His eyes must have clouded, since she reached out a hand to touch his arm with an unnerving concern.
‘I’m sorry…’
He smiled at her, feeling another layer of his mental scar tissue fall away.
‘That’s all right… It’s just that you’re the first Roman to ask me that question. I always wondered what I’d do when the time came — lie, and protect myself, or tell the truth and honour the dead.’
He took a deep breath, grateful that she waited patiently for him to gather himself.
‘My father was Senator Appius Valerius Aquila. He fell victim to a palace intrigue led by the praetorian prefect, and, from what I’ve been told, my entire family was murdered to prevent any danger of attempts at vengeance. I was a praetorian centurion…’
Her eyes widened momentarily as the irony dawned on her, then softened with sympathy.
‘… my father managed to bribe a tribune to send me away on a false imperial errand to this country. He told me that I was carrying a message for the legatus in Yew Grove, but it was really a last message from my father…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you. I escaped two attempts to finish the job by killing me, thanks to the efforts of two men I count my as closest friends, and now I fight under the name Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Only five other men know of this deception and so now, lady, you hold the power of life and death over me. A simple denunciation will be enough to have me imprisoned and executed within days. Won’t you return the compliment by telling me your name?’
She smiled briefly, her face lighting up with the expression.
‘With honour, Centurion. I am Felicia Clodia Drusilla, daughter of Octavius Clodius Drusus and wife of Quintus Dexter Bassus, the prefect commanding the Second Tungrian Cohort at Vindolanda. A name with which I would far rather not have fouled my mouth!’
She glowered at the ground for a moment.
‘Forgive me, Centurion. An unhappy marriage is neither your business nor your concern.’
‘Except, perhaps, when it results in the abduction and… mistreatment of a Roman citizen?’
She laughed again, a strange reaction in someone who had endured the torments attributed to her captivity by their first informant.
‘I wasn’t mistreated in any particular way, and these bruises predate my time in captivity. I probably would have been raped senseless if the warband had arrived before your rescue, but those people were more embarrassed than excited by my presence. I ran away from my husband’s fort when his cruelty and violence towards me became too much to bear. I persuaded my serving maid to disguise me as one of her own once we were out of sight of the fort. We slipped through one of the mile fort gates a week ago, and were caught by the master of that farm a day later, heading for my maid’s home village. He locked me up, probably wanted to force himself on me, but his wife was too fiercely opposed, said it would bring the legions down on them. I think she took pity on the state of my face.’
‘She might well have been jealous too.’
She smiled again, ruefully this time.
‘Thank you for your gallantry. They still hadn’t decided what to do with me when you arrived. What made you come?’
‘We captured the husband spying on our fort at the Hill. One of his men told us that he’d already…’
He paused, embarrassed at the word’s implication. Touched by his embarrassment, she put her hand on his arm.
‘I’d guess he boasted in public to maintain his reputation. I…’
A shout from the Wall’s top grabbed Marcus’s attention. Dubnus beat him to the ladder, the pair of them bundling breathlessly on to the flat surface atop the mile fort’s structure. In the middle distance, half a mile or so from their gate, a single man was running across the wind-blown grass.
‘That’s our scout!’
Dubnus nodded grimly.
‘Yes, and he’s running too fast for my liking…’
He turned back to look down at the resting soldiers.
‘Ninth Century, stand to! Fighting order.’
Even as he spoke, a dozen horsemen broke from the cover of the trees to the north, another mile or so behind the running figure.
Dubnus hurled himself down the ladder, while Marcus scanned the distant trees for any more movement. He turned to look down at the century, each man holding his shield and javelins at the parade rest, their faces filthy from the night’s impromptu camouflage of dirt, their armour and bodies covered with dried blood. Get them moving first, his instincts told him, and then explain the dangers.
‘First tent party, open the gate!’
Marcus slid down the ladder, drawing his sword, which flashed in the sunlight.
‘Follow me!’
He ran through the open gate, turning to watch his men charge through the opening four abreast. Jogging backwards and watching their faces, he saw fear and determination written in equal proportions. He gestured with the sword, catching their attention with its flashing arc.
‘Ninth Century, we have a comrade in danger. There may be more cavalry lurking in ambush, waiting until we’re clear of the Wall. If there are, we might all die seeking to rescue one man, but think how he feels seeing us coming out to him. We’re going out to him, we’re going to bring him back with us, or they’ll have to cut every one of us down to take any one of us.’
More than a few faces stared at him in disbelief, though their legs kept them moving away from the Wall’s shelter. He sensed the situation slipping away from him, and felt the first touch of panic grip his mind. Suddenly he had no words to reassure or embolden them. He turned his back on them, mutely waving the sword forward in another flashing arc that pointed to the enemy cavalry galloping across the grass. From the century’s rear another voice sounded, deep and harsh, booming across the open space.
‘Ninth Century… at the run… Run!’
Where the appeal to reason had faltered, the whiplash of command took the soldiers and threw them forward into a headlong run without any conscious thought process. The century put its collective head back and ran, the ranks opening out slightly as men opened their legs for the task. Marcus looked gratefully back at Dubnus, but the big chosen simply waved him forward to do his job, and in that second he understood and embraced what he had to do if they were to succeed, the adrenalin kick giving his words an unaccustomed savagery.
‘Run, you bastards, no fucking horse boy beats me to one of my own!’
Grabbing a deep breath, he ran to catch the front rank, then matched strides with them and started to accelerate, pulling them out across the murderously empty ground in a race with the barbarian cavalry. They crested the gentle ridge and ran down the slope on its far side to reach the exhausted scout with seconds to spare, bundling him into the hollow square that Marcus had shouted for as he fell into their arms. The small cavalry band, shaggy-haired men on hardy ponies with long spears and round wooden shields, simply parted to either side of the square and rode around them, clearly not willing to tackle so many infantrymen readied in defensive formation. The 9th jeered and waved their spears, shouting abuse at the circling horsemen, venting their relief at the stand-off. As he stood in their midst watching the native cavalry circle impotently, Marcus felt a pull at his shoulder.
‘Oh, Brigantia! Gods help us…’
Marcus looked at the point to which Antenoch pointed, his face suddenly pale with the sickening realisation that there was in reality no need for the relatively few horsemen riding round their square to take them on. A hundred and more mounted barbarians were breaking from the trees in a dark wave.
9
Marcus stared across the half-mile that separated the 9th from the forest’s dark bulk, watching the enemy irregular cavalry trot briskly from their hiding places under the trees’ canopy. Forming a rough line, the horsemen accelerated to a canter, starting up the gentle slope towards the century’s fragile square. He looked about him at his men, their attention focused on the oncoming cavalry, their faces
fixed in disbelief at the cruel twist in their fortunes. Even Dubnus seemed diminished, leaning on his pole as if suddenly tired, and for a second the hope went out of the young officer. He stared beyond his men, at the smaller group of horsemen that had drawn away to wait a short distance upslope of their position, just short of the slope’s crest, close enough for them to see their mocking grins. Then, with an intensity that shocked him as much as the men he commanded, his temper ignited, firing a burning fury into his voice.
‘Ninth Century, spear drill!’
A few men turned to look at him, their faces numb with the shock of their ambush by the horsemen, stoking the fire of his fury.
‘Ninth Century, spear drill! Prepare to assault the horsemen to our rear!’
Dubnus came to life with a start, slapping the man next to him across the back.
‘You heard the fucking officer. Spear drill!’
The century seemed to shiver for a moment, as if a powerful wind was blowing through the thin ranks, then snapped to attention. Dubnus’s voice boomed again, stirring them with a fresh purpose.
‘On the command form line, form a double line facing the front. Ready… Form line!’
The 9th moved quickly, months of drill practice taking over and dropping them into position without conscious thought. Within twenty seconds they were drawn up in line facing the still-distant oncoming horsemen, their spears held ready to throw. Marcus looked behind him, seeing that the smaller group of cavalry was still in place on the slope to their rear, watching curiously as their enemies apparently abandoned the small degree of safety given by their shields, but still not bothering to do any more than sit and watch. As the last men moved into their places, Marcus drew his sword, turned and pointed it up the slope.
‘About face. Charge!’
The tribesmen’s ponies reared in surprise as the line ran towards them, every man bellowing at the top of his voice. The more skilled horsemen among the Britons managed to wrestle their mounts out of place, and ride away up the slope, but the majority were too slow, struggling to control their beasts. As the soldiers’ battle cry died away, Marcus shouted the last command necessary to launch his attack.
‘Throw!’
The line of men threw almost simultaneously, exhaling a collective whoosh of breath as their spears flew from straining arms, a short vicious arc of wood and metal that slammed a rain of razor-sharp steel into the milling horsemen. Men and horses were impaled by the missiles, their screams blending into a cacophony of pain.
‘Swords!’
The 9th, barely breaking step, charged in over the fallen, stabbing at men and animals with the carefree ferocity of victory, offering no mercy to those unable to run. A short, frenzied melee ended the fight, leaving half a dozen soldiers with assorted flesh wounds while almost a dozen of the dead and dying tribesmen and their mounts were scattered across the tiny battlefield.
Marcus turned back to the larger body of horse, their pace accelerating at the sight of their fellows’ slaughter, and now barely four hundred paces distant.
‘Form square.’
His men nodded grimly at the quiet command, retrieving their spears and moving swiftly into their allotted places, ready to receive the enemy charge and die. As the square formed, Marcus looked about him again, noticing with surprise the few survivors of his men’s vicious attack, having galloped away over the slope’s crest, now flying past the century in the direction of their fellow horsemen at a breakneck pace. As they passed the oncoming mass of horsemen, a couple turned back and pointed back up the slope, shouting at their fellows.
The tribal cavalry faltered, seemingly losing purpose for a second, and in the moment of their hesitation a sound came to Marcus’s ears that puzzled him. It was a distant rumble, as if thunder was grumbling somewhere beyond the clear horizon, but apparent as much through his boot soles as his ears. The rumble swelled in volume, making the soldiers’ heads turn as they realised that it was coming from behind them, from the direction of the Wall.
With a sudden explosion of movement and noise, a wall of horsemen came over the crest and charged down the slope, parting to either side of the 9th’s tiny square. Armoured cavalrymen bent over their horses’ necks and thrust long spears towards the tribesmen, who had already turned to ride for their lives, fighting horses rooted with fear by the noise of the oncoming wave of heavy cavalry. A decurion rose in his saddle, lifting his spear and shouting encouragement to his men as they passed the 9th, their shouted response lifting the hairs on Marcus’s neck with its bloodlust.
‘Petriana! Petrianaaa!’
The cavalry swept past the 9th’s square and hammered into the rearmost of the enemy riders while the century stood in amazement, watching the tidal wave of horsemen wash across the open space between the crest and the forest. A scattered detritus of dead and wounded barbarian riders and horses studded the ground over which they passed. The mass of native horsemen became thinner by the second, their blown horses easy prey for the stronger and fresher Roman mounts. Spears were thrust into the backs and necks of the fleeing Britons, making their backs arch at the moment of impact.
A group of horsemen cantered up to the tiny defensive square, pennants below their spear heads fluttering prettily in the strong breeze blowing across the open ground. A long dragon standard, twisting and flapping in wind-blown serpentine twists, rode proudly above the formation, which opened to allow a magnificent grey stallion to approach the 9th. Like those of its fellows’, the beast’s eyes and long face were protected by a decorated armoured plate that curved around the snout, vision enabled by a delicate pattern of holes drilled into the half-globe bulges over each eye. Its rider searched the ranks, age-wrinkled eyes peering from beneath the peak of a heavily decorated helmet, while the riders of his bodyguard rode out to either side, watching their surroundings with professional wariness. Marcus stepped out from the 9th’s ranks, snapping a salute at the prefect while he admired the man’s heavily muscled bronze cuirass, secured by the customary linen band. The senior officer jumped down from his horse, passing the reins to an attending trooper before returning the salute. He stared at Marcus with unveiled curiosity, turning to survey the slaughter without any change of expression, speaking without returning his eyes to the young officer, his voice a patrician rasp.
‘Y’were lucky that we happened along, young centurion, or your head would be decorating some hairy fellow’s spear point by now. I’m Licinius, prefect commanding the Petriana cavalry wing. Your unit?’
Marcus stiffened to attention and saluted.
‘Ninth Century, First Tungrian Cohort, Prefect!’
The other man turned back to look at him again, one eyebrow slightly raised. Marcus met his stare directly, noting the experience lines that ran down from either side of his nose and his furrowed forehead. The older man was, he calculated, soldier through and through, an experienced prefect with two or three previous postings behind him before being favoured with such a prestigious cavalry command.
‘Tungrian, eh? Y’don’t sound Tungrian, y’sound Roman, youngster. Look it too. So, how does the Ninth Century of the First Tungrians come to be all on its own on the wrong side of the Wall, getting ready to die on the spears of several times its strength of enemy horse, eh?’
Marcus told him the story of the last two days in quick, economical sentences that reduced their achievements to their bare bones, while the prefect watched dispassionately as his men dismounted to finish off the wounded and take souvenirs. He reached the slaughter of the oxen before the other man interrupted.
‘Wait a moment… Decurion!’
An officer detached himself from the waiting troop of horsemen, trotting across to his commander and saluting precisely.
‘Sir?’
‘Dispatch a message rider to Cauldron Pool, message to read…’
The troop commander fished out his writing tablet, the stylus poised over its wax.
‘From Petriana Wing. Rescued First Tungrian Ninth under barbarian ho
rse attack to north of Wall at mile fort twenty-seven. Debriefed centurion. Fifty-plus oxen found ten miles to north-east of the Hill. Cattle slaughtered and burned to deny enemy supply. Number of oxen and enemy horse suggest enemy warband ten to fifteen thousand strong in vicinity, now likely to be falling back for alternative supply. Attack on Wall in this sector temporarily unlikely. Forward to commander Sixth Legion immediately. Ends. Give the rider a twenty-man escort. Go!’
The officer turned away to his task.
‘Carry on, Centurion.’
Marcus completed the story, explaining their return to the barbarian side of the Wall in defence of their comrade. The prefect pulled his helmet off and tossed it to a trooper, running a hand through his thick head of hair. Streaks of grey ran through the black. After a moment of thought he turned back to Marcus and his waiting soldiers, nodding with pursed lips.
‘Well, Centurion, either Fortuna herself smiles down on you, or you’re an exceptionally competent officer. Either way, you have a century to be proud of. Not many infantrymen of my experience would have taken the risk your men did in seeking to safeguard your friend. I salute you all!’
And, to Marcus’s amazement, he did just that, clapping him on the shoulder in congratulation.
‘I would regard it as a privilege to escort you and your men to Cauldron Pool, and to take a cup of wine with you once you’ve had time to get your unit settled. Trumpeter, sound the recall, those layabouts have had long enough to take every blasted head on the battlefield. Now, young man, I’m intrigued by your accent. Tell me more about yourself.’
Marcus, caught in the full glare of the man’s piercing intellect, and unprepared for another explanation as to his origins, thought frantically. Antenoch stepped forward neatly, saluting with a gusto that raised eyebrows throughout the 9th.
‘Prefect, sir, excuse me, but our centurion has omitted to inform you that there is a young Roman lady waiting for us at the Wall gate. Your eminence might want to detail an escort to her, to ensure her personal safety in these rough circumstances?’
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 21