‘Dawn, centurion, and time you were dressed for the day. Here, drink this.
A beaker of warm honey, diluted by a substantial quantity of wine, opened Marcus’s eyes well enough. The tent’s interior, lit by a single lamp, was dark and oppressive, while a steady drumming on the tent’s oiled leather roof puzzled his senses for a moment.
‘Pissing down. A great day for serving out your penalty. The night watch took great delight in pointing out that it’ll probably rain until midday at this rate when they woke me up. Fucking 2nd century.’
Marcus groaned softly, struggling to his feet. A swift wash in the bowl of water Antenoch had brought in with him enlivened his senses, while the rest of the honey drink warmed his stomach sufficiently to make the task of getting into uniform a welcome distraction from dwelling on the conditions outside. Antenoch helped him into his cloak, and then went to look out of the tent flap while Marcus took a final deep breath, resigned to being soaked to the skin within ten minutes of stepping out into the downpour.
‘Your escort’s here.’
Puzzled, he went to look through the flap. Outside, grinning happily through the rainswept grey morning, were four of the 9th’s soldiers wrapped in their own cloaks, each man holding a wooden pole attached to some kind of hastily improvised wooden framework, across which was strung what looked suspiciously like the remains of a ten-man tent. The scout they had rescued the previous day was closest to the tent door, solemnly gesturing him under the shelter of their portable roof. Antenoch shook his head in amused wonder.
‘Stupid bastards, spent half the night putting the bloody thing together. I told them that standing about in the rain all day might make you think twice about taking on five times our number of enemy horse next time the chance presents itself, but they insisted ...’
Marcus walked out under the sheltering leather, shaking his head with speechless wonder. Cyclops, the one-eyed miscreant, freed one hand to salute.
‘Where to, sir?’
Stirring himself, Marcus found his voice.
‘To the headquarters tent ... gentlemen, I really don’t ...’
Another of the soldiers, a gaunt-faced man with a heavy facial scar down one cheek, spoke up gruffly, holding up his right hand to contain Marcus’s protest.
‘The entire century wanted this, sir, so don’t be worrying about us. There’ll be another four men along in a while so’s we can go and have a warm. Now, lads, on the command march, to the head shed, march!’
They paraded through the camp’s empty streets, drawing amazed stares from the guards mounted at each century’s section of the camp, men huddled together against the rain peering incredulously in the growing light, until they reached the headquarters tent. Frontinius peered through the tent door, stepping out into the rain with his eyes wide. The four soldiers stared resolutely at the lightening sky, while Marcus squirmed uneasily at the prospect of his superior’s opinion. Having walked around the contraption once in complete silence, his immaculate boots beading with rain drops, the First Spear turned to address a nervous Marcus.
‘I have to say that for the first time in twenty–two years of service I am quite genuinely amazed. You, Scarface, what’s the meaning of this?’
‘The Ninth Century cares for its own, sir. We won’t be letting our young gentleman catch his death of cold ...’
And he shut up, his face red with the pressure of having answered the cohort’s senior soldier back.
‘I see ...’
Centurion and men waited with bated breath for the law to be stated.
‘Nothing in the manual specifically states that an officer on administrative punishment can’t be sheltered from heavy rain by four soldiers with a tent lashed to a wooden frame. Even if at least one of the soldiers concerned is famous throughout his cohort for holding the opinion that most officers aren’t fit to scrape out the latrines after him ...’
‘Scarface’ went an even deeper shade of red.
‘... so, is there room for another under there?’
Marcus gestured to the space next to him. Ignoring the indignant eyes of the roof-bearers, Frontinius stepped in from the rain, taking his helmet off and shaking the drops from its bedraggled crest. He regarded Marcus with a sideways glance, sweeping a hand across his pale scalp to catch the odd raindrops gleaming there.
‘And now, Centurion Two Knives, since you have me as a captive audience, you may tell me all about your exploits of yesterday.’
When Prefect Licinius appeared after breakfast, he too came up short at the sight of the rain cover. What put the honey in that particular cake, Morban later confided to Dubnus, was the fact that custody of the four poles was in the process of being transferred from one four-man group to another. The cavalryman had watched, speechless, while the eight men transferred the cover from one group to another with the precision of a legion parading its eagle. When the handover was finished, and the outgoing men had completed the effect by marching smartly around the corner of the headquarters tent before collapsing in stifled laughter, the prefect approached, taking in the silent centurion and his First Spear. The latter was happily chatting away about the fighting habits of their enemy, and affecting not to have noticed the senior officer.
‘... whereas the warband, you see, is usually a one-shot weapon. The tribal leader points them in the right direction, whips them up into a frenzy, and then lets them run wild. Which can be a problem if they need to be turned around for any reason, since you can’t just ...’
He snapped to attention, shouting to Marcus and the roof-bearers to follow his example. Licinius, having thus been formally recognised, strolled forward, nodding to Frontinius and staring with visible envy at the mobile roof while rain beat at his oiled leather cape.
‘At ease, First Spear.’
Frontinius relaxed, throwing the tribune an impeccable salute.
‘Prefect Licinius, sir, welcome to the First Tungrian camp.’
The prefect returned the salute with casual ease, stepping close enough to gain some shelter from the incessant rain.
‘First Spear Frontinius. Might one ask the purpose of this ... ?’
He waved an arm vaguely at the scene, raising an eyebrow at the sober-faced Frontinius.
‘Prefect this centurion is under administrative punishment, one day’s parade in full uniform and withdrawal of speech. For exceeding the remit of written orders specified by Prefect Equitius in that he took his century over the Wall to rescue one of his men and ended up having to be rescued by you.’
‘And the prefect himself?’
‘Out with four centuries, sir, patrolling down towards the North Road.’
‘And this?’
He gestured again at the rain cover, its roof sagging slightly with the weight of water soaked into the oiled leather.
‘Simple, sir. It would appear that this young officer has instilled sufficient pride in his men that they regard the punishment of one as a collective duty.’
The other man smiled gently, recognising the deflection of any comment he might have regarding the shelter’s legal irregularity.
‘I see. Very well, First Spear, please inform the centurion that I’m sorry to have missed the chance to meet him properly. The Petriana is ordered to conduct a reconnaissance in force to the west, to discover the exact dispositions of our blue-nosed friends. Doubtless we’ll get another chance, though. Quite amazing ...’
He turned and walked away, shaking his head in disbelief. Frontinius waited until he was out of sight, stepping out from beneath the rain cover and eyeing the steadily lightening clouds with a critical gaze.
‘It’ll have stopped within the hour. Very well, Centurion Two Knives, I hereby commute your punishment to confinement to your tent until dusk. Get some sleep; your century has the night guard. Doubtless the Prince will be keen to introduce you to the art of aggressive night patrolling ...’
Marcus slept soundly, despite the noise of the camp, until Antenoch shook him awake again at sunset; he wolfed down
a plate of cold meat and bread and went in search of his chosen man, closely followed by his clerk. Dubnus was detailing the guard roster for the night, counting the century off into tent parties and giving each one a part of the Tungrians’ area of the camp to patrol. When he was finished, one last eight-man group of soldiers remained in front of the headquarters tent, a collection of older men, more than one bearing the scars of previous skirmishes. He spoke quietly into Marcus’s ear.
‘These are the best men for a night patrol, steadier than some of the others. We’ll go over the Wall, up into the trees on the high ground, then wait and listen. This is a good camp, but we’ve used it many times before, so it ought to be known to the enemy. The tribes will have scouts out, and will try to infiltrate men in to watch the camp, perhaps even snatch a sentry or an officer from his tent. We hear them, we stalk them, and we kill them. Simple. You’ll learn some new skills tonight. Morban can stand in as watch officer while we’re out in the forest.’
He passed Marcus a thick wooden stave and a length of black cloth.
‘Your cloak will hide you in the forest and keep you warm. Wrap the cloth around your head until your helmet’s full, it’ll keep your head warm and offer some protection if you get hit on the head. The club’s a lot better for fighting in the dark than a sword, but the other side will be using clubs of their own.’
Turning to Antenoch, standing to one side with a large and distinctly non-regulation sword strapped across his back, he waved a hand dismissively.
‘We won’t need you tonight. Stay here, and guard your tent.’
Antenoch turned away impassively and disappeared into the surrounding shadows.
‘I still don’t trust him. Better if we leave him behind, and avoid the risk of a knife in the back.’
He led the party through the gap in the earth wall and up a shallow slope towards the dark treeline at a slow trot. As they reached the trees the patrol flattened themselves against the cold earth, waiting in silence for Dubnus to decide whether it was safe to move. Marcus stared out into the maze of tree trunks, his night vision slowly improving as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Dubnus muttered into his ear.
‘Look to one side of what you want to see. Seeing in the darkness is better from the corner of the eye than the centre.’
It was true. He looked into the forest, seeing the tree branches sway gently as a breeze lifted their leaves, and heard the distant hoot of a hunting owl. Below them, huddled into the river bend, the camp squatted in its solid bulk, studded with the pinprick light of torches at each guard position. Behind it loomed Cauldron Pool’s fort, its whitewashed walls standing out in the gloom to his now completely night-adjusted eyes. At length Dubnus nodded to the patrol, splaying three fingers forward. Two groups of three men moved silently into the trees, heading to left and right, while Dubnus led Marcus and the remaining soldier forward to their own listening position, a hundred yards inside the forest wall.
They padded slowly and quietly through the tree trunks, fallen twigs crackling minutely under their boots. Marcus copied Dubnus’s exaggerated steps and slow, cautious footfall, each foot searching for larger twigs as it sank to meet the ground, avoiding making any loud noises. At length they settled into their listening post for the night, a space between two fallen trees that Dubnus had clearly used before from the ease with which he found the sheltered spot. Marcus and the other soldier huddled into their cloaks at Dubnus’s whispered suggestion, leaving him to stare out into the silent darkness.
Down in the camp, with the troops asleep for the night, and night patrols padding morosely around the perimeter fence, Annius slipped quietly through the ranks of tents, through the doglegged gap in the six-foot-tall earth rampart and up to the stone-built fort’s walls. A pair of soldiers stepped forward with their spears levelled, letting him past and into the fort once it was established that he was on official business. Since the fort was more or less a duplicate of the Hill, he found his way to the supply building quickly enough, and knocked quietly on the door, slipping quickly inside as soon as it opened.
The storeman closed the door behind him, sliding a pair of massive iron bolts into their sockets, turned and silently beckoned Annius to follow him. At the rear of the storeroom he opened another, smaller door, gesturing the quartermaster through in front of him. A small personal room lay beyond, well lit by oil lamps, the walls insulated against the cold air outside by hanging carpets, while a flask of wine and a tray of small honey cakes decorated a delicately carved wooden table. A man lounged on a couch by the room’s far wall, nodding graciously to Annius and indicating the couch’s companion on the other side of the small table.
The quartermaster arranged himself on the couch in a dignified silence, waiting for his host to speak first. With this, as with any other negotiation, every tiny advantage was to be sought. The other man waited another moment before stirring himself to lean on an elbow, baring his teeth in a cockeyed smile below calculating eyes.
‘So, friend and colleague Annius. When your mob marched in yesterday I wondered how long it would be before you and I were doing business. Are you buying, or selling?’
Annius pursed his lips, forcing his face to stay neutral.
‘A little of both, my trusted friend Tacitus.’
‘Excellent! Here’s to a mutually profitable exchange!’
They drank, both sipping politely at the wine rather than risk its effects on their skills. Tacitus gestured to the cakes, and took one himself in the age-old gesture of trustworthiness. Annius nibbled at another.
‘These are good.’
‘My own baker, in the vicus. You’ll take a dozen, as my gift?’
‘I’m grateful.’
And down a bargaining point already. He fished in the folds of his cloak, passing the other man a small wooden box.
‘Saffron?’
‘The best Persian. I remembered your affection for the spice. Perhaps your baker can use it to good effect.’
And up two. The spice had cost him a small fortune, but put Tacitus in his debt by the rules of the game they routinely played.
‘Well, if you have more of this to sell, our bargaining will be a memorable event ...’
‘Unfortunately not the case. That was the last of the traveller’s supply.’
‘A shame. So tell me, brother, what is it you bring to the table?’
‘Little enough – we marched too quickly for detailed preparation. Five jars of Iberian wine, a small quantity of a precious ointment from Judaea ... and money.’
‘Money, indeed? You must be keen. And what is it that you seek?’
Damn him for a cool bastard.
‘Information, Tacitus. I have a small local difficulty to manage, and remembering how good your sources have been in the past ...’
Tacitus adjusted his position, rising up on one elbow.
‘Ah. Problems with your First Spear? I wondered how long he’d tolerate your ways of making money. I ...’
‘No, it isn’t Frontinius. He keeps me on my mettle, makes sure that his men have effective equipment, but he tolerates my provision of the better things in life as a necessary evil. And makes sure that my business pays a healthy percentage to the burial club. No, the problem’s a step lower down the ladder than Frontinius.’
Tacitus’s eyes narrowed with the admission.
‘A centurion? Tell me more ...’
Marcus woke again when Dubnus shook his shoulder, nodding silently at the big man’s silent instruction to watch the arc to their front. The chosen man rolled into his cloak and was still, leaving Marcus alone in the darkness. He watched the silent forest with slow head movements, remembering the instruction to use the corner of his vision rather than looking directly at the subject. After a few moments purple spots started to dance in his vision, making him close his eyes for a moment before starting the process again. After an hour or so a faint sound caught his attention, a tiny click out in the trees, but sufficient to snap his senses alert. A m
oment later there was another, louder, and then again, the almost imperceptible but unmistakable sounds of men moving across the forest floor.
He reached out with a foot and nudged Dubnus awake, keeping his attention focused on the scene to his front. The chosen man rose silently, moving his head alongside that of his centurion.
‘Breaking twigs.’
He pointed in the appropriate direction to back up his whispered warning, then kept silent. Dubnus listened for a moment and nodded, bending close to Marcus’s ear.
‘They’re here. Perhaps too many for us. We’ll sound the alarm and get back into camp. The others will do the same.’
Marcus nodded, shaking the sleeping soldier awake and whispering in his ear to be ready to run. While Dubnus prepared to put the signal horn to his lips, ready to blow the note that would alert the camp, Marcus prepared for the short run back through the surrounding trees. He leant his weight on the stub of a branch, readying himself to vault the fallen tree that formed the rear of their hide. With a rasping cough the stump, rotted through beneath the bark, tore away from the trunk under his weight, the noise echoing out into the forest’s silence. For a moment the silence returned, but then, with a sudden chorus of shouts and yells, came the sound of men running across the forest floor towards them.
With a curse Dubnus put the horn to his lips and blew one high note that drowned out all other sound, tossing the horn away and hefting his club, shouting into the darkness.
‘Ninth, to me!’
Their chance to run was gone, the enemy, alerted by the snapping wood, charging in at them too quickly for flight to be a realistic option. Marcus readied himself, stepping alongside Dubnus and bracing himself for the enemy’s assault with his stave held ready to strike.
A body hurled itself out of the darkness, and was met by a vicious swing of Dubnus’s club. Two more followed, both men going down under the defenders’ blows, and then a torrent of tribesmen assaulted the trio, splitting them into tiny islands of resistance. Marcus swung his stave into one attacker’s belly, releasing it as it caught in the reeling man’s clothing, swept his sword out and stepped forward to strike at another, hamstringing the man as he shaped to attack Dubnus from behind. A massive tribesman stepped into the fight, swinging his own club in an expert backhand to deal a fearsome blow to Marcus’s head. He fell, vision dimming as consciousness slipped away, vaguely aware of a figure standing over him with a sword held high, screaming incoherently as the sword poised for its strike.
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 23
