When they stopped five hours later, within thirty minutes’ march of their target, Marcus and Antenoch took the noble off into the dark, a tent party of soldiers shadowing them in a watching arc to ensure that no unfriendly strangers interrupted. Dubnus busied the century with the task of camouflaging their faces with saliva-moistened mud, each man painting broad stripes across another’s features to break up the large area of pale flesh. Out of sight of the halted century Antenoch pushed the man to the ground, and pulled his knife, finding Marcus’s hand on his shoulder.
‘My turn. Translate.’
He squatted next to the noble, pulling his regulation dagger from its place at his side.
‘I always thought I’d never use an issue weapon for a dishonourable purpose. This country is changing my mind in all sorts of ways. We’re a mile from your farm where, I’m told, you have a Roman woman captive ...’
The other man shrugged at the translation, spitting at Marcus’s feet.
‘We offered your companion the chance to change his mind earlier. My bodyguard here only cut off one of his balls, and then allowed him to think again about telling us what he knew. He told us that you had already taken the woman by force, and that you intend giving her to your men as a celebration of the great victory to come.’
Another shrug.
‘You don’t get that extra chance to change your mind. You will die here, either intact and quickly, or no longer a man and in terrible pain, and very slowly. I expect that the wolves will find you quickly enough if we slit your belly and peg you out for them. Take a moment to consider your choice, but don’t expect to get an opportunity to make that choice more than once.’
The nobleman looked from Marcus to Antenoch, who nodded slowly to emphasise the threat. He coughed noisily to clear his throat, then glared up at Marcus. His Latin, roughened by lack of practice, was nevertheless clear in its emphasis.
‘Better to die without my manhood than to betray my people. You should understand that. Do what you must.’
Marcus turned away, his mind thousands of miles and several years distant. On a windy afternoon late in the year, training inside the house to avoid dust stirred up by the gusts outside, his trainer, sensing boredom in his student, had suddenly dropped his sword to the floor, and indicated to him to do the same.
‘Sometimes you won’t have a blade to defend yourself with, Master Marcus. In the arena I’ve had my blade smashed from my hand more than once, but still won the fight.’
‘How?’
‘Ah, got your attention now, have I? Simple enough, young man, know where to strike a man, and how hard to strike him. If you’re fast enough to get inside his defence and land a blow, you can choose to put your opponent on his back or simply take his life. Just hit him here ...’
Pointing a finger to touch Marcus’s throat.
‘... and you’ll stop him breathing. You choose how long for. A little tap will put him down for a moment, short of breath and helpless. A decent thump, carefully measured, will probably knock him out for a few minutes. Anything harder will almost certainly kill him. Since swords obviously don’t entertain today, let’s practise that killing blow, eh?’
He raised an arm, pointing to the back of his wrist.
‘Strike here, as hard as you like ... no, boy, I said hard. Your opponent just smiled at you and stuck his sword into your guts. Pick a point a foot behind the target and punch at that ... Good, excellent follow-through! Again ... Excellent! Now let’s work on the harder job, just knocking the man down for a little while ...’
He spun back and struck the kneeling man’s throat with the dagger’s hilt with killing force, dropping him choking into the grass. After a moment or so the spasmodic jerking slowed, then stopped altogether. He knelt, and put two fingers to the man’s neck.
‘Dead. He’ll meet his ancestors a complete man, and I didn’t dishonour the blade.’
Antenoch frowned in the moonlight.
‘Why didn’t you torture him?’
‘Because he wasn’t going to talk. And we don’t have the time to waste carving one man when there’s a job to be done. Come on ...’
He turned back to the century’s waiting place, leaving his clerk staring quizzically after him in the darkness.
The Tungrians made a silent approach to the farm, advancing down the dark hillside that brooded to its south until the black shapes of its round huts and fenced enclosures which surrounded them stood out against the stars. A stop group of three tent parties moved carefully around the buildings, heading for their position at the farm’s rear to catch any escapees, while the rest of the century dropped their packs into a large pile and advanced to the walls, still silent behind their shields.
In the darkness a dog awoke, smelt strangers and barked indignantly, joined a heartbeat later by half a dozen others. Marcus drew his sword and jumped the wall, sprinting across the empty animal pen and kicking hard at the door to the main building. It resisted his attack, and he stepped back to allow a pair of soldiers to shoulder-charge through the barrier, moving through the shattered doorway in their wake and peering into the gloom over the top of his shield, sword ready to strike.
A man charged out of the darkness, a faint light reflecting the line of steel brandished high above his head, and without conscious thought Marcus stepped forward into the brace and punched his shield into the contorted face, stabbing his sword upwards into the unprotected chest. He stepped back again, watching the body crumple back into the darkness. A shriek sounded from the far side of the hut as another point of resistance was extinguished. Dubnus moved swiftly past him, stepping over the sprawled body of his kill, and headed away into the darkness. Marcus followed, through a wooden archway and into a smaller hut, this one lit by a candle in whose puddle of light huddled a woman and her three children. Dubnus grabbed a soldier, pushing him at the terrified group.
‘Watch them. Kill them if they try to escape.’
On the hut’s far side, barely illuminated by the candle, was a heavy door, secured by a bar. Dubnus tossed away the bar and heaved the door open, then ducked away as a wooden bowl flew past his ear. A cultured female voice spat Latin imprecations at them from the darkness within.
‘Come on then, you bastards, come and get me!’
Dubnus backed away from the door, gesturing to Marcus to try his luck. Marcus peered around the frame, quite unable to make out anything in the dark.
‘Chosen, get me some light. Ma’am, we are the Ninth Century of the First Tungrian Cohort, Imperial Roman Auxiliary forces. You’re free ...’
A slight scraping movement inside the room made him duck instinctively, but the wooden cup caught him neatly under the eye, making stars flash before him for an instant.
‘Jupiter! Where’s that bloody light? Captured Roman citizen or not, if you throw one more thing at me I’ll ...’
Dubnus ducked back into the hut with a blazing torch, careful not to let it catch at the straw roofing. Marcus sheathed his sword and took the light, holding it carefully in front of him as he stepped back into the doorway.
‘Take a good look. Armour, helmet, shield. I am a Roman soldier. Satisfied?’
The woman stayed where she was, crouched behind a small knife in the far corner of her cell. Her dark hair was in disarray, straggling across a dirty face, out of which shone piercing green eyes above a snub nose and small mouth. Her chin, wobbling slightly as she fought back the tears, was delicately pointed. She was dressed in a woollen shift and little else, her feet crusted with scabs from previous cuts and scrapes, her clothes and shoes presumably stolen on her capture.
‘Very well, suit yourself. We’ll leave you here for the blue-noses to find when the fire brings them running.’
He turned away, winking at Dubnus.
‘No! Wait!’
He opened his mouth to invite her out of the cell, just as a sudden scream sounded from outside the hut. Dubnus chose the fastest way out of the structure, hacking fiercely at the wall to make a sma
ll gap through which he burst in a shower of dried mud and horsehair into the night. In his wake Marcus drew his sword, shouting at the soldier already guarding the still-terrified family to watch the woman as well. Outside, the fighting had already all but ended with two of the 9th’s men down, one not moving, and half a dozen native men in rough woollens sprawled in the light of Dubnus’s torch. Two remaining enemy were falling back under the advance of a dozen of Marcus’s men, through whose line Dubnus charged in a blaze of light, tossing the torch at one of them even as he ran another through with his sword. Leaving the sword buried in the dying man’s guts, he ripped the axe from his belt and hurled it into the distracted tribesman’s throat, a froth of blood sheeting out from the wound as the man dropped to his knees, then pitched headlong to the ground. Marcus grabbed the nearest man that wasn’t vomiting, demanding to know where the barbarians, clearly too well equipped to be farm peasants, had come from.
The soldier, still wide eyed from sudden combat, pointed vaguely out into the darkness. His voice shook with fear, rising as if a shriek was waiting to explode from his body.
‘Came from out there. Might be more!’
Marcus took the man by the throat, pinching his windpipe hard to get his attention and putting his face in close.
‘Steady! There aren’t any more of them or they’d be all over us by now. Dubnus, get these men ready to probe forward!’
He looked at the wounded soldier, seeing a great dark stain blacken the man’s right legging above the knee, a bloody spear lying near him. The man lay back against the cold earth, his eyes closing as if to sleep.
‘Bandage carrier!’
A calm voice spoke behind him, assured in its tone.
‘I’ll treat him. You concentrate on doing your job.’
He turned to find the woman at his arm, her eyes locked on the fallen soldier.
‘You ... ?’
‘He’s going to die, Centurion; the wound has pierced the great artery. Let me comfort his last few moments.’
He turned away in wonder, pushing a pair of soldiers towards her and telling them to watch over her, and get her a cloak, then stalked off to find Dubnus.
‘Chosen, are these men ready to scout forward?’
‘Yes, sir, I ...’
‘Good, then go and organise the searching of the farm and get the rest of the century ready to move out. We’ll be back inside ten minutes.’
Dubnus stared at him hard in the gloom, then turned away to his task. Marcus looked his men over. Most of three tent parties, twenty-five men, all looking jumpy enough to run if a small boy with a wooden sword came out of the darkness.
‘Right, we’re going forward to look for signs of where those barbarians came from. We’re going to move in a line, and I want you to look for anything that might give us a clue as to what a party of warriors was doing hanging around a latrine like this.’
That got a laugh at least.
‘Form a line, two-foot spacing, and follow me. Oh, and by the way ...’
They stared at him, a mixture of curiosity and dread distorting their faces.
‘... you won that one, yes? Be proud of yourselves, you’re all warriors now.’
He ignored the fact that half of them had probably stood watching in amazement when the fighting started. That was for those that had actually fought to take advantage of later. What he needed now was for them to take courage and, for the most part, they did, some of them actually standing taller under the praise.
He led them forward, using his drawn sword to feel ahead into the darkness, a tinge of purple in the east betraying the approach of sunrise, only an hour away. Not a good time to delay, in the face of an enemy of unknown strength and disposition. Fifty paces brought them to a fence, which Marcus vaulted with a bravado he was far from feeling, grateful to hear the grunts and thuds of his men crossing the obstruction even as he hissed at them for silence. Ten paces past the barrier he heard a tiny sound, a scraping rustle against the ground that made him duck into his shield and advance the sword, wrist cocked arena-style, ready to strike. A heavy breath puffed against his cheek, making him jump backwards in shock, a muted bellow of greeting bringing his heart into his throat.
The soldiers started to laugh, one of them walking forward to get a better look.
‘Cattle, sir. Lots of them!’
Marcus sheathed his sword in disgust, taking a closer look. The animals jostled around them, hoping for food. The ox that had startled him crowded in closest, nudging at his hands with its massive snout, like an overgrown mastiff, and his heart lightened as he realised that the biggest threat was being trampled if the animal thought there might be fodder somewhere behind him. Beasts like these became used to being pampered, hand fed with the best food that could be found for them, anything to make them fatter and glossier for the day when the army’s purchasing officer came to call. Children tended to get the job of looking after them, and, as children do, ended up domesticating them into pets. He sighed at the thought, and how his men, many of them the children of the local farms on both sides of the Wall, might react to what he already knew was his only course of action.
‘Very well, farm boy, they seem to like you well enough. Take a rough count and let me know how many there are. You, get me some light. You, get the chosen and bring him here, quickly!’
Dubnus arrived just as the count was completed, roughly fifty fully grown animals standing silently in the dark field. Dubnus stroked his beard.
‘I left two tent parties guarding the farm. Those enemy troops must have been guarding these, heard our noise and ran into our men. There’s flour in the farm, enough for thousands of loaves, and big hearths built into the walls, firewood too, and pine pitch and staves for making torches, lots of jars. Fifty oxen are enough to feed ten thousand men. This is a supply dump, waiting for a warband the size of a legion ...’
He stared sadly at the cattle, their breath steaming in the torchlight. Marcus nodded agreement. But where was the enemy – within marching distance and hungry for supplies before they went at the Wall, or was this just a contingency, an option prepared for an eventuality that might not come to pass? They looked at each other, sharing a moment of understanding.
‘How many jars of pitch?’
‘Enough.’
‘Very well, let’s get it over with.’
The chosen nodded, then shook his head ruefully.
‘War makes for unhappy tasks ...’
He swung to face the waiting troops
‘Odd-numbered tent parties, fetch firewood from the barn. Three loads each, bring them here to me. Even numbers, to me.’
The slaughter was grimly efficient, farm-raised soldiers reluctantly leading the oxen out of the enclosure one at a time, to be greeted by a party of the stronger men, who gently penned each beast in their ranks, using gentle hands and words to soothe the animals. Dubnus and two of the older soldiers, one of them a butcher’s apprentice in his youth, all of them bloody spectres after the first few animals, calmed each animal further with soft words, then dispatched each one with a swift twisting thrust of their long knives beneath the massive jaws. The soldiers dragged each fresh corpse away with ropes taken from the farm, building a pyre of their bodies with the firewood piled around them. Soon they too were liberally streaked with the animals’ blood, as it worked deep into scalps and fingernails.
The man who had first gone forward into the herd, gently touching and caressing the oxen as he counted them, turned away and wept at the spectacle. To Marcus’s astonishment, not only did his colleagues keep a respectful distance until his eyes were dry again, but Dubnus wrapped a bloody arm around his bony shoulders and spoke a few private words of comfort. After a while, tired of the smell of the animals’ blood, Marcus went back down to the farm buildings while the cull was completed, finding the Roman woman sitting quietly, the dead soldier’s head cradled in her lap while the men set to watch over her squatted on either side. She looked up at Marcus, her dirty face streaked
with dried tears.
‘He regained consciousness for a few moments. He called on Brigantia to take his spirit ...’
She sniffed quietly.
‘Thank you for staying with him.’
She stood, gently placing the dead man’s head on his shield.
‘Centurion ... ?’
‘Valerius Aquila.’
The response was automatic, the word hanging in the air between them as her eyebrows rose with interest, visible in dawn’s first light.
‘A famous name in my childhood. Your family are a powerful force in Rome.’
‘No more, lady, it seems. You’re a native Roman?’
‘Until I was thirteen, and my father was posted to the Wall. So how does the son of a famous family come to be an auxiliary officer, rather than choosing to serve with the legions ...’
Her voice came to a stop as his response sank in. Marcus bent closer, whispering in her ear.
‘I’d be grateful if we spoke no more of my former status until we have the privacy for a frank conversation.’
‘I see. But I ...’
A soldier ran up to them, his armour crusted with blood, saluting respectfully with more than half an eye on the woman’s body.
‘Centurion, the chosen says to tell you that the cull’s finished. We’re ready to burn them.’
Her eyes ignited with fury, scalding Marcus with their sudden flare of anger.
‘Not the oxen. Tell me it isn’t the oxen!’
He marched stony faced back up the hill, the woman running at his shoulder. When she saw the lifeless humps of flesh littering the mist-wreathed ground her anger was kindled anew. She rounded on Marcus with a snarl that made the soldiers closest to her step back involuntarily, their minds jerked back to distant memories of angry mothers.
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 20
