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?’
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…’
‘I’m sorry. I mean… I read your tablet… and he told me that…’
‘I know. I hated the man for the last year of our marriage, and his death has freed me to do whatever I want, within reason, but I still feel guilty about what happened.’
Marcus leaned back against the wall, looking closely at her face.
‘I’m… I…’
‘Yes, Centurion?’
‘I would prefer it if you would call me Marcus. And I’d like to think, given time, of course, that we might…’
‘Be together? Yes, I thought so too. I think I still do. But I do need time to let all this work itself out. Come and see me next time you’re in camp. I won’t be going anywhere in the meanwhile.’
He nodded his understanding, turning for the door.
‘Centurion… Marcus?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Firstly you could stop calling me “ma’am” as if I were some Roman matron. You know my forename…’
He managed a smile in return.
‘Yes, Clodia Drusilla. But, if you’ll forgive me, I won’t use it until I know whether we’re to be friends or something more. Call it superstition. And secondly, ma’am?’
‘You could hold me for a moment. Remind me what male affection feels like.’
He took her in his arms, holding her slim body against his armour and stroking her hair with his right hand. After a long moment she pulled away, smiling again.
‘Next time we do that, I’ll make a point of your not being dressed in twenty pounds of chain mail. We don’t all have a compulsion for men in uniform. Now, off with you, I’ve got work to do.’
Marcus ran the gauntlet of the wounded Tungrians, all of whom had stupid smiles on their faces and some of whom went so far as to wink and nod vigorously at him, pulling his helmet on as he walked out past the guards to cover up his own stupid smile. From the knowing looks and sideways glances he got from the men waiting for him outside the principia, he guessed that the wounded had found some way of passing the news to their colleagues. Thinking what he would have to put up with from Antenoch, he shook his head, only making his men smile more widely behind their hands.
When Equitius emerged from the building half an hour later, the look on his face was neutral, neither happy nor troubled.
‘I’m in command for the rest of the summer, at least, and then we’ll see what happens. There’s still the small matter of a lost eagle to be dealt with, of course. Entire legions have been cashiered for losing their standards, broken up for reinforcements, so who knows what’ll happen when the news reaches Rome…Twentieth and Second Legions are going to camp here for three weeks, since the barbarians will be too busy getting the harvest in to worry much about fighting us for the rest of the month. I’m taking the Sixth south to Yew Grove, to collect three cohorts of reinforcements that are expected there from Gaul within the week. So, you can head west to the Hill and rejoin the cohort. Give Uncle Sextus my thanks for the loan of your men, and tell him that I’ll have a couple of centuries of replacements put to one side for him for when he brings his people back to Noisy Valley. That should get him back to full strength. There’s a troop convoy expected into Arab Town soon with initial reinforcements, real Tungrians from northern Gaul, apparently.’
One more surprise awaited Marcus before he turned his men west. Rounding a corner on his way to the stores, he bumped into a squat man in uniform, his hair cropped short in the military style.
‘Young Marcus!’
‘Quintus!’
They embraced with delight, Rufius standing back to look his friend up and down.
‘A bit thinner, a bit more muscle… and a scar or two, I’d bet. Not to mention an attachment to a rather attractive and recently widowed lady doctor, from what I’ve heard.’
Marcus shook his head in mock anger.
‘Isn’t there anyone in this bloody camp that can mind their own business? But why are you here, and not at the Hill?’
‘I asked Sextus for some leave, and a chance to sort out some of my business affairs. It’s amazing, you go missing for a month or two and suddenly you have to get the money people owe you at the point of a sword. Anyway, tell me what you’ve been up to in the hills since we turned south, you young puppy.’
The older man backed away as Marcus prodded him playfully in the belly with his vine stick.
‘Not so much of the puppy, Centurion, I’ve done a good deal of growing up since we met on the road to Yew Grove.’
Rufius inclined his head gravely.
‘Indeed you have. Do you have time for a drink and a natter?’
They repaired to the officers’ mess and drank local beer while Marcus related what had happened since their parting after the Battle of the Lost Eagle. At length Rufius sat back, nodding his head sagely.
‘You have been busy. At least all this excitement has taken everyone’s mind off looking for a young man called Marcus Valerius Aquila for a while. Let’s hope that bastard Perennis and his Asturian cronies were the only people that knew enough about you to be dangerous. You know that Annius died soon after the Battle of the Lost Eagle? Apparently he was found with an issue spear stuck right through him. Somebody strong must have taken a dislike to him… Anyway, you’re safe now.’
‘That’s to be seen. I hardly look like one of the locals, do I?’
‘True, but you’re among friends. Anyway, I must go. I’m due back on the Hill by nightfall tomorrow, and there’s still a nasty little shopkeeper that owes me three months’ rent on his premises.’
He stood to go, offering his hand to Marcus.
‘One question, Rufius.’
‘If I can answer it.’
‘You were Legatus Sollemnis’s man. Why would he leave me this?’
He tapped the sword’s hilt, raising an eyebrow in question. Rufius looked at him with calculation.
‘Lad, the legatus was a good friend of your father. Think of the risk he took to look after you the way he did. Surely that’s enough reason? Don’t go looking for what isn’t there to be found…’
From the thoughtful look in Marcus’s eye, he wasn’t sure that his bluff had succeeded.
The next day, eager to see the Hill again, the 9th took their leave of the legion and headed west along the road behind t
he Wall, a day’s easy march bringing them to the fort. Marcus dismissed his men to their barracks and a well-earned rest, and went in search of Frontinius. He found the prefect enjoying a moment of quiet relaxation in the cohort’s bathhouse, sitting quietly in the deserted steam room in the quiet of the evening. His wounded knee had healed well enough, although he was careful to hold it out straight in front of him, occasionally flexing the joint experimentally.
‘Well, Centurion, it’s good to see you back from the wilds! How did the Sixth fare after we parted company? Sit down for a sweat and tell me your story. Are you back with us to stay?’
‘The Ninth Century is detached from service with the Sixth Legion, Prefect, with forty-nine effectives and five men still in the Noisy Valley base hospital. Legatus Equitius wants us all back at the Valley by the end of the month, for reinforcement and in case the barbarians decide to have another try. As to our story, there’s nothing much to tell really. We marched round the mountains of the north chasing shadows and lies for a month, and hardly saw a man of fighting age.’
‘All hidden away from reprisals, no doubt. How are your men?’
‘Tired and homesick. Most of them just need a few days’ rest: twelve hours’ sleep a day and no parades…’
‘What about Morban?’
‘He’s still in pieces. His son’s death seems to have robbed him of the will to live.’
‘Hmmm. You might want to get yourself down into the vicus in that case. His son’s woman died suddenly a few days ago, and I hear her mother’s come to collect her grandchild. If Morban’s been knocked sideways by his lad’s death I’d imagine he’ll be devastated when he finds he’s about to lose his grandson as well…’
Marcus took his leave, dressed hurriedly and headed down to the south gate, stopping a retired soldier in the vicus’s street to ask for directions. At the door to the small house indicated he stopped, hearing voices from within.
‘No, Morban, the boy has to come with me. Who’s going to look after him if he stays here? You won’t be around most of the time, and what sort of example will you set to the boy. By all accounts you drink, you whore and I know for a fact that you swear all the time. He comes with me!’
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 36
