Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Centurion Corvus of the First Tungrian cohort, requesting an audience with Legatus Equitius.’

  The legion officer leaned forward to put his face a foot from the younger man’s, and stared down his nose disdainfully, his jaw jutting out between his helmet’s gleaming cheek pieces.

  ‘Requesting an audience with the legatus? And what makes you think the commander of Sixth Victorious has any time for you?’

  Retaining his cool, Marcus returned the hostile stare with a calm regard.

  ‘Mainly the fact that we stood together on a hillside quite recently, while a barbarian warband battered itself to pieces on our shields.’ His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward in turn to put his face inches from the centurion’s. ‘Which cohort, Centurion?’

  ‘What?’

  He repeated the question with deliberate and obvious patience.

  ‘In which one of the Sixth Legion’s cohorts do you serve, Centurion?’

  The older man saw quickly enough which way the conversation was going, and his answer was a fraction less gruff.

  ‘The Second.’

  Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed coldly on the other man’s.

  ‘I thought so. You’re a replacement, from Gaul or Germany, I suppose, and so you weren’t here for the battle of Lost Eagle. But I was, and so was the legatus, or Prefect Equitius as I knew him at the time. I served with him after his promotion too, hunting your legion’s lost eagle through the northern hills while you were still on the road to this place. So, Centurion, all things being equal, I expect the legatus will be happy enough to see me.’

  He settled into a comfortable parade rest and waited, while the officer stamped away and the headquarters sentries smirked quietly under their helmets. A few minutes later a soldier came to the door to fetch him inside the imposing building, leading him to the legatus’s office. Equitius was seated behind an impressive desk with a scroll open in front of him, one hand teasing at his thick brown beard as he read, but he got quickly to his feet when he saw the young officer and greeted him with a smile of genuine pleasure.

  ‘Centurion Corvus, you are quite literally a sight for sore eyes. Quintus!’

  A uniformed clerk appeared at the door from an anteroom.

  ‘Legatus?’

  ‘That’s it for today, my eyes seem to be getting old before their time. Clear up those papers, we’ll make a fresh start tomorrow morning. And have some wine sent in please.’

  Papers cleared and wine poured, the legatus raised his cup to Marcus. ‘Here’s to you, young man, and your apparent continued anonymity. Your false identity seems to be holding up well enough so far, for all the fact that the name Marcus Valerius Aquila hasn’t been entirely forgotten yet.’

  Marcus nodded, sipping at his wine.

  ‘And you’re still in command of the Sixth then, sir? There’s no danger of the legion being cashiered for losing its eagle?’

  Equitius frowned reflexively at the question.

  ‘Oh yes, I believe there’s been plenty of talk on the subject, but I think we’re past the worst of it. No legion has been disbanded in over a hundred years, not since First Germanica and Sixteenth Gallica were broken up for joining the Batavian revolt back in the Emperor Vespasian’s day. I’m told that some of the men around the throne were all for making an example of the Sixth, to “put some backbone in the other legions”, but we’ve been fortunate in having Avitus Macrinus in command in the absence of an effective governor. Not only did he rubbish the suggestion before it was even made, but he’s also got enough influence in Rome to squash the idea flat. The Sixth Legion may have been humbled by the deceptions of a traitor, but we’ll survive to take our revenge for the loss of our eagle the only way we know, on the battlefield.’

  He tipped his cup back, savouring the wine for a moment.

  ‘So anyway, “Marcus Tribulus Corvus”, what brings you to this gloomy supply dump when you could be enjoying life on The Hill, or else be out in the field hunting down our old friend Calgus? I’ll warn you now that you won’t sleep a minute past dawn for the hammering of the armourers. My idiot of a camp prefect set their new forges up right next door to the transit barracks.’

  Marcus told him the story of their day, getting a smile for his impression of Morban’s indignation on first seeing the Hamians.

  ‘… and then ten miles later he’s already trying to talk his way into my new chosen man’s purse.’

  Equitius nodded sagely.

  ‘That sounds like the Morban I recall. How do you rate their chosen man?’

  Marcus pulled a face.

  ‘He’s disappointed with his demotion, I’d say, but he’s hiding it well enough. Almost inscrutably, in fact.’

  ‘He’s a politician, then?’

  The younger man shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, I’d say he’s something better than that. Call it maturity, or call it simple acceptance, he’ll serve happily enough until the time comes to take his position back.’

  ‘When you reclaim your Tungrians from the Second cohort?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Equitius raised an eyebrow, calling for his clerk again.

  ‘Ah, Quintus, I’d like any information we have on the Second Tungrian cohort’s new prefect, straight away please.’

  The clerk saluted and left the room.

  ‘One of the privileges of senior command, access to rather more information than I’m used to. Another cup of wine?’

  The clerk returned five minutes later with a record scroll.

  ‘Updated only today, sir. Prefect Furius has joined the Tungrians from the German frontier, from the First Minervia to be precise.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir, just the bare facts of his previous service. A spell with Twelfth Thunderbolt in Moesia some years ago, more recently six months with First Minervia, then over the sea to join us.’

  ‘Thank you, Quintus, that will be all.’

  The clerk withdrew, and the legatus raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What my clerk is far too careful to say, at least in front of a man he doesn’t know, is that serving six months with a legion before being pushed off into auxiliary service is something of a kick in the teeth for a gentleman. It certainly wouldn’t have been a step for his former commanding officer to have taken lightly, given that Furius appears to have been sufficiently well connected to be favoured with a legion tribunate in the first place. And whether auxiliary or not, cohort commands weren’t growing on trees when I was looking for mine, so he must still have influential friends given that he’s probably been quite a naughty boy. He certainly must have some pull to have snagged a tribune’s posting with First Minervia in the first place.’ He gave Marcus a cautionary look. ‘Mark my words, Centurion, the Second Cohort’s new prefect might well have a colourful recent past, so I wouldn’t bet on getting those troops back any time soon, not until both cohorts are in the same place as a sympathetic senior officer. So, let’s get down to it, eh? You’ll be keeping those archers for a while, so what do you need to get them into the field with a half-decent chance of survival?’

  3

  Later, in the evening’s chill, Marcus left the headquarters and walked slowly through the flickering torchlight to the hospital. The soldier on guard duty saluted at the sight of his cross-crested helmet, and the young Roman returned the salute distractedly. Inside the building he paused for a long moment in a darkened corridor, lost in thought. Legatus Equitius had broached the subject of Felicia Clodia Drusilla with diplomatic care, mentioning as if in passing that the doctor, kept busier than ever she had been caring for a single cohort’s medical needs now that she had several thousand men to look after, might appreciate a visit from an old friend.

  ‘The legion’s lucky that she was on hand to step in when her predecessor got himself killed on the road from the Yew Grove fortress. Luckier still that her father took the trouble to impart his surgical skills to her rather than abandoning her intellect to
preparation for marriage and motherhood. I’ve requested a pair of replacement surgeons, of course, but there’s no word on when they’ll be forthcoming. Until then it’s either the good lady or nothing. Not even the camp prefect can complain at her presence under those circumstances.’

  While he had kept his face straight and his feelings to himself, in truth Marcus had thought of little else since their last meeting, or at least during those times when his mind had not been occupied by the duties of his command. Given both the circumstances of that brief encounter, and those of her husband’s death, he had been prey to a host of doubts in the intervening weeks. And so the young centurion lurked in stealthy indecision. He and Felicia had briefly been close, but that was before…

  ‘Centurion?’ Marcus jerked out of his reverie, realising that he had been close to dozing in the quiet warmth of the hospital. An orderly stood before him with a dim lamp, the oil almost exhausted. ‘Can I help you, sir? Do you require treatment?

  ‘Marcus shook his head, removing his helmet. ‘No, thank you, I have come to visit Doctor Clodia Drusilla. I’m told that she is here, and I would appreciate a moment of her time, if the hour is forgivable.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I will pass your request on. Your name, Centurion?’

  ‘Corvus. Just that.’ He waited a moment, the fears of a thousand dismal reflections on their situation crowding back down on him. She must see that his life was not for her, she would have met another man, a safer man, she would be dismayed with his unheralded arrival, she…

  ‘Marcus!’ Felicia hurried down the corridor with her skirts flying, and wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace that dispelled his fears in an instant. ‘I’ve missed you! I’d almost given up on you as a lost cause, it’s been so long. Come into my office.’ She took his arm and drew him down the corridor, pulling him into the privacy of her room and closing the door before pressing him up against the wall in a long searching kiss. Breaking away after a long moment, she held him out at arm’s length in the flickering lamplight, appraising him as if in comparison with her memories before poking his armoured chest. ‘I’m sure I promised myself that you wouldn’t be quite so sturdily dressed the next time we kissed. It’s been so long, Marcus, I was sure you weren’t coming back for me.’ Her voice sounded small, almost lost, and her eyes moistened with repressed emotion.

  He took both of her hands, her fingers warm between his. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been tied up patrolling the border area. The locals have reacted badly to not being liberated by their northern brothers, so they’ve taken to hit-and-run raids on Roman outposts and farms. The only way I might have seen you earlier would have been to get in the way of a blue-nose arrow. Besides, last time we met you were…’ He dried up, not wanting to say the words for fear of offending her.

  Felicia sighed and shook her head, staring at the floor. ‘I know, I was distant, and I’ve cursed myself a thousand times since. I suppose it was just a reaction to my husband’s death… That and being told that he was killed by a wound in the back.’

  Marcus trod carefully. Prefect Bassus had been stabbed in the back at the height of the pursuit that had followed the barbarian rout at the battle of Lost Eagle. He was widely reputed to have brought his death, presumably at the hands of his men, upon himself. His harsh leadership, combined with an inability to see his soldiers’ growing anger with their treatment, had seemingly driven them to deal with him in the only way left open to them. ‘You know he was…?’

  ‘A difficult man to like? Of course, who knew that better than I did? Why else would I have run away from him, although I thank the day I made that choice every time I pray to Fortuna. He didn’t deserve to die that way, though…’ She was silent for a moment, her hands clenched in her lap. ‘And I still feel guilty. When I heard he was dead my first reaction was joy, joy to be free of him, and to have my chance to be with you.’ She turned her head away, staring into the room’s shadowed corner. ‘Nobody with a calling to healing should be able to take even the slightest pleasure in death, and he was still my husband. I felt so… ashamed of myself.’

  Marcus put a finger to her chin and turned her face back to his own. ‘He spoke to me on that bloody hill, when the Second Cohort pulled our chestnuts out of the fire at the last moment, before the barbarian charge, and I swear he knew what had happened between us, or at least guessed. He made it very clear that he was going to call me out after the battle, but I couldn’t have fought him. I would have been forced to kill him, and that would have brought disaster on both of us. Whoever put that spear in his back saved me from taking my own life to avoid implicating us both, me for treason and you for adultery.’ He paused for a moment to stare into her eyes. ‘Anyway, he’s gone. We can either decide to make the most of where we find ourselves, or just waste our lives worrying about our mutual guilt. I know which I prefer.’

  She looked back up at him, her eyes soft in the lamplight, shrugging the sleeves of her tunic off her shoulders, so that the garment was held in place only by its friction with the slope of her breasts. ‘And you’d like to know what my choice is? Why don’t you lock that door and ask me properly?’

  It was another two hours before Marcus made his way back to the transit barracks, bone weary and yet elated beyond expectation. Rufius looked up expectantly as he opened the door to the barrack the four centurions had agreed to share. Julius and Dubnus were already asleep in their bunks, huddled down into straw mattresses. ‘Ah, so there you are. I had half a mind to call out the guard to look for you, it’s been so long, but Julius convinced me that you were likely just guzzling down the legatus’s Iberian red without concern for your elders and betters. Anyway, what have you been up to… you look like you’re dead on your feet, but you don’t smell of drink…’

  The veteran centurion sniffed ostentatiously, his eyes widening as he did so. He leaned back in his chair and prodded the recumbent form behind him. ‘Hey, Julius! Julius, wake up, man!’

  Their brother officer woke with red-rimmed eyes, sat up, shot Marcus a glance and subsided back on to his bed. ‘He’s back. Big deal. Let me sleep, damn you.’

  Rufius shook him by the shoulder. ‘I think you’re going to want to see this. Or rather, I think you’re going to want to smell it.’

  Julius sat back up with a frown, looked Marcus up and down and drew in a long breath through his nose. He stared at Marcus with a look of dawning amazement. ‘Bugger me…’

  Rufius snorted. ‘I wouldn’t turn over tonight or the horny young sod probably will.’

  Julius tried again. ‘You’ve… you’ve been…’

  Marcus reddened, and Rufius pounced. ‘Yes, he bloody well has. While we’ve been sat here worrying that some nasty little thief might have clouted him and left him for dead in the dark, he’s been playing hide-the-cucumber. Not only that, but he hasn’t even washed the lady’s smell from his skin before coming back to gloat over us poor celibates. Didn’t they teach you to go to the baths after a tumble, eh, boy, or least get a washcloth and a bucket and do your best with that?’

  Marcus opened his mouth to retort, only to get Julius’s cloth square in the face, still damp from his end-of-day wipe-down. ‘Have one on me, lad. Just don’t be settling down to sleep in here reeking like that or I’ll be as stiff as a crowbar all bloody night. Go on, there’s a bucket of water outside the door, go and wash it off like a decent comrade.’ He stopped, caught off guard by the look on Marcus’s face. ‘Hang on, look at you. You look like every lovestruck prick I’ve ever had the misfortune to bunk with over the last twenty years, about as sharp as a ragman’s donkey. You didn’t even see that washcloth coming. I know who you’ve been with… what’s her name, the doctor…’

  Marcus turned for the door, the cloth dangling in one hand.

  ‘Felicia. Her name is Felicia. And she promised to marry me.’

  Julius and Rufius exchanged amazed stares, then Julius reached over to shake the only man in the room who was still asleep. ‘Dubnus. Dubnus! You are not going to want
to miss this.’

  Calgus and his bodyguard left the warband’s camp in the dawn’s first light. They slipped away unnoticed, save for a few words with the men patrolling the camp’s western face, men of the Selgovae tribe and still fiercely loyal to their tribal leader. Calgus whispered fiercely into the ear of the warrior commanding the watch on the camp’s western wall.

  ‘You’ve seen nothing all morning, Vallo, clear?’

  The guard’s leader, a grizzled and scar-faced veteran of two uprisings against the hated invaders, and fiercely loyal to Calgus, nodded impassively. He had been on guard the previous day, when the messenger he had been warned to expect had walked out of the forest from the west, stopping fifty paces from the camp’s wall. When Vallo had gone forward to speak with him the northerner had simply uttered his message for Calgus and then turned impassively away, without any apparent regard for the dozen Selgovae warriors standing behind their leader. Now Vallo stood in front of his king, looking unhappily at the half-dozen men of Calgus’s bodyguard as they clustered around their chieftain.

  ‘We will keep silence, my lord. We will guard your tent, and tell any that ask that you are ill.’ He leaned closer to Calgus, his voice tense for all the softness of the muttered whisper. ‘But I do not like the risk you take in doing this.’

  Calgus nodded and slapped the veteran’s shoulder, looking round to ensure they remained unseen in the sleeping camp before replying in equally soft tones.

  ‘I know. The Votadini will complain more loudly in my absence, and their king will continue his plotting, but this thing has to be done in absolute secrecy if it is to bring us the victory we need.’

  ‘So you walk out into the forest with a handful of warriors. My lord, it is a mistake! It is the same mistake as when you were ambushed by the Romans when you went hunting. Your bodyguard all killed, and you spared only by the strength and speed of your sword arm?’