With the unconscious man’s body arranged to her satisfaction, his arm held firmly at right angles from his body by one of the orderlies, she surveyed the wound carefully, noting the blood still leaking from the arrow’s wicked puncture. Stepping away from the table, she studied her instruments for a moment before selecting a pair of polished concave bronze blades, one with a blunt curved end, the other with small hooks at its end. Turning to her helpers, she addressed the man standing ready to help her by the unconscious patient’s head.
‘So, what do we know about arrow wounds, Orderly Julius?’
‘Doctor, the arrow is often barbed and will cause more damage during removal due to further tearing of the flesh inside the wound.’
‘And so the usual method for the removal of such an arrow is…?’
To push the arrow’s head out of the body through a second wound opened for the purpose, when this can be achieved without risk. This allows the arrow to be broken in half and safely removed.’
‘And given this arrow’s location?’
‘It would be impossible to make a second opening. The arrow must be withdrawn through the original wound.’
She smiled encouragement.
‘Good. Have you carried out this procedure before?’
‘No, Doctor, I have not.’
‘Very well, you shall have your first opportunity shortly. From the look of the wound this is a broad-headed arrow, with only two barbs, and not one of ours. We can be thankful for that small mercy, can we not, Julius?’
The orderly responded dutifully.
‘Certainly, Doctor. A flat-bladed arrow opens a pocket-shaped wound, which will close itself well enough as a result of the flesh swelling in response to the arrow’s intrusion. A wound made by the three-bladed arrowheads used by our archers will not close, however, and requires much more attention during recovery.’
‘And…?’
‘And… it has three barbs…?’
‘Rather than two. Exactly. So, back to this particular patient. Our decurion’s arrow’s upper blade and barb may be close to the large blood vessel that runs along the shoulder and down into the arm, and if we snag that vessel with the uppermost barb we will have a dead man on this table inside a minute or so. I’m going to use these…’ She lifted the bronze blades to display them to the two men. ‘… to prevent that from happening. These two items are called a dioclean cyathiscus, because their use was invented by the Greek Diocles.’
She bent over the patient, sliding the first blade into the wound, probing gently for the arrowhead.
‘There it is. Now I’m pushing the blade up and over the barb. It’s smooth and blunt, so there shouldn’t be a risk to the blood vessel. That’s it… now there’s a tiny hole in the top of the blade, which I’m going to engage with the point of the barb… got it. That barb is now harmless to the patient. Now the other blade goes in… see? I engage the tiny hooks over the first blade, like so… and I can now pull the arrow from the wound, with the second blade both providing the traction and keeping the first blade in place over the barb. That’s the worst part over with, and not too much more blood spilt either.’
She looked at Julius.
‘There’s another set of blades over there, go and get them. We’ve managed to protect the blood vessel, so now it’s your turn to make the other barb safe.’
The arrow was out of the wound a minute later, the orderly having made a decent fist of engaging its other barb before ceding control of the extraction to Felicia. She drew the vicious iron blade smoothly and slowly from its incision, looking critically at the missile before putting it to one side.
‘There’s a memento for our cavalryman when he wakes up. Now for this wound.’
She explored the wound carefully with blunt-nosed forceps, pulling out a scrap of cloth from deep inside the decurion’s armpit and holding it up for the orderlies to see.
‘See, a fragment of his tunic, punched into the wound by the force of the arrow’s impact. We must never leave such an object inside a wound, it will cause sepsis, possibly gross infection, and frequently end in the death of our patient. Especially a man as weak as this from loss of blood. So, Orderly Julius, what does Celsus advise us to do now?’
The orderly looked up for a second, remembering his long hours of reading the textbooks that Felicia had lent to him.
‘Doctor, we must pack the wound with lint soaked in vinegar to stop the bleeding, and pure honeycomb to assist the healing.’
‘Correct. And the vinegar will also help to prevent infection of the wound. How long do you think we should wait before sewing up the wound?’
The man’s face reddened.
‘In truth, Doctor, I do not know.’
She smiled.
‘And you will not guess, which does you credit. We’ll make a medic of you yet, Julius. The answer is that we will decrease the size of the wound’s packing with every change, which will be twice a day, until we can see that the flesh inside is healthy in colour and feel, and that the interior of the wound is closing. Only then can we safely close the wound. Well done, colleagues, I do believe that this man will live to fight another day.’
The 8th scouted through the forest without any further result for the next three hours, emerging out of the trees and into the bright daylight at midday, more or less. The soldiers took their meal in the shelter of the forest’s edge and then slung their pack poles over their shoulders, heading for the meeting point that had been agreed at a brisk march. They saw no sign of any enemy during their ten-mile trek across the rolling country north of the wall, and overhauled the legion after an hour’s progress.
The auxiliary cohorts were out front, sweeping forward on a broad front behind a cavalry screen provided by the 6th Legion’s cavalrymen. The legion itself remained in column of march, albeit that their pace was slowed to accommodate the auxiliaries’ cautious progress. The 8th Century marched up the column’s length, steadfastly ignoring the inevitable barrage of insults thrown at their backs by the legionaries, and Marcus snapped off smart salutes to each cohort’s first spear in turn. As they passed the column’s head, past the thicket of standards that led the legion on the march, a single horseman rode out alongside them, his horse trotting easily alongside the running soldiers. Marcus had recognised his former prefect the moment his horse had peeled away from the legion’s officers, and his salute was accompanied by a smile of genuine pleasure. Equitius leaned down from his saddle, throwing him a return salute.
‘Centurion. I saw the colour of your men’s shields and guessed that you might be Tungrians. I’ll assume that you’ve been undertaking some private scouting mission for Prefect Scaurus, to judge from the haste with which you’re tearing off into the distance.’
Marcus stepped closer to the horse, almost rubbing his armoured shoulder against its flank as he lowered his voice to ensure privacy.
‘We’ve been scouting the ground to the north of the north road crossroads, Legatus, and keeping out of the way, if you know what I mean…’
Equitius nodded sagely.
‘A good choice by your prefect, given the continued interest in your possible whereabouts. And…?’
Marcus handed him the tiny pendant, waiting as the other man turned it over in his hand.
‘A piece of barbarian jewellery. It means nothing to me…’
The centurion took the piece back, dropping it into the pouch on his belt.
‘Nor to me, Legatus, but Prefect Scaurus’s bodyguard tells us he’s seen another exactly the same north of the wall. Far to the north…’
Equitius nodded again, a new understanding dawning in his eyes.
‘I see. Well, in that case I won’t detain you. I’d imagine that your prefect will know well enough what to make of this interesting snippet of intelligence without my interference, given his experience. Gentlemen…’
He gestured to the land beyond the legion’s lead cohort.
‘Your comrades are out there, about a mile in front of us. They shouldn’t
be too hard to find, they’re the fellows poking their spears into every bush on a two-mile front.’
As chance would have it, the first unit the century encountered was the 2nd Tungrian cohort. Mindful of the warnings not to advertise his presence, Marcus felt a frisson of uncertainty as he looked for an officer to ask where the first cohort might be found. The centurion he approached, rendered anonymous by the stark lines of his helmet’s cheek guards, took one look and grinned triumphantly.
‘I remember you, we’ve met before! You’re… Two Knives, that’s it!’
The Tungrians built a hurried camp alongside the 2nd Cohort, the Cugerni cohort from Aelian Bridge and three cohorts of the 6th Legion. The turf walls were raised quickly, and to a foot less than the regulation height since the prefects wanted their men to be fresh for the fight. First Spear Frontinius sent his men to dinner once their section of the rampart was complete. Marcus sat with Qadir and Antenoch, the latter casting dark stares at a chastened Lupus, who had been discovered, hungry and thirsty, beneath a tent on the century’s wagon.
‘The little bastard must have sneaked himself on to the cart when we were getting ready to pull out from Noisy Valley.’ The clerk’s exasperation with the child’s desperation to be with the century had been all too evident, as had Morban’s mortification when his presence had been discovered. Lupus had still been wet eyed an hour after his discovery, as the two men had taken turns to tell him just how stupid he was.
‘I caught the little sod grinning to himself when he thought no one was looking,’ Morban had confided to Marcus, ‘so I clipped his ear again to teach the cheeky bugger a lesson.’
The child was sitting solemn faced between Antenoch and Qadir, the object of great curiosity for the rest of the century, who kept wandering past in ones and twos until their attention became tiresome, and their centurion ordered them into their tents.
‘There’s no way to get him back to the Valley,’ Marcus had told a tight-lipped Antenoch, ‘you’ll just have to keep an eye on him.’
‘And when we run into the blue-noses?’
‘He’ll just have to hide somewhere.’
The clerk had shrugged angrily, dragging the protesting child to his tent by one ear with dark threats of fearsome retribution for any further infringement of the rules laid down for him. First Spear Frontinius, surprisingly enough, had been more relaxed on the subject than anyone else in the boy’s chain of command. Sitting at his meal with Julius, he had shrugged when the subject was raised.
‘What can we do about it now? Nothing. The lad’s going to end up as a soldier in any case, he’s just getting an earlier start than the rest of us. Anyway, he’ll be safe enough for tonight at least. I doubt that anyone’s going to be bothering us with the rest of the Sixth less than two miles to the north and in a particularly bad temper, given that we get to take revenge for the Frisians while they get to stand guard.’
Julius smiled sourly.
‘I’ll happily swap, if that’ll make them happier. Most of them are replacements for the men that died at Lost Eagle, and we’ve already seen one decent fight this summer…’
Frontinius laughed quietly.
‘It doesn’t work that way, though, does it? We’re blooded, as are the boys from the Sixth who’ll be fighting alongside us. Legatus Equitius has put the first team into this fight, so it’s up to us to justify his confidence.’
Julius shook his head, squinting into the setting sun’s dying rays.
‘Just as long as the bloody Sixth’s cohorts actually come to the fight.’ He stretched his massive frame, tired from the day’s march. ‘So what did young Corvus find in the woods that was so significant?’
Frontinius shook his head.
‘No idea. Some piece of jewellery or other. The prefect took one look and went into a huddle with his man the German. He’s gone over to the Sixth’s main body for a chat with the legatus, so doubtless we’ll find out soon enough. Anyway, off to dinner with you, and then get your lads’ heads down for the night. We’ll be up before dawn, and I want everyone nice and fresh.’
In the quiet time after dinner, as the troops made their last preparations for battle before turning in for the night, a strange officer appeared in the Tungrian lines. Following directions from the patrolling sentries, he made his way to the 8th Century’s row of tents and sought out Marcus. The two men stood talking in the camp’s torchlight for a few minutes, then clasped their arms before the stranger turned to head back to his own part of the camp. The young centurion watched him go for a moment, then walked across to the 1st Century’s section of the camp, seeking out the first spear with a worried look on his face. Frontinius listened impassively to his story, then sent for Julius.
‘You met a pair of Second Cohort centurions at Arab Town, when you went to pick up our replacements?’
Julius scratched his head, still itching after a full day beneath his crested helmet.
‘Decent enough lads, as I recall. Tertius and…’
‘Appius.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Our brother officer Marcus has just had a visit from Tertius. They met on the march today, by pure good fortune. Tertius wanted to warn Marcus that the Second Cohort’s prefect is convinced he’s the son of a disgraced Roman senator, and that he’s recruited this Appius to find him and deliver proof of his whereabouts. The Bear told me that he was around our lines at Noisy Valley only a few minutes after I sent the Eighth out on night exercise.’
Julius frowned, shaking his head at the apparent inevitability of the net closing around them.
‘After which Prefect Furius will denounce the fugitive, take the credit for his discovery, and do his level best to have us all nailed up alongside Two Knives?’
Frontinius nodded.
‘Exactly. From what I’ve heard he might even have a go at sticking it to Prefect Scaurus.’
Julius frowned.
‘Why would this Tertius be so keen to tell us this? Surely he’d be better off just keeping his mouth shut?’
Frontinius acknowledged the point, reaching for his helmet and vine stick.
‘It’s a longer story than we’ve got time for now. Suffice to say that Centurion Tertius has quite a good reason not to be all that fond of his new prefect. I’m off to the Sixth Legion’s lines now, there’s a command conference. We’ll finish this discussion later, but for the time being let’s keep Centurion Corvus under as much cover as possible.’
The detachment’s senior officers gathered in the command tent, waiting for Tribune Antonius to make his entrance. The auxiliary cohorts’ prefects and first spears rubbed shoulders with three hard-faced legion senior centurions and a pair of junior tribunes, the latters’ equestrian status clear from the thin purple strip on both men’s tunics. Antonius entered the tent a moment later, and every eye was upon the senior tribune as he walked to the briefing table to announce his intended plan of attack. He stepped up to the table, pointing to the rough map sketched on its surface and speaking in a clear, confident voice.
‘This ought to be straightforward enough, I should think. There are reported to be about fifteen hundred of them camped on that hill. They know we’re here, so they will be ready, but they probably haven’t eaten all day and they’ve already fought one pitched battle. With six cohorts we outnumber them by nearly three to one, so good enough odds for an assault, I’d say. Nothing too fancy, unless anyone’s got any better ideas — we simply break in, we put them to the sword, and Calgus has one less warband to play with.’
He paused, looking around the tent at the gathered officers.
‘I’m reminded that it’s usual for auxiliary cohort commanders to be offered the first crack at the enemy in this sort of situation.’
I’ll bet he’s been reminded of that old tradition, mused Frontinius inwardly. In fact I’ll bet he had a queue of centurions falling over each other to remind him of it. ‘So, gentlemen, it’s up to you. Will the Tungrians and Cugerni lead the line for this action?’
Prefect Furius stepped forward, nodding decisively, to the amazement of the other two prefects and their first spears. Neuto’s face froze into immobility, only his eyes betraying his surprise.
‘Yes, Tribune, I think you’ll find that we’re more than up to the task. I propose that we make up the first wave, and that your legion infantry be kept in close reserve, ready to assist us if the going gets difficult.’
Antonius nodded approvingly, a brief smile twitching his lips.
‘Well said, Prefect Furius, excellent spirit. Very well, I suggest that you take some time between the three of you to lay out your battle plan. The Sixth Legion will back you up in whatever you decide. Thank you, gentlemen.’
Outside the tent a thin-lipped Scaurus put a hand on Furius’s arm, his anger clearly boiling over.
‘Next time you decide to do something that stupid I’d appreciate some bloody warning!’
Furius bristled indignantly, and the Cugerni prefect walked away a few paces, studiously ignoring the two men as the 2nd Tungrians’ prefect pointed a finger at his colleague.
‘Stupid? I think you should explain yourself, Rutilius Scaurus.’
Scaurus held his ground, his voice lowered to avoid the words carrying back into the command tent.
‘When Antonius offered us first place in the line he was simply doing what the legions always do, putting dispensable auxiliaries to his front to soak up the worst of the casualties, but what you offered him went a long way beyond that. You’ve just let him off the hook for this battle’s conduct, and given him a cast-iron excuse for holding his cohorts back as long as he likes. We’re not four thousand men attacking fifteen hundred any more, in fact we’re not much better than evenly matched unless Antonius throws his men in alongside us, and he won’t do that until we’ve already got the barbarians beaten. So we’d better do some quick thinking as to how this battle’s going to be fought, because I don’t think a frontal assault is going to be good enough.’ He caught the lurking Cugerni prefect’s eye and raised his voice. ‘I suggest you both come to my tent in an hour.’
He summoned Frontinius with a jerk of the head and stalked away, his mind working fast, heading back to his own cohort’s lines and talking as he walked.
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