Fortress of Spears e-3

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Centurion?’

  The sword stopped a hand-span from Titus’s defenceless stomach, and Dubnus closed his eyes and blew out a compressed breath at the thought of how close he’d come to killing his subordinate. The other man stepped into the tent, brushing aside the weapon and staring wide eyed at him.

  ‘I came to invite you to speak with the men. They’ve been talking

  …’

  Dubnus smiled weakly.

  ‘I heard them…’

  The watch officer shook his head in amazement.

  ‘And you assumed that since they’d seen your wound it would only be a matter of time before they decided to do away with you in the night. So you sat up all night waiting for them with a drawn sword? No disrespect, Centurion, but you need to get your head straight. My lads have spent half the night telling each other how big your balls are while you’ve been sat here sweating like a legionary’s foreskin on payday. I suggest that you take a moment to get into the right frame of mind to listen to what they have to say without taking your iron to the first man that opens his mouth… sir. Come on, I’ll help you get into your armour.’

  An abashed Dubnus stepped out of his tent a few minutes later and walked slowly across to face the forty men standing waiting for him. Titus snapped out the order, and the detachment stood to attention with a precision that raised his eyebrows. He turned to the watch officer and gestured with an open hand for him to say his piece.

  ‘Centurion, the soldiers of this detachment have given consideration to the things that you’ve said to us since taking command. We couldn’t fail to notice that you’ve matched us stride for stride with a hole in your side barely healed over. You’ve made us consider how we want to be regarded by our brother soldiers, since you’ve left us in no doubt as to how we’re seen at the moment. We don’t consider ourselves to be cowards, but we can see how our actions on the road to Sailors’ Town make us look like exactly that. So the men have decided to take you at your word, and to put everything we can into proving that we can fight like men and regain our reputation.’

  He shut his mouth and stood in silence, waiting for the centurion to react to his men’s declaration of intent, but before Dubnus could make any response a soldier in the front rank stepped smartly forward, stamped to attention and then spoke out, his face reddening as he plunged into what was evidently a rare public display.

  ‘We want to prove that we mean what the watch officer’s said to you, Centurion. We can all see that you’re a fighting man, out in the field again, and you with a wound not right yet, and it makes us feel ashamed of what we’ve come to. We want to take a detachment name, something that means something to all of us and reminds us of our promise to do better every time you give us an order.’

  Dubnus nodded, resisting the temptation to smile at the man’s blushing discomfort.

  ‘And that name would be?’

  ‘Habitus, Centurion. We’d like to use the old centurion’s name to make us strong again, and to remind us what we’re promising you.’

  Dubnus smiled gently, but in respect of the sentiment rather than the manner of its delivery.

  ‘Detachment Habitus? The old boy would probably be proud to have his name used for inspiration like that. You realise that you risk tarnishing his honour if you go looking for a fight and then fail to stand firm when you find it? Wherever he is now, you can’t risk bringing shame to his name by doing this thing lightly.’ He looked across the ranks with his eyes suddenly hard with conviction. ‘I won’t accept any man running from battle if you go through with the idea, in fact I’ll be behind you waiting to cut down any man that runs in the face of the enemy.’

  The soldier looked at Titus, and the watch officer stepped forward to speak again.

  ‘We understand that, Centurion. You can kill any man that runs from a fight while we serve under Centurion Habitus’s name, we’re all agreed on that.’

  Dubnus shrugged, turning away to his tent to hide the twitching of his mouth that was threatening to break into a smile.

  ‘Very well, in that case we’d best be putting some more miles under our feet. We’re not going to find you a fight sitting on our arses here. Get these tents struck and your boots on the road, Detachment Habitus.’

  *

  Drust watched with satisfaction as the last of the cavalry cohort that had pursued his men north crested the ridge to the fort’s west and vanished from view.

  ‘A sensible decision by their tribune, I’d say. No point sitting here and watching us scratch our arses for the next few days, eh, Calgus? We’ll wait here for a few hours just to be sure, then head north and find this detachment the captive told us all about.’ Turning to discover the source of the Selgovae chief’s silence, he found the other man’s face sombre. What’s the matter? I would have thought you’d be pleased to see the back of them. You can strike out for your homelands now, or stay with us if you will, but either way their threat is lifted.’

  Calgus pursed his lips, shaking his head slightly.

  It’s all a bit too easy, Drust, too easy by a long way. I know that tribune of old, and he’s not the type to turn his back and walk away that quickly. There’ll be men left behind them, you can be sure of that, watching and waiting to signal to the rest of them that we’re on the move.’

  Drust shook his head, laughing softly at the other man’s caution.

  ‘Nobody could ever accuse you of underestimating your enemy, Calgus – apart from allowing them to break into your camp and slaughter your army, that is. Once burned, forever cautious, eh? Well, just to make you happy I’ll send a scouting party out to make sure they’ve really all left. Five hundred men ought to be able to clean the landscape of any watchers they’ve left behind.’

  The volunteer squadron took a late breakfast once they had reached the southern face of the hills beyond the River Tuidius, each rider feeding his mount with oats from the sack tied to his saddle before sitting down to eat his own meal of dried meat and hard cheese, leaving the horses to crop the grass where they were hobbled. The hills to the north loomed above the group, their scree-littered upper slopes glittering with dew in the sun’s pale morning light. Silus ate on his feet, staring hard to the east and chewing vigorously on a chunk of pork. Marcus stood and walked across to him.

  ‘What next, Decurion? Up and over the hills?’

  He waited patiently while the other man chewed hard for a moment and then swallowed with a grimace, washing the tough wad of meat down with a slug of water from his water skin, waving a hand at the hills to the north.

  ‘Over that lot? Not likely, they’re a death trap to cavalry, littered with small stones that will break a horse’s leg, or make it fall and throw the rider, and the slopes are steeper than they look from here. No, I think we’ll just take a gentle trot along the line of these foothills towards the coast in an extended line, and see what we can scare out of the landscape. Not that I expect to find anyone this far from the ford. We’ll cross the hills in a few miles, when they’re a bit less risky, and aim to meet the road, such as it is, about five miles north of the ford. If my guess is correct, that will put us well to the north of any scouts hiding to watch the crossing, and in the best possible position to intercept them when they make a run back to the fortress.’ He turned to face the men sat eating on the hill’s gentle slope. ‘Get your nosebag down you and get back on your feet, we’ve a nice long ride ahead of us.’

  The praetorians were still eating their breakfast at the roadside when a pair of message riders clattered down the road from the north, reining in their horses as Rapax stepped on to the hard surface and flagged them down, both men throwing crisp salutes to the centurion as they dismounted. The battle-scarred officer returned them with a swift gesture, waving a hand at the fire.

  ‘I’m Rapax, centurion of the Fourth Cohort Praetorian Guard, and these are my men. We’re marching north in pursuit of a fugitive from imperial justice and hoping for news of events that might lead us to him. Come and join
us for a short time, and share what you know with us. We’ll do our best to repay you with whatever we have left over from our meal.’

  The pair nodded their thanks to the soldiers as they shuffled round to make a space for them to squat in the fire’s warmth, one of them glancing with a horseman’s interest at the mounts tied to trees around the clearing. Rapax handed them a piece of bread apiece, warm from the fire’s edge.

  ‘You bear news from the north?’

  The more senior of the two nodded, his mouth full of bread, speaking in staccato sentences as he ate.

  ‘We defeated the rebels four days ago, Centurion, broke into their camp and massacred the Selgovae, but the Venicones got away, thousands of them, and we’ve been hunting them ever since. They took refuge in Three Mountains…’ The lack of comprehension on the centurion’s face took him aback for a moment. ‘Ah, it’s a large fortress about fifteen miles to the north, abandoned and burned out when the barbarians came south. They captured one of our officers and tortured something out of him. We don’t really know what, but we’ve pulled back to get them to leave the fort. Our tribune thinks they might be moving to attack one of the auxiliary cohorts for some reason.’

  Excingus glanced across the fire at him, a look of mild curiosity on his face.

  ‘An auxiliary cohort? I’ve got a cousin serving with one of the cohorts that defends the Wall. Begins with a “t”, from memory…’

  ‘Tungrians? That’s the cohort they seem to have gone after.’

  The corn officer wrinkled his forehead in apparent concentration.

  ‘Tungrians… no, that’s not it. Perhaps it was a “v”. Anyway, you’re riding south to take the news to the governor, I’d imagine?’

  The double-pay man nodded sagely, while his silent companion put a hand to his belt in an apparent search for some item or other.

  ‘Yes, we’ll be at Noisy Valley before dark, and briefing message riders to take the word to wherever the governor is. Eight thousand barbarian warriors at Three Mountains and expected to head north soon, possibly heading to intercept the Tungrian detachment sent to free the Dinpaladyr.’

  His colleague shook his head in exasperation, evidently unable to find whatever it was he was searching for, and stood with an apologetic shrug at the man next to him.

  ‘It’ll be in my saddlebag. Won’t be a moment.’

  Excingus’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘The Dinpaladyr?’

  The seated horseman hurried to explain the term.

  ‘Local tongue, sir. It translates as the Fortress of a Thousand Spears, or something close to it.’ Excingus raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s the capital of the Votadini tribe, Centurion. The Tungrians and a few of our lads have been sent north to free it from the last of the Selgovae, though why the Venicones should want to stick their nose in is beyond…’

  Rapax rammed his dagger up through the cavalryman’s throat, springing up from his squatting position and reaching to his belt for another blade as the second rider ran the last few paces to his horse and leapt astride it, jabbing his booted heels into its sides. Pulling his arm back and holding the thin sliver of iron by the side of his head for a split second, he flicked the knife forward with a fluid jerk that sent it across the clearing in a split-second flash of polished metal to strike the fleeing horseman in the back of the neck. He teetered for a moment, stunned by the sudden, intense pain, but managed to keep his seat as his mount clattered away down the road, lost to view in seconds. Rapax shook his head, staring after the wounded man for a moment before turning back to his stunned soldiers.

  ‘You can bring her out now!’

  Excingus stood, the shock of the cavalryman’s death starting to wear off but with his face furrowed with incomprehension.

  ‘One moment I’m having a perfectly civilised conversation with a man who clearly has no idea of our little secret, and the next thing I know I’m watching you butcher the poor bastard and hurl the cutlery around as if you’ve got something to prove. Might I enquire quite what’s got into you?’

  Rapax pulled his dagger from the dead man’s throat, wiping the blade on the sleeve of his tunic.

  ‘Your man here was clueless all right, but his mate had worked out what was going on. All that playacting about looking for something that just happened to be in his saddlebag? That was just a pretext to let him get back to his horse without alarming us. I only realised it when he took one last look at the horses, and at one horse in particular. Hers.’ He pointed to Felicia as she emerged from the trees with a guardsman at her back. I saw him do it as they walked to the fire and thought nothing of it, just a horseman taking a natural interest in our animals, but as he walked back to his horse he did it again. He gave her horse a good hard stare, and he wasn’t walking like a man who was going to open his saddlebag and dig something out of it, he was winding himself up to jump on the horse and leave his mate here to face the music.’

  Excingus’s face creased as he considered the situation.

  ‘If you’re right then he must have recognised the doctor’s horse, and put two and two together. In which case, we have a problem.’

  The praetorian shook his head dismissively.

  ‘Not really. I put that throwing knife clean through the back of his neck, so I’d guess he’ll be dead from loss of blood before he’s ridden five miles. There isn’t another unit on the road all the way back to Noisy Valley, not with all the fun and games happening south of the Wall. No, I think our secret will be safe enough, once he bleeds out and dies by the side of the road. And now, given what we’ve just learned, perhaps we should consider how to find this “fortress of spears” our dead friend here was so eager to tell us about.’

  Excingus nodded.

  ‘It’s probably safe to assume that this road north will eventually lead us to the Three Mountains fortress. Perhaps once we’re there we’ll find something to help us…’

  Dubnus took the men of his detachment up the north road at the double march, a pace calculated to get thirty miles under a soldier’s boots in a marching day while driving him to, but never beyond, the point of exhaustion. He’d explained the need for more speed to them as they strapped on their equipment, unburdening himself as to the purpose of their mission north of the Wall.

  ‘A good friend of mine, an officer falsely accused of treason, is serving with my cohort somewhere out here. They’re probably tracking down the last of the Selgovae, now that their warband’s been scattered. His woman was the doctor in the Noisy Valley hospital, until a pair of Roman centurions took her prisoner and carried her away north of the Wall. They plan to use her as bait to draw him in, I’d imagine, put him to the sword and then finish her off at their leisure. And that, since I owe my friend my crest and vine stick, is not going to happen if I have anything to do with the matter.’

  The watch officer had spoken quietly to him while the detachment were forming ranks for the day’s march and putting their tents on to the ox cart that would follow along behind them, a look of disbelief on his bruised face.

  ‘So you have no idea where these Romans may have taken your fellow officer’s woman? They could be anywhere within a hundred miles of here.’

  He’d nodded grimly, tightening his belt.

  ‘Yes, but you’re missing something. They’re from Rome. They’ll have no more idea of where to look for my friend Marcus than we do, and all they can do is follow the road north and look for information as to his whereabouts. And when they get that information, so will we. We’ll march at the double today, it’ll be good training for your lads and make sure that we lose as little ground to them as possible, given that they’re riding and we’re using boot leather. Now get your boys moving, we’ve a long way to go and no time to waste talking about it.’

  The previous day’s fifteen miles had hurt more than he’d have cared to admit, both from his lack of exercise over the previous weeks and the effects of prolonged double marching on the freshly healed wound, which tugged and dragged with every step, b
ut Dubnus knew that to show any sign of weakness would only undermine the new resolve that his men had displayed that morning. Driving them on through his example, he pushed himself through first the discomfort and then, as the pace started to sink its claws into his stomach and lungs, the pain of the march, sweat running down his back beneath his armour to soak his tunic. Over an hour into the march, and reaching deep into his reserves of endurance, waiting for the agony searing his chest to abate as his long-delayed second wind took effect, he snapped his head up as a familiar sound reached his ears.

  ‘Cover! Quickly, and keep your wits about you.’

  The detachment scattered for the verge, pulling on their helmets and throwing their pack poles into the trees as they readied themselves to fight, their faces set in determination not to be found wanting a second time. Dubnus waited on the edge of the forest with his sword drawn, grimacing at the realisation that the detachment were alone in the heartlands of an enemy who, recently defeated or not, could still leave his men dead and dying with only a fraction of the strength still available to them. The sound of hoof beats strengthened over the space of a few moments, until to his relief a single horseman trotted over the road’s brow. The rider’s cavalry uniform gave him an instant of satisfaction, until he realised that the man was half out of his saddle and sagging precariously, on the brink of falling to the road’s hard surface. He stepped into the road, gesturing his men forward to intercept the slowing horse and ease the semi-conscious cavalryman to the ground. Eyes slitted, and breathing stertorously, the rider was pulled carefully from his saddle, his head lolling back to reveal a blood-caked sliver of metal protruding from his throat. The soldier helping him ease the rider’s weight to the ground goggled at the wound.

  ‘Fuck me, he’s been shivved!’

  Dubnus turned the semi-conscious man on to his side, pain forgotten as he assessed the magnitude of the wound inflicted by a thin knife buried in his neck from back to front.