Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  He glanced up the line, and saw that most of the cohort’s centuries were already on the move back up the hill to the fort. Nodding to Qadir, he gestured for the 8th century to follow.

  ‘Chosen, get them moving! Get some breakfast into them and make sure they’re ready to march straight afterwards.’

  Once the century was climbing back up the hill’s steep slope he dropped back to Qadir’s place at the column’s rear.

  ‘Good morning, Chosen.’

  The big man inclined his head.

  ‘Good morning, Centurion.’

  ‘How does the day find our men?’

  ‘Truthfully, Centurion?’

  ‘Anything else would be to the detriment of us both.’

  ‘Then truthfully, Centurion, they are tired, footsore and they long for anywhere other than this living hell.’

  Marcus nodded, recalling Rufius’s advice of the previous evening.

  ‘Exactly as I would expect. And it’s going to get worse for them before it gets better, I’m afraid. But I have only two choices, Chosen, one being to drive them through this hell while the other is to allow them to surrender to their pain and misery. No choice at all, really. They have to reach the infantryman’s sad understanding of his plight since time began.’

  ‘Which is, Centurion?’

  ‘That there’s something worse than pounding on down the road when your feet hurt, when the rain’s bucketing down and there are still twenty miles to go before stopping to build a camp for the night. They have to understand that keeping going is much better than what will happen to them if they stop.’

  Qadir marched on in silence for a moment before responding.

  ‘And if you gain a century of infantrymen while losing their skills with the bow? We did not practise yesterday, and now we must march for most of the day.’

  Marcus took a long moment to answer.

  ‘In all truth, Qadir, I would take what this cohort so badly needs and count the loss as an acceptable price.’

  ‘Acceptable for you. And for these men?’

  ‘I would expect the loss to be devastating to them…’

  ‘And you would be right.’

  Marcus paused again, taking stock of the moment.

  ‘Qadir, my brother officers tell me that in their experience we must take this century to its limits to find their motivation, and that without motivation they will never be ready for what awaits them to the north in time. If that happens then you and I might as well cut each of our men’s throats now, and save the barbarians the trouble. If I’m going to make them into soldiers fit to march north past the wall and into enemy territory, then you and I must both be as one in our approach to their training.’

  Qadir looked away from the line of their march for a moment, beads of water falling from his helmet as he strode along beside the 8th’s last rank.

  ‘I do not like the thought of descending to behaviour as base as that I have seen from your brother officers. I feel that it demeans these men, who have joined your army under such different circumstances to be used so… roughly, and in a cause for which they are simply not prepared. And yet…’

  Marcus held his breath while the Hamian paused as if lost in thought.

  ‘… and yet, I see that we are trapped in this terrible place. And so I will ally myself with you in using their methods to make my men fit to survive this coming journey into darkness.’

  Marcus sighed audibly with relief.

  ‘Qadir, I…’

  ‘But there is a condition I must beg you to accept. Without it all is lost to these men, whether or not they become the soldiers you so crave them to be. I must insist that we find a way to give them time to practise with their bows each day.’

  The young centurion nodded.

  ‘I was just about to get to that.’

  The cohort mustered on the parade ground again after breakfast, each century’s tents, cooking gear and rations packed on to carts that would form part of the supply train, moving in the cohort’s centre on the march. As the 8th Century marched down the hill to their place on the parade ground, Morban’s usual place at their head was occupied by Antenoch, while the standard-bearer stood with his grandson Lupus at the fort’s gate, hopping from foot to foot in his impatience.

  ‘Where is the dozy old bag? The cohort will be leaving in a matter of minutes and I can’t leave you here alone. Perhaps that idiot boy didn’t deliver my message…’

  A young woman came into view, running up the hill past the centuries making their way down to the parade ground. She saw the waiting standard-bearer and dashed up to him, breathlessly panting out her news. Morban listened for a moment, then left the weeping child in her company and hurried down to where Marcus stood in front of the 8th’s men.

  ‘Centurion, the boy’s grandmother…’

  Marcus listened for a moment, told the standard-bearer to take his place at the century’s head and walked briskly to the first spear’s review platform.

  ‘Excuse me, First Spear.’

  ‘Centurion?’

  ‘We have a problem, sir. Morban’s grandson was to stay with his grandmother in one of the local villages, but we’ve just had word that she’s died overnight. There’s no other family to leave him with, and as the son of a soldier…’

  He left the sentence unfinished. Both men knew that the boy would be fair game for the locals without his last direct family member to keep them at bay. The threat of massive reprisals would ensure that nobody local was stupid enough to take fire or iron against the fort in their absence, but the victimisation or even the murder and quiet disposal of a soldier’s child would be another matter entirely. Frontinius gave the matter less than a second’s thought.

  ‘Bring him with us to Noisy Valley. We’ll find someone there to look after him while we go hunting barbarians in the hills.’

  Morban nodded in quiet relief, pointing to the wagon bearing the century’s equipment.

  ‘Get on that cart, lad, sit still and don’t touch anything. Thank you, Centurion, I couldn’t have left the poor little sod here on his own.’

  Marcus nodded, his mind elsewhere as the leading century started marching up the hill that separated the fort from the military road that ran to the east and west behind the line of the wall.

  ‘We’ll take him as far as Noisy Valley and no farther. I’m not risking him getting mixed up in a full-scale battle, and in the meantime you’re responsible for his good behaviour. That means no wagering while he’s around you, and no whoring either. Not that I expect you’ll get much of a chance with several thousand legionaries ahead of you in the queue.’

  The cohort arrived at the Noisy Valley fort late in the afternoon, and was directed into temporary defences thrown up alongside the partially rebuilt wooden fortress that dominated the main road to the north. They were camped alongside the 6th legion and several other cohorts from along the wall’s length. As the Hamians gratefully slumped to the ground for a short rest before pitching their eight-man tents, Morban slapped the 8th century’s trumpeter on the shoulder with his free hand.

  ‘No digging for us tonight, my lad. Let’s make a beeline for the vicus, or whatever the lazy bastards have rebuilt of it, see if we can’t find a wet to wash the dust from our throats.’

  Marcus put out a hand to detain him.

  ‘Not so fast, Standard-bearer. First we need to make sure that our new troops get their tents pitched in such a way that the first gust of wind won’t blow them away. After that I want an hour’s practice with spears and shields, and after that they’ll need to have the evening campaign routine explained to them. All of which means that you’re going to be the busiest man in the century, and that’s before you spend whatever time’s necessary to look after your grandson.’

  The 8th century exercised with their spears once their camp was set up, their efforts under the tuition of the four centurions watched with amusement by the rest of the cohort and with exasperation by the first spear, who called Marcus
over to him after a few minutes standing in silence beside the exercise ground.

  ‘Utter rubbish. You’ll not get them slinging a spear straight in anything less than a month, and we’ll be in action inside a week. Take their spears off them, and find a way to get them motivated to learn which end of their swords does the damage. If that demonstration’s any guide we’ll have to dump them on the Hamian cohort as replacements.’

  The century lined up to hand their spears in to the quartermaster with broad smiles, although their relief was soon forgotten in the face of Marcus’s grim-faced statement once they were back on the parade ground. Julius, Rufius and Dubnus stood behind him, their faces dark with anger at the implied criticism of their training methods, their harsh stares scouring the century’s suddenly solemn ranks for any sign of levity.

  ‘You’ve had your spears taken away because you were about as much use with them as a gang of vicus drunks. Some of you seem to regard that as a victory. Your officers, on the other hand, consider it something of a disgrace. Just to be clear, any attempt to provoke the removal of your swords and shields by means of such wilful underperformance will result instead in the loss of the only thing that seems to matter to you. If you fail to improve your collective performance with your remaining infantry weapons I will have no choice but to relieve you of your bows, and turn you over to the Sixth legion’s camp prefect for general duties. You either make a bloody effort or you’ll find yourselves cleaning out the latrines on a permanent basis.’ He paused and scowled across the century’s ranks, allowing the threat to sink in properly. ‘So, sword drill, and I suggest you put some effort into it this time…’

  Watching the 8th going through their paces again, Frontinius noticed Marcus nod to Qadir, motioning for the practice to continue before taking Antenoch and Morban to one side. He nudged the prefect’s arm, pointing at the three figures as they limbered up for sparring.

  ‘The centurion seems to have decided to work off his frustrations with a little swordplay. Watch carefully, he’s quicker than greased weasel shit once he gets going.’

  The two soldiers each took up a wooden practice sword, buckled their helmets tightly and raised their shields ready to fight. Marcus, who, as the prefect was intrigued to note, was wielding a second wooden sword instead of a shield, waited in almost perfect immobility while the two men approached him from either side with slow, careful steps, clearly intending to attack their officer in a pincer movement in the hope of overwhelming him. They paused in their advances for a moment, exchanged glances and then, in a sudden flurry of movement, both men struck, Antenoch stabbing his sword at his officer’s chest while Morban swung his weapon in a vicious arc at his head.

  Marcus parried the first attack while ducking under the second and shoulder-charging his standard-bearer’s shield, the impact making the older man stagger back off balance and fall back on to the ground. With one assailant momentarily out of the fight, Marcus turned on Antenoch with a speed and purpose that immediately put the clerk on the defensive, hammering a blow into the edge of his clerk’s raised shield with his left-hand weapon. As Antenoch compensated by pushing the shield round to his right, the young centurion feinted left then darted right, leaping into the air to jab his blade around the shield’s edge and into the soft flesh of his neck, pulling the blow to avoid breaking the skin but still inflicting a painful scratch. He spun away from the cursing soldier, avoiding a wild swing from Morban by a hand’s span as the standard-bearer charged back into the fight. The older man went for him with furious purpose, hacking wildly in the hope of overwhelming his defence, but Marcus simply stepped back out of range of a shield punch, parrying the blows until the short-lived power of the standard-bearer’s attack had burned out. As the pace of his attacks slowed, the centurion took the attack back to him, disarming the sweating soldier with a deft slap to the wrist of his sword arm with the flat of his blade, which left the sword hanging uselessly from the standard-bearer’s numb fingers. Morban stepped back and dropped the useless weapon, shaking his head to stop the fight. First Spear Frontinius raised a questioning eyebrow at his prefect.

  ‘I told you he was good, didn’t I?’

  Scaurus nodded his agreement with his first spear, his eyes narrowed as he watched the young officer talking his men through the fight, pointing out the points at which he had ridden his advantage to beat them both.

  ‘While I find myself forced to agree with you, First Spear, I’d still like to see him fight a real swordsman. No disrespect intended, you’ve built a fine cohort here, but your men are like most other soldiers, drilled to fight and kill from behind a line of shields and not to duel like that…’

  ‘I’ll fight him.’

  First Spear Frontinius turned with surprise, his eyebrows raised as he looked from the prefect to his bodyguard, who had previously been as silent as always in his place at the senior officer’s back.

  ‘Did he just say what I thought he said?’

  Scaurus nodded, his lips pursed in a slight smile.

  ‘He doesn’t say very much, but when he does it’s invariably interesting. You want to spar with that officer?’ The German nodded, and Scaurus turned back to Frontinius. ‘With your permission, First Spear, I think your man would find Arminius here a worthy enough test of his mettle. Shall we pair them up and see what happens?’

  Frontinius shrugged.

  ‘This should be interesting. Centurion Corvus!’

  The German strode out on to the parade ground, tossing aside his cloak and tunic to reveal a torso slabbed with muscle, his chest scarred in several places and, at the point where his arm and shoulder met, dimpled with the telltale pucker of an old arrow wound. He took a practice sword from Antenoch but disdained the proffered shield, reaching instead for Morban’s blade. The standard-bearer gave up the weapon with raised eyebrows, walking around the towering bodyguard and muttering into Antenoch’s ear.

  ‘He fights Dimachaeri style too, eh? Fancy the odds?’

  The clerk pursed his lips.

  ‘Look at the bloody size of him, and the state of his body. That’s a fighter if ever I saw one. I’ll have five denarii on him.’

  The two men squared up, their practice swords almost touching. The German kept his eyes locked on Marcus’s and hefted the wooden weapons to take their balance, his grating voice loud in the parade ground’s sudden hush as the sweating soldiers craned their necks to see what was happening.

  ‘Ready?’

  Marcus nodded, and the bodyguard went for him with a speed and grace that belied his size, forcing the young centurion backwards with a swift succession of attacking blows with both swords which looked, for a moment, likely to end in the Roman’s painful defeat. Adjusting quickly to the other man’s all-out style, and taking a perverse enjoyment in having his skills tested properly for the first time in months, Marcus began to match him blow for blow. Stabbing, parrying and hacking with a fluidity and skill close to matching the best the watching men had seen him muster with his blood up on the field of battle, he took the fight back to the German with single-minded intensity, pushing the bigger man back half a dozen steps with the ferocity of his counter-attack. The two men fought to and fro, all four of their swords ceaselessly hunting for an opening in the other’s defence while continuously fending off the other’s attacks. Stepping in close, his swords flung wide to deflect the Roman’s blades, the German shaped to deliver a powerful head-butt to his opponent, but Marcus, trained from his youth by men experienced in the dirtier side of combat in Rome’s savage arena fighting, saw the move coming and spun away, hooking the other man’s leg with a swinging kick and putting him on his back. The German simply rolled backwards out of the fall, regained his feet with a broad grin and charged back in with both swords, putting Marcus back on the defensive once more.

  The fight became steadily more physical, as both men sought to take an advantage that their mutual swordsmanship denied them both. Punching Marcus with a fierce blow from his muscular forearm, sending t
he younger man staggering back with stars flashing in his vision, Arminius shaped for the kill only to grimace with pain as the Roman, thoroughly enraged at the blow’s force, danced back in and put a hobnailed boot into his knee. The two men separated for a moment and circled each other, each of them eyeing the other with a new wariness, searching the other’s face for any sign of weakness. First spear and prefect shared a glance and nodded to each other.

  ‘Enough!’

  The prefect’s shouted command hung in the air for a moment, neither man acknowledging the order until, with distinct reluctance, the German dropped first one and then the other of the practice swords. He held out a hand to Marcus, who dropped his own swords and took the offered clasp, wincing with the force of the German’s grip. The previously blank-faced bodyguard was smiling slightly.

  ‘You fight well, as well as anyone I’ve crossed swords with. I’ll fight with you again.’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘That was the best bout I’ve had since I left… home. You’ll have to teach me a few of those moves.’

  The bodyguard nodded, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

  ‘I was taught by a master swordsman. When the time is right I will share what I have learned with you.’

  Prefect Scaurus and the first spear took their leave of the cohort once the soldiers had settled down to the evening meal. Frontinius left Julius in command, scowling darkly at the ground around their earth-banked defences.

  ‘We’ll move to full campaign routine, Centurion, double patrols and nobody allowed out of the camp without your express permission. The watchword is ‘Lost’, the response is ‘Eagle’. We’ll be back in a couple of hours if this commanders’ conference goes to form, so make sure there’s something warm left over for us when the rest of you have finished filling your faces.’

  Inside the fortress’s stone wall, blackened by smoke from its buildings’ destruction by burning in the face of the warband’s advance months before, the two men followed directions from the gate guard to find the headquarters. The prefect smiled wryly at the size of the new building.