As Tertius settled into the parade rest at the head of his century he saw the senior centurion deliver his first blow, grunting explosively with the force he put into the scourge’s application. More than one of the whip’s tails flew astray, their bone teeth flicking across the prisoner’s throat unseen by most of the men on parade. As he watched his eyes narrowed with the realisation as to just why Neuto had bid him set up the unusual whipping posts. The first spear delivered the same blow to the other shoulder, and again the whip strayed fractionally in its path to rake across the helpless soldier’s neck. The prefect stood contentedly to one side as the whip was passed to the next centurion with a few quiet words of encouragement from Neuto, his satisfaction evident as this officer also laid into the prisoner with all his strength. Again the first two strokes flicked around his brother’s throat, and, watching the man’s legs carefully, he saw a thin rivulet of blood twisting round the bared thigh. A sharp-eyed soldier to Tertius’s right muttered a comment to his mate and he whirled round, rapping his vine stick across the man’s arm with a meaningful stare.
‘Silence in the ranks!’
After thirty or so lashes Secundus sank against the ropes stretched across his body, the agonising pain and blood loss robbing him of his ability to stay upright. The blood running down his neck no longer sheeted down his chest and legs to merge with that flowing from his ruined back, but now fell in a shower of heavy drops into the gravel a foot in front of his feet. Still the prefect did not seem to realise that the prisoner was now fighting for his very life, and the officers continued to take their turn with the scourge, now heavy with torn flesh and an accumulation of drying blood. The cohort’s mood had subtly changed as the scene had played out in front of them, and as more of the soldiers had realised that their prefect was being robbed of his crucifixion with every heavy drop of blood that fell from their comrade’s neck. Previously standing in sullen resignation, they now watched with hawk-eyed attention the vigour with which each centurion prosecuted his share of the flogging, realising with something approaching gratitude their officers’ determination to kill the man with the whip, and spare him the cross’s agonising asphyxiation. With the punishment’s completion, the first spear stepped forward and put an expert finger to the motionless prisoner’s bloody windpipe, pulling a face and turning back to the cohort with a shout for assistance.
‘Bandage carrier!’
While the field medic fussed around the prisoner, seeking a pulse, the senior centurion grimaced to Furius.
‘It happens sometimes. The Jews, I believe, limit the practice to forty lashes for fear of killing the offender…’ He paused as the bandage carrier turned and shook his head. ‘… as seems to have been the case here. No matter, Prefect, justice has been done, and been seen to be done. We have a cross ready. Shall we nail him up and parade the men past his corpse?’
The prefect stared closely at his deputy for a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, but the first spear’s return gaze was blameless. Furius nodded, his face sour.
‘Indeed, First Spear. A shame to be robbed of the man’s last agonised breaths, though…’
The wistful look on his face told Neuto everything he needed to know about his new commander.
4
The Tungrian cohort marched down the hill to the parade ground an hour after dawn with both purpose and trepidation. The troops were unusually quiet and orderly in the cold early light, reflecting soberly on orders that could see any or all of them dead inside the month. The prefect stood alongside First Spear Frontinius, watching the centuries march past, his German bodyguard close behind him. The red-haired giant, a full head taller than his master, had excited much comment in the cohort, both for the obvious strength in his heavily muscled and scarred body and as a result of his apparent unwillingness to speak to anyone save the prefect himself. More than one of the officers had greeted the man, to be met with no more than a respectful nod of his massive head. While there was nothing at which anyone could take offence, neither was there any hint that the man would be a source of either conversation or, more importantly to the cohort’s soldiers, information.
‘Your men look purposeful enough, First Spear, although I’d expected a little more…’
Prefect Scaurus paused for a moment, searching for the right word.
‘Banter? Horseplay? Usually you’d have got it, they express themselves just like any other cohort on the frontier, but they know what’s coming. We lost the best part of two centuries at Lost Eagle, and they were probably assuming that it was too late in the year for any more serious campaigning.’
The prefect nodded his understanding.
‘Nobody can say they haven’t demonstrated their loyalty to the emperor this year. That’s the problem with reputations, there’s always someone that wants to see them demonstrated…’
Frontinius studied the younger man with a sideways glance as his new commander watched the centuries flowing out of the fort and down its paved road on to the wide parade ground. A head taller than the first spear, the prefect had a spare frame more suited to distance running than infantry combat, yet seemed to carry the weight of his armour and helmet easily enough.
‘And speaking of reputations, you’re still not sure what to make of what you see, eh, First Spear?’
Frontinius started at his prefect’s comment, delivered in a level, almost bored tone without the younger man ever taking his eyes off the marching troops.
‘I’m sorry, Prefect, I was just…’
‘Relax. It would be a strange thing if you weren’t still wondering what to expect from your new commander. Right about now I should probably be telling you what an experienced soldier I am, putting your mind at ease on the subject of whether I’m fit for command of your men. Am I right? After all, I’ve been here for a fortnight and never once even hinted at my experience beyond telling you what positions I’ve served in previously.’
Frontinius nodded grudgingly.
‘It’s often the case that a new commander will make a point of telling his officers about any fighting he’s taken part in, although I don’t really…’
He stopped talking as Scaurus turned to look at him with a half-smile playing on his lips.
‘I know. You want to know my capabilities, but you don’t want to overstep the mark in asking me to tell you where I’ve been and what I’ve done. Well, First Spear, let’s have an agreement, shall we? I won’t question you on the subject of your competence, other than wanting every last tiny detail about this cohort and this war from you, and in return you’ll let me demonstrate the way I work by just watching me work. Whether you take that as a sign of strength or weakness doesn’t really concern me very much, and we’ll learn a good deal more about each other than we might by trotting out lists of achievements that either of us could have gilded or even plain fabricated for all the other man knows. Agreed?’
Frontinius held his return stare for a moment before nodding slowly.
‘As you wish, Prefect.’
The cohort paraded, the ground’s sandy surface grey in the dawn’s weak light. Frontinius strode out in front of his eight hundred men, addressing them at a volume that made his words audible from one end of the parade to the other.
‘Good morning, First Cohort. This is an important day. This day will live as long in your memories as that little skirmish with the blue-noses a few weeks ago.’ He paused for a moment, watching the faces of those men in the ranks closest to him, their expressions betraying a mixture of faint amusement and sick apprehension. ‘This is the day we go back to war. Now that we’ve got a new prefect and two centuries of replacements, we are considered ready to fight. Our orders are to march east and join up with the Sixth Legion for one last effort before the weather gets too cold for us to stay in the field. Soldiers, this cohort was the first one on the list when the governor was deciding which units to put alongside his legions in the line of battle. You are proven battle winners, and your reputation goes before yo
u.’
He paused, searching the same faces and finding them mostly set with determination. Good enough. ‘I know that you were hoping not to be called back into the war this year, but I also know that you are strong enough to give the emperor your best efforts for as long as it takes to finish this war, and put Calgus in chains and on his way to Rome. And now, before we start, let me introduce you to your new comrades. The Sixth Century, eighty home-grown Tungrian recruits to bolster our fighting strength, and the Eighth Century, a double-strength century of archers from Hamath in the province of Syria, far to the east of Rome. As of this moment they are fully fledged members of this cohort, and I expect them to be treated with the appropriate respect. It’s obvious to all of you that the men of the Eighth Century are different to the troops that we usually encounter, but I don’t expect that to make any difference to any soldier here. The first man in front of me at the punishment table for raising a hand to any of these men without very good reason will feel like he’s been hit by a falling tree by the time I’ve finished with him.’
He paused for breath, raking the impassive troops with a hard stare.
‘Nevertheless, our new Hamian comrades do present us with something of a problem in that they are unused to bearing the kind of weight that we routinely carry around on campaign. And so…’ He gestured to his officers, and then waited while Marcus, Dubnus, Rufius and Julius walked out in front of the cohort to join him. ‘The Eighth Century will need help to achieve the same performance as the rest of you, and so I am therefore temporarily detaching these three centurions from their centuries, and giving them and Centurion Corvus forty men from the Eighth apiece to work with. With a little luck we’ll have our new centuries ready for anything the blue-noses can throw at them by the time that we see action. Centurions, carry on with morning exercises.’
The four centurions quickly divided the 8th into four equal-sized groups, each of them pulling their temporary command into a tight huddle around them. Marcus, having retained Qadir in his party, spoke slowly, giving his chosen man time to translate his words for those men whose grasp of Latin was imperfect.
‘You may be archers, but you’re going to learn to fight as infantrymen and you’re going to do it quickly. Whenever we have the opportunity, you will train as one century, but with frequent and close attention to your sword and shield drill. My brother officers and I will help you learn how to fight in practice combat with their centuries, but first we need you to grasp the basics. And the first basic is shield handling. You, come out in front with me.’
The wide-eyed Hamian stepped away from the comfortable anonymity of his place in the front rank, eyeing his new officer uncertainly and casting the occasional nervous glance at Qadir.
‘Raise your shield until you can just see over the top. No, higher
… that’s right. Now, brace yourself, and remember that your shield is your only defence against the enemy’s swords and spears. We’ll worry about spears later, so let’s see how you do against a trained swordsman. Antenoch?’
His clerk stepped forward, swinging a heavy wooden practice sword and smiling at the nervous archer in anticipation as he limbered up to fight. He held up the sword, making sure the Hamian got a good look at its scarred wooden blade.
‘This is a practice sword. It’s heavier than the real thing to help build strength in the sword arm, and that means it will make an almighty bang when it hits your shield. It will jar your shield arm, but if you drop the shield then the next thing you know you’ll be face down with your guts hanging out. Ready?’
The Hamian managed a hesitant nod, triggering Antenoch’s attack. Hammering at the man’s shield with the heavy wooden sword, he beat back the panicking archer until the Hamian was almost on his knees, then thrust the blade over the top of his sinking shield to inflict a painful jab into the gap between his mail coat’s neck and the rim of his helmet. He stepped back from his grimacing victim, watching the man rub the sore spot.
‘You let the shield fall and opened yourself up for the kill. You’re dead. Get back in ranks. You, come out here.’
Another man stepped out to face him, his face set in determination.
‘Good, you look keen; let’s see what you can do. Remember, keep that shield up.’
Ten seconds later the Hamian was on his back, cursing at the pain in his right ankle while Antenoch reached down to pull him back to his feet.
‘That was better, but if an enemy sees that your shield is held too high he’s likely to try to go under it and cut your feet off. You need to keep your eyes open, and drop your shield to stop his attack if necessary. Let’s try that again.’
Qadir leaned across to Marcus.
‘And if two men attack at the same time, one high and one low? Surely then the man is doomed?’
Marcus smiled without taking his eyes off Antenoch’s demonstration.
‘Not if he’s in possession of the infantryman’s two most important assets.’
The chosen man raised an eyebrow.
‘And those are…?’
Marcus lifted the ornately decorated gladius bequeathed to him by Legatus Sollemnis halfway out of its scabbard, the razor-edged blade gleaming in the weak morning sun.
‘One of these, and those.’
He pointed at the gathered Hamians as they watched Antenoch’s demonstration with wide eyes.
‘Soldiers?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘Not soldiers, Qadir, brothers. And all in good time.’
Calgus strolled out of his tent later that morning, having apparently spent the night there. In reality he had entered it less then five minutes before through an opening cut in the side facing the forest, having made the return journey through the forest by the light of torches carried by his bodyguard. His adviser Aed was waiting for him as summoned, and the old man looked up at his king with a calculating gaze, the slight wind ruffling his thin hair.
‘My lord. I trust your venture into the forest met with acceptable results?’
Calgus nodded, looking out over the camp from their vantage point, the highest ground within the palisade wall.
‘Oh yes, very acceptable once their initial caution was out of the way. When the time is right, our trap will spring shut on the legions with a finality that will remove the print of their boots from our soil for good. We will slaughter Romans in numbers not seen since their great German massacre, and after that disaster they’ve never attempted to colonise the lands beyond the Rhenus in all the one hundred and fifty years that have followed. I will make these lands as great a source of terror to the Romans as ever the forests of Germania were, and drive them back into their fortresses far to the south of their wall, never to return.’
The old man nodded, his soft voice expressing views intended for his king’s ears alone.
‘A glorious aim, my lord. Before that, however, you may have to consider dealing with King Brennus at some point in the near future. In your absence he has continued to spread discontent, and his defiance will inevitably encourage others to consider their obedience to you. Do we still need his people’s spears in our strength, given your apparent success in bringing fresh support to our cause?’
Calgus nodded, looking down the slope to the Votadini section of the camp.
‘I suppose not, given their continual agitation against me. But I cannot send them back to their land, my own warriors would start to question the need for them to remain were that many spears to walk away, and as for the other kings…’
Aed smiled thinly, his eyes bright with purpose.
‘Perhaps there is an opportunity here? Were the Votadini to be caught in the open by our enemies they would undoubtedly be massacred to the last man. That would leave their king alone and isolated here, and his kingdom open for… annexation. If only we could find someone within their number with sufficient ambition to allow himself to be lured into such a mistake, it is quite possible that our enemy would remove the problem without ever dreaming of the service
they would be performing for you.’ He paused for a moment, his sly glance flicking to meet his king’s amused stare. ‘Perhaps you might cultivate King Brennus’s nephew, Martos? My friends in their camp tell me that he longs to lead the tribe into battle at their head, and cover his roof beams with Roman heads.’
Calgus shook his head slowly, a smile spreading across his face as the audacity of the idea gripped his imagination.
‘Gods, Aed, but you’ll outdo me for ruthlessness any time you like. You advise me to send the Votadini to their deaths, murder their king and take his lands?’
Aed shrugged, his expression neutral.
‘Sometimes large problems demand harsh solutions, my lord. The Votadini will be no worse off under your control than under Brennus, and there is no way you can trust the man. His behaviour shouts his defiance of your reign, and he has more men available than are camped here. If the warriors he has held back succeed in their search for the hostages, he will have us both at spear point five minutes after the news of their release reaches him. A change of leadership might bring some relief from his incessant complaining and scheming. I suspect that he is in contact with the Romans…’
Calgus laughed.
‘I don’t doubt he’s in contact with them, or how could he have been so confident that my head would buy him peace with them? I don’t think his men will find their kinfolk in a year of searching, and I don’t believe that we can kill him and be sure that the act won’t have repercussions beyond our control… but I take your point. He’s a focus for discontent, and that can only get stronger once we join battle with the Romans and their lackeys. There is an idea I’ve been musing on these last few days, a way to bring the remaining legions north with a fury on them that will have their heads in our trap before they have the time to see it. Perhaps I might invite Brennus’s nephew along to share the spoils?
Arrows of Fury e-2 Page 12
