Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  Two men were left now, another shot dropping one of the pair as they sprinted for the trees in terror of the arrows that were killing them in remorseless succession. The last man reached the treeline and darted behind the trunk of a massive oak, peeping back out at the watching troops. Morban roared his approval, shaking the century’s standard in triumph.

  ‘Five men dead in twenty heartbeats! Cocidius’s hairy nuts, but you’re…’

  He fell silent as the Hamian chosen man nocked a last arrow, ignoring the standard-bearer’s noisy approval. Qadir waited for a long moment, holding another deep breath with his eye fixed on the distant tree, then loosed his last arrow just as the Briton looked out from his hiding place again, turning away to resling the weapon across his shoulder without any apparent interest in the shot’s success. For a moment nothing happened, but then the last of the tribesmen staggered from his hiding place behind the oak with the last arrow protruding from his neck, and fell full length to the ground. Qadir turned to Marcus and repeated his small bow of the previous morning, hands open wide at his side.

  Julius ran down the road towards them, a broad smile on his face. ‘Bloody good work, that’ll make the stupid young bastards think twice before any of them try that again. Let’s get on the move again.’

  Qadir inclined his head respectfully. ‘I would, with your permission, Centurion, prefer to retrieve my spent arrows. And some of those men may not be dead… I think I can see one of them moving.’

  Julius clapped him on the arm, pointing to the forest’s edge, and the wounded barbarians. ‘You’re shit-hot with a bow, that’s clear enough, but you still have a lot to learn about war here on the frontier. Those men you just put down can lie there and bleed to death for all I care. They might all die where they fell, or one or two of them might well make it back to their village. Either works well enough for us, since either way the message gets round the locals in double-quick time. Your arrows will give them pause for thought, and that’s a price worth paying. Centurions, saddle your men up and get them moving!’

  The exhausted Hamians trailed the other centuries on to The Hill’s parade ground late that afternoon, wearily forming up for review alongside the replacement Tungrians as Acting Prefect Frontinius marched down from the fort.

  Morban nudged Qadir in the ribs, muttering from the side of his mouth. ‘Right, mate, that’s First Spear Sextus Frontinius, or ‘Uncle Sextus’ when he’s not within earshot. He’s a decent enough officer, straight enough, and doesn’t even mind being told when he’s wrong as long as you don’t rub it in. If he asks you a question don’t try to be clever, just answer him and then shut up. If he wants to know more he’ll ask you quick enough.’

  Frontinius’s step was lively enough but the waiting officers saw the obvious stiffness in his gait and exchanged meaningful glances.

  ‘You can stop pulling faces at each other when you think I’m not looking. Yes, my bloody knee is still as stiff as a spear shaft and yes, it still hurts like buggery when I bend it first thing in the morning, and not much less at any other time. That’s the price you pay for offering an easy target when there are blue-nose archers within bowshot. All of which is of far less importance than exactly what you’ve brought back from Arab Town. “A double order of tunic lifters” was the term the officer of the guard used when he put his head round my office door five minutes ago… and it doesn’t look like he was far off the mark, for all the nice new armour they’re struggling to keep upright. So, who’s going to enlighten me?’

  Julius stepped forward, snapping a crisp salute before walking across to his superior, leaning close enough that his words would be for the first spear’s ear alone.

  ‘Our rules, Sextus?’

  Frontinius shot him a penetrating stare, raising an eyebrow. ‘Our rules? Twice in one year? This ought to be good…’

  The centurion nodded to acknowledge his old friend and superior officer’s point.

  ‘Our rules, then. The Second Cohort has a new prefect, some hothead fresh from Germania with a point to prove. The bastard bribed the Arab Town replacements officer to let him walk off with one of our centuries, which left us with two choices, either to come back eighty men short, or to bring back enough of these Hamians to get us back to full strength.’

  The first spear raised an eyebrow, looking out over the centuries paraded in front of him. ‘And you went for numbers.’

  ‘It wasn’t my first choice. I’ll live with it, seeing as we’ve got them re-equipped somewhat more like soldiers than dancing girls, and given that one of them killed a half-dozen of the local idiots on the way back, but left to me they’d still be sitting in Arab Town wondering why it’s so cold in the middle of summer.’

  ‘I see. We’ll come back to the local idiots. So exactly whose first choice was it?’

  ‘Our young gladiator, who else? Oh, I ought to mention that he’s asked a certain lady doctor, recently widowed, if you get my drift, for her hand in marriage. Which, Cocidius the mighty hunter be forever mystified, she seems to have agreed to. You can expect the boy at your table one evening soon now asking for your formal permission.’

  The first spear raised a sardonic eyebrow, shaking his head gently.

  ‘That young man’s been nothing but a source of entertainment ever since Prince Dubnus walked him through the gates, but let’s concentrate on the Hamians for the time being. We’ll worry about the marriage later. I presume he’s intending to practise his transformation skills on his new century?’

  Julius nodded sagely. ‘Looks like it. I’m not sure that he understands the difference between what he managed with the Ninth Century and turning untrained men into soldiers, never mind untrained men quite so lacking in muscle. He did persuade Legatus Equitius to cough up the kit to make them look respectable, although they talked him into letting them keep their bows.’

  ‘Hence the dead idiots?’

  ‘Yes. Amazing shooting by their chosen man, too, he knocked over half a dozen of them in less time than it takes to tell the story. The fools never knew what hit them until it was too late. They were trying the usual shoot-and-run stuff — in fact they’d already hit us on the road east, killed one man and wounded another. We left him with Centurion Corvus’s wife-to-be in the Noisy Valley base hospital.’

  Frontinius snorted without mirth. ‘So, the locals bit off more than they could chew? Good. Perhaps they’ll think twice in future. So, these are useful tunic lifters then, despite appearances?’

  Julius shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes lifted briefly to the sky in unspoken comment. ‘They’ll shoot well enough, but the rest of the picture’s just one broken tile after another. They’re nearly all twenty pounds underweight and a hand’s length too short, they handle their weapons so badly the blue-noses will piss themselves laughing if we ever have to put them into a battle line, and their feet are as soft as silk. Or at least they were two days ago. Now they’re just a bloody mess. Like I said, I’ll live with it, and I’ll give Two Knives all the help I can, but I think it’s a lost cause. Two minutes of toe-to-toe with the locals will see half of them dead and the other half running.’

  Frontinius nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the Hamian ranks. ‘I can see your point from here. On the other hand, we’re likely to be back in the action before very long, and a double-strength century isn’t a thing I can afford to turn my nose up at. Perhaps we need to allow Centurion Corvus the benefit of the doubt for a little while. Parade them properly.’

  Julius spun away, bellowing for the four centuries to come to attention, and the two men waited for a long moment for the soldiers to settle down into immobility under the spirited goading of their watch officers. The Hamians, Frontinius noted, for all their obvious exhaustion, settled first and with a minimum of fuss. Nodding his satisfaction, the prefect paced out towards the Tungrian replacements and walked the front rank with questioning eyes. ‘They still make big lads in Tungria, I see. Nice tidy equipment… you, air your iron.’

 
; The soldier obediently unsheathed his sword, presenting the weapon’s hilt to the officer.

  ‘Clean, sharp, nice quality too. A good result, I’d say. This is your century, Centurion Rufius? Yes? You’re a lucky man, although

  I’m not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. Now, let’s have a look at our archers…’

  He walked along the 8th Century’s front rank, assessing their tired but erect stance. ‘Nice armour. New swords and spears too. Well done, Centurion Corvus, good use of initiative to have Sixth Legion re-equip your men, although quite how you got equipment this tidy out of their stores is something of a mystery to me.’

  Marcus met his questioning stare. ‘I had a little help from Centurion Rufius, First Spear. Local knowledge still counts, apparently…’

  ‘Good. Well done, Rufius, I’ll buy you a cup of wine later on for saving our young colleague the trouble of going through that whole “do you know who I am?” routine. This is your new chosen man, I presume, Centurion?’

  ‘Chosen man Qadir, First Spear.’

  ‘Thank you. Chosen, might I take a look at that bow?’

  Qadir saluted smartly and handed him the weapon. Frontinius tested the bow’s draw, grunting quietly with the effort, then handed it back.

  ‘I hear that you killed half a dozen men with this earlier today?’

  The chosen man nodded.

  ‘Yes, First Spear.’

  Frontinius handed the weapon back to him with a look of respect, then stepped up to address the century, raising his voice to be heard clearly. ‘Soldiers of the Eighth Century, you may have been born and trained in Syria, but you are now part of the proudest and most respected auxiliary cohort on the northern frontier. The First Tungrians have faced battle in these hills many times and always come out on top. Always. We win, gentlemen, no matter the odds. We win, we bury our dead, we mourn and we move on. You will find your comrades hard bitten… uncompromising… and this may be offputting to you, but you will adapt to our way of going about our business. I suggest that you start adapting now, for I fear that your time to do so will be shorter than might have been ideal. Welcome to the war.’

  The sun was close to the western horizon by the time the 2nd Cohort delivered forth Prefect Bassus’s murderers. Respectfully summoned by First Spear Neuto, Furius strode out on to the parade ground, where the cohort had stood for most of the day. The soldiers were standing to attention, their faces fixed and sullen. Two soldiers stood out in front of the cohort’s third century, half a dozen of the cohort’s officers arrayed around them. Furius strolled up to the group, eyeing the pair carefully. Both men fixed their gazes on him, both wide eyed and pale with the gravity of their situation. The prefect turned to First Spear Neuto, gesturing to the men. ‘So these are Prefect Bassus’s murderers?’

  Neuto nodded grimly.

  ‘Yes, Prefect. Centurion Tertius commands their century. Centurion?’

  Tertius stepped forward and saluted briskly.

  ‘Soldiers Secundus and Aulus, Prefect. They have admitted to killing the prefect.’

  Furius walked up to the pair, looking both men in the eyes for several seconds before speaking again. ‘You both admit to the crime of murdering your commanding officer?’

  Aulus said nothing, simply turning his bruised face away. Secundus nodded, his face a mask of contempt. ‘I done the most of it. Put my spear through his bronze and his spine in one go and dropped the bastard face down. All he did…’ jerking his head towards the man standing alongside him ‘… was take his iron to him once he was down. You want to take your revenge, you take it from me.’

  ‘Why?’ The soldier spat on the ground in front of the prefect’s feet, sneering into his face. ‘He wasn’t an officer, nor a gentleman, he was just a right bastard. Punishments for this and punishments for that. Never a nice word for a good job, never a day off for the lads when we made him look good. I did it, but there was plenty more that wished they had. I never had to buy a drink for weeks that followed, not until they all started to worry about how revenge might be taken.’

  Furius looked to Tertius with a raised eyebrow. The officer shook his head, never taking his eyes off the man in front of them as he spoke. ‘Soldier Secundus is an inveterate waster, Prefect. He drinks, he idles whenever he can, he whores. He’s a good fighter, but he lacks discipline.’

  ‘I see. And this one?’

  Aulus’s face was turned away from his officers, and his eyes turned to the ground as if to deny the weight of events now pressing down hard on him. Furius pulled his sword from its scabbard, putting the blade’s point under the silent soldier’s chin and forcing it round until they were face to face. The blade’s tip dug into the soft flesh, starting a trickle of blood down the terrified man’s neck. ‘Why? Why attack your prefect when he was already dying?’

  There was silence for a long moment before the soldier found his voice, quavering with desperation. ‘I hated him. He had me flogged…’

  Furius looked to Tertius for confirmation.

  ‘Twice, Prefect. Ten lashes the first time, and twenty-five the second. Soldier Aulus is good for nothing, slovenly, lazy, not even a decent fighter. Prefect Bassus had hoped to knock some sense into him.’

  Furius nodded, scowling into the soldier’s face.

  ‘And then there he was, helpless on the ground and you with a sword in your hand and your blood up from chasing barbarians, eh? What did you do?’

  Aulus’s eyes closed with the memory. ‘I stabbed him in the neck. Just once. He didn’t move, so I didn’t do it again.’

  Tears ran down his cheeks, provoking a weary sigh and a sad shake of the head from his centurion. ‘You see the problem with the man, Prefect, he can’t even make his confession like a man.’

  Furius nodded decisively, then lunged forward without warning, burying the sword’s point deep into the weeping soldier’s throat, angling the blade upwards under the man’s jaw. The man crumpled nervelessly, his blood spraying across both the officers’ polished armour. Furius stepped back from the falling corpse, swinging the bloody blade back to point at the other man. ‘I made it easy for your comrade here, because he was misguided and ineffectual in his complicity with your crime. You are the real murderer here, and for that you will pay a little more dearly than this simpleton did. Tie his hands!’ He stepped back, the blooded sword still clamped in one hand. ‘Second Tungrians! Hear my words…’ The cohort stood in absolute silence, every man straining to hear whatever their new officer was about to proclaim, their former disdain suddenly fascinated attention. The prefect pointed to the horizon, where the sun was dipping to almost touch the hills to their south and west. ‘You have given your comrades up to justice in time to save yourselves two months’ pay. This man’s crime…’ he pointed to the corpse huddled on the ground in front of him ‘… was to be weak, and to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This man, on the other hand…’ he pointed the bloodied blade at Secundus ‘… deserves the heaviest penalty I can award against him. Tomorrow morning he will be scourged, fifty lashes to be administered by the cohort’s centurions. And then

  …’ He paused, smiling slightly with a clear relish for the sentence he was about to pass. ‘… once the scourging has been completed to my satisfaction he will be crucified, and the cohort will parade past him to receive an example of the punishment to be expected for a crime of this severity. His legs will not be broken, since he does not deserve anything other than a slow and painful death.’

  At the mention of crucifixion the cohort started visibly, and even Neuto’s eyes widened as he stood behind his new commanding officer.

  ‘I know that you will be wondering how I can order such a punishment. I know that it is more usual for the crime of murder to meet with death by beating with staves, to be administered by the killer’s tent party, but this man will meet his fate like the criminal scum that he is.’ He paused for a moment, jaw jutting, and stared out across the cohort’s ranks in challenge. ‘He will be guarded tonight by
his own century. If he dies before the time I have appointed for him, or escapes in some amazing and unexpected manner, I will have that century’s officer, chosen man and watch officer crucified in his place, and the rest of his century decimated, not once but three times. Thirty men will die tomorrow if this man fails to make his appointment with the hammer and nails for any reason.’

  He turned to First Spear Neuto, inclining his head to indicate that the senior centurion should carry on, and then turned and walked back to his tent, the bloody gladius still held in his right hand.

  Centurion Tertius turned to the first spear in amazement once the prefect was safely out of earshot. ‘Crucifixion? First Spear, in Maponus’s name…’

  Neuto snapped at him, his tired face contorted with anger. ‘Don’t you dare bring shame on this cohort by appealing to the gods for the life of a senior officer’s murderer, you fool! You told me you had no idea who killed Bassus, and I’ll continue to believe that since you swore an oath, but that man dies tomorrow and that’s an end to it.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘In the meanwhile you can work off that bitterness by getting your man nicely secured against any unforeseen accidents. I expect you’ll find your chosen man and watch officer more than happy to make sure nothing remiss happens to him. Then you can build me a cross. You’ll find plenty of wood and nails in the remains of the fort. More importantly, we’ll need something to hold your man upright tomorrow while he’s being flogged.’