Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  Scaurus put both hands on his hips. His tongue played on his bottom lip as he judged the right answer to give to a man who was, for all the tension in the air, still his superior.

  ‘Why, Legatus? Because I see myself in him, and if you want to see behind that statement you’ll be a long time waiting. That and the persuasive case my first spear made for the man’s capacity for battle. He’s…’

  ‘… simply worth saving, eh, Prefect? Those were the words that came to me when I asked myself what in Hades I was doing sheltering him from the throne’s hunting dogs while I was in your shoes. But now we have a larger problem than our own ability to combine our obedience to the empire with loyalty to our ideals, do we not?’

  Scaurus nodded unhappily.

  ‘Indeed we do. There’s a man less than two hundred paces from here who hates my guts with a passion I doubt either of you can comprehend, and who has a very good idea that Tribulus Corvus has found refuge with this cohort. I can assure you that for all the imperial favour that unearthing such a fugitive would bring him, it would give him nowhere near as much enjoyment as seeing me unmasked as his protector.’

  The cohort awoke to mist and drizzle the next morning, took a hasty breakfast and prepared to stand to in the grey morning light. Marcus dressed in his tent attended by Antenoch and a sleepy Lupus, tucking his tunic into his woollen campaign trousers. The garment was a comfort permitted by the first spear only when the cohort was in the field late in the campaign season, a time of the year known for its wind and sudden rain.

  ‘I’ll never get used to wearing these blasted itchy things. All those years reading that trousers are the mark of the barbarian, and suddenly I can’t go outdoors in anything other than high summer — or whatever passes for summer here — without them.’

  Antenoch muttered his response into the pile of his officer’s equipment.

  ‘I can see how your delicate legs would enjoy the protection, Centurion. Would you like the leg wrappings too?’

  A look passed between them, and Marcus snorted gently, a half-smile creasing his face.

  ‘Don’t mock the afflicted, Clerk, and pass me those socks and my boots.’

  He tugged the heavy woollen socks into place, tucking their open ends under his feet as he laced up his polished hobnailed boots. Streaks of mud decorated their gleaming leather, betraying the lack of any attention the previous evening.

  ‘We’ll move this morning.’ Antenoch brushed an errant horsehair back into place in Marcus’s helmet crest and placed it on his bedroll. ‘You don’t get this many troops in one place without the boys in bronze wanting to march them aimlessly round the countryside. It’s their way of convincing themselves that they’re doing something meaningful.’

  Marcus pulled on his padded leather arming vest, meant to protect the wearer’s flesh from being cut by his mail’s rings if they were struck by sword or spear, carefully pulling it straight to ensure that it wouldn’t wrinkle and chafe under the armour.

  ‘There’s still a warband out there, or perhaps you’d forgotten that? We’ll be advancing to make contact with the enemy.’

  His clerk snorted.

  ‘I’ll put down ten to your five that our glorious leaders don’t have the first clue where the blue-noses are hiding. “Somewhere in the forests to the north-east” is about the limit of their intelligence, so once again we’ll get to go and find them the hard way under the pretence of scouting to the flanks. Lupus, help me with the centurion’s mail.’

  He lifted the heavy mail shirt over Marcus’s head and pulled it down on to the leather arming vest while Lupus pulled the mail’s hem down his thighs to ensure its close fit to his shoulders. Antenoch rubbed a finger at the rings across one shoulder, holding his hand out to the child.

  ‘Dirty. You were supposed to brush and polish this shirt before bed last night, you idle little bugger. You want me to send the centurion on parade in dirty armour?’

  He reached for the soft brush and set about the rings with vigour, the swift strokes shaking the uncomplaining Marcus from side to side as he raised an eyebrow at an unabashed Lupus. Antenoch clipped the back of the child’s head with his open palm.

  ‘You leave this dirty another night this month and you can kiss your purse money goodbye… what’s that?’

  Starting guiltily, the red-faced boy repeated his muttered comment aloud.

  ‘I said there’s nothing to spend it on anyway.’

  Antenoch snorted.

  ‘Welcome to my army, you dozy little sod. Of course there’s nothing to spend it on, this is a fighting cohort on campaign, not a tour of the wall’s honey-cake stalls. And while we’re at it I can see mud spots on those boots. The centurion can see them too, but he’s too polite to mention it…’

  He shot a hand out and grabbed the boy’s ear, twisting it painfully and pulling the child close to his face.

  ‘You can consider this your administrative punishment. Next time it’ll be loss of pay and privileges for you, my lad. Now off with you and find your grandad, make sure he’s ready for parade and bring him here.’

  Lupus ran from the tent clutching his reddened ear. Marcus raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Pass my belt and baldrics. You’re too hard on the boy.’

  Antenoch shrugged, passing over Marcus’s officer’s heavy belt and sword harnesses.

  ‘And you’re all too soft on him. You’re too nice, Morban’s too busy being his grandfather and the rest of the troops treat him more like a mascot than a kid with a need for discipline. Someone’s got to act like a father for him, and in the absence of anyone else…’

  He raised an eyebrow at Marcus, inviting further comment, but none was forthcoming. After an uncomfortable pause the officer held out a hand.

  ‘Helmet, please. Thank you.’

  The centurion pulled his helmet on, tightening the leather chin strap and looking around him.

  ‘Looking for this?’

  Antenoch held out the thick knobbly vine stick, and Marcus took it, rotating it unconsciously until his thumb found its accustomed resting place in a small indentation.

  ‘You’re right, as it happens. We do spoil the boy in our own ways. I suppose we’re all trying to compensate him for the roll of the dice he’s had to endure in the last few months. I take your point, though, and I’ll try to be a bit more like an officer with him, and a bit less like…’

  He fell silent, and Antenoch nodded his understanding, his face softening.

  ‘His older brother? Don’t change a thing, Centurion, I’ll make sure that the troops give him a bit of a harder time, starting with that old bugger Morban. You just teach him how to throw iron around the way that you do, and leave the tough stuff to the rest of us.’

  Marcus nodded, his eyes momentarily far away, then gathered himself and turned, stepping out into the morning’s murk, calling for Qadir. Antenoch turned his attentions to packing away the centurion’s gear, muttering quietly in the tent’s silence.

  ‘No, don’t change a thing, Centurion. Being his older brother might help keep you the right side of sane, given all that’s happened in the last few months.’

  8

  Late in the afternoon of the day after the battle of the hill fort the 20th Legion rejoined the 6th, having completed their sweep of the ground to the south of the wall, bringing with them the governor and his staff. Shortly after their arrival the Votadini chieftain was escorted into the governor’s presence by the leader of Equitius’s bodyguard, a pair of soldiers with drawn swords guarding against the unlikely chance of his being able to shed the coils of thick rope that bound him so tightly it was all he could do to walk unaided. His face was badly bruised, testament to the harsh treatment he had received from his guards since being captured, men incensed by the massacre of the Frisian cohort. Ulpius Marcellus raised an eyebrow at Equitius.

  ‘Do we really need the swords, Legatus? Even ignoring my unlikely contribution, there are two legates, half a dozen prefects and the same number of tribunes f
acing this one prisoner, who, I am forced to note, is trussed up with enough rope to restrain a prize-winning ox. What are your men going to do, cut his throat if he hops towards me in a threatening manner?’

  Equitius nodded his agreement, making a subtle gesture to his stony-faced guard commander, who, with a look that spoke volumes, ordered the two soldiers out of the tent. The governor leaned closer to the helpless prisoner.

  ‘That’s better. Who can focus when there’s sharpened iron six inches from the back of his neck, eh? So, whatever your name is, do you speak any Latin?’

  The prisoner nodded, his battered face defiant.

  ‘I am Martos, sister’s son to King Brennus of the Votadini, and

  I speak your language well enough. In the time before this war my tribe was a friend to your people.’

  Ulpius Marcellus leant back in his chair, resting his chin on his hand.

  ‘Yes, I know. I was governor of this country for four years, and I came to know your tribal king Brennus tolerably well. You’ll probably be aware that we’re still in communication with him, of a sort, and that we’ve offered him peace if he can deliver us this upstart Calgus in return. I would have thought that a decent enough bargain, but now I find your people implicated in a fresh atrocity against our forces. I know you took part in the attack on White Strength, so don’t think to attempt to mislead me on the subject.’

  He stared unblinkingly at the prisoner, whose shoulders slumped at the accusation.

  ‘We fought at White Strength. Calgus… he…’

  ‘Lied to you? Made you believe that you could succeed your uncle under his guidance, that you would be a strong man if you helped him to victory?’

  Martos nodded, his eyes on the ground.

  ‘So your men led the attack on the fort, am I right?’

  Another nod.

  ‘And how many of your warriors died breaking into the fort and putting the garrison to the sword? Five hundred?’

  The reply was almost a whisper.

  ‘More. Probably twice that many…’

  Legatus Macrinus spoke up.

  ‘With your permission, Governor? You’re telling us that you sacrificed nearly half your strength to buy this Calgus a victory, and that in return he had you and your men dumped right in the path of our cavalry response? You want us to believe that he’d be willing to throw away so much of his strength to achieve a meaningless tactical victory and then pull the fangs from what was left of an unreliable ally’s dissent? He’d have to be mad to be so profligate with his strength, unless…’

  Martos lifted his gaze to meet the Roman’s, his confidence returning.

  ‘Yes. Unless he has more strength than you’re aware of. Spare my life and I will tell you everything I know. Kill me, and I will take secrets to my grave that might cost you this war.’

  The governor scoffed, waving away the suggestion.

  ‘Spare your life? When I can interrogate any number of your men and discover everything I need to know without having to consort with a man that put an entire cohort of good men to the sword and then desecrated their corpses? Why don’t you just ask me to name you emperor?’

  Martos kept his gaze fixed on the governor.

  ‘I was close to Calgus for long enough to know more about his schemes than he was willing to reveal to me. I overheard snatches of conversation I was never meant to witness, and I saw things that were meant to stay between Calgus and the men close to him. And I’ll make you one firm vow. If you free me, and enough of my people to stand around me in battle, I will hunt down Calgus for you and bring you his head. I will swear an oath to any god you care to name to take vengeance for the lies and disaster that he has brought down on my people.’

  Ulpius Marcellus thought for a moment, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Have this man taken away, Legatus. I think any debate on the subject should be private.’

  The stony-faced centurion marched the bound prisoner from the tent, leaving the Romans looking at each other. Equitius broke the silence, shaking his head gently with wonder.

  ‘I met Calgus, just before they attacked my cohort at Lost Eagle, and I knew then that he was a cunning bastard, but this is simply beyond my understanding. Leading an entire tribe’s remaining strength into our path to cement his power over the others, that’s more than just a bold step. Who’s to say there isn’t more in his plan that we have yet to discover the hard way? Another Lost Eagle might cost us this war, possibly even this province, we all know that.’

  The governor raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Are you suggesting that we do as this murdering barbarian requests, Legatus? Give the man his freedom and let him vanish into the depths of the wild country, escaping the justice that should already have his head on a stake outside this tent?’

  Prefect Scaurus spoke into the silence that followed, his voice quiet and yet clear, demanding to be heard despite the absence of drama in his tone.

  ‘Considering what the Votadini have been through, it’s at least worthy of consideration, Governor.’ He continued, not waiting for permission. ‘Let’s say they lost a thousand men at White Strength. We killed another five hundred or so breaking into the hill fort, and there’s probably the same number of wounded that won’t fight again for a few months, even if they weren’t badly enough hurt to rate the legion’s gladius solution. What does that leave, two hundred warriors? Two hundred and fifty? Calgus has already betrayed Martos once, so if he were to come back from the dead with that small a force I’d say the odds are excellent that the ‘Lord of the Northern Tribes’, having already told his men some story or other about how the Votadini have betrayed them all, will have his men put them to the iron without a second thought.’

  He stood silently for a moment, allowing his words to sink in.

  ‘There’s another point worth considering as well, Governor. Before the war, the land between the two walls was divided roughly into two parts, not equal, but very distinct nonetheless. To the west, living under the control of thousands of our troops, were the Selgovae, Novantae and Damnonii, forever testing our strength with ambushes and skirmishes. A posting up the north road was no cause for celebration for any soldier I ever discussed the matter with. To the east, on the other hand, were the Votadini. Compare and contrast, gentlemen. There were no forts on their territory, no requirement to control the tribe’s gatherings, and no need to tie down thousands of our men in static positions that would make them a target for every disaffected young blood with a point to prove. I think the main question should be how we want this land of theirs to be governed after the war. Do we want to put four or five thousand more troops on to Votadini land, with all of the problems we always had with the western tribes, or would we prefer to take things back to the way they were…?’

  The governor nodded, glancing at his legates for their opinion.

  ‘Your point, Prefect, is well made. I can take quick and satisfying revenge on this man and the survivors of his warband, such as they are… or I can play the politician and spare him, with his support and friendship the price I exact in return. Opinions?’

  Scaurus glanced around him, taking the measure of his seniors’ reaction. Apart from Furius’s grim face, most of the men in the room looked thoughtful. The 20th Legion’s legatus spoke up, his lips pursed.

  ‘I dislike the idea of allowing this man his freedom, when he should by rights cough out his last breaths on a cross, but…’ He shrugged, shooting an appraising glance at Scaurus. ‘… the prefect does makes a persuasive case. I would recommend a subtly different approach, however. Reprieve the man by all means, but don’t allow him to run free. In fact, I say we keep him close. His men will make excellent guides as we push northwards into the hills, and when the time comes you can slip their collars and send them after Calgus when he least expects it. In fact, once he’s unburdened himself of these hints and whispers he says he can recount to us, I commend you to put his men under the stewardship of young Scaurus here. He can worry about liberati
ng his kingdom once Calgus’s head is on the pole in place of his own.’

  Scaurus hadn’t seen his first spear so much as irritated during their brief association, so the experience of triggering incandescent anger in the man engendered something between exhilaration and genuine fear.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what the governor said!’ Frontinius put his pointed index finger squarely in his superior’s face, his hold on a temper of glacial slowness but volcanic ferocity completely lost. ‘You can tell him that there is no fucking way that an assorted collection of barbarian murderers are going to find a place in my cohort!’

  Scaurus raised an eyebrow, apparently hugely amused by the other man’s rage.

  ‘That’s odd, First Spear, I could have sworn it was mine?’

  Frontinius ignored the wry question, too far gone in his uncontrollable anger.

  ‘Those bastards should all have been beheaded the second it was proved they took part in the White Strength massacre. That they’re still breathing is bad enough, but for the senior soldier in the whole of Britannia to ask us to take them on…’ He spread his hands wide, frustration written across his face. What does he think we are? What does he think I am? I served with their first spear, he was a soldier with this cohort for a couple of years until the Frisians needed some replacements…’

  Scaurus shook his head decisively, one word rapping out across his subordinate’s diatribe.

  ‘Enough!’

  The senior centurion raised his head at the sudden harshness in his superior’s tone, finding the prefect’s face set with an implacability equal to his own. He drew breath to speak, but the words were unformed when Scaurus moved from his place by the tent’s field table, putting his face uncomfortably close to the first spear’s, features set in a snarl of anger the match of his subordinate’s and more.