilla, my dear, what a pleasure to see you again. I ...’
She pushed a fist into his face, making him step back in surprise, almost tumbling over the stool.
‘You have no right or permission to be here, and as this officer’s doctor I’m ordering you to get out. Now!’
Marcus raised a hand, forestalling her outburst.
‘It’s all right, Doctor, just a friendly conversation ...’
She turned on him, wagging a finger threateningly.
‘That isn’t your decision, Centurion, and besides ...’
‘No more running.’
‘What?’
‘No more running from the truth. Not from an honourable Roman prefect.’
‘But ...’
Her reproach ran dry, leaving her staring helplessly at the bedridden centurion for a moment. She turned and left the room in silence. Licinius sat down again, raising an eyebrow at Marcus.
‘Clodia Drusilla seems very protective of you, young man. Perhaps y’should consider your position very carefully with regard to that young lady. I happen to be acquainted with her husband well enough to know the way he’ll behave if he suspects his property is being coveted by another ...’
Marcus looked at him questioningly, until the older man shrugged his shoulders.
‘Never mind. Just watch yourself there. As to the time, it’s late in the afternoon, two days after you took what was by all accounts quite a thump on the head. As to what’s happening outside ...’
He paused, rubbing his tired face with a wrinkled hand.
‘Calgus came down the North Road, burned out everything down to Noisy Valley, let his men loose on White Strength and burned that down too, then retreated back up the road and vanished into the landscape, Mars damn him for eternity. I’ve got patrols out looking for the warband, but for the time being they’re off the bloody map. Now that the barbarians have left the scene of the crime, Sixth Legion has come forward from the blocking position they were holding to the south, marched through here at lunchtime and thundered off over the horizon to some secret camp or other they scouted out a while ago. Where the other legions have got to, Mars only knows. But we, young man, have subjects closer to home to discuss, do we not?’
Marcus nodded, giving in to the inescapable.
‘Firstly, as to your great secret, don’t trouble yourself with the revelation, I’ve already questioned Equitius and got the truth out of him.’
Marcus’s eyes opened wide.
‘You ...’
The officer waved a hand dismissively, shaking his head in amusement.
‘Y’clearly don’t appreciate my position here, young man. I command the Petriana cavalry wing and I’m the senior prefect of all the Wall garrisons. I’m already a senator as a result of an imperial promotion after a dirty little skirmish a few years ago, and I have some very powerful friends in Rome. When I told your commanding officer to spill the beans he did what he was told, related the whole story and offered to resign his command and fall on his sword. Because he’s a realist. The man that lives in Yew Grove may nominally command the Wall garrison, executing the governor’s orders, but as long as I’m in place these units answer to me, right up to the point where Sixth Legion comes forward into the line and he’s in a position to take effective control.’
Marcus lay back, strangely relieved at not having to hide from the senior officer any longer.
‘Did you take Equitius’s command?’
Licinius snorted his laughter.
‘Of course I didn’t, y’fool! I can’t afford to go dumping effective officers just because they happen to have an eye for a good officer!’
‘But ...’
The prefect leaned in close, half whispering into Marcus’s ear, his patrician affectations suddenly replaced with a harder tone.
‘But nothing, man. I told you I’ve got friends in Rome, men of influence and stature. They write to me regularly about the city and what’s happening around them, and their letters have steadily become more pessimistic. Some of them even write anonymously, using recollection of our shared experiences as their identification, for fear of their words being read by the wrong person. Our new emperor is in the sway of dangerous men, and is steadily undermining the rules that have underpinned our society for almost a century. Your father and his brother were his victims, murdered for their land and to silence a potential dissenting voice in the Senate. As a loyal citizen of Rome I should, of course, arrest you, and Equitius and his First Spear, and hand you over to Sixth Legion for trial and execution.’
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 24