‘Where we crossed earlier was the Dirty River’s narrowest point for miles, and close to The Fang. Where I’m leading us is much farther away, and when we get there the river will be at least twice as wide. We have avoided quick discovery at the cost of a less certain escape.’
The raiding party pushed on into the swamp, the soft mossy ground beneath their feet becoming increasingly liquid with every step until Marcus’s boots were sinking up to his ankles in the gelatinous mud. They had barely covered another quarter mile when the sound of shouting tribesmen reached them across the swamp, and the Roman tapped his tracker on the shoulder, whispering in the Tungrian’s ear.
‘That sounds as if the hunters have reached the river and realised that we were never heading in that direction. Push on Arabus, we’ve no option but to reach the river or else we’ll be trapped here under their spears when the sun rises.’
The party struggled on into the swamp, muffled curses and imprecations marking the spots where boots came loose from feet and had to be dragged from the mud and moss’s sticky grip, and all the time the sounds of pursuit gradually moved from the right to their rear. Having barely moved five hundred paces from their last halt, Arabus turned back to face Marcus with a look of dismay.
‘I’ve lost the path, it seems. The legion engineers must have changed direction to get around this morass, and there’s probably no safe way through to the river by going forward. We’ll have to backtrack …’
The Roman cocked his head to listen, then shook it decisively.
‘There’s no time!’ The excited baying of the hunting dogs was drawing closer. ‘They have our scent, which isn’t surprising given the amount of blood we’ve shed in the last hour. Besides, we’ll never reach the river before dawn at this pace …’ He mused for a moment on something Verus had told the centurions in the Lazy Hill headquarters before coming to a decision that he’d been pondering since the party had blundered into the swamp. ‘No, the answer’s not to look for a way back, but to go forward, deeper into the swamp.’
Drest stepped forward, his whisper full of urgency.
‘Are you sure, Centurion? It looks like a death trap to me. Even if we don’t sink into one of these mud pits we’ll surely be seen in no time once it’s light.’
Marcus shook his head.
‘It’s what Verus did to evade pursuit when he was running from these same hunters. We’ll have to go as far into the marsh as we dare, and then bury ourselves in the mud as deeply as we can. Hopefully the Venicones won’t be able to see us, and their dogs won’t be able to fasten onto our scent for the stink of rotting vegetation. It’s either that or we make a stand here against whatever it is that’s hunting us down. And besides, we have one other edge on them. They know this path intimately, whereas we blundered off it and into this desert of mud and water at the first opportunity.’
Drest frowned wearily at him.
‘Eh? Exactly how is that an advantage?’
Another shrill cry rang out across the marsh, and an otherworldly note in the hunter’s scream raised the hair on the back of their necks.
‘There’s no time, I’ll tell you when we’re safe in the mud. Come on!’
‘More of the same today is it, sir?’
Tribune Scaurus nodded equably and stared out across the grey dawn landscape, too busy chewing a stale piece of bread to answer Julius until he’d managed to swallow the tough mouthful and swill his mouth out with a cupful of water.
‘Quite so, First Spear, more of the same indeed. My intention is to sidestep the Venicones as you would a charging bull. Since they already know roughly where we are from their ambush of our cavalrymen, I think it best if we march south the way we came, up through that convenient little defile in the hills and back into the Frying Pan. And then, and this is the bit I really like, once we’re back inside the Frying Pan I think we’ll turn west and march back towards them.’
‘Towards them?’
He grinned at Julius’s incredulity.
‘You heard me. Only we’ll be on the southern side of the hills and they’ll be marching towards our last known position and therefore on the northern side. We’ll head west across the Frying Pan and out over the hills on the far side, and once we’re on the far side of the western rim we can head for any one of a dozen forts and get on the protected side of the wall. With a tiny bit of luck they’ll never know which way we went until we’re safe on the other side.’
His first spear scratched his head and thought for a moment before replying, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a note of evident unhappiness.
‘It’s not the most devious of ruses, Tribune. What if they work out what’s going on and decide not to take the bait? What if we meet the war band coming the other way somewhere in that bloody forest?’
Scaurus nodded, acknowledging the point.
‘I think it’s time to send Silus and his horsemen forward to scout the route. If the Venicones decide to come back this way down the path they trod yesterday that ought to give us ample warning.’
Julius saluted and went off to gather his centurions, brooding on the potential for disaster entailed in his tribune’s plan of action.
‘He don’t look happy.’
Sanga snorted at the opinion of one of his tent mates, his hands busy packing his kit into his blanket, fashioning a bundle small enough to rest in the crook of his carrying pole.
‘Neither would you mate, not if you was responsible for a cohort with a tribune who’s determined to dance around in hostile country shouting, “Come and get me!” to the bull that wants to stick its horns right up our arse. An’ every day we do this little dance we have to get lucky enough to avoid the bluenoses, whereas they only has to get lucky enough to catch us just the once. It’ll be another day of double-time marching from the looks of it, so you’d best make sure you’ve got some bread handy for eating on the move.’
He looked up from his packing to find a pair of eyes locked on him from the next tent party, naked hatred smouldering in a face so badly bruised as to be almost unrecognisable. Horta stared at him for a moment longer before turning away to mutter something to his mate, who turned and regarded Sanga equally coldly, his nose livid with bruises and deep bite marks. The soldier got to his feet and shrugged on his baldric and belt, adjusting the hang of his sword until the weapon’s pommel was directly beneath his right armpit. Pulling the dagger from its place on his left hip he examined the blade’s edge for a moment before pushing it back into the polished scabbard’s tight leather lips, then looked back at the two men to find them still regarding him with jaundiced eyes. Shaking his head in disgust he strode the few paces required to bring them face-to-face, raising a finger in warning.
‘You two want a fight, you come and find me once this excitement’s done with and I’ll put you both under the doctor’s care for a month. Try to take me unawares and it’ll be the last trick you ever try to pull. You both been warned, right?’
He turned away with a contemptuous sneer, seeing Quintus strolling down the century’s line alongside Morban, his eyes roaming his command’s ranks in search of anything with which he might take exception.
‘Now then lads! Get yourselves on parade before the chosen man has to start shouting! You make me look bad and I’ll have to send whatever shit he drops on me down the hill to where it belongs!’
His words were loud enough to carry to Quintus, who smiled wryly at Sanga’s blunt way with the men of his tent party even as he drew breath to bellow his first command of the day.
‘Right then you apes! Let’s have you in nice straight lines and ready to march! The last man in position with all his kit gets a tickle from my little friend here!’ He raised the shining brass-bound iron ball on the end of his staff and grinned mirthlessly across the ranks of his century. ‘It may not be a vine stick, but I think you’ll find I can swing it just as quickly! Move!’