Fortress of Spears e-3

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Centurion Habitus was killed before his century was relieved. He stopped a spear in the back of his neck that dropped him like a sack of shit, poor old bastard. The men that survived said that they’d all have died in the first hour if it hadn’t been for him bellowing at them to keep fighting, and that all the way through the fight he had a little smile on his face, as if he knew what was coming before the end. They named the fort after him to act as an example to the rest of the army…’ He raked a hard stare across their faces. ‘… and to you, if you have the guts to follow it. Right, then, off the road here and into the fort. Get yourselves fed and then settle down for the night, one man from each tent party to stand guard with a two-hourly relief. And if I find any of you sleeping on guard there’ll be no need to draw lots for who’ll be beating you to death, because I’ll already have done the job with my bare hands.’

  Later in the evening, before darkness fell, he called the watch officer to him with a request that raised the other man’s eyebrows.

  ‘Help me get out of this armour, will you, Titus? I can’t bend enough to slide out of it.’

  The watch officer shrugged and called another soldier over, the pair of them lifting the heavy mail armour from their new centurion’s shoulders while he squatted to allow them to pull it clear. With the armour removed Dubnus pulled off the padded arming jacket and tunic that he wore beneath it, revealing his muscular upper body to the watching soldiers. A long strip of linen was wound around his stomach several times to form a thick bandage, and tied in place by its trailing ends, and as they watched he stripped it away, winding it up into a neat roll of cloth. As the linen fell away from his stomach it revealed a vivid red scar an inch wide, and Titus grimaced at the sight, his bruised face twisting in sympathy.

  ‘Spear?’

  Dubnus nodded curtly, wondering whether he was taking too big a risk in letting the soldiers see his weakness.

  ‘Yes, two weeks ago at the battle of the Waterfall. The tattooed bastard put the bloody thing clean through my mail and skewered me from front to back. It’s healing well enough, but it still hurts like the blade’s still in there when I try to bend.’

  He watched as the realisation that their new officer was not as invulnerable as he seemed sank into the soldiers’ faces and laughed at them, putting his hands on his hips with a smile.

  ‘Any two of you fancy having a try at me now?’

  One by one they looked away, until only the watch officer held his gaze.

  ‘You’re not recovered from a spear wound and you’ve still got the apples to come north looking for a fight? Why?’

  Dubnus smiled wryly, stretching wearily.

  ‘I’ll tell you once we’re on the road tomorrow morning. If, that is, I’m still alive tomorrow morning.’

  8

  The volunteer squadron camped in the cover of the shallow valley that night, within a few minutes’ ride of the River Tuidius. Silus had calculated that any watchers would most likely be hiding farther to the east, keeping watch on the ford that the cohort would use to cross the Tuidius rather than the apparently unfordable stretch of river to its west, but he was nevertheless loath to abandon the valley’s cover. They spent an uneventful night, and awoke at dawn to find, just as Silus had predicted, that the river’s plain was wreathed in a thick mist that restricted visibility to no better than a hundred paces. The newly promoted decurion gathered his men about him, his words made dull by the mist’s muffling curtains of vapour.

  ‘I was counting on a nice thick layer of river fog. It always happens at this time of year once the nights get cold, and it means that we can get across the river with no risk of anyone seeing us. So there’s no time for breakfast now, we need to get swimming before it lifts. Get your kit packed but don’t wear anything heavier than your tunics and your cloaks to keep you warm while we ride down to the river. Your armour and weapons will need to be strapped to your saddles, so make sure you roll your mail up nice and tight.’

  The squadron followed his lead down to the river’s edge, each man watching the horse in front of him intently as the mist gathered in thick curtains that curtailed visibility to a few feet in some places as they made their way across the river’s flat plain. Silus gathered them around him again at the water’s edge and pointed to his own equipment, already packed on to his horse’s back.

  ‘The Batavians are supposed to have swum across rivers like this and even wider alongside their horses in full armour, back in the days when the divine Julius conquered the south of this island, but I’m buggered if I can see how they managed it. There are those that think they might have used their shields for buoyancy, but there’s no bloody way I’d risk slipping off my board and sinking like a stone in mid-river. We’re doing it my way today, so go and have a look at my horse and see how I’ve got my armour laid across the saddle, and with my sword on top. Look at the way I’ve secured them with my rope, and used it to tie my spear and shield to the beast’s side. Then take a length of rope and do the same yourselves, and I’ll come round and see how good a job you’ve done. And make sure your spear isn’t going to stab your horse in the eye if the poor sod turns his head to find out what the fuck you think you’re doing, eh?’

  He strolled around the horses, providing help to those men to whom the act of tying their equipment to their mount was proving difficult, eventually expressing his satisfaction with their preparations. Pulling off his tunic, he folded it neatly and slipped it under the rope holding his armour in place, then did the same with his blanket and boots. Standing naked in the cold morning air, he smiled wryly at the men around him.

  ‘Well then, let’s have you stripped down to your skins and ready to swim. And don’t bother making the usual tired excuses about how cold it is.’

  The soldiers stripped with the usual bathhouse ribaldry, albeit muted both by their circumstances and the admonishments of their decurion.

  ‘Right, here we go. Stand by your animal’s head and take a good firm grip of the reins. Walk the beast in and start swimming, and they will follow you. They might not enjoy it all that much, but every horse here knows how to swim. Just keep your arms and legs well clear of theirs, because there’s only one of you that will win if you get tangled and it isn’t going to be any of you girls. When you get to the far side keep your fucking voices down, and we’ll have no squealing or shouting out how cold it is when you get in, you’ll soon warm up with the effort of the swim. On the far bank get your sword drawn before you worry about getting dry and keep a tight grip on your horse once you’ve got your feet back on dry land, because some of them are going to be more than a bit pissed off at being made to do this. Now follow me…’

  He strode forward into the river, walking into the chilly water without hesitation, and sliding his body into the horizontal position almost noiselessly, breaststroking out into the stream with his horse swimming alongside him happily enough. Marcus waded in behind him, and was surprised to find the animal’s flanks shivering as he put his hoofs into the water. The big grey tugged against his reins without any real force, but strongly enough to indicate his discomfort. Pulling at the reins with a gentle insistence, Marcus led the animal into the deeper water, breathing in sharply as the cold water reached his groin, then pushed himself forward into the water and started swimming for the far bank, still lost in the mist. The horse surrendered to its rider’s unspoken command and started swimming, surging up out of the water and then easing back into it alternately in a porpoising motion, his eyes rolling and his teeth bared at the unfamiliar sensation. Finding that the horse was starting to outpace him, Marcus waited for one of the animal’s plunges back into the water and slipped a leg over his back, thanking providence that he had tied his spear and shield to the other flank. If the extra weight troubled the horse there was no sign, and freed of the need to keep pace with his rider, he forged through the water faster than before, passing Silus’s mount in less than a minute. The river’s northern bank loomed out of the fog more quickly than
Marcus had expected, and getting a glimpse of dry land was enough to spur the animal to one last great effort. Horse and rider staggered ashore untidily, and Marcus slipped from his mount’s back with his gladius drawn and ready to fight, despite the shivers racking his body with reexposure to the cold air. Silus staggered ashore behind him, his sword already drawn and his body blue. His voice stuttered with the cold air’s grip on his body, his lungs panting for breath.

  ‘S-s-see? N-n-nothing t-to it…’

  Another horseman wearily climbed the bank behind him, and the decurion pointed to the left.

  ‘Ten paces that way, then dry off with your blanket and get your kit on. I want you ready to fight.’

  Qadir waded out of the water next, the chestnut mare calm under his touch, and Silus raised a disgusted eyebrow.

  ‘There’s no justice. Not only the best horseman I’ve met in this whole bloody country, but his bloody manhood’s still dragging in the water.’

  The Hamian shook his head and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘If you want to be truly scared, take a look at that. Why do you think I was swimming so quickly?’

  Both the officers looked past him, to see the impressive shape of Arminius as he waded out of the river. Silus shook his head slowly.

  ‘Gods below…’

  The German smiled complacently as he walked past them, and Silus pointed out into the fog still wreathing the riverbank.

  ‘Get your sword out, bugger off into the mist and get that thing covered up.’

  The squadron came ashore in ones and twos, until every man was accounted for and dry enough to put on their armour. The mist persisted, although it seemed to Marcus that it was thinning slightly as the sun climbed away from the eastern horizon, a slightly brighter spot in the grey. Silus cast a critical eye at the ascending spot of light, nodding decisively.

  ‘This lot will have burned off in an hour or so, so mount up and follow me. I want to be safe on the far side of the hill before it clears, and out of sight of anyone looking out for us.

  They rode carefully across the grassy expanse, at one point scattering a flock of sheep that was grazing in their path. Marcus looked around for any sign of their herder, tightening a hand on the hilt of his sword even as he wondered whether he could kill an innocent to maintain the secrecy of their task, but the running sheep were swallowed by the mist without any sign of their keeper.

  ‘He’s probably still asleep.’

  He looked around to find Qadir at his shoulder, the chestnut trotting easily with the last of the river’s moisture steaming off her body.

  ‘It’s his lucky day, then.’

  The Hamian raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And you could have put an innocent sheep herder to the sword?’

  The Roman shook his head indecisively.

  ‘I don’t know… but I suspect our new decurion could.’

  Qadir nodded knowingly.

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is “pragmatist”. And I suspect we’re all going to have to stretch our principles if we’re going to release the Votadini from their new rulers.’

  Excingus woke Felicia with a gentle shake in the dawn’s first light, wrinkling his nose and pointing at the stream by which the small detachment was camped.

  ‘You smell, my dear, like a polecat. Come on, let’s get you into the water and make you bearable for the rest of the day.’

  She shook her head, painfully aware of the knife still tied to her thigh and certain to be discovered if she were forced to disrobe in front of the guardsmen.

  ‘If you think I’m going to take my clothes off in front of these men…’

  The legion soldier who Felicia had caught staring at her several times the previous day stood up from his place by the fire and ran his eyes up and down her body, the insolent smile playing across his lips in direct contradiction to his cold stare. Alongside him Rapax looked up from his breakfast and shook his head with a snort of amusement.

  ‘Steady, Maximus, recall what I said to you and you might still be breathing by sunset. As for you, madam, go and have a wash before I come over there and throw you into the water. My colleague isn’t going to give you any problems, he’s not that way inclined. You’ve got more chance of persuading a sausage to stand up than you have of getting a twitch out of his wrinkle stick.’

  She glared at the praetorian for a moment before standing, feeling the knife’s hard length against her flesh and thinking quickly. Excingus led her up the riverbank, away from the small camp’s bustle and into the trees that lined the stream’s banks until they reached a small pool. He pointed impatiently at the water, clearly not willing to walk any farther.

  ‘Get your clothes off and wash here.’ Felicia submitted with a show of meekness, pulling off her stola, folding it up and putting it down on the grass, then removed her boots and turned to the waiting corn officer.

  ‘Centurion, please could you give me a little privacy? I’m un -happy enough given my circumstances, without having you stare at me like a slave in the market.’

  Excingus shrugged, spreading his hands wide.

  ‘Didn’t you hear my colleague? I, madam, regard the prospect of your naked body with all the anticipation I would normally reserve for looking at that tree.’ He sighed, shaking his head slightly, then turned away, speaking to the foliage in front of him. ‘Very well, you have your modesty, for now at least, although you must realise that it will be cruelly torn away from you when the time comes? Rapax will protect you until then, to keep you unsullied until the right moment, but he’ll be quite merciless once your Aquila boy is within earshot. Speaking of your boyfriend, I’d be curious to know how the two of you ended up together. Weren’t you the wife of a senior officer?’

  Felicia worked quickly as she replied, keeping her voice level to avoid exciting his suspicions.

  ‘If you want to know about my former husband, the story’s quite simple. He was a brutal man, and no stranger to the idea of rape when he felt like it. He used to say it was just “spicing things up”.’ She unstrapped the knife from her thigh and dropped it into one of her boots before pulling off her tunic and stepping into the pool, gasping at the water’s cold. ‘He used to tell me he knew I enjoyed it once he had me helpless on my back, or pinned face down across a table with a handful of my hair to keep me there. He was a monster, pure and simple.’ She climbed out of the water and dressed quickly, strapping the sheath back around her thigh beneath her tunic’s thick wool. ‘He didn’t restrict his outrages to me, to judge from the little I heard about his behaviour towards the men who served under him. He was killed by one of them on the battlefield a few months ago, and I expect it was no more than he deserved.’ Pulling on her stola as the centurion turned back to face her, she smiled wanly and nodded her thanks. The corn officer’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he digested the fact that her husband was dead.

  ‘Was he a wealthy man?’

  Felicia shrugged dismissively, adjusting her clothes.

  ‘He had a modest estate in Rome, I believe.’

  ‘And you’re not interested in how you might benefit?’

  She shook her head, her hands spreading in a dismissive gesture.

  ‘I have no entitlement, you know that well enough. And I don’t want to touch anything of his ever again.’

  ‘But the money…’

  ‘I want nothing from him. I have all I want for this life.’

  ‘And when we’ve killed young Aquila? What will you have then? Surely you’d be better off returning to Rome and taking your husband’s property than staying here in poverty? I could help you, for a consideration.’

  She turned hard eyes on him, understanding for the first time the depth of his cynicism.

  ‘I’m sure you could. You could strong-arm my husband’s family from their home, or worse, and then install me there as your creature, forever on your hook as the woman that consorted with a traitor, just a betrayal away from disgrace and even execution. But you’re
forgetting one thing, Centurion, in all your schemes of another man’s money.’

  Excingus smiled wryly back into her anger.

  ‘And that would be what, exactly?’

  She straightened her back, holding the stare with which she had him fixed.

  ‘You haven’t found Marcus yet, and you haven’t faced him with swords in his hands. Be careful what you wish for, Centurion, because you might not like what happens when you get it.’

  *

  Dubnus stretched his stiff body, cursing the suspicion that had driven him to pad his bedroll with clothes until it looked to the casual eye like a sleeping man, preparation for a vigil that had stretched through the night with his sword drawn for the attack he felt would be inevitable now that the half-century had seen his wounds. With his endurance stretched to the point of exhaustion, and his body craving sleep more than at any time he could recall, he had stayed ready to kill the first man through the tent’s flap if there were any sign that foul play was planned. Now, with the dawn’s onset, his eyelids were red-rimmed slits in a face grey with fatigue. He’d heard the soldiers talking into the late evening until the authoritative tones of their watch officer had sent them to their blankets and silence had fallen, and suspected that their talk had mainly been a discussion of just how vulnerable their new centurion suddenly seemed. And yet no attack had materialised, making his night-long vigil seem an act of folly given the temptation to surrender to sleep. He closed his eyes and saw Marcus’s face, willing himself to be strong for his friend and the woman to whom he would soon be married and remembering why he’d taken such a risk in coming north before his wound was fully healed.

  The tent flap flicked open, light flooding the small space’s interior, and the dozing centurion snapped awake, cursing his weakness even as he tried to work out how long he might have slept. Lifting the sword’s point to strike, his stared bleary eyed at the doorway, waiting for the first of them to come through and die on his blade. A figure darkened the tent’s interior as it blocked out the light, and Dubnus’s poised sword-hand drew back six inches as the exhausted centurion prepared for the lunge that would put his gladius clean through the other man’s guts and out of his back.