Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  Calgus laughed softly, recalling his first encounter with the Roman traitor who had proved the key to their initial triumph over the Roman 6th Legion.

  ‘Aye, there’s a story. I’ll recount it to you in full one night, when we’ve run the Romans off our land for good, but for now trust me when I tell you that this is a risk I cannot avoid. Not if I am to bring about the great victory we need to get their dirty feet off our land.’

  The warrior bowed and stood aside, watching as the men of his chieftain’s bodyguard ducked through the artfully concealed opening in the palisade that surrounded the camp and moved out into the trees ahead of the king, their spears ready to throw and their eyes on the forest about them. Turning back to his men, he gestured for them to continue their guard duty, looking across the camp long and hard to ensure that no early riser had spotted Calgus’s quiet departure. When he turned back to the forest, the small group of men was already out of sight, hidden by the profusion of vegetation that flourished between the thick trunks of the oaks.

  The small party made cautious progress through the silent forest, using a hunter’s track through the dense undergrowth which had seen little recent use, to judge by the luxuriant foliage growing across it. They broke off the line of their march several times to wait quietly in the cover of the thick undergrowth, in hopes of surprising any attempt at following them through the forest’s gloom. By midday they were crouched in the shelter of a fallen tree at the bottom of a valley about five miles from their camp.

  ‘No, my lord, we are not followed.’ The leader of the warlord’s personal guard shook his head with absolute certainty, his voice pitched low enough that only Calgus could hear him. ‘The forest is quiet, and anyone following us along these overgrown paths would be heard from two hundred paces.’

  Calgus nodded his satisfaction.

  ‘Good. Then I can push on without fear of being observed.’

  The warrior pulled a face, looking around at the deep forest’s confusion of trees and bushes.

  ‘In all truth, my lord, I have a greater fear of what lies ahead of us than with what might or might not lie behind. What I have said is as true for us as for any man tracking us…’

  Calgus nodded his understanding.

  ‘I know. Once we start moving we’ll be making as much noise as a herd of pigs on the hunt for nuts. But nevertheless I have to move on and take that risk. I have an appointment on the far side of this hill that I am unwilling to miss.’

  ‘My lord.’

  The bodyguard stood, gesturing to his comrades to prepare to renew their march. Calgus shook his head.

  ‘“I”, not “we”. This is a task that I must carry out alone, and you men must wait here for my return. While I’m away you can prepare torches, in case I’m later coming back over the hill than would be ideal, but you will under no circumstances attempt to follow me.’

  ‘And if you don’t return before dark?’

  Calgus nodded.

  ‘It’s possible. In that case you are to build a large fire, and take turns in watching out for me, but you are still to stay here.’

  He turned away and headed on up the hill, pushing aside a branch that was overhanging the path.

  ‘And if you still don’t return, my lord? How long should we wait?’

  Calgus paused for a moment, calling back over his shoulder.

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  He turned back to the path, muttering under his breath.

  ‘Which, if I’ve misjudged my gamble, won’t be very long. If I’ve got this one wrong we’ll all be dead before dark falls.’

  He climbed the hill with a hunter’s caution, his eyes and ears straining for any hint of a presence in the trees around him, but neither saw nor heard anything to give him pause, continuing his careful ascent until he reached the top of the hill. Sliding into the shadow of a tree, he became absolutely still, so quiet that he could feel his own heart beating, and listened again. After a moment he caught a sound through the incessant drone of the forest’s insects, only a faint fragment of noise, but enough to tell him that he was in the right place. As he eased back to his feet a spear slammed into the tree’s trunk a foot from his face, stopping him dead as a warrior rose out of the foliage, another spear pointed straight at him, more men at his back. Each one of them was heavily tattooed, swirling blue patterns decorating their hands and faces. The king of the Selgovae raised his open hands, careful to make no move that might be interpreted as threatening.

  ‘Well, that’s the hardest part of the trick done; I’ve found you without getting myself killed. Shall we go down the hill and see who’s waiting for me at the bottom?’

  The man behind the levelled spear scowled at him, gesturing his men forward.

  ‘Take his weapons and tie his hands.’

  He watched as the rebel leader was relieved of his sword and had his wrists tied together in front of him. Calgus’s return stare remained steady throughout the swift process of disarmament and restraint.

  ‘Do your people always treat invited guests in this way?’

  The spearman snorted mirthless laughter.

  ‘We are a long way from home, and the Hunting Hounds have learned the hard way to trust nobody until they are proved worthy of it. Bring him.’

  Prefect Furius paraded the Second Tungrians after breakfast the next day, waiting next to his first spear as the cohort marched on to The Rock’s parade ground. The older man spoke after a moment’s silence.

  ‘You intend going through with what we discussed?’

  The prefect nodded confidently.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll have Prefect Bassus’s murderer underground before we leave here, that or the local crows will eat well for the next few days. My only concern about dealing with the matter today is that you haven’t managed to find the bastard over the last two months.’

  They stood in uncomfortable silence until the last century had marched on to the square, and the entire cohort was stood at attention. Furius strode out to face them, self-assured confidence in his authority apparent in his stride and bearing.

  ‘Second Cohort…’ The ranks of troops waited expectantly to be ordered to stand at their ease. ‘… normally I would order you to stand easy for my morning address, but this morning isn’t normal, so you can all stay at attention. In point of fact, there hasn’t been a normal day in this cohort since one of you put a spear through the spine of your last prefect.’ If anyone had been dozing in the ranks before, it was certain that nobody was doing so now. ‘Until now, nobody in this cohort has taken the trouble to find the man that killed Prefect Bassus. By rights he should long since have been avenged by the penalty that military law demands of his murderer — public execution. It seems, however, that this cohort is content to brush its problems under the mat. Until today, that is. Today, Second Tungrians, that failure to act will be rectified in the most public way possible. Before you leave this parade ground I will know who killed him. Either that, or you’ll all rue the day you ever set eyes on him. I’ve sworn to Mars to take the murderer’s life as revenge for Bassus’s, sworn on an altar with witnesses and a noble sacrifice, with no way back from the promise. And I will, I promise you, exact revenge for him. How many more men die here alongside the prefect’s killer depends entirely on you.’

  He took a breath and looked across their packed ranks, playing the moment out, feeling the tension crackling through the men arrayed in front of him.

  ‘Since I seem to be the only man seeking justice here, I’m going to need some help. I know that the first spear will stand alongside me, so now I want to know where the other officers stand. Any centurion that is willing to support justice for Prefect Bassus, stand forward three paces from your centuries.’

  There was an instant ripple of movement, so fast that Furius suspected that his first spear had blown quietly in a few ears some time since he had first briefed the man as to what he intended. All ten of his officers stood forward of their men, having crossed, whether they
realised it or not, their own personal Rubicons from which there would be no turning back.

  ‘Very good. At least this cohort’s officers recognise the enormity of the crime we’re going to take retribution for. So, we have one man out of the eight hundred of you facing me to expose. What will it take to make that happen? I wonder. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it for the last five weeks, ever since the moment I found out about my new command, and the way in which it became available.’ He paused for a moment, allowing a powerful silence to settle on the gathered soldiers. ‘Some years ago I served in the Moesian border wars with the Twelfth Thunderbolt. There was a unit with true Roman discipline.’ He stared across the cohort, sneering into his troops’ collective wide-eyed stare.

  ‘Yes, the Twelfth knew about crime and punishment, and any example of cowardice was met with the harshest of penalties. I’m tempted to follow their example, and decimate this cohort, literally to condemn one man in ten to death at the hands of his peers as punishment…’ Furius paused again, sweeping his gaze across the rows of stony faces. ‘… but I realise that while that would be a fitting punishment, the odds of killing the murderer would be far too low to justify the lost fighting strength. So, I have decided on a different approach.

  ‘You men are a disgrace, willing to allow the death of your commander to pass unpunished, and so I’m going to punish you collectively to the maximum extent I can without causing any loss of your fighting capability. As a result, the following punishments are effective immediately. First, you will all be fined an amount of pay equal to that which you have earned since Bassus’s murder. On top of that, no further pay will be issued until his killer volunteers himself for punishment.’ He waited for a moment, allowing the enormity of three months’ lost pay to sink in. ‘Second, if the killer is found, and justice granted to Prefect Bassus today, before the sun sets, I will commute that fine to one month’s pay. And lastly, if the prefect’s killer is not identified today, I will randomly select a man from each century for execution by his comrades. Execution which will be carried out without the use of any weapons other than your bare hands.’

  He looked across their ranks, staring hard at faces whose gaze was locked firmly to the front, not daring to meet his eyes.

  ‘You choose. I’ve got no orders other than to scout this area for barbarians, so we can stay here as long as you like while the man I’m looking for makes his mind up to come forward, just as long as you’re all clear that every new day will start with each century choosing a soldier to be beaten to death… not to mention someone to do the dirty work. I’ll be in my tent…’

  The quartermaster’s meaty hand made a loud thwack as he smacked it down on the counter. His pale eyes flicked between the two men on the other side of the desk, one hand distractedly smoothing his slicked-back hair.

  ‘Are you pair mad? You pitch up as if you own the place, and then you offer to relieve me of two centuries’ worth of equipment?’ He glared across the wooden expanse at Marcus and Qadir. ‘An officer fresh out of his napkin, and a chosen man in fancy dress with a bad suntan. Well, the pair of you can fuck right off.’

  Marcus’s face hardened, his well-being of the previous evening already forgotten.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, storeman, I…’

  The quartermaster’s eyes widened.

  ‘Storeman. Fucking storeman!? I eat storemen for breakfast. I shit storemen when I go to the latrine. You, boy, do not call me a storeman, you piece of auxiliary shit.’

  Qadir raised an eyebrow at the tirade, and then turned his head minutely as if only very slightly surprised as Marcus put a hand to his sword. A voice from behind them pulled his attention away from the scene of impending violence. It was Rufius, speaking from the shadow of the store’s doorway.

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you, young Two Knives. I’ve known the big-mouthed idiot for longer than I care to remember and he’s been the same for all those years, all piss and vinegar just as long as there’s a nice wide counter between him and the men he’s robbing. There’s two ways we can do this. Either you can argue with him, show him your requisition all nice and official with all the right names and a pretty seal, and eventually jump the counter and offer him a new set of lumps in the time-honoured fashion, or I can simply remind him of one of life’s oldest rules. I suggest we try it my way first, and if that fails you can have another go at doing it your way. Now, Storeman Brocchus, let’s see how well you remember your old comrades, eh? Let me give you a clue. I retired from the legion after twenty-five years only eighteen months ago. No?’

  Brocchus frowned with concentration, thrown off balance by the as yet unknown officer’s supreme confidence.

  ‘No? Here’s another clue. I was the best first spear ever to grace the parade ground at Yew Grove. No? I thought not, you never did recognise quality in either supplies or soldiers. One last clue, then. I never did tell anyone about you and that lady you used to see on the side, did I? Despite her being very close to a rather unpleasant centurion of our mutual acquaintance, a man who would bite your throat out if he ever even suspected you of diddling his woman.’

  Brocchus recoiled from the counter with a look of combined amazement and horror. ‘Tiberius Rufius? But…’

  Rufius walked out of the shadows, swept his helmet off and slapped it down on to the counter’s surface, a wolfish grin painted across his face.

  ‘I know! It’s the sheer delight of seeing me again. I heard you shouting the odds like a stallholder’s wife from outside and I thought, “Bugger me, it’s that old fool Brocchus giving out just like old times.”’

  ‘But you retired. I saw you go…’

  Rufius grinned hugely, reaching across the counter to give the quartermaster’s cheek a painful tweak.

  ‘And now you see me back again, back in uniform… sorry, fancy dress… and having the best fun of my life. Yes, here I am again, with my mate here just out of his napkin and his over-tanned chosen man, and we’re here to rob your stores of everything and anything of value to the hundred and sixty men standing outside that door. Not your legion issue, of course, no, we’re looking for equipment fit for auxiliary shit, and I’m betting you’ve got enough hidden away back there for our purposes, given your love for squirrelling away anything and everything you might be able to sell.’ He grinned widely at the quartermaster’s amazed stare. ‘And do you know just how much you can do to stop me? Given that we’ve got a signed requisition from the Sixth’s legatus? A man who recently saw battle alongside myself and Napkin Boy here? And given that I know absolutely everything about your sordid little encounters with a certain officer’s wife? Encounters I’m sure you’d prefer never got back to him? Nothing, eh, Storeman? So, muster your work dodgers and let’s be about equipping a hundred and sixty brave men to go and stand between you and those nasty barbarians I’m sure you’ve heard so much about.’

  The quartermaster paled, turned and fled back into the storehouse’s gloom, calling for his men. Rufius smirked after him, raising a self-satisfied eyebrow at Marcus and Qadir.

  ‘There you go, lads, definitive proof that it isn’t who you know that matters, but who you know they’ve been shagging. Full infantry equipment for a double century of bow benders coming right up.’

  If the 8th Century had made poor time the previous day, their progress with sore feet and their new burden of armour and weaponry made the previous efforts look sparkling. Qadir walked alongside Marcus as the Hamians struggled up a slight incline in the road from The Rock towards Cauldron Fort, sweat beading his brow from both the warmth of the day and the weight of his new equipment. Each man was now shod with the standard heavy-soled combat boots, the hobnails lazily rapping out their laboured progress.

  ‘This mail must be at least twice the weight of our previous shirts.’

  Marcus smiled grimly back at him. ‘Not to mention the arming vest, which you’ll curse all day when it’s this warm — until it saves your delicate skin from being cut by the rings when they
stop a blade. Anyway, that’s twenty pounds of heavy iron rings from neck to thigh, the best armour in the empire. Strong enough to stop arrow, sword or spear, just as long as a ring doesn’t break or a rivet pop, and flexible too. The first time you see combat with the blue-noses you’ll wish it was longer and thicker.’

  ‘Blue-noses?’

  ‘Yes. Our affectionate name for the tribes we’re fighting. They have a tendency to paint themselves up for battle.’ He raised an eyebrow at the Hamian’s disbelieving smile. ‘Oh, you can laugh now, but the first time you see a wall of screaming blue-painted lunatics charging at you you’ll not be quite so amused.’

  ‘I see. And the spear?’

  ‘Six pounds each. You should be carrying two, but we decided that one would be enough, given you still have your bows. Before you ask, the sword weighs three pounds, the shield twelve, the helmet five, and there’s another five pounds of kit on the carrying pole.’

  ‘And you fight in this? I can barely walk for the weight.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘I know. The first week is the worst. Once your men get used to the extra weight they’ll find they’ve grown muscle where there was little before. The…’

  A scream from the century of Tungrians marching to their front snapped his attention to their ranks. A man had fallen out of the column, an arrow protruding from his thigh.

  ‘Buckets and boards!’ Dubnus’s voice rang out in the sudden shocked silence, stirring the stunned troops into a flurry of movement as shields were pulled from the troops’ backs, and helmets thrust over their heads. Marcus turned to his own men, his own order for increased protection dying in his throat. Qadir, his bow already in his hand, gestured with an open hand towards the distant treeline. ‘With your permission? Before they realise what we are?’

  Marcus nodded blankly, unprepared for the sudden turn of events. ‘Be my guest.’

  A half-dozen tribal bowmen were standing a few paces from the safety of the trees, ready to dart into their shelter just as they had during the outward march three days before. Nocking a wickedly barbed arrow to his weapon’s bowstring, the Hamian effortlessly pulled the bow back to the limit of its ability to store the energy he was forcing into its stressed wood-and-bone frame. He took a moment longer to compose his shot, breathing in and half releasing the breath before loosing the arrow in a long shallow arc. As the arrow punched into his first target he was already nocking a second missile, sending it after the first before the barbarian had completed his nerveless slump to the ground, dropping the man standing alongside his first victim even as he gaped at his fallen comrade without quite comprehending what was happening. A third man fell as he started to shout a warning, and a fourth as the remaining tribesmen turned to run, the Hamian loosing his arrows with a speed and accuracy unlike any that Marcus had seen before. Morban, standing alongside him, gaped in astonishment. His mouth hung open unnoticed as the big Syrian’s bow spat arrow after arrow at the now terrified barbarians.