Marcus frowned down at him.
‘They do have a rather informal appearance, I’ll give you that, and yes, perhaps our last First Spear, the gods grant ease to his departed spirit, would have found their mixture of kit a little challenging. Should I point out that harsh truth to Martos on your behalf, do you think?’
A warrior of fearsome countenance who had lost an eye in the liberation of his tribe’s fortress city from Calgus’s men two years before, the Votadini prince had long since settled into a state of contentment with his place in the cohort as an ally, but still kept his men apart from the centuries and guarded both their independence and their reputation jealously. Morban recoiled visibly, shaking his head vigorously.
‘There’s no need for that Centurion, I was just saying …’
Marcus ignored the standard bearer’s grumbling and raised his hand in salute to Martos.
‘You’re whining because they get to go home while we have to march north.’
If the Roman had expected that stating the obvious would silence Morban’s complaints, he was to be disappointed.
‘It don’t seem all that fair, now that you raise the matter, sir. How come they get to wander off to enjoy themselves while we’re straight off to the north without even the chance to put our noses round the door at the Hill?’
‘Because, Standard Bearer, as you might be reminded by the prince’s missing eye, their home was ravaged by Calgus’s Selgovae and left under Roman control once we recaptured it. He’s going to make sure that none of the tribal elders have had any clever ideas about taking the throne from his nephew, and to make an offering at the shrine to his wife and son. And besides, it’s not your nose you want to put round the door at our old fort, is it?’
‘You’re right, Centurion, it ain’t his nose! Not that his old chap would reach round a door! It can barely poke its head out of his bush unless he gives it a good old tugging!’
Sanga’s gruff voice and the answering laughs of the soldiers around them were lost in a sudden bray of trumpets as Julius decided that the cohort was ready to march. Knowing that the soldiers would be quietly seething at having their return home snatched away from them so suddenly, the first spear only waited long enough for the last century to be clear of the fort before ordering his trumpeter to sound the signal for the double march. The ferocious pace soon quelled the unhappy mutterings of his troops as they threw back their heads to gulp down the cold morning air. After an hour or so the harsh pace started to tell on men whose previous few days had been characterised by the forced inactivity of waiting around in barracks for the transport convoy to assemble, followed by the cramped circumstances of the crossing itself. Marcus and Morban, marching at the Fifth Century’s head, exchanged knowing glances as the Fourth Century’s chosen man stalked down the line of his men looking for strugglers, pouncing on one soldier who was marching with a slight limp.
The hard-faced chosen man had been deliberately selected by Julius to pair up with his centurion, Caelius, as a means of counterbalancing the officer’s quiet and reasonable demeanour in any other circumstance than the chaos of battle, where he was transformed into a warrior leader of legendary ferocity. His chosen man’s reputation for driving his men along with an assortment of well-used jibes and threats was widely known and well founded, and the panting soldiers in the Fifth Century’s front rank cocked their ears expectantly as he bellowed a challenge at the labouring man, his face inches from the hapless struggler’s ear.
‘Having a hard time of it, are you sonny?!’
Whatever it was that the soldier said was inaudible to the men marching behind, but his inquisitor quickly satisfied their curiosity.
‘Blister?! A fucking blister?! You’ll just have to march through it, won’t you boy?! I don’t care if your boots fill up with blood until they squelch like a whore’s cunt on pay day, you’ll keep marching until the tribune decides it’s time to stop!’
Marcus shared a glance with Morban.
‘That’s come depressingly early in the day. This is clearly going to be a long and painful march …’
With the usual turf-walled marching fort constructed, nestled beneath the walls of Fort Habitus on the road that speared north from the wall built at the command of the Emperor Hadrian sixty years before, Marcus turned away from his supervisory duties to find two of his soldiers standing to attention, both men saluting neatly and waiting for their centurion to speak.
‘Ah yes, Sanga, and Saratos isn’t it? Chosen Man Quintus told me the pair of you had requested permission to see me. What can I do for the pair of you?’
Sanga spoke for both men, his voice nervous at dealing directly with the centurion.
‘This is the settlement where my mate Scarface was born and raised, Centurion sir. Me and Saratos here thought it might be nice to pay the local mason to carve him an altar, and when we come back this way we can make an offering to his memory. He was a daft sod, begging your pardon, sir, but the lads in our tent party wanted to find a way of remembering him.’
He shut up and waited for Marcus to speak.
‘Scarface …’ The Roman put a hand over his eyes and shook his head slowly before lowering his arm and nodding at the men standing before him. ‘May Mithras above us forgive me, but to my great shame I must admit that I’ve not thought of him lately. Thank you for the reminder, Soldier Sanga.’
Sanga smiled.
‘I can still hear his voice in my head, when it’s quiet in the tent and the rest of the lads are all snoring and farting. “Are you still keeping an eye on that young gentleman like you said you would, Sanga?” or “Don’t you forget our agreement, Sanga. If he won’t look after himself we’ll just have to be there to stop him getting hurt, won’t we?”’
Marcus nodded soberly.
‘He always did seem to believe it was some sort of sacred duty he had to keep me from harm. There was a time when I couldn’t turn around without finding him lurking about close at hand, looking in another direction and trying to avoid my eye. Which is how he got himself killed, of course.’ He fished in his purse, pulling out a handful of silver coins. ‘Whatever Morban’s spared you from the burial club for the altar, add this to it, and make sure there’s a good carving at the top of the stone. Morban has given you some money?’
Sanga grinned back at his officer, raising one hand to display his scarred knuckles.
‘Yes sir, and there was never a danger that he wouldn’t come up with the coin. Morban knows when to take liberties and when he’s safer just putting his toes on the line rather than risking getting them stamped flat.’
The gold convoy halted for the night some twenty miles down the road south from Arab Town, in a spot that had clearly been the point which the day’s march had been intended to reach. Leaving the road at the leading centurion’s pointing signal, eschewing the blare of horns that usually accompanied tactical manoeuvres in favour of a more stealthy approach, the column moved up a rough track that sloped away from the cobbled surface and wound around the base of the hill that overlooked the route south, gradually climbing until it opened out onto the flat summit.
‘Another night, another turf wall.’
Felicia nodded at Annia’s words, pulling on the horse’s reins to halt the cart, as the three centuries’ officers issued a flurry of orders to their men. The orderly ranks dissolved into what at first glance seemed like barely organised chaos, although the two women, long used to the routines of marching camps, watched with experienced eyes as some of the soldiers dug turfs and quickly built a four-foot-high wall around the clustered tents that were being erected by their fellows, while others stood guard with purposeful stares at the landscape around them. Work details were heading away from the camp to fetch water and firewood, the foragers all still fully armed and armoured, and the men working to build the camp all had their spears and shields close to hand in what both women knew was the prescribed routine for camping in hostile territory. Lupus popped up from the place in the cart’s bed w
here he had been sulking for most of the day, his eyes bright as he watched the legionaries go about their duties to build a defensible camp out of a bare hilltop, one hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. Prefect Castus strolled down the line of carts, his eyes roaming along the line of armoured men set to stand guard on the gold wagons, before coming to a halt alongside the women’s cart.
‘Good evening ladies. I trust that your day’s ride was pleasant, or at least not too unpleasant …’ Finding Annia’s eyes upon him in a cold stare he coughed and turned away, gesturing to the camp with a raised arm. ‘Please don’t be alarmed by the fact that the men are all still in their hard kit, it’s just routine given recent circumstances. Once the tents are raised the wagons in front of you will be driven into the open space that’s been left in the middle, so that we can put three centuries’ worth of spears between them and any unfriendly natives. Just follow them in and we’ll have your equally valuable cargo just as safe as the emperor’s gold, eh?’
Felicia watched as he marched briskly back down the line of wagons, turning to look at Annia.
‘I’d say that the Prefect is one man we ought to be cultivating, wouldn’t you?’
Her heavily pregnant companion snorted, shaking her head in disagreement.
‘It’s thanks to the Prefect that I’ll more than likely be giving birth to this child in a legion fortress while my man is freed to go adventuring without a care in the world.’
Felicia smiled gently, putting a hand on her friend’s arm.
‘You must have seen a fair few babies being born over the years, given that you ran an establishment that catered to the entertainment of men?’ Annia nodded. ‘And tell me, in all those deliveries of helpless little scraps of humanity, when your women were puffing and groaning to push their children out into the world, did you ever see a man add any value to the proceedings?’
The other woman nodded reluctantly, and Felicia reached behind them to rub the boy’s head affectionately.
‘And besides, we have all the male assistance we need right here with us, don’t we, Lupus?’ She turned back to the camp before them, pointing a finger at the first of the gold wagons as it started to roll forward behind the paired horses that were straining to shift its dead weight. ‘Let’s go and take our place in the camp and then work out what we’re going to eat tonight. Perhaps the Prefect will detail us an escort and allow us to pick herbs for a stew?’
‘That was cruel, having to lead the cohort far enough to the west that they could practically smell home, then turning them north at The Rock and thrashing them up the road for another ten miles.’
Dubnus raised a jaundiced eyebrow at his friend, looking around at the roughly finished surroundings of the hastily rebuilt Fort Habitus officers’ mess in which they were sitting.
‘Not as cruel as camping here for the night. Of all the places that we could have pitched up it had to be this one, the place where I told my half century of former legionaries the story that turned them from cowards into men. Now they’re walking round like they own the place, bumping fists and muttering “Habitus” to each other as if they’re some sort of secret society. If they find out that I made up the whole thing about this place being named for a centurion who died in defence of his men then I’ll have some excitement to deal with, that’s for certain. And after all, I only did it as a way to wake up their sense of pride when they were hanging from their chinstraps.’ Dubnus took a deep swig at his beaker, wiping the excess from his moustache. ‘Ah, proper beer. That wine you lot are always sipping is all very well, but it’s not a drink for a man, is it?’
Marcus smiled and raised his wine cup in salute.
‘I thought you might appreciate it, although I don’t think I’ll ever really get a taste for the stuff.’
His friend emptied the beaker, slamming it down onto the table before him exuberantly and grinning happily at his friend.
‘Appreciate it? You have no idea how good that tastes after a year of that sour German muck.’
Marcus stared off into space, his expression wistful.
‘I think you’ll find I can do a fairly good job of imagining just how good it feels. Probably about as good as a cup of my father’s best Falernian would taste to me if I were sipping it in his garden after having spent a couple of hours bathing away dust and the smell of horses.’
‘Yes …’ The big Briton raised his refilled beaker, tapping it to the Roman’s cup. ‘I’m sorry, that was—’
Marcus shook his head.
‘Tactless? Not at all. Why shouldn’t you enjoy being home?’ He raised his cup in return. ‘I’ll drink a toast with you. To home …’ They drank. ‘And we’ll drink it again, on the day that my boots tread the Forum’s flagstones again. And here’s Julius. Pour him a beer, he’ll probably be in need of a drink.’
The first spear dropped his helmet down onto the table with a heavy thud, drawing a dirty look from the mess servant who was promptly treated to a swift rebuttal.
‘Don’t be giving me the eyes boy, fetch another jug unless you want your arse tattooing with the lace holes of my boots. We’re fighting soldiers, not the weak-kneed half-wits you’ve been used to dealing with. I came through here two years ago when this fort was nothing more than a burned-out shell, on my way to give the Selgovae a good reaming as repayment for their having it away with your fucking eagle.’
Shaking his head in disgust he turned back to his comrades, ignoring the stares his outburst had drawn from a trio of legion centurions at a table in the far corner.
‘And yes, young Corvus, you’re bloody right. I do need a beer, if only to wash away the memory of an hour of my life I’ll never get back, spent listening to a spotty nineteen-year-old trying to tell us he’s got the local area under control while his three centuries hide in their barracks sharpening their military skills by a combination of wanking and playing knuckle bones. One word from Rome to pull back and this lot will be off down the road to the south like Greek athletes racing for the last bottle of oil.’
He tipped the beaker back and drained it in a single swallow, reaching forward and pouring out the last of the jug’s contents as Dubnus watched disapprovingly. One of the men in the corner got to his feet and advanced across the room towards them with a determined expression, his comrades looking after him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Planting himself in the first spear’s field of view he waited for Julius to become aware of his presence, his eyes fixed on the big man until the Tungrian turned his head to look at him.
‘What?’ Julius looked up at the newcomer with a curled lip, sliding down in his chair a little to make himself comfortable and folding his arms to push out his massive biceps. ‘I’d be very careful, sonny, standing there with a face on you like you’ve got a pair. If you’ve come looking for a set of lumps you’ll find me ready and willing to oblige you, given the deep joy I’ve been forced to inflict on my men today.’
The legion centurion shook his head, saluting punctiliously as he spoke.
‘Nothing of the sort, First Spear. But I couldn’t help overhearing your comments about my cohort, and I just wanted to explain a few things to you.’
Julius raised an eyebrow at his brother officers with a bored expression.
‘You want to hear this tale of woe?’
To Marcus’s surprise Dubnus nodded, his face suddenly serious.
‘Why not? There’s been a lot happened since we were here last, and given that we’re marching north to put our cocks well and truly on the block I’d like to hear what the centurion here has to tell us. If you don’t like what he’s got to say you can do your usual “fuck off and die quietly” act once he’s done telling it.’ He turned to the legion centurion with a wink. ‘Take a seat brother, and have a beaker of this most excellent beer, if the idiot behind the counter ever bothers his arse to bring us a refill.’
The other man smiled wryly.
‘I can help with that much, at least.’ He clicked his fingers to g
et the mess steward’s attention, raising his voice in a peremptory tone. ‘Two jugs of beer, and make it quick or I’ll have a chat with your chosen man and have you put to work moving shit from one place to another and then back again with the smallest and heaviest shovel you’ve ever seen!’
With the beer swiftly delivered and poured he took a sip and then leaned forward, his voice pitched low to avoid the words carrying to his comrades.
‘I’m Tullo, Third Century. And yes, First Spear, our tribune is no more than a boy, but even if he wanted to do anything more than keep the locals’ heads down his orders leave no room for doubt. If we stir from this fort without orders from the new legatus, then he’ll find himself so deep in the shit he’ll be breathing through a reed. And as for the men …’
He sighed, shaking his head, then raised his eyebrows in question at Dubnus.
‘You know that nightmare we all have, given we command centuries made up mostly of local boys, the one where we have to order them to start killing their own people? Well it’s not a nightmare for me any more, because my lads have been through it. When the Brigantes revolted, we were part of a three-cohort force that was sent south to make sure the cheeky bastards didn’t get any smart ideas about burning out the Yew Grove fortress, while the rest of the legion got stuck in to making sure the wall forts weren’t overrun. Three cohorts wasn’t enough, of course, we needed a full legion to do the job properly, but given that we were all that could be spared the legatus told us to do our best, and put the most experienced of his tribunes in command, a man with experience from the German Wars and a right hard case.’
Tullo took another sip of beer, aware that he had the Tungrians’ full attention.
‘It was all a bit half-hearted at first. The Brigantes were scared shitless once they realised the full implications of what they’d done, which meant they kept well out of our way for the most part, and our lads were all a bit stunned by the turn of events that had their own people burning out farms, but it wasn’t until we reached Sailors’ Town that we realised just how serious it really was. We knew the auxiliaries who were based in the fort there pretty well, given that we’d marched up and down the road from Yew Grove a good few times over the years, so when we got within a mile or so of the place the men started to look pretty unhappy.’
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