He paced back to the terrified storekeeper, staring into his eyes.
‘Now, you are, at this moment, weighing up whether to tell me the truth or not. Let’s face it, I’m here tonight and gone in the morning, while your First Spear will always be there, and eager for revenge if he thinks you’ve betrayed him in such a way.’
He turned to the decurion and nodded. A pale sword slid from its scabbard, the edge winking in the lamplight.
‘The decurion here, however, is another matter. He wants revenge on this traitor, and whoever helped him, and he’ll be very upset indeed if he feels that you’re obstructing his path to justice. So, storeman, your choices are simple – tell me everything you know, here and now, without hiding anything, or they’ll find you face down in the river with a rather nasty hole in your back. It’s really up to you ...’
Annius opened his mouth and started talking.
Marcus read quietly through the evening, submerging himself in Caesar’s two-hundred-year-old account of his subjugation of Gaul until the shadows lengthened, and the orderly came to light his lamp. After a while straining to make out the characters in the half-darkness became too much of an effort and he rolled up the scroll and slid beneath the blanket, blowing the lamp out to leave the room in darkness. Hovering above sleep’s dark waters, his mind easing down to rest, he thought for a second that he felt a gentle touch on his face, soft enough not to pull him back from the brink of rest, enough to hold him there in a state of uncertain thrill.
The touch came again, and a soft voice spoke soothingly to him as a warm body slipped under the blanket beside him. His body trembled slightly with the sudden realisation, as hands caressed his back and neck, lips finding his ear and gently kissing away the fear. He rolled over to meet her kiss with his own, still stunned at the situation, pausing for breath after a long moment.
‘It would seem that I owe my clerk an apology.’
Felicia renewed the kiss wordlessly, moving her body over his beneath the blanket’s rough folds.
Felicia left Marcus’s bed in the early hours, abandoning him to an exhausted, dreamless sleep. He woke long after dawn to the orderly’s persistent shaking of his shoulder.
‘Centurion, there’s a messenger from your cohort waiting outside. Clodia Drusilla grants you her permission to leave the hospital, and has asked me to give you this ...’
He directed a significant look towards Marcus, making it quite clear that he could guess at the tablet’s contents. As he left one of Marcus’s men came through the door with a bundle of clothing and equipment tied up in what Marcus quickly recognised as his cloak.
‘Sir, First Spear’s regards, an’ he requests you to rejoin the cohort on the way to the North Road. The horse boys found the barbarians yesterday, an’ we’re moving to attack them ...’
Marcus dressed quickly, shoving the tablet into a pocket and grabbing a piece of bread from the breakfast table as he followed the soldier out of the infirmary’s quiet corridors and into the fort’s orderly hubbub. The rest of the man’s tent party were waiting impatiently at the door, their leader saluting smartly at his appearance among them.
‘Morning, sir, good to see you looking better. I hope you’re up to a run this morning, the cohort marched out at the double almost half an hour ago, along with the Second and the Batavians.’
Marcus nodded grimly, tightening his new helmet’s strap until the leather bit into his chin, ignoring the pressure on his still-sensitive scalp, while the men checked that their packs were secure on their carrying poles before hoisting them on to their shoulders along with their spears. A shouted command set them running, a steady trot to which, Marcus was pleased to discover, his body adjusted after only a moment’s protest. Five minutes took them across the fort’s bridge and out of view of the fort, passing through wooded copses and open fields as they climbed the steep hill to the east of the river. Despite the road’s arrow-straight line, Marcus kept a hand on his sword’s hilt, aware that a roving barbarian scouting party would see an officer and eight men as fair game.
Half an hour’s running brought no sight of the cohort, confirmation of Marcus’s mental arithmetic. He had guessed that it would take the best part of another hour to catch the Tungrians, and so it proved, the black snake of men appearing on the horizon as they ran into sight of the crossroads with the North Road.
The tail-end century of the rearmost cohort was clearing the crossroads and heading out through the wall’s open gates as the nine men ran up to it, Marcus recognising their companion unit, the Second Tungrians, with a sudden guilty start. They moved to the verge, padding past the marching soldiers without breaking their pace and ignoring the barrage of catcalls and insults that followed their progress up the line of centuries. At the column’s head Marcus recognised his own cohort, and quickened his pace in response. A voice rang out from behind him, peremptory in its authority.
‘You there! Centurion! A moment!’
He signalled his men to rejoin their colleagues, and then turned reluctantly to face the speaker, walking backwards to keep pace with the column’s leading rank. An officer marched forward from his place alongside the column’s head, extending a hand in greeting. Marcus saluted before taking the offered hand, turning to walk alongside the other man.
‘Quintus Dexter Bassus, prefect, Second Tungrian Cohort. And you, I presume from the look of you, are the First Cohort’s illustrious young cattle-burning centurion?’
Marcus drew on his praetorian etiquette training, recalling his instruction on how best to maintain a respectful posture while escorting a walking dignitary, and turned his torso towards the prefect, nodding his head slightly.
‘Yes, sir ...’
He took a deep breath, thinking quickly.
‘... Centurion Two Knives. I prefer to fight with two swords when possible, and the title seems to have stuck.’
‘I’ve heard it ... a soldier’s name if ever I heard one. Is there a name that you can share with me?’
‘With pleasure, Prefect. My family name is Corvus.’
‘Well, Centurion Corvus, I can only offer you my inadequate but heartfelt thanks for your rescue of my wife ...’
They walked in silence for a moment, the massed rattle on the road of hobnailed boots and the jingle and rattle of harnesses and equipment filling what would otherwise have been an uncomfortable gap in the conversation.
‘The thanks, Prefect, would more appropriately be offered to my century, but nevertheless I am happy to acknowledge them, and to express my pleasure that we were in the right place at the right time.’
The other man pursed his lips, perhaps, Marcus thought, caught between the need to show gratitude for the act and a curiosity as to what Felicia might have said to him during the their time together.
‘You’re too modest, young man. The whole army is talking about the way your century denied the barbarians their supplies, and I owe you a debt of thanks I cannot easily discharge. The gods only know what indignities your fortunate arrival spared my wife.’
‘Prefect, you may be aware that I sustained a head injury during a night patrol two days ago. Your wife was good enough to administer her medical skills to my wound, greatly assisting my recovery. Any debt is thus well repaid.’
The other man stared at him for a moment.
‘A noble sentiment, and more typically Roman than I’m used to from the local officers. I find it refreshing to see a young gentleman accept a position in an auxiliary unit, rather than insisting on serving with the legions. Although I’m surprised that a traditionally minded First Spear like Frontinius would ever accept such a recruit. I wonder, Centurion ...’
Marcus willed his face to remain impassive.
‘... if Clodia Drusilla mentioned to you what she was doing over the Wall at such a time?’
Relief flooded his mind at the man’s obvious preoccupation with his woman, followed immediately by the realisation that he was still walking on eggshells.
‘Ah ... no, s
ir, now that you mention it she didn’t tell me, and neither did I have the time to ask. I was preoccupied with getting my men away from danger, and ...’
‘And not really your business anyway, eh? Very well, Centurion, since you’re clearly a man of discretion, I can see I shouldn’t delay you from your men any longer. Good day.’
Marcus saluted briskly and turned, relieved to be away without having to face difficult questions regarding either his own provenance or the other man’s wife. Accelerating his pace, he trotted smartly past the tail-end century, the men of the 10th striding along with their axes over their shoulders. As he passed the 10th’s front rank Titus stepped out with his fist raised for the tap.
‘Good work, young Two Knives, you’re the talk of the cohort.’
Marcus reflexively tapped the huge man’s fist with his own, shooting a surprised glance at the big man’s smug smile. Normally he would now have been running alongside his own men, but the 9th were at the column’s head. Otho, striding along beside his 8th Century, simply smiled his battered smile and winked as the young centurion passed. Ahead of him Brutus was walking along backwards at the head of the 7th ... applauding? He slapped Marcus on the shoulder as he passed, calling after him.
‘And I thought I was supposed to be the lucky one!’
Rufius’s chosen man was apparently in command of the 6th, and quite sensibly kept his mouth shut and his eyes to the front as a red-faced Marcus hurried past. As he progressed up the column’s length shouts of ribald encouragement from the marching ranks accompanied his progress until he reached the standard, carried in the midst of the 5th Century. Julius was marching at the Fifth’s head with Rufius striding alongside him. His friend’s face widened into a broad smile of welcome.
‘Here’s the young fellow, fresh from his deathbed. Here, Two Knives, clasp hands with me once more.’
Marcus put his hand out, only for Rufius to grasp it eagerly, rolling his eyes.
‘I shook his hand! A real live hero! I won’t ever wash it again ...’
Julius nodded to him, his eyes showing a mix of respect and something else that Marcus was hard placed to identify. It looked almost like ... concern?
‘How’s your head, Two Knives?’
‘Harder than I thought, thank you, Julius.’
The other man nodded with a sardonic smile.
‘It’s going to have to be, if you’re going to keep on like this.’
Rufius poked Julius in the ribs.
‘He’s just jealous. We’ve spent the last three days patrolling and sitting around bored, not tucked up in hospital with a nice lady doctor to look after our every need.’
Marcus blushed a deeper shade of red, unable to control the reaction, and Rufius pounced on the display, his bearded face split in a disbelieving grin.
‘Ah, so there is something to the rumour?! You lucky bastard! I swear you could fall into shit and come out smelling of myrrh!’
Marcus bit his tongue to prevent a sheepish grin that was hovering on the bounds of his control.
‘A gentleman would never discuss such a question. I’ll talk to you later.’
He set off up the column with his ears still hot under the helmet’s protection, making a mental note to murder his clerk at the first opportunity. The prefect was nowhere to be seen, but Frontinius dropped back from the column’s head as soon as he heard Marcus’s voice, returning the younger man’s salute.
‘You can have your century back now that you’ve caught up with us. Keep them moving at the double march until the signal for a rest comes, and otherwise take your cue from the Raetians ahead. If you see men to the flank, take a good look before you shout – there’s a legion out here somewhere, and I wouldn’t want the Tungrians to be the ones to point the spear at our own side. Keep your eyes open.’
Marcus nodded acknowledgement, then ran to the head of his century, settling into the ground-eating double march, a blessed relief after the morning’s exertion. Antenoch appeared at his shoulder after a moment.
‘Good morning, Centurion, I trust you slept well?’
Marcus’s eyes slitted, daring the man to push his question any farther. Antenoch took the hint.
‘Er, good. I’ve got some bread and dried meat if you’re hungry after your ... er ... exertions?’
‘Give me the food, Antenoch, and keep your mouth shut. It seems that there are far too many people in this cohort making assumptions about my behaviour without you making it any worse.’
He accepted the food and chewed quickly, wanting it inside him and not in his hands if trouble developed, gave his clerk another withering stare and then dropped down the line of march to talk to Dubnus at the century’s rear.
‘How are they?’
The Briton nodded grimly.
‘Ready.’
‘What was the morning’s briefing?’
‘There’s a lot happened since your bang on the head. The warbands that came south of the Wall didn’t stay long to fight once they found Noisy Valley burnt out and a legion dug in between them and Yew Grove. They’ve retreated to the north, back past Red River apparently. No one knows why. The Sixth Legion followed up and is somewhere north of the Wall. They’ve got cavalry in contact with the blue-noses, so now we’re moving to close them down for a battle. The prefect’s gone to meet the Sixth’s legatus, to agree the overall plan. There’s a big fight waiting for us, and not too far off either.’
Equitius wondered for the hundredth time how Sollemnis had managed to manoeuvre a whole legion through such close country, and, for that matter, why? His escort, a thirty-man detachment from the Asturian cavalry who seemed to have become Tribune Perennis’s personal command, looked nervously to either side of the narrow path, into dense forest vegetation that made vision impossible after no more than a dozen yards. Something took fright deep in the undergrowth and bolted away from the path, making his horse prance nervously for a moment.
‘This rather reminds me of the accounts of the Teutoburger Forest I read as a boy.’
The comment went seemingly unnoticed by the younger man for a long moment, before he responded over his shoulder, not bothering to turn in the saddle.
‘I had the Asturians map this area’s paths during the spring, just in case we needed to move one of the legions round an enemy’s flank, if the Wall were under threat. I’ve got this country etched into my head. Varus made the mistake of advancing into close terrain he’d failed to thoroughly scout. That’s the way to lose a legion or three.’
Equitius scowled at the other man’s back, hating his self-assured swagger. And yet his plan had succeeded brilliantly so far, moving the legion from its blocking position behind the Wall into a hidden temporary fortress from where they could strike at the enemy warbands without warning, given the right opportunity. It was this very opportunity with which Equitius was riding to join the 6th, news that the Petriana had managed to pinpoint the warband’s location. A horseman had galloped into the Cauldron Pool camp the previous afternoon, with news that his detachment had chanced upon the warband’s well-beaten path north of the wreck of the Red River fort. Successful in their stealthy tracking of the enemy formation to its current resting place, they were calling for reinforcement, and quickly, before the warband decided to move again.
That old war horse Licinius had led the rest of the Petriana out an hour later, leaving instructions with Equitius to get the 6th Legion committed in their support as soon as possible. They had been riding ever deeper into barbarian territory since early morning, following the legion’s path down what was no more than a hunter’s track, and now the sun was close to its zenith. The Asturians kept to themselves, leaving him with nobody to talk to other than Perennis, a young man for whom he was gradually developing a marked aversion.
‘So, Tribune, how did you come to be posted to this miserable end of the empire?’
Again the calculated pause.
‘I asked for the posting. My father told me that the emperor wanted to send a young ma
n of the equestrian class to serve with the Northern Command, to provide him with a first-hand description of the country and its people ...’
A thinly disguised reference to his role as an imperial spy which, Equitius sensed, was deliberately sufficiently implausible as to make the real purpose quite apparent.
‘Hearing this, I persuaded him to present me to Commodus, and to make the case for my taking the role. The emperor asked me what I would do in the case of my discovering treachery at any level of the army. Even that of a legionary legatus.’
And he paused again, letting the silence drag out.
‘I told him that I would quite cheerfully condemn the traitor to a public and agonising death, as a lesson to any others of the same mind. It seemed to hit the right note ...’
Equitius would have bet it did. Commodus’s reputation for insecurity and bloody overcompensation was already well established. Perennis turned in this saddle, looking back at him.
‘I expect you would have said exactly the same.’
Equitius met his eye, suddenly frightened for the first time in several years, hiding his fear behind a slow smile.
‘I expect I would.’
Thirty yards ahead of them, and without warning, half a dozen armoured men stepped from the undergrowth, their spears ready to throw. It was, now he thought about it, perfect country to defend. If a column of attackers were surprised on the path they would be bottled up like rats in a lead drainpipe. He glanced to one side, and saw armoured men moving through the woods, closing the trap. The centurion on the path ahead demanded the password, and waited to receive it from Perennis without a change of expression.
Password given and accepted, Equitius looked down at the men as they rode past, grim-faced veterans who looked up at him with the disdain to which he’d become accustomed as an auxiliary officer. Regulars, as convinced of their superiority over any other fighting man as they were that the sun would rise the next day. Proud, and nasty with it, habitually taking no prisoners and expecting no quarter. Where a captured auxiliary would be slaughtered without compunction, as a traitor to his own people, a legionary would be saved for more exquisite treatment, to be exacted at leisure if possible. To the tribes they were not simply soldiers of the hated oppressor, but enemy citizens, or as good as, and both feared and hated in greater proportions accordingly.
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 26
