‘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 activity 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.’
Scaurus winced.
‘Gaius Manilius Licinius does have a very special way of communicating his disappointment.’
Laemas nodded, warming to his subject.
‘Quite so, but to make it worse, First Spear Canutius promptly started making it pretty clear to Manilius Licinius that his desire to get into action was being frustrated by my delaying tactics. Nothing I could challenge without looking even more of a fool, of course, but Licinius clearly went away with the impression that I’m not fit to command. And so I find myself here …’
‘… under the command of a social inferior and probably doomed to
this ignominy for the rest of your short career?’
Laenas winced at the words, for all that Scaurus’s voice had been perfectly level.
‘Yes, I’m sorry for my poor showing at our first meeting, I really wasn’t thinking very clearly. Too busy feeling sorry for myself, I suppose.’ He took another mouthful of the Falernian. ‘Forgive me, colleague, I’m making a mess of this career on so many fronts I’m not sure what to do for the best, but I never meant to impugn either your office or your honour as a Roman gentleman.’
Scaurus smiled back at him.
‘Cheer up, Tribune. Your first spear clearly has a problem that we can easily remedy, and you’ll have plenty of chances to prove that there’s fire in your belly in the next few days. As for first spears Frontinius and Neuto, their humour is of a different kind to that you might be used to suffering. You show them that you’re fit to command and they’ll soon enough come round to your side. Now, will you take another cup? That one seems to have emptied itself all too quickly. We’ll drink to long life and glorious victory, and then I must spare some time for Prince Martos. I promised that I would read him the letters he captured during the raid on Calgus’s tent, and it’s about time I made good on the offer.’
7
Later that evening, with the evening meal taken and the three cohorts’ soldiers busy about their usual campaign routine of cleaning their equipment and improving the edges of their blades, the detachment’s tribunes and senior centurions came together in Scaurus’s command tent to discuss the next day’s march. Decurion Felix was ordered to attend as the commander of the Petriana’s detached squadrons, and he brought both Double-Pay Silus and Marcus with him, despite the sour looks that the gesture earned him from First Spear Canutius. Scaurus opened the discussion, pointing to a sketchy map of the ground that lay before them to the north.
‘Well then, gentlemen, I’ve ridden this route to the Dinpaladyr before, so I’ve made a start at drawing a map of the ground we’ll have to cross to make our approach. Martos has given me all the help he can, but he’s more of a warrior than a geographer, so I’m afraid that our knowledge of the route is still a little sketchy.’
‘Tribune?’ Double-Pay Silus stepped forward with an em -barrassed salute, drawing inquisitive stares from the assembled officers.
‘Double-Pay?’
‘Begging your pardon, Tribune, but I’ve been riding these hills since I was a lad. The Petriana used to mount security patrols in the rear of the northern wall when it was still manned. We spent most of our effort in the west, keeping the Selgovae on their toes, but we rode this ground as well, when we could spare the time. Even after the pull-back to the old wall we still got around a fair bit, making sure the frontier tribes didn’t mistake our retreat for weakness. I could add some detail to that map, if you’d like me to.’
Scaurus nodded, handing him a stick of charcoal. The cavalryman stood over the parchment for a moment, his eyes moving across its sparse detail, then put the charcoal to the map, drawing fresh lines with swift, confident movements.
‘The River Tuidius runs here, and meets the sea here, and it can be forded by infantry here – but by cavalry here, and here.’
Scaurus’s eyes narrowed, taking in the additional detail and its implications.
‘So we can only cross the river in one place?’
Silus nodded.
‘Yes, Tribune, unless we’ve got the time to build a bridge?’
The tribune shook his head with a grim smile.
‘Neither the time nor the engineers, I’m afraid. So, if the men that Calgus sent to take control of the Votadini have their wits about them, they’ll have scouts watching the ford and our element of surprise will be lost before we even cross the river.’
Silus shook his head.
‘Not necessarily, Tribune. As I said, these two points can be crossed by horsemen. The animals will have to swim, but I’ve done it myself more than once.’
‘How likely would it be for a body of horsemen to remain unobserved once they were on the far side?’
Silus nodded sagely.
‘A good question, sir.’ He drew on the map again, sketching in a range of hills that ran to the north-east between the river’s course and the Votadini capital. ‘The enemy scouts will most likely be waiting here …’ He pointed to a spot on the range just to the north of the infantry ford, ‘… but we’d be crossing here, ten miles to the west and well out of their view. If we then went over the hills to the northern side we could make out approach without their ever suspecting we were there.’
‘And if the Selgovae think to put watchers on that ford?’
Silus pulled a wry face.
‘At the worst they could kill every man in that detachment before we ever got our feet out of the water, Tribune. A handful of decent archers could pick us off without any trouble at all.’
A silence hung in the air for a moment, broken at length by the thud of Scaurus’s finger hitting the map at the spot indicated by the double-pay.
‘Very well, Double-Pay, you’ve just earned yourself a temporary field promotion to decurion. And if you can take a party of men across the Tuidius and win us back the element of surprise, I’ll ask Tribune Licinius to let you keep the title.’
Silus stiffened his back and saluted crisply.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get a party of volunteers together and make the preparations tonight. We can be across the river and on the far bank drying out our kit by early morning the day after tomorrow, and the road north will be clear by the middle of the day. It’ll take you that long to get across the ford at the usual campaign pace.’
Scaurus nodded decisively.
‘Then I suggest you get to it, Decurion. And now, colleagues, let’s see what shape our three cohorts are in after the day’s events …’
Outside the command tent both Felix and Marcus shook Silus’s hand in congratulation, while the new decurion shook his head in bemusement.
‘All that time wondering if I could ever get the promotion, and then an officer I hardly know drops it on me without any warning.’
Marcus smiled wryly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
‘Tribune Scaurus, as you are learning, isn’t a man given to over-considering an idea if he can see its potential. Besides which, we haven’t actually got across the river and dealt with the watchers yet, have we?’
Silus nodded briskly.
‘True enough. And I need thirty men that can swim. What about your men, Centurion, there must be a few of them without the infantryman’s usual hatred of water? After all, there’s no soap involved …’
Arminius, by now more or less recovered from the blow to the head that Colossus had dealt him during the fight earlier in the day, sat by the fire burning in the 9th Century’s lines and stared into its embers. Freed from guard duty by Scaurus’s edict that the men who had volunteered to form Silus’s cavalry squadron would need a full night’s rest, he had accompanied Marcus, Qadir and Scarface back to their century once their mounts were settled for the night. Now, with most of the century already rolled up in their cloaks after the day’s exertions, he found himself unable to sleep, and so had joined the century’s standard-bearer in the fire’s gentle glow. Morban was in an unusually reflective mood and the German, more used to finding the burly soldier a source of unceasing banter and rough humour, sat quietly and listened to his woes.
‘I’m forty years old next month, and I joined the cohort at the age of sixteen. That won’t mean much to you, I suppose – you barbarians are usually all dead before reaching such an age, I’d imagine …’
Arminius raised an eyebrow at the comment, but kept quiet as the standard-bearer ploughed on.
‘… but for me it might as well be fifty. I joined at the age of sixteen, and so I reach my twenty-five years’ service next year. Oh, they won’t throw me out yet, of course, too many good men died in the last six months for there to be any danger of that, but a standard-bearer past his twenty-five, well, there�
�s a blockage to another man’s promotion and that won’t do. Once the numbers are made up I’ll be politely taken to one side and invited to enjoy the fruits of my service. Which will boil down to being given my pension and told, nicely, mind you, to piss off and give someone else a chance to wave my standard around.’
Arminius nodded, his face an unreadable collection of lines and shadows in the firelight.
‘I can see the way of it. Other men will be ready to step into your shoes, and you will have to step out of them sooner or later.’
Morban shook his head sadly.
‘And in truth, German, and strictly between us girls, I won’t miss the job as much as I would have done ten years ago. Too cold in the morning, too hot by midday, never a drink to be had for weeks at a time and feet stiff with dead skin and sores. I’d swap it all for a nice little place in the Hill’s vicus in an instant. My own alehouse and a guaranteed supply of thirsty customers, except …’
He paused for a moment, and the German saw his opportunity to lighten the discussion’s tone.
‘Except you’d drink it all yourself?’
A spark of the Morban that Arminius had come to expect resurfaced in his blinking indignation.
‘No, you cheeky blue-nosed bastard, except for the boy!’
Arminius nodded again, having known full well the direction their discussion would take.
‘I had high hopes that my colleague Antenoch would take Lupus on when I retired, teach him his letters, and show him how to use a sword and shield. I hoped he’d make a better soldier out of the boy than ever I was. With the right learning there’s no saying what the lad might achieve, but with Antenoch dead that’s all gone.’
Fortress of Spears Page 19
