Annia stared about her at the crowded hallway with a look of puzzlement.
‘I seem to have missed something. Who’s the stranger, and why has Lupus got a face on him like the one my man wears when he’s about to tear someone’s head off?’
4
‘We’ve been here long enough for the Venicones to have got wind of our presence, and for them to have gathered a good-sized war band as a precaution against any incursion we might be planning. It’s highly likely that any move we make north of the wall will result in an immediate response, and in sufficient strength to destroy one cohort without any problems whatsoever …’
Scaurus paused and played an appraising gaze across his officers’ faces.
‘ … and so I therefore plan for us to make so much noise leaving camp that they won’t fail to hear that we’re on the march up the Dirty River. By the time we’re within striking distance of The Fang they’ll have gathered every able-bodied man for thirty miles ready to come after us, all of them dreaming of the chance to tear a Roman cohort limb from limb. And that, gentlemen, will be a lot of angry barbarians. They will come over the river like a pack of starving wolves hoping to catch us on the march, too fast for us to outrun them and too strong for us to face in a stand-up fight.’
After two days of enforced rest while the cohort waited for the moon to enter its darkest phase of the month, and recovered from the rigours of the march north, the centurions had gathered for an evening briefing from their tribune. Each man held the customary cup of wine that had become a hallmark of the relaxed ease with which Scaurus managed his officers, their attention locked on the senior officer as he outlined his intentions.
‘At the point that the tribe comes after us in strength, Silus and his cavalrymen are going to help us pull off a neat little trick I have in mind to prevent those tattooed maniacs from running us to ground and overwhelming us. And while we dance with the Venicone war band by way of distraction, Centurion Corvus and his men are going to slip quietly into their fortress and take back the Sixth Legion’s eagle. With a nod and a wink from Fortuna we’ll regroup here in a few days with the legion’s standard rescued and the bluenoses well and truly discomforted, after which we’ll make our exit down the road to the south at the double. It is to be hoped that the barbarians don’t go on the rampage against the wall forts, but even if they do, our duty is to get the Sixth’s eagle to safety however much we might want to stand and fight.’
Julius raised his cup.
‘I’ll drink to that. And if the goddess Fortuna doesn’t hear our prayers, here’s to the next best thing, the strong sword arm and bloody blade of Cocidius the warrior!’
The gathered officers echoed his sentiment and tipped the wine down their throats, holding cups out for a refill as Arminius came forward with the jar. Dubnus winked at Marcus.
‘So tell me brother, who will you be taking with you on this suicide mission?’
The Roman made a momentary show of pondering before replying.
‘Well obviously my scout, Arabus, since he’s the perfect man to send ahead of us to look out for the enemy. Lugos won’t hear of being left behind, of course, and the legionary Verus will show us the best approach to the fortress, given his knowledge of the Dirty River’s plain and its marshes. Aside from us four, Drest and his men will get the chance to show us just how good their professed expertise at fighting and stealing really is. That’s eight, and more than enough, I’d have thought.’
Arminius spoke without turning away from his duties with the wine jar.
‘Nine, Centurion. I still owe you a life.’
Dubnus grinned at his friend.
‘It seems that you will be taking this insubordinate slave with you whether you like it or not.’
He held out his empty cup, pulling a mock apologetic face as Arminius scornfully poured a half-measure into it.
‘I take it all back! You’re the greatest warrior that ever drew breath, and without you to watch his back our friend there would be at the mercy of all comers. Just fill me up properly, eh?’
The muscular German simply raised an eyebrow at him before moving on to the next man, much to the delight of the gathered centurions. Arminius spoke over his shoulder as he progressed down their line, his attention fixed on the wine he was pouring.
‘A half-cup’s all you’re getting, Centurion. Tomorrow you march out to give the Venicones’ beards a mighty tug for the second time in two years, but this time there’ll be no river in flood to hide behind. I’d say you’re going to need your wits about you.’
The Tungrian cohort marched north-west from the fort with great fanfare the next morning, each century’s trumpeter striving to outdo the others in the gusto with which they signalled their centurions’ orders. Marcus took Prefect Castus’s man Drest up onto the fort’s wall, and the two men watched as the long column of soldiers headed out down the road towards the High Mountains. As the cohort’s last century exited the fort’s northern gate and marched away into the wilderness Marcus shook his head, his lips pursed in grim amusement.
‘You know Drest, when you’re part of it a cohort on the march seems a mighty thing, a never-ending column of well-drilled fighting men, all armour, weapons and hard faces, and yet when I stand here and look out at them from this vantage point …’
The Thracian nodded his head in agreement.
‘Indeed. A column of seven hundred men suddenly looks like not very much at all.’ He turned his gaze from the distant marching column to the Roman standing next to him. ‘I presume that illustrating the insignificance of your cohort when taken in the context of the threat that awaits them was not your only purpose in inviting me to join you here?’
The Roman nodded.
‘I would have been disappointed had you failed to see through my intention.’ The two men huddled deeper into their cloaks as a cold wind made the legion cohort’s detachment flag snap and dance above them, and Marcus raised his hand to point out across the Dirty River’s valley to the line of hills on the horizon, a tiny speck on the skyline betraying the Venicone fortress’s position.
‘Let us be very clear with each other. I mean to find that eagle, if it still abides in The Fang, and I also intend to retrieve the head of the man who was betrayed in its taking as well. This will be the last chance anyone has to attempt their rescue for many years, possibly for ever, and I do not intend to fail. So, if you entertain thoughts of merely making a gesture at its recovery, and if the prospect of attempting to gain access to such a daunting fortress is giving you pause for thought, it would be as well to say so now. Disappointing me once we’re north of this wall might prove a lot more hazardous than gracefully backing out of our enterprise before it enters hostile territory.’
He fell silent having never taken his eyes off the distant skyline, and Drest looked out at the receding backs of the cohort’s last century, the morning sun glinting off the pioneers’ axes, answering Marcus’s question in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
‘I was born in Debeltum, Centurion, in Thracia, and I was the son of a shopkeeper. Debeltum is a veterans’ colony that was established by the Emperor Vespasian, and as a result the tradition of service runs deep in the community. For years I entertained the notion of joining the legions and seeing the empire, much to my father’s dismay since all he wanted was for me to take over the running of his shop and keep him in his old age. Six months before I would have been eligible to join up he was suddenly and unexpectedly bankrupted by a creditor from whom he had borrowed money in an ill-advised manner, a man he discovered bore a grudge against him only at the moment the bastard appeared at our door with a gang of toughs and put us out onto the street. My father was utterly broken by the shame and shock of having his respectable trade destroyed before his eyes, and I was forced to take work as an unskilled manual labourer, earning next to nothing for breaking my back from sunrise to sunset simply to earn sufficient money for us both to eat. After two years of this precarious existence I took the bold step of entering a gladiatorial ludus as a trainee, hoping to win my freedom in the arena along with enough money to see him live in comfort once again.’