Wounds of Honour e-1

by Anthony Riches

  ‘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 moment 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. Frontinius briefed Prefect Equitius an hour later, once the excitement of a full cohort stand-to was over and the centuries had gone grumbling back to their interrupted sleep. He’d been on the scene in minutes with the duty century, but only in time to greet the 9th’s men as they carried their casualties off the hill.

  ‘It was nothing really, just a few barbarian scouts running into our listening patrols. It was too dark for much serious fighting, and what there was seems to have been scrappy. More like a vicus bar brawl than a real fight. The turning point appears to have been one of our lads going into a blood rage in the middle of the skirmish and slicing up several of the barbarians, after which they seem to have thought better of the whole thing. We’ve got a man dead and two wounded, one light sword wound and a nasty-looking concussion. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the man with the concussion is our very own Roman centurion, his helmet stove in by a barbarian with a strong club arm.’

  Equitius groaned.

  ‘So now he’s stuck in the fort hospital for any and all to see?’

  Frontinius shook his head.

  ‘No, I spent a few minutes with the doctor and had him hidden away in a quiet part of the building, away from curious eyes. I’ve also told the Ninth to keep the news of his injury to themselves. The Prince can run the century for the next day or two.’

  Equitius nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘So this might even work to our advantage, and keep him out of sight until it’s time to deploy into the field.’

  Frontinius snorted a mirthless laugh.

  ‘Yes. And we get to find out if his skull is thick enough to keep his educated brains in one piece, or whether the blue-noses have just solved our problem for us.’ Light pricked at Marcus’s eyes as they struggled to open. He could see only a ball of light, with a dark figure floating behind it. Closing his eyes, and surrendering to the darkness again, and whatever it was that was happening, seemed much the easiest thing to do.

  When he woke again the metallic taste in his mouth was gone, and the light that greeted his cautious gaze was that of weak daylight, a pale shaft through a window in one wall of the room in which he lay, still exhausted, in a narrow bed. Underneath heavy blankets he was naked, while his head ached awfully. A familiar voice called out from close by.

  ‘Orderly! Orderly, you dozy bastard! Fetch the doctor! He’s awake.’

  The owner of the voice came back into the room and, fighting his eyes back into focus, Marcus recognised an exhausted-looking Antenoch.

  ‘Lie still, the doctor’s coming.’

  He sat down in a chair at Marcus’s bedside, running a hand through his disordered hair.

  ‘We thought for a while you might not live, you were out of it for so long. Only the helmet saved you, and you should see the dent in that! You won’t be…’

  He stopped in mid-sentence, as another figure entered the room. Marcus gingerly turned his head to see the new arrival, blinking at the sunlight, recognising the doctor with a shock.

  ‘You… but you’re a…’

  ‘A woman? Evidently your concussion hasn’t entirely removed your cognitive powers, Centurion Corvus.’

  It was the woman from the farm… an image of her fury at the sight of slaughtered cattle flashed into his mind. Felicia…? His memory grasped for the name, making his brow knot with the effort.

  … Clodia Drusilla? Felicia Clodia Drusilla! He raised an arm, the limb seeming heavy.

  ‘Water… please?’

  Antenoch put a cup to his lips, the liquid ungluing his mouth and throat.

  ‘Thank you. Madam, I am…’

  ‘Surprised?’

  Her eyebrow arched in a challenge that Marcus knew was completely beyond his faltering capabilities.

  ‘… grateful for your care.’

  He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his body sag against the bed with exhaustion. Her voice reached him, as if from a distant place.

  ‘And now, Master Antenoch, it’s time for you both to get some proper sleep. Go back to your unit and sleep for at least ten hours. Here, I’ll make it a formal written command… there, “to sleep for ten hours without interruption”. Give that tablet to your chosen man. And tell him that the centurion will be ready to receive visitors tomorrow afternoon at the very earliest…’ Calgus stood astride the Wall with his adviser Aed as the sun set that evening, watching his warriors pouring back to the north through the North Road’s smashed gates. They were moving in good order for the most part, one or two supporting comrades clearly the worse for drink, but if individuals had overindulged in captured wine it was of little concern to him. Behind them the fortress of the Rock was still smearing the sky with the grey reek of its smouldering timbers, while torches were being lit by his marching troops to provide illumination for the night movement. All things considered, he mused, he had enough reason to be satisfied as his first attack played to its close. At length his adviser Aed spoke, his opinions delivered with the customary candour that Calgus valued, where most others would tell him simply what he wanted to hear.

  ‘So, my king, their Wall is broken, the garrison troops huddle anxiously around the
ir forts to east and west, and their Sixth Legion seems content simply to prevent our advance on Yew Grove. Some of our people see this as victory enough, while others argue for striking west or south and destroying the Roman forces before they can join. We must explain our next moves soon, before the tribes fall to arguing among themselves. A lack of Roman shields to batter will have our peoples at each others’ throats before long.’

  Calgus spat on to the Wall’s flat surface, his face twisting into a sneer.

  ‘I will gut the first men who take swords to their brothers myself, you can let that be known. As for the Romans, I’ve told the tribal leaders that our cleverest move is the one we’re making now, to pull back from the Wall and let them follow into the uncertain lands to the north if they dare. The right move is to pull back, and invite them onwards on to our ground. Of course, it would have been different if our western warband had not failed to break the Wall to the west, behind the traitor cohorts. If we could have put the soldiers waiting to the west between two forests of spears and with no place left to run, that would have been a blade to their guts I would have twisted without hesitation.’

  Aed nodded, his face impassive.

  ‘I understand, my lord. Yet I must tell you that at this moment our only real fear is the warband itself, or more particularly its urgent desire for battle. Real battle. The tribes grumble that their war so far has been one of chasing after fleeing Romans and burning empty forts. Lord Calgus, the northern tribes are clamouring for a proper fight, a fight we currently deny them.’

  Calgus nodded at the advice. After the council of the tribes the previous evening he was already aware of the problem. He had called the gathering of tribal leaders knowing that he would at the least have to listen to their arguments for their warriors to run amok down the line of forts that garrisoned the Wall. These were arguments made stronger by the speed with which the defenders had evacuated their forts, rather than fight for their homes. Put simply, the defenders seemed ripe for taking, ready to fall under the tribes’ attacks. He’d listened patiently until their arguments dried up in the face of his silent contemplation. When silence had fallen and all men in the gathering he’d called were waiting for him to say something, he’d voiced his opinion.