Wounds of Honour e-1

by Anthony Riches

  The prefect nodded sagely, a faint smile creasing his lips.

  ‘Quite so, soldier, and right of you to point out the fact. Let us get back on the road to the east, Centurion, and perhaps you and I can talk further in the more relaxed atmosphere of Cauldron Pool.’

  He remounted, pulled his helmet back on and rode away, spurring the magnificent grey into a canter back towards the Wall, his bodyguard wheeling their horses to follow. By late afternoon Legatus Sollemnis was forced to admit to himself that he felt more relaxed with the circumstances of his command than at any time in the past week. He relaxed in his chair while the 6th Legion’s staff officers briefed him on the current situation and felt, for the first time in several days, as if a measure of control over the whole awful mess had come his way. The sounds of tree-felling came distantly into the command tent, as his engineers laboured to perfect the field defences that would protect their flanks and rear, and reduce any frontal attack to a vulnerable crawl. With these defences, and the legion artillery commanding murderous firing arcs, his six thousand men could hold such a well-founded position at the forest’s edge against thee times their number.

  At length Titus Tigidius Perennis took centre stage as the legion’s senior tribune, moving to the map and pointing to their position astride the road to Yew Grove ten miles south of the Wall, then to the auxiliary battle group’s location at Cauldron Pool.

  ‘So, Legatus, in summary, we face a loose enemy formation of about fifteen thousand men. Our current dispositions limit the enemy warband from doing very much other than burning a few garrison forts. If Calgus attacks south to attempt a breakthrough towards Yew Grove, we can provide the defensive anvil while Prefect Licinius and his auxiliary cohorts, plus the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings, swing the hammer into their rear. On the other hand, if he tries a push to the west, the auxiliaries can hold him if they choose the right ground, and we can break from our defensive position and do the hammering. Either way, if he moves to attack either force we’ll have him straddled like a Robbers counter, ripe for a battle of annihilation. Our good fortune in the discovery and destruction of the supplies for their presumed western force, and the Petriana’s annihilation of their cavalry, has made Prefect Licinius’s rear safe for the time being. The only question now is how we should capitalise on this development.’

  Sollemnis nodded, staring intently at the map in front of him.

  ‘Yes, we seem to have Calgus in a trap of his failed strategy. Without his western force he’s unable to remove Licinius’s threat to his flank, and effectively unable to move either west or south without dire risk. And to attack to the east would be both largely pointless and risk hemming himself in between Wall and sea. I think we have him, gentlemen, or at least we’ve balanced the situation enough to have stopped his rampage for the time being. My opinion is that we keep sufficient measure of the initiative just by digging in where we are, and so forcing Calgus to decide what to do next. If he attacks he puts himself at risk of being assaulted from two sides; if he waits he plays into our hands by bringing the Second and Twentieth Legions into play. Any other opinions?’

  His First Spear spoke up.

  ‘I agree, Legatus. We must stay defensive until the other legions arrive. Fighting from behind our temporary defences, with our artillery positioned to support the line, we can hold his barbarians off for long enough to let the auxiliaries strike to flank and rear. Moving forward would be suicide with only our six thousand spears.’

  Perennis nodded his support.

  ‘I agree with the First Spear, with one small addition. When Calgus moves back to the north, as he is bound to do given his position, we should follow up smartly and get north of the Wall. I have a perfect location for a forward camp in mind once we’re free to advance.’

  Sollemnis stood with the decision clear.

  ‘Very well, we hold what we have for now, and push the decision on to Calgus. Let’s see what he does with several barbarian tribes baying for our heads but no safe way to give them what they crave.’ The road to the fort at Cauldron Pool was uneventful enough, a gentle stroll by the standard of their regular exertions, but the spectacle of the cavalrymen riding easily to either side, heads dangling from saddle horns and spears, eventually started to rankle. Morban rattled his standard at the 9th Century, leading them off in a spirited rendition of a favourite marching song. ‘Oh, the, cavalry don’t use latrines. They piss in their leather britches, They drag their arse in the tickly grass, Those dirty sons of bitches!’

  Marcus gave the decurion riding alongside him a wry smile as the song progressed into a description of the sexual habits of the cavalry, guessing that he’d probably heard it a few times before.

  After a while, as clouds rolled over the landscape and threatened rain, they concentrated on covering ground, eager to rejoin the cohort at Cauldron Pool and get the chance to eat hot food. When darkness fell, finding them still a good five miles from their destination, the horsemen lit torches and illuminated their way, triumphantly escorting them to the walls of the fort, where the First Spear was waiting for them in front of twenty men with torches. He stepped forward, gesturing them to follow him into the temporary defences of a six-foot-high turf wall, within which burned the watch fires of dozens of centuries. The 9th marched into the Tungrian section of the camp with their heads held high, to be greeted by a respectful silence from their peers as they paraded.

  Marcus stepped out in front of the century, turned on the spot and saluted the waiting chief centurion, who returned the salute with a grim face.

  ‘First Spear, Ninth Century reporting back from detached duty.’

  Sextus Frontinius stared back at him, still deadpan, before speaking.

  ‘Ninth Century, if the reports we have received of your activities are correct, you have reflected much pride on the cohort. For now you will be tired, and in need of a wash, food and rest. Your colleagues will show you where your tents have been erected, and will have washing water and hot food ready for you. Morning parade is cancelled for the Ninth Century, you will parade at midday before lunch. Without your current coating of blood and soil, that is. Dismissed.’

  He turned to Marcus, putting a hand on his arm.

  ‘Not you, Centurion. You come with me.’

  He took Marcus through the darkened camp, threading between the leather tents until they reached the headquarters tent, three times the size of those designed to house a ten-man tent party. Inside, dimly lit by the guttering flames of oil lamps, a large wooden table dominated the space, scrolls neatly stacked across its width indicating that it would be a hive of administrative activity during daylight hours. In one corner a hanging screen rendered the prefect’s quarters private, a pair of fully armed soldiers from the 5th Century providing immediate protection for their commanding officer. Frontinius coughed discreetly, the slight noise summoning his superior from behind the screen.

  Equitius nodded to them both, indicating the seats that clustered around a low table in another corner of the tent.

  ‘Centurion, news of your exploits travels before you. If I am to believe the dispatch relayed to me by the local prefect, your century, in the course of a simple search mission, found and destroyed not only a barbarian scouting party, but fifty head of cattle that had apparently been gathered to feed an enemy warband. Is this correct?’

  Marcus nodded, dropping wearily into the proffered chair.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Frontinius remained silent while the prefect pulled at his beard in a distracted manner.

  ‘I was afraid of that. You present us, young man, with something of a quandary. On one hand, you are still, had you forgotten, a wanted man, with a hefty price on your head. On the other, you are the hero of the hour, responsible for turning back an enemy warband, which might well have been ten or fifteen thousand strong, for the loss of two men. Prefect Licinius is singing your praises to anybody that will listen, and has already sent me a formal request for an interview with you. Proba
bly wants to offer you a position with the Petriana, something better fitted to the well-bred young man you so obviously are… And there’s the main problem. Once the euphoria wears off it’ll take him about five minutes to start asking all sorts of difficult questions, and it doesn’t take a top-class mind to see where that’ll end up. If, however, I refuse him permission to speak to you, his questions will be addressed to a wider, and infinitely more dangerous, audience. I am still undecided as to my best course of action…’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘Prefect, I’ve given it much thought in the last few hours. Perhaps I have a solution, for tomorrow at least.’

  He spoke for a moment, gauging the other man’s reaction. Equitius mulled over his idea briefly, nodding his assent.

  ‘From first light, mind you. Let’s not risk Prefect Licinius being an early riser. Very well, dismissed.’

  Marcus and Frontinius stood to leave. Equitius turned away and then back again as a thought occurred to him.

  ‘Oh, and Centurion…’

  ‘Prefect?’

  ‘Excellent work. Sleep well.’

  Outside the tent, Frontinius put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder to detain him. His eyes glinted in the torchlight, his face expressionless in the heavy shadows.

  ‘You took your whole century back over the Wall to save the life of a single soldier?’

  Marcus nodded soberly.

  ‘Yes. In retrospect it seems a little far fetched, but yes, First Spear, I did.’

  He waited for the storm. To his amazement, the older man looked at him strangely for a moment, nodding slowly.

  ‘In the best traditions of the Tungrians, whether you knew it or not. Very well done, Centurion, very well done indeed.’

  Marcus frowned.

  ‘But what if I’d lost the whole century trying to save one man? I’ve thought of little else since it happened.’

  Frontinius looked at him in the torchlight, shaking his head.

  ‘There are two types of successful officer, those that do the right thing, and those that are born with Cocidius’s favour. The latter can take audacious risks and get far better odds than just following the field manual. You’re lucky, Centurion. Keep it that way.’ Antenoch woke Marcus before dawn, shaking insistently at his shoulder until the centurion stirred, swinging his feet from the camp bed and on to the floor.

  ‘Dawn, centurion, and time you were dressed for the day. Here, drink this.

  A beaker of warm honey, diluted by a substantial quantity of wine, opened Marcus’s eyes well enough. The tent’s interior, lit by a single lamp, was dark and oppressive, while a steady drumming on the tent’s oiled leather roof puzzled his senses for a moment.

  ‘Pissing down. A great day for serving out your penalty. The night watch took great delight in pointing out that it’ll probably rain until midday at this rate when they woke me up. Fucking 2nd century.’

  Marcus groaned softly, struggling to his feet. A swift wash in the bowl of water Antenoch had brought in with him enlivened his senses, while the rest of the honey drink warmed his stomach sufficiently to make the task of getting into uniform a welcome distraction from dwelling on the conditions outside. Antenoch helped him into his cloak, and then went to look out of the tent flap while Marcus took a final deep breath, resigned to being soaked to the skin within ten minutes of stepping out into the downpour.

  ‘Your escort’s here.’

  Puzzled, he went to look through the flap. Outside, grinning happily through the rainswept grey morning, were four of the 9th’s soldiers wrapped in their own cloaks, each man holding a wooden pole attached to some kind of hastily improvised wooden framework, across which was strung what looked suspiciously like the remains of a ten-man tent. The scout they had rescued the previous day was closest to the tent door, solemnly gesturing him under the shelter of their portable roof. Antenoch shook his head in amused wonder.

  ‘Stupid bastards, spent half the night putting the bloody thing together. I told them that standing about in the rain all day might make you think twice about taking on five times our number of enemy horse next time the chance presents itself, but they insisted…’

  Marcus walked out under the sheltering leather, shaking his head with speechless wonder. Cyclops, the one-eyed miscreant, freed one hand to salute.

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  Stirring himself, Marcus found his voice.

  ‘To the headquarters tent… gentlemen, I really don’t…’

  Another of the soldiers, a gaunt-faced man with a heavy facial scar down one cheek, spoke up gruffly, holding up his right hand to contain Marcus’s protest.

  ‘The entire century wanted this, sir, so don’t be worrying about us. There’ll be another four men along in a while so’s we can go and have a warm. Now, lads, on the command march, to the head shed, march!’

  They paraded through the camp’s empty streets, drawing amazed stares from the guards mounted at each century’s section of the camp, men huddled together against the rain peering incredulously in the growing light, until they reached the headquarters tent. Frontinius peered through the tent door, stepping out into the rain with his eyes wide. The four soldiers stared resolutely at the lightening sky, while Marcus squirmed uneasily at the prospect of his superior’s opinion. Having walked around the contraption once in complete silence, his immaculate boots beading with rain drops, the First Spear turned to address a nervous Marcus.

  ‘I have to say that for the first time in twenty-two years of service I am quite genuinely amazed. You, Scarface, what’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘The Ninth Century cares for its own, sir. We won’t be letting our young gentleman catch his death of cold…’

  And he shut up, his face red with the pressure of having answered the cohort’s senior soldier back.

  ‘I see…’

  Centurion and men waited with bated breath for the law to be stated.

  ‘Nothing in the manual specifically states that an officer on administrative punishment can’t be sheltered from heavy rain by four soldiers with a tent lashed to a wooden frame. Even if at least one of the soldiers concerned is famous throughout his cohort for holding the opinion that most officers aren’t fit to scrape out the latrines after him…’

  ‘Scarface’ went an even deeper shade of red.

  ‘… so, is there room for another under there?’

  Marcus gestured to the space next to him. Ignoring the indignant eyes of the roof-bearers, Frontinius stepped in from the rain, taking his helmet off and shaking the drops from its bedraggled crest. He regarded Marcus with a sideways glance, sweeping a hand across his pale scalp to catch the odd raindrops gleaming there.

  ‘And now, Centurion Two Knives, since you have me as a captive audience, you may tell me all about your exploits of yesterday.’

  When Prefect Licinius appeared after breakfast, he too came up short at the sight of the rain cover. What put the honey in that particular cake, Morban later confided to Dubnus, was the fact that custody of the four poles was in the process of being transferred from one four-man group to another. The cavalryman had watched, speechless, while the eight men transferred the cover from one group to another with the precision of a legion parading its eagle. When the handover was finished, and the outgoing men had completed the effect by marching smartly around the corner of the headquarters tent before collapsing in stifled laughter, the prefect approached, taking in the silent centurion and his First Spear. The latter was happily chatting away about the fighting habits of their enemy, and affecting not to have noticed the senior officer.

  ‘… whereas the warband, you see, is usually a one-shot weapon. The tribal leader points them in the right direction, whips them up into a frenzy, and then lets them run wild. Which can be a problem if they need to be turned around for any reason, since you can’t just…’

  He snapped to attention, shouting to Marcus and the roof-bearers to follow his example. Licinius, having thus been formally recognised, strolled forward,
nodding to Frontinius and staring with visible envy at the mobile roof while rain beat at his oiled leather cape.

  ‘At ease, First Spear.’

  Frontinius relaxed, throwing the tribune an impeccable salute.

  ‘Prefect Licinius, sir, welcome to the First Tungrian camp.’

  The prefect returned the salute with casual ease, stepping close enough to gain some shelter from the incessant rain.

  ‘First Spear Frontinius. Might one ask the purpose of this…?’

  He waved an arm vaguely at the scene, raising an eyebrow at the sober-faced Frontinius.

  ‘Prefect this centurion is under administrative punishment, one day’s parade in full uniform and withdrawal of speech. For exceeding the remit of written orders specified by Prefect Equitius in that he took his century over the Wall to rescue one of his men and ended up having to be rescued by you.’

  ‘And the prefect himself?’

  ‘Out with four centuries, sir, patrolling down towards the North Road.’

  ‘And this?’

  He gestured again at the rain cover, its roof sagging slightly with the weight of water soaked into the oiled leather.

  ‘Simple, sir. It would appear that this young officer has instilled sufficient pride in his men that they regard the punishment of one as a collective duty.’

  The other man smiled gently, recognising the deflection of any comment he might have regarding the shelter’s legal irregularity.

  ‘I see. Very well, First Spear, please inform the centurion that I’m sorry to have missed the chance to meet him properly. The Petriana is ordered to conduct a reconnaissance in force to the west, to discover the exact dispositions of our blue-nosed friends. Doubtless we’ll get another chance, though. Quite amazing…’

  He turned and walked away, shaking his head in disbelief. Frontinius waited until he was out of sight, stepping out from beneath the rain cover and eyeing the steadily lightening clouds with a critical gaze.