‘A . . . a prick?’
‘A prick, Watch Officer! Come with me!’ He dragged the soldier out of the ranks, putting a booted foot into his backside. ‘Run, you fucker! Let’s see how long you can keep up with the horses, shall we?’
‘Ah, the enjoyment of watching an experienced professional in action. I see man management is still a strong point with the infantry.’
Marcus shook his head in resigned amusement, waving Silus away.
‘You’d best be off to see what’s going on over the next hill. And I’d better rescue that soldier before Watch Officer Augustus puts his severed head on a spear to encourage the rest of my men. Enjoy your day’s scouting!’
The decurion shot him an ironic salute and moved away to rejoin his men, shouting a command and nudging his horse into a fast trot. As the scouts headed for the horizon Marcus turned his attention back to the hapless soldier, already fifty paces up the road with Cyclops in vigorous and noisy pursuit.
‘Hold this for a minute. I need to dig my cloak out and put the bloody thing on.’
Morban passed his standard to the trumpeter marching at his side and reached for the heavy woollen rectangle, thanking the foresight that had made him roll it up and wrap it around his belt. The younger man smirked down at him as he tugged it about his barrel-shaped body with a grunt of satisfaction.
‘Feeling the cold, are you?’
The standard bearer answered in a voice loud enough to be heard over the clash of hobnails, never taking his attention off the brooch’s stubborn pin.
‘Bloody thing won’t close. I knew I should have got this seen to while we were in barracks. The pin’s too short, and the bloody thing’s bent in the middle.’ He shot the trumpeter a vindictive glance, then turned his head and raised an eyebrow to the soldiers marching behind them. ‘A bit like your cucumber, from what I could see of that rather unpleasant act you were performing last night when I walked into the barrack without knocking and giving you time to hide it away. Now have you had enough, or do you want some more, tiny bent cock?’ Morban waited for a moment to be sure that the abashed trumpeter wasn’t going to scrape together enough wit to come back at him with any one of the retorts he would have mustered under the same accusation, then shook his head in genuine disgust. ‘Soldiers with less than ten years’ service should be seen and not heard, I’d say.’ The veteran marching behind him nodded his agreement, his voice a gravelly rasp as he rose to Morban’s game.
‘I knows. Give ’em a few months and they loves to play with the big lads, but they goes all quiet and runs away the second you gives ’em a proper smacking. Shouldn’t be allowed to join in with the fun and games until they’ve done their ten and learned to stand up for themselves. And to hold their beer . . .’
He winked at Morban, who gave the trumpeter a significant glance. The younger man started to protest, but swiftly closed his mouth again as Morban raised an eyebrow at him.
‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. Just make do with starting a conversation about something that can’t be turned against you.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the weather. See, when we set out this morning the sun was all bright and shiny, and you were thinking about a lovely warm day for marching, but now the sky’s the same colour as . . .’
The trumpeter opened his mouth to suggest something that matched the western sky’s dull grey, but was beaten to it by the soldier behind him.
‘. . . as his face when he’d done puking all over his boots the other night?’
‘That’s it, just the same colour!’ Morban smirked at the younger man for a moment before taking pity on his expression of bemused fury. ‘Now, now, don’t you go getting all hot and bothered. Look, there’s trees on the horizon; that’s the forest we’re marching to conquer!’
‘So that’s this Arduenna the locals all worship, is it?’
Tribune Scaurus looked across the farmland that stretched out before them to the forested hills in the distance, their dark slopes blending with the overcast sky.
Frontinius was marching beside him with a slight limp, the legacy of a sharp-eyed barbarian archer’s arrow at the battle of Lost Eagle the previous year. He nodded without breaking step.
‘Yes, Tribune, that’s the Arduenna. If the maps are right we’re only a couple of miles from the forest edge, although that might as well be twenty given the river that runs between here and the hills. A hundred paces wide and more, and apparently deep enough to be unfordable, other than across the shallows at Mosa Ford. If Dubnus has it wrong then we’ll have to go all the way west to the river bridge on the road to the Treveri capital, then march back to the east along the river bank.’
He stopped talking, raising an eyebrow at the tribune, who was gently shaking his head.
‘We’ll just have to hope that your centurion’s eyes weren’t deceiving him, then, won’t we? Ah, here come the mounted scouts now. You can stop the column for a rest, First Spear; let’s see what your man Silus has to say for himself.’
The decurion rode up and dismounted, saluting smartly to the tribune and the two first spears, who had gathered to hear his report.
‘We went all the way to the bridge, Tribune, without any sign of movement. There’s a couple of carts a few miles down the road, but nothing to interest us. Prefect Caninus took his men away to the west, as agreed.’
Scaurus nodded to Frontinius, who returned his gaze with a questioning look.
‘As we discussed it, Tribune?’
Opening his mouth to confirm the order, Scaurus was silenced by a voice from behind him.
‘As you discussed what?’
Scaurus turned to find Belletor, still mounted on his horse, close behind him. He looked up at the bemused tribune with a tight smile and pointed in the direction of the river.
‘We’re leaving the road and marching south for the Mosa. Once we’re off the road we’ll deploy into formation for an approach march, and your men can bring up the rear.’
Belletor frowned down at him.
‘But I thought . . .’
‘. . . that we were heading for the road bridge over the Mosa another ten miles to the west? Indeed, you did, along with the entire population of Tungrorum, I’d imagine. But one of my centurions has discovered a little secret, a piece of tactical intelligence I personally rate as pure gold, so we’re going to try something else, something not even Caninus and his men know about.’ He turned away from the baffled tribune, gesturing to Frontinius. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Sextus.’
Frontinius limped away, shouting for his centurions and quickly gathering the officers around him in a tight group. First Spear Sergius tipped Belletor a quick salute and sidled across to join them, while soldiers on all sides stared at the gathering with undisguised curiosity. Scarface stared at the cluster of armoured men for a moment and then turned away, shaking his head and reaching for his shield and helmet.
‘Best get your gear on, lads. The last time I seen Uncle Sextus looking that serious was before the battle where the Sixth Legion lost their eagle, and I ended up fighting off the fucking bluenoses for the rest of the afternoon. Got a nasty gash down one arm and lost both my best mates, one dead before he hit the ground, the other one coughing up blood for half a day before his eyes closed. This’ll end up with us out in front, if my guess is right. And it looks set to fucking rain.’
In the heart of his gathered officers, Frontinius looked around the intent faces that surrounded him, nodding his recognition of their solemnity.
‘Yes, you’ve all guessed it; we’ve got a direct route to the enemy camp and we’re going straight in. Dubnus found what looks like a way across the river while he was out scouting with Centurions Julius and Corvus, so we’re marching south to the Mosa at speed. We’ll get deployed over the river as fast and as quietly as possible, and then go for an encirclement of the rebel camp before they even know they’re under attack, never mind who’s behind the spears. And if we put this lot in the bag then our job here
really will be done, and we can enjoy some well-earned peace and quiet. Once we leave this rest halt we’ll deploy into approach march formation.’ He looked around the group again. ‘I’ll have the Ninth Century out in front in extended order looking for trouble all the way to the river, fast and light-footed. Try to keep it inconspicuous, Centurion Corvus. I don’t want them to know we’re coming until we’re across the river at the very earliest, and preferably not until we’ve got their camp surrounded by enough spears that they’ll just go straight to the bit where they throw down their iron without even considering a fight. Think you can manage that?’
Marcus nodded silently, already rehearsing the orders he would issue to his men. Frontinius recognised his preoccupation and moved the briefing on.
‘Good. Dubnus, you’ll be out in front with the Ninth. I need you to take us straight to the place in question without any risk of it turning into the scenic route, your chosen man can look after your men in your absence. Following up behind the scouts I want a three-century front, one solid wall of shields if the need arises, so keep the formation as tight as you like. Centurions Clodius, Caelius and Otho, your lads ought to find that well enough to their liking.’
Julius snorted his laughter into the intent silence.
‘The Badger, the Hedgehog and Knuckles all in a row. You really do mean business.’
Marcus winked at Caelius, watching as his brother officer rubbed self-consciously at the spiky, brush-like hair that had led to his nickname, smiling to himself at Julius’s praise. While Clodius and Otho were brutal, bombastic leaders, continually goading their men in competition for the unofficial title of the cohort’s most dangerous century, Caelius was a quieter man by comparison, until, that was, the enemy were within spear throw. Then, and only then, did he seem to swell beyond his usual size, and become a leader whose simple example could encourage bravery from his men where words might fail.
Frontinius nodded at Julius with a determined expression.
‘If by some chance we’re in action before we reach the river I want to be up and in their faces the instant they show themselves. So you three had better be ready for anything.’
Julius nodded knowingly.
‘And since the Ninth will all be dead or dying, you want these three to overrun them and rescue that pretty sword, eh First Spear?’
His superior smiled grimly.
‘Well, you won’t be in with any chance of recovering it, Julius, because you’ll be leading one of the wings. We’ll have three centuries on your side of the line, ready for an envelopment once the front three have got the enemy fixed, when and if we bump into them. The left wing will be commanded by you, Julius, and will consist of your Fifth Century with the Eighth and Second behind you, and the right will consist of the First and Tenth Centuries, led by Titus.’
The hulking commander of the Tenth Century spoke up, his voice a bass growl as he pointed a finger at Julius.
‘Be ready to bring your girls running if we take the brunt of an attack, eh little man? Two centuries might struggle to hold back five hundred mutineers, even if the two centuries involved are the best in the cohort.’
Julius, himself a hulking brute of a man even if he was a head shorter than his colleague, grinned at him wolfishly before turning back to his old friend Frontinius.
‘And you, First Spear, where will you be if I’ve got your boys alongside mine?’
‘Me? I’ll be accompanying Centurion Caelius, as close behind the Ninth as we can manage. Now, Second Cohort . . .’ Their sister unit’s centurions stepped forward, their faces every bit as grim as those of their colleagues. ‘We all know that the legion cohort isn’t experienced enough to stand alone against a determined attack – no insult intended, colleague.’ Sergius nodded graciously to show that none was taken. ‘So I’ll have your lads close up behind us to provide fast reinforcement.’
‘You’re sure you know where to find this crossing?’
Dubnus nodded grimly in response to Arminius’s question, his head thrown back to suck greedily at the cold air as they followed the 9th Century’s extended line at a pace closer to a jog than a march.
‘As sure as I can be, given that I only saw the place from the opposite bank, and that was with my head six inches from the ground. Like I told your lads that have run forward to scout the river bank, the only real landmark I could see was a bloody great tree on this side of the river, as I recall it, bent over almost double and with its branches trailing over the water. When we find that, we’ve found the crossing.’
Marcus and Qadir had already decided to add even more pace to their advance by sending forward the half-dozen fastest distance runners in the century. The men in question had dumped their shields and spears on their mates and hared forward in front of the Ninth’s already rapid progress across the open ground between the road and the river, briefed to look for the landmark that Dubnus had described to them. Looking back, Marcus could see the shields of the centuries following them, a good half mile behind.
‘It’s getting so cold that my bloody fingers are starting to go numb.’ Dubnus clenched his fists, trying to get more blood into them, and sniffed the air dubiously. ‘If it wasn’t already the middle of Aprilis I’d swear there was snow on the way.’
They looked unhappily at the heavy grey wall looming over them out of the western sky, and Marcus shook his head with a look of unease.
‘Whatever comes out of that cloud, it isn’t going to be warm.’
Arminius looked across at Marcus, who was staring up at the towering mass of dark grey cloud with a bemused expression.
‘This happened every now and then in my home village. We knew well enough to find shelter and not come out until the storm had passed. When the rain starts we won’t be able to see any further than the ends of our fingers.’
Dubnus shrugged.
‘Nobody made you come forward with us. You could have been safe back there with the tribunes if you hadn’t been so determined to keep us company.’
A brief smirk lifted one side of the German’s face, and he shook his head dismissively, waving a hand towards Marcus.
‘I’m not here for you, Dubnus, for all that you make a decent sparring partner on occasion. I’m here for him. I still owe the centurion here a life, and when the tribune sees fit to send us forward into the teeth of a spring storm to hunt army deserters I expect that my chance to repay that debt might be to hand.’
A sharp-eyed Hamian soldier striding along in front of Marcus pointed and shouted something in his own language to Qadir, who stared for a moment before calling to Marcus.
‘One of the runners is waving back to us. They see the tree!’
Taking the 9th Century within two hundred paces of the river bank, Marcus advanced down the ground’s gentle slope to the Mosa’s meandering stream, then waved the soldiers into the cover of the scattered bushes and long grass. He made his way forward with Dubnus and Arminius until they were crouched in the shelter of the bent tree, using its trunk to protect them from the wind’s biting chill. The scout who had spotted the landmark, one of the century’s Hamian archers, huddled alongside them wrapped in his cloak; he eyed the river’s hard, cold water with a disconsolate expression.
‘You’re sure it’s here?’
Dubnus nodded at Marcus’s question, unlacing his boots and unwinding the leg wrappings that swathed his calves, before rolling up his rough woollen leggings. Hanging the boots around his neck, he turned back to the Hamian.
‘Give me your spear.’ The scout handed him the weapon with a curious look which the centurion ignored, turning back to the river bank with eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Watch this.’
He stepped cautiously forward into the open, using the scout’s spear to prod at the shallow water lapping along the river’s muddy bank, while soft mud oozed up through his toes. The spear sank into the water with each prod, and the soldier frowned without realising it, thinking of the polishing that would be required to return the weapon t
o a state that would satisfy Qadir’s notoriously strict views on his soldiers’ equipment. Then, without any apparent reason, the iron blade stopped dead with less than half of its length in the water. Dubnus turned back with a triumphant grin, then stepped forward into the river, his feet barely submerged under the cold water. The scout gaped, pointing at the water flowing around the centurion’s ankles with a look of amazement.
‘Look, Centurion! He’s . . . he’s walking on the water!’
Marcus shook his head with a smile.
‘No he isn’t. But there’s something there strong enough to support his weight.’
He waved the man back towards the waiting century.
‘Fetch the first spear. Tell him we’ve found the bridge and bring him here.’
By the time Frontinius limped up to join him, a cluster of centurions in tow, Dubnus was a hundred paces away across the river and lacing up his boots. The senior centurion stared across the river at his officer, shaking his head in disbelief and speaking quietly to Marcus.
‘I can hardly believe it, but Dubnus was right. There it is, a stone bridge beneath the water’s surface.’ He looked hard at the far bank, but there was no sign of any movement in the trees that lined the river, except for Dubnus. ‘Get your men across there and join him, Centurion Corvus, then set up a fifty-pace perimeter, and in Cocidius’s name keep it quiet. By all means scout forward, but I don’t want them waking up to our presence here with the cohort only part deployed or it could turn into a massacre of everyone that’s already reached the far side. Get moving.’ Marcus turned away, beckoning Qadir and Arminius to him, and Frontinius turned back to the 1st Cohort’s gathered centurions. ‘Right then, in the same formation as before, advance to the river at the march. When you get here the first three centuries are to follow the Ninth across, while the flank guards will stay in place on this bank to make sure we keep possession of this side of the crossing. If we feed Second Cohort through straight after that we’ll have fourteen hundred men on the far bank. First Spear Sergius?’
The Leopard Sword Page 19