Fortress of Spears e-3

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Qadir! Two Knives is up and about! And you, lad, go and get your cleaning gear, he’s going to need a bloody good brushing before he goes on parade!’

  Storeman Octavius caught up with Decurion Cyrus shortly after breakfast, strolling through a surprisingly busy morning to find his would-be partner supervising a flurry of activity. Having enjoyed a few hours of sleep, he was aghast to see that the squadron’s tents were being struck and loaded on to the wing’s baggage animals, while individual troopers were fussing over their mounts and checking equipment with the solemn faces of men going back into the fight.

  ‘What’s happening? How can we be on the move so soon, and with the battlefield still littered with gear?’

  Cyrus grinned down at him mirthlessly, shaking his head in dark amusement.

  ‘Always the last to know, eh, Octavius? The whole camp’s on the move, man, both legions going south to put a Brigantian rebellion back in its place, and we’re going north to see if we can bottle up the Venicones and prevent them from escaping back to their lands north of the abandoned wall. Most of us, that is. Some poor bastards have been detailed to ride to the north-east with the auxiliaries and take back some fortress that Calgus still holds.’

  The stores officer’s eyes widened in near-panic, and he gripped the decurion’s arm without being aware of the action.

  ‘But I’ve got a deal for us…’

  Cyrus reached out with his other hand and plucked the storeman’s grip from his sleeve, speaking in a quiet but fierce tone.

  ‘Not now. Can’t you see the interest you’re causing?’

  Two or three men were already watching the pair with thinly disguised curiosity, and the decurion turned away to check the fastenings on his saddle, speaking quietly over his shoulder.

  ‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait a few days?’

  ‘I’ve got a soldier from one of the Tungrian cohorts offering me a bloody great big gold barbarian torc, and he says it belonged to a tribal chief. It’ll sell in Rome for a hundred thousand, minimum, and I’ve got him on the hook for a thousand. We can probably make at least twenty thousand on the deal, if you can just lend me five hundred to make up the purchase price…’

  Cyrus turned back to him, taking his spear and showing him its iron head as if to discuss some feature of its manufacture.

  ‘Firstly, my friend, there’s no way I’m going to put my hand into my purse with this collection of thieves and idlers watching. And secondly, both Tungrian cohorts are away off to the north-east with that aristo Felix and six squadrons, something about cleaning out a nest of blue-noses up north, so that torc’s about to march out of the camp. It seems that your deal’s walking out on you.’

  3

  Centurion Dubnus shifted uncomfortably on the examination table, feeling the doctor’s cool hands gently probing around the fresh scar that would be his permanent reminder of the battle at the Red River. The spear wound had been inflicted by a barbarian who had run full pelt into his century’s line and punched his weapon’s iron head through the big man’s armour, burying it deep in his side to put him out of the fight, and into the hands of the Noisy Valley fortress’s medical staff.

  ‘I can’t feel anything to indicate any infection, Centurion, and your wound seems to have healed nicely enough. You’re a lucky man. You can get back on your feet for a few hours a day, nothing strenuous, mind you, and no clever ideas about sneaking back to your cohort either. I know you’re desperate to get back into the fight, but you won’t be fit to get back into armour for at least a month. Do you understand what I’m saying this time?’

  Dubnus returned her questioning stare with a rueful smile. He had been caught at his room’s window a few days previously, watching the legionaries practising with their weapons when he was supposed to be confined to bed.

  ‘I understand, Doctor. I’ll sit in my chair and listen to the idiots comparing the size of their scars.’

  She nodded firmly.

  ‘Good. And no trying to make your way down the corridor unobserved either. You need at least another week of inactivity before we can be sure that your wound is really healed.’

  He nodded, sitting up with the help of the doctor’s orderly Julius, a quiet and good-natured man rarely without a smile on his face.

  ‘Is there any news from the legions?’

  Julius answered after a moment’s silence, shooting a troubled glance at his mistress.

  ‘Yes, Centurion, a message rider arrived last evening. I would have woken you when I heard the message he was carrying, but you looked so…’

  ‘And?’

  The orderly smiled at the questioning tone, but the doctor turned back to him and wagged a finger.

  ‘Calm yourself, Centurion. There’s nothing either of us can do, whatever the news might be. As it happens, the news is good, or so it seems. The rebellion is broken, their camp stormed and destroyed, and those barbarians who escaped are scattered, and running for their lives. And no, there’s no detail as to which units took what part in the fight.’

  Dubnus pulled his tunic back on gingerly, feeling the fresh scar tissue flexing with his movements.

  ‘Doctor…’

  She shook her head.

  ‘After all that’s happened in the last few months I think you should call me Felicia, Centurion.’

  ‘Very well, Felicia. Whatever fighting he might have seen, Marcus will have come through it in one piece. He’s faster with two swords than I am with one, his century are determined not to let “their young gentleman” come to any harm, and he’s got Tiberius Rufius to keep him from making an idiot of himself. He’ll be back here soon enough.’

  Her eyes moist, Felicia reached out for the big soldier’s hand.

  ‘I know. And if anything were to have happened to him, I could cope with it. It’s just the not knowing…’

  Dubnus gave her a wry smile.

  ‘I know. Believe me, cooped up in here, I know exactly what you mean. And now I must give you this.’

  He picked up a small cloth-wrapped package and handed it to her, catching Julius’s eye and tipping his head at the door. The orderly took the hint and made his excuses while the doctor unwrapped the cloth, revealing a small knife in a soft leather sheath.

  ‘What…?’

  ‘It’s for your protection. I asked the soldier that you discharged yesterday to bring it in for me. I want you to promise that you’ll wear it until Marcus can come for you. You need to be able to protect yourself if the need arises. You know where a man is vulnerable to a small blade just as well as I do, and that one’s long enough to open a throat if need be. It will strap around your leg above the knee, and be hidden under your stola. Promise me that you’ll wear it.’

  She drew the knife from its sheath, examining the razor-sharp six-inch blade with a critical eye well used to gauging the sharpness of her surgical tools.

  ‘Dubnus, I took an oath to protect human life, not to take it.’

  The big centurion shook his head, but his reply was gentle.

  ‘These are difficult times, and you’re too precious to my friend for me to see you without some way of defending yourself. What if the Brigantes break into this fort?’ He took a deep breath in through his nose, then exhaled and raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘And besides, it’s not just about you any more, is it?’

  The Tungrian cohorts marched two abreast down the well-beaten track that ran from the barbarian camp to the edge of the forest, and which would bring them out on to the flatter land of the Red River’s flood plain. The gently waving branches above their heads cast sun-dappled patterns across their ranks until they marched out on to the rolling plain, leaving behind the forest in which Calgus had planned to ambush and destroy the legions, before the presence of his Venicone allies had been detected by a chance encounter with one of Marcus’s soldiers. Emerging from the trees on to the plain’s gently undulating ground, the centuries drew up in parade formation and waited for the other components of Tribune Scaurus�
��s command to make their appearance. Marching at the head of his 9th Century, and still wrapped in the grief of Rufius’s sudden and violent death, Marcus was nevertheless aware of a collective melancholy sitting heavily on his men, a feeling he was himself quite powerless to resist. When the cohort’s column halted he stood his men at ease and strolled out in front of them, staring hollow eyed up and down the Tungrian cohort’s line and noting with a sudden pang the absence of Rufius’s 6th Century, and the stocky figure of his friend out in front of them. After a few minutes a column of legionaries began to emerge from the trees, their centurions drawing them up in front of the Tungrian line and standing them to attention until the cohort’s full strength was arrayed across the plain. First Spear Frontinius spoke without taking his eyes off the legion detachment’s flag, the representation of the leaping boar that the 20th had made its badge over a century before.

  ‘We are honoured. The Twentieth’s legatus has given you their First Cohort to play with. He must have a soft spot for you, Tribune.’

  Scaurus nodded, watching as the cohort’s five centurions walked the lengths of their double-strength centuries, checking their men’s line and equipment with an attention to detail that would have done honour to preparation for a triumphal parade through Rome. He answered his deputy’s question in a matter-of-fact tone, not taking his eyes off the legion cohort’s fluttering detachment banner.

  ‘Indeed. I believe that Postumius Avitus Macrinus had a good relationship with my sponsor, before he left Rome to serve in Britannia. Ah, here comes their tribune. I’d suggest, First Spear, that you leave the talking to me. No matter what the man says. This man is the son of a most distinguished family, and I’m not sure that he’s going to find this very easy.’

  They stood in silence as the detachment’s tribune walked across the gap between the two cohorts, his first spear walking at his shoulder and one pace behind. He halted in front of Scaurus and nodded brusquely, while his senior centurion snapped to attention and stared blankly over Scaurus’s head. A man of about twenty-five, Tribune Laenas was of above-average height, with black hair and a broad face which, unsurprisingly under the circumstances, was set in a look of deep dissatisfaction.

  ‘Marcus Popillius Laenas, tribune, Twentieth Legion Valiant and Victorious, reporting for duty as ordered.’

  Scaurus stood in silence, holding the younger man’s gaze and waiting patiently. After a long moment’s wait Laenas raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Ah, is there something wrong, colleague?’

  ‘A small matter of military courtesy, Popillius Laenas. I fear that it is usual for the officers of a detachment to salute its commander.’

  Laenas raised both eyebrows with surprise. Scaurus nodded in confirmation, willing his face not to reveal the amusement he was feeling at the look on the other man’s face.

  ‘I am your commanding officer, Popillius Laenas, and when I gather my officers I expect them all to salute me, including you. When I give a command, I expect the appropriate respect and a speedy response, with a salute. In short, Tribune, I expect you to behave in a way that recognises our relative ranks while your cohort forms part of my command.’

  The young aristocrat stared at him in amazement.

  ‘You’re seriously expecting me to salute you? But I’m…’

  Scaurus nodded, raising a hand to forestall the other man.

  ‘Yes, I know, you’re a broad-stripe tribune and you’ve only ever saluted your legatus who, like you, is of the senatorial class. And I, as we are both only too well aware, am an equestrian. The broad stripe on your tunic far outweighs the narrow stripe on mine, and in any other situation I would be the one deferring to superior rank. If I meet you in the street in Rome some day, then I will be the man showing respect for his social better, and I will do so promptly and with all due deference to your rank. Today, however, Tribune Laenas, you will have to adjust to the idea of saluting me, and you will have to make that adjustment quickly. Unlike some senior officers of my class, I do not intend to ignore the correct disciplines of this military life which we have chosen.’

  Laenas looked at him for so long that First Spear Frontinius was convinced he had decided to be deliberately insolent, and was tensed for the explosion that he knew such a reaction would elicit from Scaurus, but, to his relief, the young tribune simply raised one hand to his forehead, a look of bemusement on his face.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Tribune, I’m not used to taking orders from anyone below the rank of the legion’s legatus. I’ll do my best to remember in future.’

  Scaurus nodded impassively.

  ‘Thank you, Tribune Laenas. I’m sure we’ll both soon get used to the idea, strange though it may be. And this is your first spear, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, Tribune, Senior Centurion Canutius.

  Canutius saluted crisply.

  ‘Tribune, the first cohort of Twentieth Valiant and Victorious is ready for detached duty. We have seven hundred and forty-three men fit for…’

  He stopped speaking as Scaurus raised a hand and pointed at something over Laenas’s shoulder.

  ‘My apologies, First Spear, but I think our detachment from the Petriana has arrived.’

  The horsemen of the Petriana wing were indeed making their appearance, each rider leading his horse down through the trees and into the morning sunlight. More than a few of the cavalrymen were leading a second horse, and as the squadrons began to form up facing end on to the infantry cohorts, Marcus realised that there were thirty or so empty saddles among the two-hundred-odd horsemen of his cavalry squadrons.

  Frontinius leaned close to his tribune’s ear, speaking quietly to avoid being overheard.

  ‘That’s strange, I thought we were being loaned six squadrons? I can only see five. That, and a lot of riderless horses.’

  Scaurus nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘You’re right. Let’s see what Tribune Licinius has to say on the subject.’

  The Petriana’s commander was the last man out of the forest, and he strode briskly across to Scaurus with a businesslike air, a vaguely familiar decurion walking behind him and leading a magnificent spirited black stallion which jerked at the reins every few seconds, its evident desire to be away across the rolling ground at a gallop manifest in every movement. His own grey horse was waiting for him at the forest’s edge, along with his personal bodyguard. Scaurus snapped to attention, followed by the three first spears and, a second later, Popillius Laenas. Licinius smiled lopsidedly, shaking his head gently.

  ‘There’s no need for you to be saluting me, Tribune, we’re of an equal rank now and you’ll only go embarrassing me in front of the governor or, worse still, a legatus.’ He looked around at the three first spears and Laenas, favouring them with a wintry smile. ‘Morning, gentlemen. Please do stand at ease while I take your tribune off for a quick chat.’

  He took Scaurus by the arm and led him a few paces away from the group of his officers, stopping to talk once there was no chance of their being overheard.

  ‘I haven’t got long, so we’ll have to make this quick. The rest of my command is champing at the bit to go north and get stuck back into those Venicone bastards. You’ve probably already worked out that I’m stretching my orders just a little, and giving you five full squadrons and one more consisting of horses whose riders were killed yesterday. We had a bit of a time of it, I’m afraid, so I’m assuming that you can spare me from giving you another thirty men by putting some of your own in their saddles. I’m putting my men under the command of Decurion Felix, a young man who’s not just an excellent officer, but also very well connected, if you take my meaning. Unlike some sons of influence, however, he insisted on starting his service as a cavalry squadron commander, despite the fact that his father could have pulled a few strings and seen him start off as a legion tribune like that fool Laenas. Apparently he wanted to see the life of a soldier from the ground up, a position which I find myself forced to respect given the capabilities of a certain legion tribune
not far from here.’ He raised an eyebrow at the look on Scaurus’s face. ‘And yes, I can see you trying to work out where you’ve seen him before. He’s the man you rescued from the Votadini during the disaster at White Strength.’

  Scaurus nodded.

  ‘Oh yes, now I remember him. He had a barbarian hunting arrow stuck in his armpit less than a fortnight ago, as I recall. Are you really sure he’s fit for duty?’

  Licinius nodded briskly.

  ‘Centurion Corvus’s wife-to-be seems to have worked miracles, got the bloody thing out without causing any more damage than it had already inflicted on him, and I’m told he’ll make a full recovery soon enough. Just give him time for the wound to fully heal and you will find him to be not only an efficient officer, but a good fighting man to boot. I can’t take him back into the fight yet, though, and I can’t spare you anyone that’s fully fit, so you’re both going to have to make the most of it. Oh, and watch out for his horse, he’s a magnificent animal but he’s also an evil-tempered bugger. And now I must get back to my men, before they decide to ride north for revenge without me. I wouldn’t put it past them either, not with the mood they were in last night. The best of luck with your mission to liberate the poor old Votadini!’

  He clapped Scaurus on the shoulder and turned away, mounting his horse and riding back up the path with his bodyguard in close attendance. The tribune turned back to his own men, taking the measure of the decurion standing slightly apart from them.

  ‘We’ve met before, I think, Decurion Felix?’

  The other man nodded, raising his right arm gingerly in a careful salute.

  ‘Indeed we have, Tribune. I was lucky enough to be saved from the barbarians by that large German gentleman standing behind you and one of your centurions. They found me as good as dead, with an arrow sticking out of my armpit and poor old Hades here not much better off.’