‘If we wanted to pilfer the pay chests we’d have done it a long time ago. Nobody, with the exception of the prefect, enters without my permission. This briefing is for officers’ ears only.’
He waited theatrically until the doors were closed.
‘Brother officers, the prefect came back in from Cauldron Pool an hour ago, as I’m sure you’ve all heard by now. The message from the boys in the purple-edged tunics is simple enough — prepare for war. There’s a Brit called Calgus mustering thirty thousand painted maniacs somewhere not much more than two days’ march from here, and very soon now they’ll come south with fire and iron, looking for a fight…’
He paused, catching more than one eye riveted to his gaze.
‘A fight they’ll get — eventually.’
‘Eventually, First Spear?’ Rufius’s eyes narrowed with professional interest.
‘Eventually, Centurion. Calgus will muster more spears than the Wall cohorts and Sixth Legion could cope with, even banded together to our full strength, unless he was stupid enough to throw them at us piecemeal. And on the subject of our enemy’s wits I have intelligence of my own for you. Calgus isn’t that stupid, in fact he isn’t stupid at all. I met him five years ago at a gathering of the tribal leaders north of the Wall. I was the supervising officer, with half the cohort behind me to keep the peace between them and make sure it didn’t get out of hand, and it was still, I can assure you, a bloody uncomfortable experience. Not only were the tribesmen a fairly ugly bunch, but Calgus could dispute with Minerva and not come away ashamed.
‘He was recently crowned at the time, and still finding his feet as king of the Selgovae, but where his father was a sly old sod, a master of the knife in the back, the son was clearly a man of a different nature. He’s a clever brute, a barrel-chested, red-haired bear of a man, born to swing a battleaxe but blessed with his father’s silver tongue for all that. He would insist on seeking me out for arguments about the justification for Roman rule of the land south of the Wall. Of course, in the end I had little option but to end the discussion on the grounds that since we’re the ones with our boots on the ground there was little point to it. I expected that to be the end of the argument, and to a degree it was. However…’
He lowered his voice slightly, reliving the moment.
‘… Calgus just stood there and looked at me for a moment, then reached out a hand and tapped me on the chest with one finger. My escort had their iron aired and ready to go in a flash, growling like shithouse dogs, and I reckoned we were a hair’s breadth away from a bloodbath, but Calgus never faltered. He just tapped me gently on the chest again and said, “Just as long as you can fill those boots, Centurion.” Not enough to give me a pretext to have him for inciting rebellion, of course, and half the North Country’s tribal elders were hanging on his words, as dry as tinder if I were stupid enough to provide the spark. Enough to make his point, though, and while I didn’t like him I had to admire the size of his swingers. I’ve been waiting for his name to reach this far south ever since, and now that it has I can assure you all that we have a very worthy opponent. So the word, Centurion Rufius, is most definitely “eventually”. I’ll show you what I think will happen.’
He turned to their sand table and sketched in a few swift lines with his vine stick.
‘Here, east to west, coast to coast, is the Wall. Calgus can’t go round it. He has to go through it if he’s going to make any impact other than burning a few outlying forts that we can rebuild before next winter. Here, north to south, is the road from Yew Grove to the northern forts, crossing the Wall at the Rock. There are the outlying forts north of the Wall up the north road, Fort Habitus, Roaring River, Red River, Yew Tree Fort and the tip of the spear, Three Mountains. They’ll be evacuated by the time Calgus can get his warband limbered up, and their cohorts will retreat back to the Wall in good order, leaving the forts to the blue-noses. They’ll steal everything that’s left behind and torch the buildings, but they won’t have the time to destroy the walls and so, to be frank, who cares? Those three cohorts will muster at the Rock, most likely, making a force of about three thousand men when combined with the local half horse cohort.’
Knuckles raised a hand.
‘What about our Dacian mates at Fort Cocidius?’
Frontinius dotted the sand twice with the tip of his vine stick.
‘Good question, Otho, you clearly haven’t had all of your wits beaten out of you. Here’s us at the Hill, on the Wall, and here’s Fort Cocidius five miles to our north-east. The Dacians will also pull back behind the Wall, bringing with them, before you ask, all of their altars to Mars Cocidius. They’re going to squat with the Second Cohort down at Fair Meadow, and we can only hope that they don’t pick up too many bad habits while they’re there. That’s another two thousand men ready to move wherever they’re needed, another reserve force like the one at the Rock. Add to that the ten thousand or so lining the Wall’s length and we’ve half the number of spears we expect Calgus to muster. The difference is that we have to stay spread out for the time being while he can concentrate his power in one place, which means that the trick will be for us to avoid actually fighting the warband until the legions come into play…’
He paused for effect.
‘All I can tell you about the heavy boys is that the Sixth are already somewhere close to hand, and the Second and Twentieth are footslogging up from their fortresses in the south, which means we won’t see them for the best part of a month. The general isn’t going to want to engage in pitched battle without at least two full legions in the line. That way he can face off the tribes and still have a nice big reserve to manoeuvre into their flank or rear if he plays it smartly enough.’
Rufius nodded agreement.
‘So we can expect a month or so of marching round the country avoiding a fight?’
‘Yes, that’s about the size of it. Although it might be closer to the truth to say “avoiding a fight if we’re lucky”. Calgus will be desperate to bring us to battle early, to set his dogs on us before the legions get themselves cranked up ready to fight. If he can destroy the Wall garrison, or better still take Sixth Legion out of the campaign early enough, the southern legions would be severely handicapped, fighting at a numerical disadvantage against fired-up tribesmen on ground they don’t know. Calgus knows that, and he’ll do whatever he can to force an early battle. If we can stay on our toes and avoid a fight for the next month we’ll have done very well, in my opinion. Very well indeed. You’d best be generous making your offerings to Mars Cocidius tonight, we’re going to need all the luck he sees fit to grant us. Now, the cohort assessments…’
He paused to allow the initial muttering to die down.
‘… will still be held, but just to a different timetable. We still need to know who’s going to guard the cohort standard this summer. Given that time is of the essence we’ll dispense with the usual parade-ground tests, I’ve been scoring your men on their sword and spear work over the last few weeks, just in case, but we can’t ignore the main test. So, all units on parade tomorrow morning at first light, last five centuries for the speed march, first five for the ambush force. Dismissed!’ The next morning dawned just as fine, with a warm and dry day in prospect. The First Spear paraded his cohort an hour after dawn, taking pleasure in the cool morning air, and announced the pairings of marching and attacking centuries with a slight smile, delighting Julius by tasking his 5th Century with ambushing Marcus’s 9th Century during their speed march. The veteran centurion strolled across the parade ground to watch the 9th’s departure, standing to one side with his arms folded and his face set impassively, drumming impatiently with his fingers against the iron rings of his mailed shoulder. While some of Marcus’s men cast anxious sidelong glances at the officer, Morban stared back impassively beneath the century’s standard, muttering to the nearest soldiers without taking his eyes off the scowling officer.
‘Rumour says our old friend Julius and the glorious Fifth Century ar
e going to give us a right kicking today, put young Two Knives in his place and take the standard for another year. In fact rumour had us paired with the Fifth long before Uncle Sextus announced it. I had a drink with their silly bastard of a standard-bearer in the vicus last night, and I had twenty denarii with him that we’d come out on top today, so you turd burglars had better wake your ideas up.’
Both Marcus and Dubnus ignored Julius for the most part, by prior agreement as to their tactics for the day. Dubnus, unable to resist the temptation, caught his eye, looked down to his thigh and extended his middle finger down the muscle. If Frontinius spotted the gesture as he strode up to Marcus he gave no sign.
‘Are your men ready, Centurion?’
Marcus saluted, snapping to attention.
‘Ninth Century ready, First Spear.’
The senior officer nodded, beckoning the younger man by eye as he walked slowly away from the century, out of earshot.
‘Well, Centurion Corvus, your time of judgement is nearly upon us. This cohort goes to war tomorrow, and it must have officers that I can trust to lead their men to the gates of Hades if that’s where fate takes us. Every day since your arrival I have asked myself whether you’re that sort of officer, despite your age, despite your alleged treason, and in all those days I’ve never yet found an answer I can trust. You’re quicker with a sword than any man I know, your century seem to love you well enough, and yet…’
Marcus met his eye levelly.
‘And yet, First Spear…?’
‘And yet I am still not convinced that you will be capable of giving this cohort what it needs in time of battle. So this is your day, Centurion, the last day in which that question can be answered. When you take your men out of those gates take one thought with you, and keep it in your mind all the way back here, no matter what happens.’
‘Sir?’
‘The good of the cohort, Centurion, simply that. Dismissed. Go and show your brother officers what you’ve been hiding from them these last two months.’
Marcus frowned at the last comment but had no time to reflect on it. With the trumpeter blowing the command to commence the exercise, and the first hourglass turned, the 9th were out of the fort at the double march. Away to the west they marched, along the military road behind the wall, their iron-studded boots stirring the dust into tiny clouds. The road ran along the northern lip of the vallum, the massive ditch that divided military and civilian ground, and its elevation allowed a cooling breeze to dry the sweat from the marching men’s bodies as they pounded away from the fort in the early morning sunshine. A mile from their starting point a track branched south over a bridging point across the vallum, in the protective shadow of a mile fort, before starting a shallow climb into the hills to the south. It was the route by which they were to cover most of their march. Once he was certain that the century was out of sight of any watcher, Marcus trotted out in front of his men, turning to walk backwards for a moment to be sure that they were no longer observed, before signalling to Dubnus in his usual position at the century’s rear. The big man’s voice boomed across the marching ranks, making heads rise and backs straighten in anticipation of the coming order.
‘Ninth Century, prepare to change pace! At the run… Run!’
The soldiers lengthened their stride together, long accustomed to hauling their bodies and equipment across the undulating countryside at a fast jog. They went south at a fast pace for another two miles before dropping back to rest at a fast march for a mile, then stepped up the pace again. The troops were sweating heavily now with the effort of running in armour with full campaign kit, each man humping his armour, sword, shield, two spears and his pack, with only the pointed wooden stakes made to be lashed together into obstacle defences missing from their loads. They were working to a timetable known only to Marcus and his triumvirate of advisers, Dubnus, Morban and Antenoch, who had planned the day over a jug of wine the previous evening. While Dubnus still lacked any trust in Antenoch, he remained polite enough to the other man’s face, and had tolerated Marcus’s insistence on his being involved in their preparation.
The wind dropped, allowing the day’s heat to get to work on bodies that were tiring and starting to dry out, but still they ground on, Dubnus relentlessly driving them on with shouts of encouragement and threats of a faster pace if any man flagged. Five miles out from the Hill, Marcus pointed to the roadside.
‘Ten-minute rest and briefing. Get your water bottles and drink, but do it quietly if you want to know what we’re about to do!’
Breathing hard, his men forwent the usual playful push and shove of the rest stop, drinking eagerly from their bottles while their centurion explained what they were about to attempt. His command of the British language had progressed a long way in the time available, but he spoke in Latin now, pausing for Dubnus’s translation, to ensure complete understanding.
‘The usual way of things in this event is for the marching century to concentrate on getting around the course as quickly as possible, to win points for ground covered before the ambush. When they are ambushed, as they always are, a practice battle results. A few minutes’ fighting, one of the two centuries is declared the winner, and then they finish the march together, all good friends again…’
A few heads nodded knowingly. This was the speed march they had come to expect.
‘Not this time. Not this century.’
They stared back at him, eyes widening at the heresy.
‘How many of you would knowingly walk into an ambush, or even the risk of one? We’ve trained to march fast because we’ll use that speed in the field to avoid ambushes, or to put ourselves into the best positions before an enemy can reach them.’
He paused, allowing Dubnus to translate, although he could see from their faces that the majority had understood his words.
‘This one’s real as far as I’m concerned. What about you, Chosen?’
Dubnus nodded grimly, staring dispassionately at his men, daring anyone to disagree. Marcus continued.
‘Julius wants to teach me a lesson, take me down a peg, and he wants to do this at the expense of your pride. That, and your reputation as soldiers. You might not have noticed it…’ He knew they knew all too well, were basking in the glory of their meteoric rise. ‘… but we’re second in the standings. The century everyone wrote off as useless. You want to keep that reputation? Be second best?’
A few heads shook slowly. Morban roared at them, his challenge lifting the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck as he shook the standard indignantly at them.
‘I’m not taking second place to any bastard without a fight! You’re either in this or you can turn round and fuck off back to the Hill and apply for a new century. One that takes losers.’
Marcus watched their reaction carefully, gauging their sudden enthusiasm as men turned to their neighbours to see the excitement reflected in their eyes. The standard-bearer grinned proudly at Marcus, tipping his head in salute to hand the century back to his centurion.
‘So shut the fuck up and let the centurion tell you how we’re going to pull Latrine’s beard for him.’
7
Julius lengthened his stride, eager to reach his chosen ambush site. Alongside him, moving with an easy grace that belied his age, Sextus Frontinius matched him step for step. The centurion would have avoided taking the First Spear out on the ambush march if he could have found a way, but his superior was all too well aware of the potential for the event he had staged-managed to get out of control. He had made a point of politely requesting his permission to accompany the 5th Century, a courtesy Julius had no choice but to return through gritted teeth.
‘So you’ve decided to attack them at the Saddle, eh, Julius?’
Julius, tempted to ignore the question but with enough sense to avoid the pitfall of failing to acknowledge the innocent enquiry, nevertheless waited a full five seconds, taking his response to the margins of insolence, before answering.
‘Yes, First Spear.’
Sextus Frontinius smiled inwardly, keeping his face a mask of indifference.
‘A little early in the march, isn’t it? His men will still be relatively fresh. I’m surprised you’re not going to wait for them farther into the route. What’s wrong with the usual places?’
Stung by the implied criticism, Julius wiped sweat from his eyebrows, shaking his head in irritation at the unusual warmth.
‘I’m not allowing any rest stops until we get there, so we’ll get there first. The Ninth will never suspect a thing until we’re down the slope and on top of them.’
‘If I didn’t know you better I’d have to say you’re taking all this a bit too personally.’
The centurion spat into the roadside dust to clear his throat.
‘And, First Spear, if I didn’t know you better I’d have to say that you’ve rolled over for this Roman with the rest of them.’
Frontinius glared at the soldier marching alongside him, who redoubled his efforts to be seen not listening.
‘March out front with me, Centurion, let’s show these nosy bastards of yours how to cover ground.’
He waited until they were ten yards clear of the marching century before speaking again.
‘I think it’s time we discussed this properly. Our rules, not First Spear and centurion. Just Sextus and Julius.’
The other man glanced over at him.
‘And if I don’t want to discuss it?’
‘But you do, Julius, you’ve been quacking away about it ever since he got here. Come on, man, let it out!’
‘Our rules?’
‘Absolutely. The same as the day we joined.’
‘Don’t say you haven’t asked for it. He’s a traitor. An enemy of the man who rules the world, and of the empire you swore to serve. And yet you’ve gone out of your way to make him welcome.’
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 15