Wounds of Honour e-1

by Anthony Riches

  Antenoch, one of the more skilled rampart builders, threw down the turf he was holding in disgust, watching his officer’s more or less clean mail shirt swiftly deteriorate under his first muddy load. He nudged Dubnus, who had graciously made a great show of accepting his presence in the century, who in turn set out to intercept his centurion, but a raised hand forestalled his comment.

  ‘The more bodies involved, the quicker we finish. I can’t supervise the wall building, and I can’t cut turf or build the rampart with any expertise. The century is all working, I’ll bet most of the officers are working, and I’m damned if I’ll stand by and watch. Get on with making that rampart sound, and you can teach me the basics later.’

  Frontinius walked past on an inspection a few minutes later, searched without success for the centurion’s distinctive crested helmet, and was about to ask Dubnus where his officer was when he made out just who the slightly grubby figure delivering turfs to the wall-building gang was. He stood and watched as the tired centurion headed back out to the turf cutters, nodded to himself and then, with a raised eyebrow to Dubnus, went on his way.

  With the wall declared complete, high enough to slow an attacker’s charge to a walking pace and make excellent spear targets of anyone crossing the obstacle, the cohorts went to dinner, with the exception of the guard units, who paid for their inactivity during the building work with a later meal. Fed, the men turned their hands to their domestic chores in the flickering torchlight, making hurried repairs to clothing and equipment, well-worn jokes and insults flying between the working men in equal measure as they relaxed tired limbs and minds. Their last task was to remove the worst of the day’s dirt from their uniforms and faces. A delegation from the 9th promptly demanded Marcus’s dirt-caked mail, which they brushed out and returned with a polished gleam.

  As the troops turned in for the night, huddled into their blankets and packed tight in their eight-man tents, the officers were called to the headquarters tent for their briefing. Equitius, who had returned just before sunset, ordered the tired centurions to stand easy.

  ‘As you know, I met with the Sixth’s legatus early this afternoon. Our situation is more than stabilised — it has become, on the whole, favourable. The Sixth is camped in this forest here…’

  He pointed to a point on their rough map twenty miles distant.

  ‘Second and Twentieth Legions have reached the Wall and are marching along the main road to join us. They’ll probably arrive some time the day after tomorrow. Sollemnis plans to tackle the warband during that day with everything we can throw at it, and as quickly as possible, before it can gather any more spears. Even if it means starting the attack before the Second and Twentieth arrive. So, we break camp in the morning and march with all speed to join the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings, which are currently holding position ten miles to the north-west. The Sixth will also move tomorrow, with the intention of joining our forces together and forcing a decisive action. Once we have their position fixed we’ll gauge how best to bring them to battle but, and I emphasise this, we’ll only fight if we can bring the legion and our own spears to bear, and on the right terrain for our tactics. Together we’re twelve thousand men with the cavalry wings, quite enough to make a mess of twice our number of undisciplined barbarians on the right ground. So, go and get some sleep and have your men ready to move at first light. We’ve got a long marching day in front of us tomorrow.’

  Marcus headed back to his tent, eager to roll up in his blanket and snatch a few hours’ sleep. As he took his boots off something poked him in the ribs, and he remembered the tablet the orderly had given him that morning, hastily pushed into a tunic pocket and then forgotten in the rush of the day. Opening it, he leaned over close to the single lamp, straining to read the stylus marks on the tablet’s hard wax.

  ‘Marcus, thank you for last night. If I were not already taken, you would be my choice. It’s cruel how the fates conspire to make this clear only after it’s too late. With my love.’ The next day dawned to a thin summer drizzle, accompanied by a sharp wind to mercifully cool the hard-marching cohorts. Goaded by their centurions to a brisk pace, and for once grateful for the absence of unobstructed sunlight, they headed up the North Road towards the abandoned outpost fort at Red River. In the 9th, half a mile ahead of the leading units since the Tungrians were leading the column, nobody was in any doubt as to what they should expect.

  ‘Roaring River Fort burnt to the ground, although I dare say they scoured the place for weapons first. Red River won’t be any different.’

  Dubnus nodded grimly at Morban’s words as they marched, remembering the scene as the cohorts had marched past the shattered remnants of the Roaring River Fort the previous day. In peacetime the fort had been home to a sizeable detachment of auxiliaries, usually rotated out of the Wall units for six months at a time. Positioned north of the Wall, it also attracted more than its share of hangers-on — prostitutes, thieves, merchants and pedlars, all keen to part the soldiers, separated from their usual environment and loved ones, from their money in any way possible.

  The warband had evidently come down the North Road fast enough that the evacuating troops had found little time to worry about the occupants of the fort’s ramshackle settlements, who had themselves either taken swift flight or paid a severe price for their collaboration. Fifty or sixty men had been nailed to the remaining standing timbers at Roaring River, another twenty farther south at Fort Habitus, all of them smeared with tar and then set ablaze. Only the blackened husks of their bodies had remained, along with an overpowering stench of burnt flesh. Of the women there’d been no sign, although their fate wasn’t hard to imagine. There wasn’t a man in the cohort that hadn’t imagined the same fate for his own fort and shuddered. Already the mood among the troops had changed, from one of concern as to what they might come up against in the field to a hunger to get some revenge, spill barbarian guts and take heads.

  The same thought was obviously on Equitius’s mind, for he ran forward with Frontinius and a twenty-man bodyguard from the 5th and caught up with the 9th at the milestone three miles before they reached the Red River fort.

  ‘It’s off the road here, I think, and time for you scouts to start earning your corn. If this Calgus is half the commander he’s cracked up to be they’ll have Red River under watch, and I’d rather stay incognito for the time being.’

  He looked to either side, then pointed off to their left, at rising ground stretching up to a distant line of trees.

  ‘We’ll wait here on the road until you report that the path ahead to that forest is clear.’

  The 9th went in the direction indicated, off the road to the left, and started up a narrow farmer’s track that led to a rude hut, the abandoned farmer’s dwelling, then on up to the treeline. The woods, three hundred yards distant across the abandoned field, were an uncertain refuge, however. Morban took a good hard look and spat derisively into the dust.

  ‘Cocidius above, the entire warband could be in that lot and we’d never know it.’

  Marcus turned back to grin at the standard-bearer.

  ‘That’s what the prefect meant when he said it was time to earn our corn. Want to take the standard back to the main body?’

  ‘And risk getting jumped on my own on the way back? No, thank you very much, sir, I’ll risk it here with a few dozen swords between my soft flesh and the enemy.’

  ‘Very well. Chosen, we’ll have a party of scouts up that path as soon as you like, the rest of the century to observe from here until we know what’s behind the trees. Nice and steady, no need for shouting or rushing about.’

  Dubnus nodded, walking through the troops and picking his scouts by hand, briefing them in measured tones rather than the usual parade-ground roar. The five men chosen shook out into an extended line across the field, then started climbing the slope at a measured pace, slow enough that they had time to strip ears of corn from the standing crop. They nibbled at the immature kernels as they moved through
the thigh-deep green carpet.

  ‘Look at those lucky bastards, just strolling in the country and chewing some poor bloody farmer’s wheat.’

  Morban spun to glare at the speaker, the soldier Scarface, shaking the bagged standard at the man, then whispered at him sotto voce.

  ‘Shut your mouth, you stupid sod. Firstly, it’s them risking a spear in the guts, not you, so a few nibbles of corn isn’t exactly a great reward. Secondly, if your bellowing brings a fucking great warband down out of those trees before the rest of the cohort gets here to die with us, I am personally going to stick this standard right up your arse before they cut my head off. Statue end first!’

  Scarface hung his head, red faced. Tongue lashings from Morban, while not exactly rare, were usually less vehement.

  The scouts progressed up the slope, vanishing into the trees together as if at some preordained signal. After a moment a man reappeared at the wood’s edge, waving them to come forward with some urgency. The century went up the track at the double, Marcus leading the way in his eagerness to see what had animated the man. Antenoch drew his sword and stayed close to his centurion, his eyes moving across the trees with hard suspicion as they ran up the slope. Morban, hurrying along behind them, muttered an insult at the clerk’s back.

  ‘What’s the matter, Antenoch, hasn’t he paid you yet this month?’

  Inside the wood, in the shade and quiet, Marcus found two of the scouts conferring over something, while the other three were dimly visible fifty or sixty yards distant, moving deeper into the trees. There were flies swarming in the still air, their scratchy buzz sawing at his nerves as they criss-crossed the scene. The man who had waved them up the track, now recognisable as Cyclops, gestured to the ground with some excitement.

  ‘They were here all right, sir, a day ago, perhaps two.’

  Marcus looked. In a small pit, dug a foot or so into the earth, a pile of human excrement and small animal bones formed an untidy still life, a small cloud of buzzing flies still feasting on their find. He turned to find Dubnus at his shoulder. The chosen man looked down into the pit, then squatted down and poked at one of the stools with a twig.

  ‘These men got lazy, didn’t bury their leavings properly. Cyclops, look for other pits, probably filled in. See how many you can find. Two Knives, you need to brief the prefect. This is a day old from the feel of it, no more, or the flies would have lost interest by now. These were probably the men that torched Red River, set an ambush here in case there were Roman forces in the area to come to the rescue. These woods would easily conceal a whole warband, and hide their fires…’

  ‘Sir!’

  The call came from the scouts deeper into the woods. Marcus shot a glance at them.

  ‘Dubnus, you brief the prefect, I’ll see what’s got their attention.’

  He went on into the woods, the century spreading out to either side, spears and shields held ready. The scouts beckoned him on, pointing to the ground. Now that he took the time to look he saw that the damp earth was pressed flat for a hundred yards in all directions, the marks of many boots. Most of the prints, the most recent, were pointed in the same direction. West.

  11

  The cavalrymen’s horses fretted at their reins, impatient to be away from the plodding infantry column and free to run. The prefect had a dozen horsemen, his escort from the 6th’s camp, to use as swift messengers in the absence of the Petriana’s courier riders. Four were to be loosed now, tasked to ride north-east and find the oncoming legion, to warn them that a second warband was in the field. The headquarters clerks finished coding the message with the day’s cipher and a centurion whisked the tablets out to the waiting horsemen.

  Equitius scratched his beard, increasingly itchy as the spartan field regime of cold-water washing took its toll on his cleanliness. He’d manoeuvred the column off the road and into the woods, then dropped his five cohorts into a swift defensive posture while he composed his message to Sollemnis. Another warband on the move gave Calgus much greater ability to threaten any advancing Roman force, manoeuvre to strike at a flank or rear while the first held their attention. Even more than before he knew the critical importance of adding their four thousand spears to those of the legion, for both their sakes. He raised an eyebrow questioningly at Frontinius.

  ‘And now, First Spear, before I call the other prefects to confer, your advice, please. Do we push forward to our meeting point with the legion, or make a more cautious approach? There could be ten thousand or more spears waiting for us out there.’

  Frontinius pondered, rubbing his scalp.

  ‘I say we hump forward to join with the Sixth as quickly as we can. Better to be part of a combined force than wait about out here for the barbarians to find us. The Ninth can scout forward half a mile in advance, make sure we don’t fall into any nasty little traps.’

  Equitius nodded his agreement, turning to walk away.

  ‘Very well, I’ll get the other cohorts ready to move. You’d better get the Ninth on the job.’ The day’s advance was for the most part a non-event. The 9th went forward at a steady pace while individual tent parties were directed to any feature of the rolling ground capable of concealing an enemy. Every copse, every wrinkle in the ground, was investigated by nervous soldiers, their caution easing as the day grew older and still no sign of the enemy was found. The beaten path left by the warband’s passage had turned gradually away to the north-west, while the cohorts’ meeting point with the 6th lay directly to the west.

  By the middle of the afternoon the wind had died away to nothing, and the soldiers were starting to get hot and irritable under the burden of their armour. Helmets were removed and hung around the troops’ necks, allowing the sweat to evaporate from their scalps rather than soak into their helmet liners, and water skins became an increasing source of temptation when a centurion’s back was turned. One of the questing tent parties, investigating a small clump of trees just off the line of march, beckoned Marcus and Dubnus forward with frantically waved hands, the rest of the century deploying to either side in guard positions. In the middle of the copse was a grim scene, already busy with flies and stinking of decay’s onset. Half a dozen men lay dead, one with his throat cut untidily wide open, the others with combat wounds. Dubnus examined the bodies, looking at each one’s blue tattoos with care.

  ‘They’re from the same tribe, but four of the bodies are from one family group, two from another. They must have quarrelled…’

  He moved one of the bodies with his foot, pulling a hunting bow from an indignant cloud of flies, a quiver of a dozen heavy iron-tipped arrows tied to the weapon.

  ‘… and they must have been in a hurry to leave to have missed this. I’d guess that some of the losers escaped, and the winners headed for the warband, eager to get their version of events in front of their tribal elders first.’

  He strapped the bow across his back, having tested the tautness of its string. Frontinius came forward with the runner sent to fetch him, and surveyed the scene unhappily. He looked hard at the bodies, then nodded agreement to Dubnus.

  ‘You’re right, a family squabble by the look of things. This could have been a scouting party, or just a group of men on their way to join the warband, but either way, it tells us that we’re too close to the main force for my comfort. We’ll push on as planned, but I want extra vigilance from here.’

  The rest of the afternoon, however, passed without incident, at least until the 9th spotted a line of horse-drawn carts against the dark green mass of the next line of hills, and a row of machines made tiny by the distance.

  ‘Legion artillery train,’ Morban grunted. ‘The rest of them’ll be on top of the hills digging out a camp while those lazy bastards sit on their arses.’

  They stopped to wait for the cohorts to catch up with them, unwilling to advance out towards the line of bolt throwers and catapults until everyone knew exactly who they were. Legion artillerymen were notoriously quick to fire at almost anything that moved, and their w
eapons were capable of punching a bolt through a man at four hundred paces. Once the cohorts had advanced to their position Frontinius took the 9th forward at a cautious pace, until a detachment of the legion’s cavalry galloped over to investigate them. Their decurion nodded recognition, saluted Frontinius and pointed up the hillside.

  ‘The Sixth’s up there digging in, First Spear, and you’re invited to join them as soon as possible. There’s probably twenty thousand enemy spears within a half-day’s march of here, and the legatus’s keen to get everyone into defensive positions for the night.’

  They marched past the supply train, eyeing the evil-looking bolt throwers, painted with names like ‘Maneater’ and ‘Ribsplitter’, and their lounging crews, then climbed the hill’s long slope until they reached the crest, where a scene from a hundred field exercises greeted them. The legion’s six thousand men were labouring like slaves, a steady flow of cut turfs flowing to the rampart building gangs. The 6th’s camp prefect strode out to meet them, pointing over the temporary fort’s rising walls to a point on the far side.

  ‘Glad to see you, prefect, your last message put the wind up everyone. We’d like your cohorts on the eastern face, since that’s the side where the slope’s shallowest.’

  Equitius shot a wry smile at Frontinius before replying.

  ‘I’ll take the fact that you want us to protect the most vulnerable face of the camp as a vote of confidence, Prefect. I presume that if we come under attack you’ll consider yourselves invited to the party?’

  Later, dug in and fed, their artillery placed around the camp and their watch fires set twice over to delude enemy scouts as to the size of their force until the camp seemed ablaze, the troops sat uneasily in their tent parties and centuries, mulling over the likelihood of action the next day. The older men passed down their wisdom, such as it was, to the younger troops, while officers and their chosen men circulated their commands, each seeking in his own way to bolster their morale. The circulation of officers was not restricted to the junior ranks either. Late in the evening Legatus Sollemnis walked into the Tungrians’ lines, a dozen-man bodyguard walking about him with jealous eyes. He clasped hands with Equitius, and joined him in the headquarters tent for a cup of wine.