‘I need to see what’s happening here. Gentlemen, you and my bodyguard can accompany me to within bowshot of the walls. Any barbarian sufficiently brave to attempt an attack on such an ugly collection of specimens would have my utter respect, so I’m guessing we’ll be safe enough. And besides, I have the feeling that Drust wants us to see whatever it is that he’s arranged on that wall.’
He strode forward out on to the open ground between the cohort’s temporary camp and the fort’s blackened walls, his officers and bodyguard fanning out around him and keeping their eyes open for any sign of either ruse or ambush, until their tribune halted at a distance he calculated to be at the very edge of bowshot. The men waiting on the stone wall’s fighting surface parted, and Drust stepped forward, flanked by a pair of men with shields ready to deflect any attempt at missile attack. Putting his hands to his mouth, he bellowed a greeting to the Romans.
‘Greetings, Romans! I offer you a truce if you’d like to come closer, and watch the entertainment I have arranged for my men.’
Licinius looked at the commander of his bodyguard, a leather-faced double-pay with the pale lines of old sword wounds decorating his muscular arms, and raised an eyebrow in question. The veteran soldier stared at the barbarians lining the fort’s walls, and then grimaced and shook his head slowly.
‘Not if it were my choice, Tribune, I can’t guarantee to protect you if they have archers waiting behind the parapet. We should stay here.’
The tribune shook his head in turn, patting the other man’s shoulder.
‘That’s one of my officers they’re about to butcher up there. You’ll just have to do your best, should this turn out to be a way to draw us in close enough for an attack.’
He motioned the men around him forward with the flick of his hand, his face set in dour lines as they drew close enough to the fort’s walls to see the pitiful state to which their brother officer had been reduced. Barely recognisable as the proud and powerful decurion he had been less than twelve hours before, Cyrus had clearly been severely tormented since his capture. His body was a mass of cuts, its skin slicked with his blood, and his limbs were criss-crossed with the marks of a hot iron bar. Both of his eyes were closed behind swelling bruises from his initial beating, giving the impression that he was resting after his ordeal, gathering his strength for the last act in his gruelling drama. Licinius stopped barely twenty paces from the wall, nodding to the barbarian king.
‘We’re taking you at your word, King Drust. I would be failing in my duty to this man were I to refuse the opportunity to look into his eyes as he dies. And besides, the sight will help to strengthen my resolve to ensure that you end your days somewhere warmer and noisier, with a cord around your neck and your people either enslaved or scattered in their hiding places across the hills of your miserable land.’
The barbarian looked down from his place on the wall and smiled broadly, nodding at the Roman’s words.
‘Your safety is assured, at least until our business here is complete. As to your pledge to gift me a trip to your imperial city for a chariot ride and an inglorious death, I’ll respectfully decline. You’re going to need more than a few hundred horsemen to scatter my warriors, and from what I’ve heard your army has other priorities at the moment.’ He grinned wolfishly at Licinius, who in his turn kept his face blank of any emotion and gestured to the warlord to be about whatever it was he intended. Drust shrugged, lifting his hands in mock greeting. ‘Welcome, Romans! It was good of you to come so far north with us while we make the journey back to our homelands! Tomorrow you may ride alongside us for a while longer, if you wish, north to the hills of my people, and the ground my men know as well as the hilts of their swords. And there, I promise you, we can make some real sport, a proper hunt rather than this slow procession, with every step taking you a little farther away from safety. Whether you’ll still be the ones doing the hunting is a different question, of course…’
He paused, daring any of the men standing before the fort’s walls to defy him, and Licinius felt compelled to roar back the answer that sprang to his lips without any conscious thought.
‘It was our pleasure to make the journey alongside you, Drust! We especially enjoyed riding down those of you who failed to manage your gentle pace, and putting them out of their misery! That’s something we expect to be doing a lot more of in the next few days!’
The Venicone warlord threw his head back in a laugh, his reply lightning fast.
‘Aye, Licinius, tribune of the Petriana, as we enjoyed picking the shreds of horseflesh from our teeth once we’d finished our meal that first night. Although in truth we have so much meat now that your role of providing us with a convenient larder is really no longer necessary. And we may stay here a few days longer, if only to avoid our supplies going to waste.’
Licinius nodded, warming to the game the two men were playing, both of them ignoring Cyrus’s battered body hanging motionless alongside the Venicone king.
‘Yes, you were indeed fortunate to stumble over such a large cache of food. You should thank your gods that you took Calgus with you when you ran, I’d say, since such foresight has the mark of his cunning rather than any intelligence on your part. How is that slippery specimen of Selgovae duplicity? If he hasn’t managed to depose you yet it’ll not be for the want of trying!’
A long moment’s silence hung in the bright morning air, neither man willing to speak again until at length the Venicone king spat on the wall’s parapet and gestured to the prisoner lashed up alongside him, his arms and legs spread wide to render him helpless, and changed the subject to that which the Romans had been waiting for.
‘As you will see, my men bumped into one of your officers in the darkness last night, and so they brought him back to our camp to see if we could make a little sport of him before the time to meet his gods arrives.’ He paused, prodding the comatose body with one finger. ‘He’s provided us with little enough entertainment, but he’s about to make up for that with the rather extravagant way that he’s going to leave this life. You see, Romans, I’ve promised him an honourable death, to die on my men’s iron rather than in some depraved and degrading manner…’
The hairs on the back of Licinius’s neck stirred as if caressed by a cold breeze.
‘And why would you make such a promise, Drust, when every other man you’ve taken alive in the last month has died long and hard, with their honour flensed clean away by your men’s blades?’
Drust smiled down at him mockingly.
‘Because, Tribune, he spoke nicely to me. Now be quiet, and watch your man take his exit, unless you want me to summon my archers to chase you away with their ironheads whistling past your ears.’
He held his hand out, holding Licinius’s gaze with his own as one of his men put the shaft of a spear on to his palm, then turned with sudden speed and drove the weapon’s blade deep into the helpless decurion’s thigh, putting his weight on to the shaft to force the blade down through the limb’s thick muscle and out of its underside until there was no need for him to hold the wooden shaft pointing back into the pale sky. Cyrus’s eyes snapped open, and he strained at his bonds with knotted muscles, the cords in his throat standing out like bowstrings as the pain hit him in waves of red-hot agony, but no sounds left his mouth. A thin stream of blood ran from the wound, its paucity a testament to the amount of punishment that the decurion had already absorbed.
Licinius turned to find his first spear standing alongside him with a look that spoke volumes for his feelings about the man being tortured in front of them.
‘Whatever else I might think of the man I’ve got to admit that he’s got balls of brass.’
‘Agreed. It’s just a pity he seems to have had much the same between his ears last night.’
Taking another spear, Drust repeated the act, driving the weapon through Cyrus’s other thigh and watching with satisfaction as the Roman once more contorted silently at the agonising pain being inflicted upon him. The men around
Licinius drew in sharp breaths or turned their heads away, dumbstruck at the torture their comrade was enduring without making a sound. Taking a sword from another of his men, Drust leaned forward on the weapon’s point, addressing the Romans arrayed before him in an almost conversational tone.
‘I promised to make his death honourable. I didn’t mention anything about it being quick.’
He pivoted and thrust the weapon’s blade into the helpless decurion’s guts, ripping it free in a stinking shower of blood and entrails. A deep groan of pain escaped the captive’s lips, and his body twisted hideously in the ropes’ unforgiving grip. Licinius spoke into the charged silence, raising his voice to a bark of command.
‘Decurion Cyrus!’
The writhing body stiffened, and Cyrus’s attention snapped down on to his commanding officer, his face distorted into a rictus of agony.
‘Decurion Cyrus, you are dying with honour in the face of a brutal and remorseless enemy. You deserve the highest praise for your fortitude and stoicism. Now, before you die, tell me what it is that you’ve given to this barbarian!’
He glared fiercely at the dying man, willing him to answer. Cyrus opened his lips to display his teeth, clamped hard together against his suffering, drawing a quick breath to reply.
‘Tribune!… I told him… about the Tung-’
Drust turned, ramming the sword into the Roman’s throat and stopping him in mid-sentence with a horrible gurgle as what was left of his lifeblood ran down into his lungs and killed him in a few seconds of frenzied struggle for breath. The Venicone king turned back to stare down at the Roman officers gathered beneath him, his face flecked with Cyrus’s blood and twisted in a snarl of frustration.
‘Very clever, Tribune. I either allowed him to tell you something best left between the two of us or put him out of his misery to close his mouth.’ He shrugged, a slow smile replacing the fury. ‘No matter. I have his secret, and it remains exactly that. And you, Tribune, all of you dogs, have a count of one hundred to get yourself away from my walls. On your way! ’
Ten miles north of the site of that morning’s skirmish the detachment turned off the route of their march north and built the customary temporary camp. With the earth wall raised and the soldiers taking their evening meal, Scaurus had called his officers together for a cup of wine before darkness fell. Canutius had been delayed by a problem with one of his centuries, but both of the Tungrian senior centurions had attended with alacrity upon receiving the invitation, and found Tribune Laenas already in attendance. Sitting outside Tribune Scaurus’s tent, cup in hand, First Spear Frontinius cast a jaundiced eye at the late afternoon sky and cocked an eyebrow at Neuto, shaking his head slowly.
‘Rain before daylight, I’d say.’
His colleague nodded his head sagely.
‘Yes. We should get them tucked up in their bedrolls early tonight; they’re going to have a heavy day of it tomorrow.’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow but made no comment, allowing Tribune Laenas to fall into the veteran officers’ time-worn trap.
‘Do you mean to say that you gentlemen can tell what the weather will be doing just by looking at the sky?’
Frontinius nodded readily, his face a study in innocence.
‘Yes, Tribune, when you’ve served on the northern frontier for as many years as myself and my colleague here, the weather no longer holds any mystery. And now, if you’ll excuse us…?’
He drank the last of his wine and stood to go, and Neuto, reading his expression, reached for his helmet and got to his feet.
‘Yes, you’ll have to excuse me too, Tribune, I’ve got a cohort to chivvy into their beds and a storeman to relieve of a new pair of boots.’
Laenas raised his hands to halt their departure, protesting at their apparent reluctance to further educate him.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, not so fast! You can tell that it’s going to rain from looking at that?’ He pointed up at the sky, the clouds edged with gold as the sun dipped towards the western horizon. ‘All I can see is the start of a sunset and a few clouds. What’s the secret?’
The two first spears shared a glance, waiting for a long moment before Frontinius shrugged and turned back to face the legion officer.
‘We’ll tell you, Tribune, but you must promise to keep our secret between us. We don’t want just anyone learning the secrets of frontier weather prediction.’
He stared at Laenas with a raised eyebrow, waiting until the Roman nodded his agreement, his face solemn.
‘Your secret, gentlemen, is safe with me.’
The centurions stepped in close, beckoning the tribune from his chair and gathering round him in a conspiratorial huddle. Frontinius stared at him levelly, as if taking a gauge of the man.
‘The secret of foretelling the weather in this harsh country is very simple, and yet known only to a few men. If we tell you this secret now, we are admitting you to a close-knit brotherhood of men who have this knowledge. Do you promise to keep it between us?’
Laenas nodded eagerly, his curiosity piqued beyond patience. Frontinius looked at his colleague, and Neuto nodded reluctantly.
‘I suppose we can trust a tribune of Rome, a gentleman with a sense of honour. Very well, Tribune. The secret of predicting the weather here on the frontier… and you guarantee to keep this between us…?’
‘Senior Centurions Frontinius and Neuto, the phrase “piss or get off the pot” is springing to mind. I’m sure you both have important duties to which you might be attending?’
The Tungrian officers nodded their understanding to a visibly irritated Scaurus, turning back to the tribune with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. Frontinius lowered his voice to a whisper, shaking his head almost inperceptibly
‘The tribune gets annoyed because we haven’t yet shared the secret with him.’
Scaurus spoke again without looking up from his scroll.
‘I heard that. Get on with it.’
‘Well then, Tribune, the secret of predicting the weather is this
…’
Laenas held his breath with the tension, his eyebrows raised in expectation.
‘Can you see that tree?’
Taken aback by the banality of the question, Laenas followed the first spear’s pointing hand to stare at a distant lone tree on the horizon.
‘Yes. Yes, I can see it.’
‘And how far away would you say that the tree is?’
‘Half a mile?’
‘Excellent. If you can see that tree, or any other object at that distance, then it isn’t raining.’
He stared at the Roman with a straight face, waiting for the other man to respond.
‘Yes… I’d be forced to agree with you.’
‘Excellent. So if you can see the tree, it’s not raining. However
…’ He raised a finger to underline the point. ‘Colleague?’
Neuto inclined his head gravely, taking up the thread.
‘If you can see the tree, and it isn’t raining, it soon will be.’
The two centurions stood in solemn silence for a moment, watching the tribune intently. For his part, they told their own officers later that evening, he seemed to take it in good part.
‘So if I can see the tree… if I’ve got this right… it will soon be raining.’
Frontinius nodded happily.
‘You’ve got the measure of it. Use your new knowledge wisely, though, many men would cheerfully kill to have such insight. We…’
‘You both have soldiers you could be beasting round the camp, if, that is, you wouldn’t rather stay and regale my brother officer with further attempts at tent-party humour.’
The two men took their tribune’s hint and strode away into their respective parts of the camp with a comradely nod to each other. Scaurus cocked his head to one side ostentatiously, clearly waiting for something, and after a moment an outraged bellow of admonishment rang out as one of the pair spotted one of his men doing something outside the closely regulated activ
ity prescribed for the soldier in question.
‘Excellent! Normal service is resumed. Will you take another cup of wine with me, Tribune Laenas?’
The younger man paused for a second, as if expecting some further attempt at humour, then nodded his assent and sank back into his chair.
‘Your officers, it seems, are little different to mine. The first cohort’s centurions are always looking at me in that sideways manner they use to indicate my lack of suitability for my role in their closed little world.’ The bitterness in his voice caught Scaurus’s attention, and he dropped the scroll to give his subordinate his full attention. Laenas was staring out into the camp, his eyes unfocused as he gazed fixedly at the horizon. ‘They’re so secure in their certainty as to how everything works, and they give me so little help…’
Scaurus went into his tent and returned a moment later with a fresh flask of wine and two cups, pouring them both a generous measure.
‘Here, this might help. It’s the genuine Falernian, believe it or not, and it seems to have survived the journey in a more or less tolerable condition.’ He took a sip, raising an eyebrow in mute appreciation. ‘You were saying?’
Laemas shifted uneasily in his seat, taking a deep drink from his cup.
‘I’m not a crybaby, you understand. My father made sure that I got enough training as a boy that I would give a fair account of myself were I ever to see any fighting, and yet these legion men have a way of reducing me to helpless frustration every time I try to impose my authority on them.’ Scaurus watched him over the rim of his cup, taking stock of his officer’s state of mind as he spoke. ‘The battle to take the barbarian camp, there’s a good example. I had orders to break in from the north with this very cohort, a critical role, Legatus Equitius called it, and I was very clear with my officers that we were going to play our part to the full. And yet when we got within spitting distance of the objective my first spear started prevaricating, finding reasons why we weren’t ready to attack, and delaying our deployment until Licinius rode up and all but accused me of being afraid to advance into the enemy camp.’
Fortress of Spears e-3 Page 18
