He turned away without waiting for an answer from his astonished colleague.
‘First Spear Frontinius, let’s have the first Tungrian back on their feet and ready to march, please. We’ll camp beside this ford for the night and head off into the wild tomorrow morning.’
The afternoon’s march was harder on the troops than the morning’s progress, the late summer sun beating down on them without interruption, and by the time the river came into view their tunics were wet with sweat beneath their mail armour. Frontinius knew that every man in the cohort was looking at the clear cold water flowing down from the mountains above them with something close to desperation. He paraded them with their backs to the water, raising his voice to be heard above the river’s rippling cascade down its rocky bed, and the thunder of its fifty-foot drop over the falls a hundred paces farther downstream. The 2nd Cohort formed up alongside them, their first spear gesturing to him to brief both cohorts as to their previously agreed course of action.
First and Second cohorts, you will dump your kit in the places where your tents will be pitched once the wall’s built. You can have a drink from your water bottles if you’ve got any left, and then get on with building the turf wall. If you have no water left…’ He paused to gauge how many of them were straining to hear the next words. ‘… then you are an idiot and will go thirsty until the wall is up to the satisfaction of myself and my brother officers. Each cohort will build one long and two short sides to the camp, and link up in the standard two-cohort pattern. Lots have been drawn, and the guard centuries will be the Third and Eighth centuries of both cohorts.’
Which was fortunate, given that the Hamians still had little talent for cutting turf to the right dimensions or placing it to form a strong wall, and were little better than porters for the cut turf.
‘When the turf wall is complete both cohorts will use the river to wash, two centuries at a time, in strict lottery order and for the length of a five-hundred count. The guard centuries will patrol the area to ensure that we don’t get any nasty surprises, and will wash and eat last. All centurions to First Spear Neuto for camp layout and guard duties. Centurions Tertius and Corvus, to me, please. Soldiers, to your duties!’
The parade broke up into the usual purposeful chaos of camp-building, the centuries streaming away to their allotted sections of the earth wall. Marcus told his men to wait where they stood, and hurried across to the first spear, who was giving instructions to a pair of message riders who were to ride out and find the legions, and deliver the customary report as to the cohorts’ position to the governor. The two centurions nodded their greeting to each other as Frontinius turned back to them.
‘This country should be empty of any barbarian forces, since we’re supposed to have them penned up to the north-east, but you can consider me as sceptical as ever when it comes to the words “should be”. So, centurions, you’re going to scout the vicinity and tell me what you can see. Tertius, you’re going to take your boys across the river and see what’s over the next hill. Cautiously, though, I don’t want to advertise that we’re here. Centurion Corvus, you can do some climbing too. Go to the top of that hill behind us and take a good look around. Dismissed.’
The two centurions saluted, shared another brief nod and headed away to their men. Gathering the 8th, Marcus pointed up the hill to the camp’s west, its slopes rising steeply from the riverbank to a rounded summit high above the ford.
‘We’re going up there. Chosen, we’ll leave our shields here with a tent party to watch over them. Tell them I want every one of them washed clean by the time we come down again, just in case they think they’ve drawn easy duty.’
The century started to climb, at first grumbling quietly at the renewed exercise but then, as the view below them expanded with their progress up the slope, and as the cooling breeze dried their sweat, with less complaining and more chatter about what they could see from their elevated viewpoint. After a few minutes of climbing Marcus stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath to slow down his racing heart. Qadir, following close behind him, took the opportunity to pause in his turn.
‘This is harder work than I expected.’
Marcus nodded, pointing down at the marching camp.
‘Yes, but look at the view. See, there’s my old century toiling away at the ankle-breaker.’
‘Ankle… breaker?’
‘Sorry, I don’t suppose you’re familiar with our terms. It’s a ditch that is dug all the way around a marching camp, if time allows, and the spoil is thrown to the inside of the ditch to form the basis for the turf wall. It’s called the ankle-breaker because the sides are cut straight, and at least two feet deep. If you fall into it in the darkness you’ll almost certainly break your ankle. We haven’t bothered with it until now, not with two legions within earshot, but now that we’re well and truly alone out here it’s a necessity.’
His chosen man nodded, gazing down at the labouring troops.
‘I see. And you know they are your former troops because…?’
‘Ah, that’s easy. I can see Dubnus striding round and shouting at the idlers. There, see? Add to that the fact that there seem to be a gang of barbarians carrying turf for him…’
Qadir nodded.
‘Should we perhaps resume our climb? Some of the men are already close to the top.’
Marcus turned back to look up the hill.
‘Gods below, you lot might not like marching, but give you a peak to climb…’
The view from the top of the hill was worth the climb. Down in the valley below they could see some of Tertius’s men working their way up the hill on the far side of the river, while other tent parties had split off to left and right to follow the line of the river to north and south. The marching camp was already half built, its wall casting an appreciable shadow in the late afternoon sunshine. The land was pretty much bare of any vegetation bigger than small bushes except for a number of trees scattered down both banks of the Red River to the south of the falls. To the north and west were rolling hilltops of much the same height, although a succession of gradually higher peaks rose towards the highest of all, a good ten miles distant. To the east, the southern slope of the hill facing the ford ended abruptly in a near-vertical drop.
‘That’s interesting.’ Marcus pointed down at the river. ‘See, there’s a shelf of hard rock running through the hillside, that’s what makes the waterfall so tall. This side of the river it’s hidden under the ground, but on the other side of the river it’s been uncovered.’ He stared down at the seam of rock running away into the distance. To the south of the outcrop was gently sloping land seamed by tributary streams of the Red. ‘You know, that makes the riverbank below the falls much easier to defend. It would take a good while to get a body of men down that rock face to the far bank, it’s steep enough to make for a slow climb, and far too tall to jump.’
‘Yes, but look over there.’
Marcus followed Qadir’s pointing finger. Off to the east, almost at the limit of visibility, a line of smoke was rising from a valley three or four peaks away.
‘Might that be the barbarian camp?’
Marcus nodded.
‘I’d guess so. And if we can see that…’
They turned to the south-east, taking in the view down the Red River’s valley. Far away, down on the flat land out of the hills’ undulations, they could see the occasional flash of sun on polished metal.
‘The legions. They’ll be camping for the night too, probably busy doing exactly the same as us. Hacking out a marching camp and dreaming of a dip in the river.’
‘Yes. Unaware that up here there are two cohorts who have already washed their sweaty backsides in the water that will flow past them in an hour’s time.’
Marcus laughed at him, unable to contain his amusement at the Hamian’s turn of phrase.
‘If I didn’t know better, Chosen Man Qadir, I’d say that you’ve spent too much time consorting with Morban of late. “Washed their sweaty back
sides…?”’
Qadir grimaced.
‘It’s inevitable. You should hear some of the things that our men have started coming out with.’
First Spear Frontinius caught Tertius watching him again as they reached the crest of the valley’s eastern slope. The 2nd Cohort centurion had been shooting him surreptitious glances ever since the first spear had declared his intention to join them in fording the river and exploring the ground on the other side. The river’s fast-flowing water had been delightfully cold, cooling and refreshing the troops of Tertius’s century and breathing fresh vigour into their tired bodies as they waded across the calf-deep stream.
‘Amazing what a bit of running water will do for a man, eh, Tertius? Ten minutes ago this lot were puffing and groaning at the thought of more marching, and now they’re off up the hill like fourteen-year-olds on a promise.’
Tertius answered with a non-committal grunt, continuing his climb up the valley’s side. The first spear smiled to himself. This was a game he played with loaded dice.
‘So tell me, Centurion, since we’ve not met before, how long have you served with the Second Tungrians?’
The other man took a long moment to answer, his tone cautious.
‘Thirteen years, First Spear. I joined a year after the cohort moved to Fair Meadow.’
‘Local boy?’
Tertius’s reserve was still evident in the guarded tones of his reply.
‘Not really. My father was a centurion with the Twentieth Legion, he retired to Veteran’s Hill with my mother before I was born.’
Another officer that had settled down with a girl from a fortress vicus, Frontinius mused, a marriage of convenience for both parties. An older man with money and influence, but lacking a companion with whom to share his retirement, and a woman past her youth and staring into the abyss of approaching middle age, with soldiers’ money getting harder to come by as her looks started to fade. She would have provided him with company and comfort in return for respectability and security. A new start in one of the veterans’ colony towns was the usual way to provide suitable anonymity to such a union.
‘A soldier’s son, then. He must have told you a good number of tales about his time following the eagle. The Twentieth was heavily involved in putting down the last bit of local stupidity, back in the sixties.’
Tertius smiled.
‘That he did. I grew up with the old man’s stories, that and his mates forever showing up to sit round and relive their glory days…’
‘And so you ended up on the wall, eager to make him proud.’
‘He died five years ago, before I made centurion. It was his last ambition to see me with a vine stick in my hands, but making it to officer rank takes the time it takes… for most of us.’
The last comment was added in a tone so quiet that Frontinius half wondered whether he had imagined it. He pushed on, as the men in front of them turned up the slope towards the saddle, the lower ridge between two hills.
‘You have a good first spear, one of the best. And how’s that new tribune shaping up… Furius, isn’t it?’
Tertius grimaced slightly, although it could have been the effort they were now having to put into climbing the valley’s side.
‘Tribune Furius is a strong man, First Spear. He does what he thinks is right, and allows the consequences to fall out as they will.’
Frontinius snorted.
‘Don’t I know it! I’ve a double century of archers to prove that. I hear he’s a man with a taste for the crucifix as well.’
Tertius looked startled, his mouth working without anything coming out, the sudden reminder of his brother turning the words to dust in his mouth. Frontinius ploughed on in a gentler tone, recognising the emotion washing over the centurion.
‘I heard about your man falling foul of him, and the way that Neuto and the rest of you spared him the indignity of the nails. I would have done the same in my colleague’s place.’
Tertius took a moment to reply, his eyes moist as he stared out across the rolling hills.
‘All I can tell you, First Spear, is that if there’s an irregularity to be found, anything this tribune can turn to his own advantage, he will find it and he will use it.’
He turned to face Frontinius for a moment, taking a deep breath of the cool breeze.
‘Anyone with a secret to hide would be better off somewhere else …’
Frontinius nodded his understanding, then clapped a hand on the centurion’s shoulder.
‘Well then, Centurion, let’s get to the top of this pimple and see what we can see. Look, the Eighth Century have already got to the top of their hill.’
‘So then he as good as told me that Furius already knows about young Corvus, and advised me to move the lad or risk discovery. He was less subtle with Marcus yesterday…’
Tribune Scaurus took a sip from the single cup of wine to which he had rationed himself for the night before replying. The first spear had come to his tent soon after the evening meal was finished, and double-strength sentries had been posted both around the marching camp and as listening patrols out across the river.
‘Which means not only that Furius has a pretty fair idea that Corvus is not what he seems, but he’s not doing all that good a job of keeping the fact to himself. So, First Spear, what to do?’
Frontinius scowled darkly into his own cup.
‘Not as simple as you might think, Tribune. The boy’s a member of the cohort now, not the friendless fugitive he was six months ago. He’s fought and killed alongside these men, formed the kind of bond that sometimes takes a lifetime. The Ninth Century would fight to the death for him, almost to a man, and my centurions count him as a brother. If we send him away to uncertainty, even with the best intentions, we’ll have a very unhappy cohort on our hands, I can promise you that.’
‘And yet if we keep him here, and that meathead Furius denounces us to Ulpius Marcellus, neither of us is going to see many more sunsets. And don’t forget that there are at least two senior officers embroiled in this nasty little affair, both your former tribune and tribune Licinius. I can think of half a dozen heads that will end up on stakes if this goes public. No, he has to disappear into thin air, and it has to happen soon. Once we’re south of the wall again, the same day we pass through the north road gate, he has to vanish, and take his doctor with him or she’ll be the next subject of Furius’s ill intentions.’
Frontinius nodded sadly.
‘I’d hoped that we could keep him here a while longer, and that the excitement would die down and allow him to settle and make a new life. If any man has earned some peace then that young man is a decent enough candidate.’
Scaurus tipped the rest of the cup down his throat.
‘And you, of all people, First Spear, are well placed to know just how unfair life is. As it happens I have an idea that might just keep the lad alive for long enough that he gets to enjoy a little of the peace you describe, and his woman too, but it requires him to leave this cohort at the first opportunity. Preferably with ‘killed in action’ noted against his name in the pay records. It’s either that, or watch your command be torn apart around you while Furius has a cross built for you. It may not be much of a choice, but it’s the only one you’ve got. Oh, and by the way…’
He pointed a finger at the view through the tent’s open end. In the 9th Century’s lines the Tungrians and Votadini were indulging in a temporary weapons swap. The soldiers were hefting the barbarians’ heavy swords above their heads, marvelling at the strength required to make more than a couple of the chopping attacks the long blades were made for, while the tribesmen were laughing at them from behind a row of borrowed shields, grimacing through the gaps between the shields and the brow pieces of the helmets they had donned to complete their impersonation.
‘Amazing, isn’t it, how quickly fighting men find the things that make them the same, and learn to ignore the things that make them different?’
Dubnus strolled into the 8
th Century’s section of the camp an hour later, Martos walking alongside him with a hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his sword. The Hamians were already asleep in their tents, exhausted by the day’s march, but, as the young centurion had expected, Marcus was still wide awake, discussing possible tactics for the next day with Qadir and his watch officers. All four men were wearing their heavy woollen cloaks, in contrast to the two Britons, who seemed not to notice the evening’s chill. Marcus stood, clasping hands with Dubnus and turning to regard Martos steadily, his expression neutral.
‘Martos, this is my brother-in-arms Marcus. Marcus, this is Martos, a prince of the Votadini tribe, now our ally and, as of today, my friend.’
Marcus nodded his greeting, extending a hand. Martos took it, sustaining the grip for a moment.
‘Your hand is cold, Marcus. That, and your face, tells me that you were not born in this land.’
Marcus nodded.
‘I was born in Rome, and lived there for most of my life. This may be a pleasant evening to you, but I’m used to warmer.’
‘And your soldiers?’
Marcus smiled, extending a hand to Qadir, who took his cue to bow his head slightly.
‘My chosen man can speak for himself, but since his homeland is even warmer than my own, you can probably draw your own conclusions.’
The Briton looked at the Hamians bleakly for a long moment before speaking again.
‘I asked Dubnus to show me the men who broke my warriors’ will in the battle for the hill fort. I was curious to meet the soldiers who rained death on to my people, to look into their eyes and see what kind of men they were. I expected cold-hearted killers, and yet, as with the other men of your cohort, find only ordinary men like my own. If anything, your men look even more out of place here than mine.’
Qadir stood, offering his hand to the Briton.
‘I must ask your forgiveness, Prince Martos. My men have been trained for years to regard their targets as simply that… targets.
I am not proud that we killed so many of your warriors, although I am in honesty pleased that they managed their first battle as well as they did. Please accept my sympathy for your losses.’
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