Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Legatus, with respect ...’

  The senior officer silenced him with a raised hand.

  ‘No, Prefect, the respect comes from this side of our short relationship. Your auxiliaries fought like praetorians here. You know how to manage soldiers, and you come with a ready-made reputation. With Perennis dead, my only other option would be to promote a young man from my own staff, and there’s none of them your equal. The Petriana’s prefect told me not to bother asking him, and since they’re our most potent weapon I’m happy to leave him in post. I can’t guarantee you the position in the longer term, but you’ll lead the Sixth for the rest of the summer, and you’ll have the title and status that go with the responsibility. You’ll be able to retire to a nice civil job even if you’re not confirmed in position, and in the meanwhile your family will be quartered in the Yew Grove headquarters. So, don’t tell me you won’t accept my offer, because I’m not minded to let you refuse.’

  The prefect closed his eyes for a moment, wearily considering the options.

  ‘Who succeeds me here?’

  ‘I presume your First Spear’s competent?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then there’s no urgent need to find a man of the equestrian class to replace you. Let that wait for calmer days. For the time being your men need a familiar face to look up to, not a new one they didn’t see on this bloody hillside today.’

  ‘Very well, Legatus, I will accept your generous offer.’

  ‘Good. Take a few minutes to brief your people and then take command of the Sixth at once. You’ll find them regrouping at the far end of valley if my order to halt their pursuit reached them. I’ll let you have the Frisians and the Raetians as temporary reinforcement to bring your legion up over half-strength. Oh, and have the two Tungrian cohorts pull back to the Wall. I want some rear-area security on the road between here and Yew Grove, besides which it will give them a breather. We’ll need them back in the campaign soon enough.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The new legatus turned to go, then turned back.

  ‘I presume that you’ve found Legatus Sollemnis’s body?’

  ‘Yes, he died on his feet, it seems. He’d been beheaded, though. I hear these wretched people sometimes preserve the head of an enemy in the oil of the cedar. Perhaps when you recover his lost eagle you’ll be able to bring him some peace too.’

  ‘Did you find his sword?’

  ‘Indeed, my First Spear has it. I’ll return it to his family when I go back to Rome at the end of the year.’

  ‘I know Sollemnis’s son better than most people. It would be my honour to return the weapon to him ...’

  The legate called his senior centurion over, took an oilskin-wrapped package from him and presented it with obvious relief.

  ‘I’m happy to have the responsibility off my shoulders. I’ve never once enjoyed seeing the faces of the relatives when I pitch up with their loved ones’ personal effects ... Anyway, Legatus, away and get your new command pulled into shape. I’ll see you at tonight’s commanders’ conference.’

  He turned away and picked his way gingerly down the hillside, watched by the remaining Tungrians. Frontinius hobbled over to the prefect, a question on his face.

  ‘I’m a legatus, Sextus, new commander of the Sixth, or what’s left of them ...’

  Frontinius congratulated him with genuine warmth, delighted for his friend.

  ‘You will always be able to count on our support, Legatus. Might I enquire as to your replacement?’

  ‘For the time being you’re in command here. In the longer term I expect there’ll be a queue of suitable candidates ...’

  Frontinius nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll make the most of my brief moment in the sun. Our orders?’

  ‘Get your dead underground with dignity and then move to join the legions. They’ll be camping back on the hill we used last night, I believe. I suggest that you use the Sixth Legion’s supplies since they’re several thousand men down on their establishment. Tomorrow morning you’ll be marching for the Rock as fast as you can alongside the Second Cohort, and will secure what’s left of the fort ...’

  Equitius’s face creased into a frown.

  ‘... and no, it isn’t a quiet option for you, or any sign that I consider your command as unfit for battle. There are probably several thousand barbarians still milling about to our rear in a variety of groupings, and while I expect them to take to the hills once news of this action gets out, some of them still might be tempted to try a run south instead. In truth we’ve little enough between here and Yew Grove that we can trust to get in their way. Securing the crossroads south of the Wall is my first priority, after enjoying the sight of Calgus’s head on a pole and seeing the Sixth’s eagle back in the hands of a bad-tempered standard-bearer. I’ll ask for a century of cavalry from the Petriana to scout ahead of you, and to maintain contact with the main body of the army ...’

  The new prefect nodded his understanding.

  ‘... and now I must leave. Before I go, I need one favour from you.’

  Frontinius nodded.

  ‘Legatus?’

  ‘I need a bodyguard, just a few tent parties. These men don’t know me, and I don’t know them. I’d feel safer with a few close friends between me and the blue-faces.’

  ‘Got anybody in mind?’

  Equitius looked out over the battlefield, still amazed at the slaughter committed across the valley’s green slopes.

  ‘I thought I might ask you for the Ninth Century, or what’s left of them. Young Corvus ought to be safe enough with Perennis out of the way ... and at some point I need to give him this.’

  Frontinius peered inside the oilskin package as Equitius opened it to display the weapon inside, taking in the sword’s fine workmanship.

  ‘Very pretty. Sollemnis?’

  ‘Yes. Tradition says it goes to his oldest son ...’

  ‘And now might not be quite the right time for that story to be told.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Frontinius nodded.

  ‘Very well, Legatus, the Ninth it is. Just remember we want them back.’

  For the 9th the next month passed as quickly as the previous week. Sixth Legion, reinforced by the addition of the two auxiliary cohorts, giving it an effective strength of six cohorts, marched into the north, while the 20th and the 2nd legions pulled back to hold the Wall and start the task of rebuilding its shattered forts. The legions’ task, carried out day after unremitting day, was to sweep the open countryside for tribal bands on the run after what had quickly became known to both army and the unwilling populace through which they moved as the Battle of the Lost Eagle. After the first week, with the weather turning sour and wind-driven drizzle working its way into armour and equipment, bringing the scourge of rust without constant care, the experience soon began to pall.

  Waking before dawn, often in driving rain as a succession of cloud banks swept across the country, the legion was routinely on its feet until after dark, an eighteen-hour day at that time of the year and longer for men standing guard in the night. Moving into the increasingly mountainous country in search of the fleeing barbarians exposed them to likely ambush and inevitable pinprick attacks, knives in the dark and snatched bow shots from hidden archers who frequently escaped their clutches.

  Intelligence gathered by their native scouts told Equitius that the captured eagle, and with it Sollemnis’s head, went before them, tantalisingly close to recapture, and for the sake of his dead friend he pushed its pursuit for longer than might have been judged prudent. Each village and farm they encountered greeted their passing with forced indifference, as if neither side knew that refugees from the battle were hidden close by. Even the petty revenges of searching the rough dwellings, stealing any valuables their inhabitants were stupid enough not to have hidden, and the confiscation and slaughter of the farm animals for food, did little to lift the spirits of men who knew their enemy was laughing at their failure to retake the legion’s pr
ecious standard.

  Marcus’s men held up well enough, helped by the distraction of keeping Morban from dwelling on his loss. The burly standard-bearer didn’t sleep, lost weight and volunteered for guard duty at every opportunity, seeking activity to prevent opportunities to brood over his son’s death in the battle’s last minutes. Some of the century attempted to use humour to keep his spirits up. Marcus overheard two of his men attempting to lighten the standard-bearer’s mood in camp late one evening.

  ‘Morban, how many legion road-builders does it take to light a lamp?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Five – one to light it and four lazy bastards leaning on their shovels to watch!’

  The other soldier chipped in.

  ‘Morban, how many stores staff does it take to light a lamp?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ten – one to light it and nine to do the paperwork!’

  The first man started back in.

  ‘Morban, how many prostitutes does it take to light a lamp?’

  ‘Look, just ...’

  ‘Looks like one, but she’s only faking it!’

  Morban smiled sadly as he stood to leave.

  ‘Look, lads, I know you’re just trying to cheer me up, and that last one wasn’t too bad, but just give it a rest, eh?’

  Dubnus spoke darkly to Marcus on the subject, an unusual frown on his face.

  ‘The next action we see, he’ll take his first chance to jump into the blue-faces and get killed. Which is bad enough, but I wouldn’t trust some of the lads not to jump in behind him and try to save him ...’

  They agreed to keep an eye on their friend, and in the event of impending battle to make sure he was kept away from the shield wall. Marcus knew it could only be a temporary solution.

  With the legionnaires visibly losing their edge under the constant strain, and without any indication that they might regain the legion’s badge of honour any time soon, Equitius was forced to bow to the inevitable. Standing in camp late one evening, watching the troops labour over yet another turf wall in the orange light of the setting sun, he turned to Marcus and looked at the young centurion properly for the first time in over a week.

  ‘You look tired, Centurion, in need of a decent bath and a cup of a decent red ...’

  Marcus straightened his back reflexively, opening eyes that had narrowed to slits in anticipation and need of sleep.

  ‘Relax, I wasn’t finding fault. The gods know I could sweat a helmet full of dirt given the chance. And as for a decent drink ... anyway, I’ve come to a decision. Tomorrow we’ll have a rest day, give the cohorts a chance to get their tunics clean and polish the rust off their swords.’

  Marcus nodded gratefully.

  ‘And the day after?’

  ‘We turn south. Four or five days’ march ought to see us back to the Wall.’

  ‘We’re giving up the hunt?’

  ‘Yes. They’re playing with us, you know, spreading rumours to lead us round the countryside like a bull being pulled round the farmyard by the ring in its nose. Soon enough Calgus will lure us into some nasty ambush or other, cost us more men we can’t afford to lose, and I don’t intend to give him the satisfaction. It’s time to go home and wait for reinforcements from Gaul.’

  A shaft of orange sunlight lit the camp, and Equitius stretched luxuriously in the warm glow.

  ‘Share a beaker with me, Centurion?’

  They sat in Equitius’s private tent, pitched alongside the massive command tent, and sipped their wine. For a while neither spoke. At last Equitius broke the silence.

  ‘I don’t suppose the last year has been anything other than a waking nightmare for you. If it’s any consolation, you’ve acquitted yourself better than I could have imagined when we took you in, back in the month of Mars. With hindsight, though, you were never going to fail this test. Not with your blood. I’ve been waiting for the right time to give you something, and now seems as good a time as any ...’

  He pulled the oilskin package from under his camp bed, putting it in Marcus’s hands with a smile.

  ‘It belonged to Legatus Sollemnis. He wanted you to have it ...’

  Marcus unwrapped the sword, looking closely at the hilt’s ornate decoration and inlay before pulling it from the scabbard and testing its fine balance.

  ‘It’s a beautiful weapon ...’

  ‘So it should be. I was with him when he bought it and it cost him more money than I would ever have spent on a sword. It served him with honour too, right across the empire in the service of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.’

  ‘I’m honoured. But why me?’

  ‘He spoke to me the night before the Battle of the Lost Eagle. Perhaps he had a premonition, I don’t know, but he asked me to make sure that the sword went to you if he should be killed the next day. I’d say he wanted it to go to someone that will bring it further honour. Besides, you’re about the right age to have been the son he always wanted ...’

  He hovered close to breaking his promise to Frontinius at that moment, resisting the urge to tell Marcus the truth only with an effort of will.

  ‘And now, Centurion, you can get that lamp fuel down your neck and fetch the senior centurions to come and see me. The sooner that lot out there know they’ve got a day of rest tomorrow the happier we’ll all be.’

  The depleted legion turned south the day after next as promised and, with thoughts of home in their hearts, made the journey back to the Wall in four days. At Noisy Valley, where buildings were being thrown up to replace those burned out to deny the warband their supplies, the other legions had set about building a temporary camp to house them until they could march south to their fortresses at the campaign’s end. Equitius went looking for the 20th’s legate to make his report, taking Marcus and a tent party of his men as close escort. They found the Northern Command’s new general in his freshly erected wooden principia, a clutch of legion tribunes and senior centurions gathered around him as they planned the campaign’s next moves. Dismissing his escort for the time being, Equitius approached Legatus Macrinus and made his salute before joining the group.

  Marcus took his men outside to wait for the legatus, sitting them down in the early afternoon’s warmth with a quiet order to Dubnus to keep them busy polishing their helmets, and to call him when Equitius had completed his duties inside, then headed for the infirmary. The legionaries guarding the hospital confirmed that there were Tungrian wounded inside. He found a couple of dozen of them, including five of his own men, sporting bandages and, in a couple of cases, fracture splints. Their delight at the visit was obvious, and they sat him down on a bed and plied him with questions on the state of the campaign.

  It soon became clear that they knew more about what was going on than he did, and the consensus was that there was another advance to the north planned before the end of the summer. The Tungrians had been sent back to the Hill a few days before for a week’s leave and to do whatever recruiting was possible locally to boost their strength, but were scheduled to return to the swiftly growing legionary fortress that Noisy Valley was becoming for further duty. Yes, they were all well enough, although several of their mates had died in the difficult days of the march south from the battlefield, too badly hurt to survive for the most part, but the care in the hospital had saved several others, particularly that from one doctor, the last said with much rolling of eyes and significant nods.

  Marcus, knowing exactly where the conversation was going, smiled weakly and took his leave, promising to remember them to their friends and, if time allowed, to send their mates in to see them. In truth he’d forced himself to forget her, assisted by the strains of the last month, and being reminded of her existence was like having an ice-cold dagger twisted in his soul. Turning away, he came face to face with Felicia, who had been standing watching him with his men with a small smile on her face. He froze with uncertainty, blushing uncontrollably.

  ‘Centurion. I trust you find your men in good condition?’

&nb
sp; Recovering his wits, he bowed formally.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m told that almost everyone that made it here survived. The Tungrian cohort is in your debt.’

  She smiled, and Marcus’s heart leapt in his chest.

  ‘That’s probably no recommendation for our care. Anyone that survived that journey was probably going to live anyway ...’

  The more vocal of the Tungrians butted in indignantly on her behalf, one of them volunteering to remove his bandages and show Marcus the truly horrible wound the doctor had cleaned with delicate care three times a day, picking out the dead flesh so carefully that he hadn’t even felt her working, until Marcus’s irritation overcame his embarrassment, and he shooed the men back to their beds. With order restored, he turned back to Felicia with fresh confidence.

  ‘If their exuberance is any guide, I’d say you’ve done a fine job on them, Doctor. Perhaps we could discuss their likely further treatment somewhere a little quieter, and I’ll pass your diagnosis on to their prefect when I see him next.’

  She smiled a secret smile, beckoning him down the ward and into her tiny office. In the small room, lit by the sun’s light through an open window, he noticed that her tunic was not dark blue, as he’d supposed in the less well-illuminated ward, but simple black. She followed his gaze and pursed her lips.

  ‘My husband was killed in that battle you fought against the barbarians.’

  Marcus frowned, confused.

  ‘He was alive the last time I saw him.’

  ‘It happened later in the day, apparently, during the pursuit. His cohort cornered a barbarian band which turned and fought them to the death. He was found dead after the fight. It was a spear apparently, although the circumstances seem to have been confused ...’