He turned back to resume their slow progress into the swamp, leading the party forward into the impenetrable darkness until at length what little was left of the pathway reached the river’s dark expanse. Its black water was riffled into tiny waves by a brisk wind that swirled the marsh grass through which they had made their cautious way down to the wide, slow-flowing stream’s bank. Lugos stepped forward, pulling off his heavy outer garment and easing himself into the black water as silently as he could.
‘Give me swim rope.’
Marcus handed him one end of a long coil of line that was much thinner than the knotted rope they had used to control their progress, passing the other end to Arminius.
‘Tie this to a tree will you?’
Once the slender cable was secure about one of the stunted alders that studded the swamp, the massively built Briton clamped his teeth about the end he was holding and then turned and pushed himself off the riverbank, sliding into the deeper water and breaststroking his way slowly and quietly out across the river’s black expanse. The men watching him in the stars’ meagre light waited tensely for any sign that an ambush had been laid on the far banks, but after several moments they saw the big Briton’s barely distinct form climb wearily out of the water, vanishing into the marsh grass beyond. A moment later the rope went taut, dipping to kiss the river’s slow-flowing water in midstream but strong enough to provide a swimmer with the means of supporting his weapons and wet clothing against the stream’s pull. Marcus gestured to Arabus, who had unstrung his bow and coiled the string into a tight package of oiled cloth which he held in his mouth. The two men exchanged meaningful glances and then the scout was in the water and crossing quickly and smoothly, pulling himself along the rope quicker than a man could swim against the outgoing current. Climbing from the water on the far side Marcus knew that Arabus’s first action would be to restring his bow and nock an arrow to it as they had agreed earlier in the day, ready for any sign that the men who would follow him might seek to betray their presence. The Roman waited a moment more before gesturing for Tarion to cross, then Arminius, followed by the Sarmatae twins.
‘You have determined our order of crossing carefully, I see.’
Drest’s whispered comment carried an edge of bitterness to Marcus’s ears. He shrugged, watching Ram slide into the water in his brother’s wake.
‘Indeed I have. When I trust your men I will refrain from my precautions, but until then I will ensure that any opportunity for one of them to frustrate our plan, however unlikely that might be, is minimised.’
Drest shrugged in frustration, pointing a finger at The Fang’s glowing spot of illumination on the dark summit that had risen into view before them.
‘You had better come to that decision quickly, Centurion. Tomorrow night we will be faced with the walls of that fortress looming over us. If ever there was a time for one shout to tear apart your plans then that would be the time, I would imagine?’
He slipped away into the water with a final meaningful stare at the Roman and pulled himself across the river hand over hand. Once he was safe on the far bank Marcus untied the rope from the tree to which Arminius had fastened it and tied it around his waist, walking carefully into the water and signalling to the men on the other bank. The stream was sluggish, but the water itself felt thick, as if it were as much mud as water, and he grimaced with the unpleasant sensation as the silt insinuated itself into his armpits and between his buttocks. A gentle pull on the rope eased him out into deeper water, and a series of further pulls propelled him across the river’s width, hands reaching out to help him climb, shivering uncontrollably, out of the water’s cold embrace. Looking about him he saw that the raiding party’s members were all speckled with the river’s mud, their faces indistinct under the fresh coat of dirt. Lugos untied the rope from about his chest and coiled it into a tight circle, handing it to Arabus who stepped in close to speak with the young centurion.
‘Another two miles and we will reach the hiding place I described to you.’ He glanced up at the stars. ‘We have enough time to go slowly and carefully. At least this — ’ he raised a grimy hand ‘- will help to disguise any scent we might have been carrying.’
Marcus nodded and gestured to his companions to follow the scout forward into the darkness, watching as each man took up the knotted rope that would both keep their spacing constant and allow any of them to signal an alarm.
‘Remember my words earlier. There are hunters roaming on this side of the river, so you must move in silence and stop where you stand at the slightest hint of anyone other than us being out here. Arabus, take us to your hide.’ He rubbed at the intaglio bound to his spatha’s hilt with fine silver wire, feeling the delicately engraved lines under his calloused fingers as he muttered too quietly for anyone’s ears other than his own to detect the words.
‘And keep us safe, Lord Mithras, from whatever might step into our path.’
Dawn came to the Tungrians in an eerie silence, the slowly lightening sky untroubled by any hint of wind. The soldiers followed their instructions and built one large fire for every century, adding enough green stuff to the dry wood they had gathered the previous evening to guarantee that sufficient smoke rose into the still air to betray their position, visible for miles around.
‘There’ll be no hiding from the ink monkeys with this lot to guide them. Doesn’t make no sense to me, first we sneak away from the river so’s not to be found, then we set fires so’s we can be found.’
‘You might try listening when the grown-ups explain what we’re doing, eh Horta?’ Sanga shook his head in disgust at the soldier who had raised his voice in complaint. ‘The finer points of soldiering are a mystery to you, ain’t they? Here, Saratos, you’re supposed to be nothing better than a poor, dumb barbarian, can you explain to our slow-thinking mate here what we’re doing?’
The Sarmatae recruit was yet to fully master Latin, but there was no hiding the raised eyebrow of amusement as he turned to face the man in question.
‘We here to bring enemy running. We allow Centurion Marcus to attack Fang.’ The soldier looked blank. ‘Fang? Big fort on hill?’ Saratos shook his head, spitting out a choppy stream of his native language which, to judge from the look on his face, was far from complimentary before making another effort. ‘See, today we run away from barbarian, let them chase horses.’
‘Why the bloody hell would they chase the cavalry when they could be chasing us? They ain’t going to catch no bloody horses, are they?’
Saratos shook his head again, tapping it as he did so.
‘Is like Sanga say, up here is thinking, and down there — ’ he pointed at his booted feet ‘- and down there is marching. And you, you is marching.’
The maligned soldier bristled, clenching a fist and jutting out his chin.
‘You taking the piss, horse fucker?’
The Sarmatae smiled back at him, tapping the dagger at his belt.
‘You need be careful. I not start fight, but I end fight, and quicker than you like. And was no horse I fuck, was your sister. To be fair, she do look like horse …’
He turned away, apparently lacking any further interest in the confrontation, but Sanga saw him slide a hand to the side of his body that was shielded from the other man’s view, gripping the knife’s handle and tensing his body for any attack. Fixing the irate soldier with a steady gaze, the veteran shook his head in a manner he hoped would be discouraging.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you, Horta old mate, I’ve seen this one fight and I have to tell you it wasn’t pretty. Besides, think of your poor sister …’