Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  ‘I said “enough”, and you’d better appreciate something that you might not have been faced with for a while, First Spear. I am your fucking superior OFFICER!’ Frontinius flinched at the sudden venom in his superior’s voice. ‘When I give you an order, you may seek to debate its merits, you may tell me that you don’t especially like it, but you will carry it out as completely and effectively as if it were you own idea. And for my part, while I will listen to your views, both seek and respect your opinions, I will eventually issue commands that I believe to be correct given my understanding of the overall situation. Which may well surpass yours. As for your questions, let me sum it up for you by answering just one of them: what does the governor think you are? The governor thinks you’re a soldier of Rome, sworn to follow the instructions of your superiors, no matter what you may think of those orders.’

  His voice softened slightly.

  ‘The governor, Sextus Frontinius, believes you to be a professional, a career soldier with the ability to bury your distaste for this order and ensure that your people bury theirs alongside it. We’ve been chosen quite deliberately for this duty, First Spear, and it’s a responsibility I neither can nor would seek to avoid. What’s left of the Votadini warband marches with us when we leave here tomorrow, whether we like it or not.’

  The Tungrians paraded the next morning with more than one man staring open mouthed at the motley collection of Votadini warriors drawn up in three rough lines alongside their prefect and first spear. Soldiers nudged each other in the ranks and shared whispered speculation as to the reasons why the survivors of the battle of the hill fort might be parading in front of them.

  ‘Perhaps we’re going to put them to the sword? You know, for White Strength?’

  Morban turned a withering glare on the 8th Century’s trumpeter.

  ‘Do they look like they’re ready to be slaughtered, you prick? They’re all armed, for a start.’

  A man in the century’s front rank spoke up in the silence that followed.

  ‘Perhaps they join cohort? Like us?’

  Morban spluttered with poorly restrained mirth, his gaze fixed on the barbarians.

  ‘Oh, fuck me, that’s even better. Yes, that’s right, we’re going to take a pack of untrained murdering barbarian halfwits into an infantry cohort. Why didn’t I think of it sooner! Tell you what, Ahmad, or whatever your name is, I’ll give you twenty to one on that… no, fuck it, I’ll make that fifty.’

  ‘I take bet, Standard-bearer. One-denarius stake.’

  ‘Easy money.’

  The trumpeter, still red faced from his earlier rebuff, opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘And no, you fucking can’t have some of that. Now shut it, Uncle Sextus is about to let us in on what’s going on.’

  The Tungrian cohorts marched to the south-west along the line of the foothills for the first two hours after breaking camp and wading across the ford, a dozen message riders from the Petriana wing walking their horses alongside the marching soldiers. The Votadini warriors, almost two hundred and fifty men strong, walked to either side of the lead century, their leader silent and uncommunicative in their midst. The Tungrians and their new comrades eyed each other unhappily from time to time, neither side capable of trusting the other given their recent history. As the day wore on towards mid-morning the troops started to sweat under their heavy cloaks, and the order was given for both cloaks and helmets to be removed, and the latter to be hung around their necks.

  ‘Take your cloak off, boy, roll it up and put it in your pack. Let the wind get to your skin and you’ll soon be comfortable again.’

  Lupus followed Antenoch’s example, watching as the clerk bundled his own cloak into his pack, ready to be hoisted on to his carrying pole once the rest stop was done.

  ‘Antenoch…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why can’t I have a sword?’

  ‘You’ve got a sword. What’s that in your belt?’

  The boy frowned.

  ‘Not a wooden sword. A real one.’

  Glaring a warning at the nearest soldiers, Antenoch unsheathed his gladius and handed it to the child, handle first.

  ‘Take a grip of that. No, don’t wave the bloody thing around, just hold it for a moment… See, heavy, isn’t it?’

  The boy shrugged, his eyes fixed on the weapon’s blade as it weaved unsteadily in his hand.

  ‘Not really. I could carry it. Everyone else has got one.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘What if we’re attacked? How am I supposed to fight without a sword?’

  The clerk looked to the sky, seeking inspiration that clearly wasn’t coming. An 8th Century soldier nudged him, quietly displaying a short dagger under the cover of his cloak and raising an eyebrow. Antenoch frowned, raised an eyebrow of his own and tilted his head to the child. The Hamian nodded encouragingly.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘To you, ten denarii. To the boy, is gift.’

  Lupus watched the two men uncomprehendingly.

  ‘A gift?’ Antenoch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why. You fancy him or something?’

  The other man laughed.

  ‘No, I do not like boys. Is simply gift. You were never boy, eh? You never wanted knife, shiny and sharp?’

  Antenoch held his stare for a moment, then shouted up the length of the century’s column of relaxing men.

  ‘Morban!’

  The standard-bearer stayed seated at the century’s head, raising his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You all right if Lupus has a knife?’

  The answer took a split second’s thought.

  ‘How much?’

  Antenoch rolled his eyes, muttering to himself.

  ‘Fuck me, not “do you think he’s old enough?”, but “how much?”. That’s our Morban… It’s a gift!’

  ‘’Course he can, if it’s free! Don’t ask stupid questions!’

  Antenoch rolled his eyes at the Hamian, muttering a quiet insult.

  ‘Tight-arse.’

  He turned back to the boy, who, having realised the subject of the discussion, was wide eyed with anticipation, the sword dangling forgotten in his hands.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, young Lupus, I’ll make you a deal… Here, give me that back.’

  The child reluctantly held the gladius out, watching hungrily as it slid back into Antenoch’s scabbard.

  ‘Here’s the deal. You keep the centurion’s boots gleaming, no mud marks, and you polish his armour every night without fail, and you get to hold on to this.’

  He took the dagger from the Hamian and held it up for the child to see. Sliding the small blade from its sheath, he put a finger gingerly to the blade’s silver line as it flashed in the morning’s brightness.

  ‘Cocidius, but it’s sharp!’

  The weapon’s donor smiled happily.

  ‘No point in blunt knife. No point, see?’

  The Briton raised both eyebrows in protest.

  ‘Yes, thank you for proving conclusively that the old ones are indeed the old ones. So, boy, the knife stays yours just as long as you do your jobs properly. The first time I find either his boots or armour — including his helmet — dirty when we’re dressing him in the morning, the knife goes straight back to… what’s your name?’

  The Hamian bowed his head in greeting, touching a hand to his forehead.

  ‘I am Hamid.’

  ‘To your new uncle Hamid. Deal?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Good. Put the sheath on your belt, like this… see?’

  The child stared happily at the knife resting at his hip, putting one hand on the handle in a self-conscious pose.

  ‘Never mind posing for the sculptor, say thanks to Uncle Hamid here for being so generous.’

  The Hamian struggled to stay upright as Lupus wrapped his arms round his neck.

  ‘Thanks, Uncle Hamid!’

  ‘Now, off with you up the column. Go and show your grandad your new weapon. Oh…’
/>   He arrested the child’s departure with a swift grab at his belt.

  ‘And one more thing. No messing about with it, right? No throwing it, no cutting your initials into trees and no trying to cut your hair either. I catch you mucking about with that, or hear about it from anyone else, you’ll lose the knife and you won’t get it back. You want to be a soldier, you’d better learn to behave like one. Go!’

  Lupus ran happily up the century’s length, shouting to his grandfather. Antenoch settled back on his elbows, puffing out a sigh and shaking his head slightly with a half-smile.

  ‘I don’t know where the child’s energy comes from.’

  He held out a hand to the Hamian.

  ‘Thanks, Hamid, that was decent of you.’

  The other man shrugged.

  ‘He good boy. We all been young, wanted knife. He been unlucky, we hear. Give him little happiness, eh?’

  Antenoch nodded.

  ‘Besides, his grandfather foolish enough to make me large bet this morning. He already paid for knife.’

  ‘Ah, that was you, was it? Well, it was still kind of you. Here…’

  He delved into his bag and pulled out a small paper parcel, passing it over to the Hamian.

  ‘I was saving this to share with the boy later, but I think he’d rather have the knife.’

  ‘Cake?’

  ‘Honey cake. Good too, go on, get it down your neck before we’re on the move again. I can’t see the boys in the shiny armour waiting very long before getting us on our feet again, the morning’s too good to waste when there’s still a long way to go to the river.’

  Farther up the column the barbarian warriors were sitting in a tight group close to Dubnus’s 9th Century, the two groups exchanging wary glances. After a few minutes Dubnus sighed, told his chosen man to keep an eye on things and got to his feet, walking across to the Votadini group. Hundreds of soldiers watched his move with mixed feelings, one of them nudging his mate and pointing at the young centurion.

  ‘Fuck me, the prince is going for a chat with them.’

  Frontinius overheard the comment and swivelled from his discussion with Scaurus, taking in his centurion’s approach to the diminished warband’s leader. Standing in front of the squatting Votadini nobleman, he put out a hand.

  ‘You must be Martos. My name is Dubnus, formerly a prince of the Brigantes people and now a soldier of Rome. If we are to walk these hills in company we might as well be on speaking terms …’

  The words hung in the air for a long moment, as Martos looked the centurion up and down with blank-faced neutrality before returning his gaze to the outstretched hand.

  ‘Well, Dubnus, former prince of the Brigantes…’

  He took the offered hand, using it to pull himself to his feet. Face to face the two men were well matched, both powerfully muscled from years of wielding their heavy weapons, their faces dark from the continual exposure to the elements and their stances confident in their ability to best any man put in front of them.

  ‘… it seems we have something in common, you and I, for I am a former prince of the Votadini, now reduced to running with the very wolves we sought to drive from our land.’

  He stared hard at the centurion, waiting for any sign of offence. To his surprise Dubnus merely smiled grimly.

  ‘Oh yes, I know that feeling. And yet I have made my peace with these people, and turned my sword arm to their purpose. Will you walk alongside me when we rejoin the march? Perhaps we can offer each other some conversation of interest?’

  Martos nodded slowly.

  ‘I will. I might better understand what put you in that uniform.’

  Frontinius watched as the two men nodded to each other and returned to their respective sides of the divide between the Tungrians and Votadini.

  ‘Of all my officers, it would be Dubnus to make the first move…’

  He turned to find Scaurus with a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘I’m forgetting, you don’t know the man. The centurion in question was tribal nobility south of the wall before he joined the cohort. Perhaps he understands what your man Martos is feeling in this situation better than the man himself.’

  ‘And perhaps we start to see the method in our governor’s apparent madness, eh, First Spear?’

  Frontinius snorted and turned away, calling the cohort back on to its feet for the march, but Scaurus had seen the thoughtful look on his face, and stood waiting for the march to resume with a quiet smile.

  The two cohorts marched at the standard campaign pace for most of the morning, skirting along the edge of the mountains in bright sunshine. From their path along the mountains’ outskirts, two and three hundred feet above the plain, they could see the main body of the army. The two legions were marching alongside the river as it snaked across the valley, and a mile beyond their columns the two cohorts thrown out as guards on the right flank clung to the low slopes of the hills to the south. Dubnus and Martos walked together between the 9th Century and the Votadini remnant, deep in conversation. Speaking in their own language, their initial diffidence had quickly been forgotten as the barriers of their respective causes fell under their mutual curiosity.

  ‘So I had little choice. Once my father was gone I knew that going back to my own people would see me dead inside a day. Besides, he made me swear to go to the Romans as he lay dying…’

  Martos nodded solemnly.

  ‘Such an oath cannot be denied once made.’

  ‘Aye. It was hard for me here at first, even if Uncle Sextus…’ He caught the Briton’s uncomprehending frown, ‘Sorry, First Spear Frontinius, only he was a centurion at the time, had made a promise to my father to take me in. The men that commanded this cohort then did all they could to break me.’ He smiled. ‘The formal beatings never really bothered me, and they stopped the informal beatings after I got tired of defending myself and put three men in the fort’s hospital for a month. After that things just settled down, and we all got used to each other. Mind you, I still wouldn’t be an officer today if it weren’t for a Ro… for a man that joined us a few months ago. But that’s another story. And you, how do you come to be walking into danger alongside us, instead of waiting for us with your comrades?’

  Martos recounted the story of his desire to supplant his uncle the king, and the subsequent betrayal by Calgus, his voice bitter with the recent memory.

  ‘I was a fool, and nothing less. I should have stood by my king, but my head was turned by Calgus and his promises that I would return to my tribal lands in victory, and as his closest ally.’ His voice fell, the words so soft that Dubnus strained to hear them. ‘I wanted to be king, and all I achieved was the massacre of my warriors and the destruction of our family. My king is probably dead by now, and Calgus will send one of his trusted men north to rule my kingdom. My children will be put to death and my woman will either be killed or more likely made a toy for the new leader’s men.’

  He stared out over the plain below them in silence for a moment before speaking again, his voice stronger.

  ‘All these things will happen, there’s no way to prevent them, but I tell you this, Centurion Dubnus, I will have revenge on that slimy piece of shit that calls himself ‘Lord of the Northern Tribes’. I will twist his guts in my hand and tear them from his body, and I will fill his clever mouth with his torn manhood before I allow him to die. Either that, or I will die with my sword thick with his men’s blood. I have sworn this, and my warriors have sworn to follow me to either victory or death.’

  Dubnus smiled darkly.

  ‘And such an oath cannot be denied, once made. I wish you well in your quest for revenge, and given the chance I would count myself honoured to fight alongside you. I too have a score to settle with Calgus.’

  The other man gave him a scornful look.

  ‘You think we’ll be allowed to fight in your line? I doubt it, Centurion, our ways are too different, and I doubt that we’re trusted even half well enough for such an honour.’

&nb
sp; Dubnus nodded, ignoring the bitter tone in the other man’s voice.

  ‘True enough, but we’re not like them.’ He pointed down at the two legions grinding their way across the plain below them. ‘They fight in a ponderous fashion, much as they move across the land, their movements cautious and measured, always seeking to bring their swords and shields to bear on the right ground. We, on the other hand, are faster across ground, and while we can fight their way we can also take our iron to the enemy with speed and stealth. Your chance to fight alongside us may come sooner than you think…’

  After the midday rest stop, Tribune Scaurus and the first spear walked down the cohort to meet up with Furius and Neuto at the head of the second cohort.

  ‘The Votadini say it’s time to turn north and get up the mountain a fair way if we’re going to keep scouting along the mountain flanks. Apparently we’ll have to cross the Red River about ten miles from here, and the only good ford is above a waterfall up in the hills.’

  Furius grimaced.

  ‘I still don’t like following these savages off into the wild. For all we know there’s a fucking great warband waiting for us up there. We’ll be cut off from the main body, probably out of sight too…’

  Scaurus nodded in apparent sympathy.

  ‘I know. If it’s any consolation I don’t think these men will lead us astray. Their hunger for revenge on Calgus is too strong.’

  Furius snorted.

  ‘A view based on your long experience of dealing with the locals, eh, Rutilius Scaurus?’

  Scaurus leaned closer to Furius, lowering his voice.

  ‘You know, Gracilus Furius, one of these days you’re going to make one thoughtless remark too many for your own good. As it happens, I do know much more about this country and its people than most people appreciate, and while there are some very good reasons why I intend keeping it that way, I’m happy to tell you this; in my opinion Martos doesn’t intend us ill. Call it instinct, or call it the very simple fact that he has the strongest possible motivation for guiding us to the right place — either way I don’t think he’ll be selling us out. So I suggest that we show some balls and get on with it, before our subordinates start wondering if we’re just a little bit lacking in eagerness to do our jobs.’