Looking around he realised that the raiding party had vanished into the mist to the south without realising what had happened to the last man in their straggling column, and the true depth of his predicament dawned upon him with a simple but chilling logic. He was doomed to drown in the swamp, alone and unnoticed, unless he called for help, but his only means of summoning rescue would almost certainly bring their pursuers down upon them all, and guarantee that every one of them would suffer torment and death of a far more prolonged nature than the relatively painless demise that now beckoned him. His mind raced, and alighted on the two most important things left in his life, his family and his faith, and closing his eyes he muttered a prayer to the deity.
‘Lightbringer, I implore you to grant me one last favour …’
Moving one arm from the surface of the swamp he reached down into the slurry, feeling his body slip lower into the morass as he shifted position to grip the hilt of his long spatha and slid it from the scabbard. He lifted the weapon through the soupy water, straining to free the blade from the mass of rotting vegetation. Exerting all the strength he had, he forced the sword’s blade up out of the swamp, holding it upright in the grey light and staring at the delicately carved intaglio tied to its pommel with silver wire, nodding with a gentle smile at the beneficent figure of the god.
‘Thank you, my Lord. If it be your will, allow this fine weapon to be returned to my wife.’
Holding the blade’s shining line of finely polished steel above his head he felt the swamp belch beneath him, another pocket of gas bursting as his feet sank into it, the sudden release of gas sucking his body down into the stinking pit so that his nostrils were barely clearing the disgusting water’s surface. Instinctively gasping in a deep breath, he barely had time to close his eyes as the morass took him down into its heart, feeling the cold water close over his head. At peace with himself, Marcus waited for the darkness to claim him as he knew it surely would when the effort of holding his last snatched breath became unbearable.
Silus and his men reached the path’s fork without seeing any sign of the Venicones, and when they dismounted to listen, the forest was silent apart from the rustle of the trees’ canopy as it was stirred by the breeze. The decurion grimaced at the forest about them, shaking his head at the apparent tranquillity.
‘Nothing. This place is as innocent as your sister before she discovers the joys of cock.’ He spat on the path’s verge. ‘Of course there could be a whole fucking tribe within bowshot of us and we’d never know it until one of them farted and gave us a clue.’ The detachment’s men grinned wryly at each other, well accustomed to their leader’s colourful turn of phrase. ‘So, let’s play this just the way that dear old Julius wanted it.’ He pointed at four men in succession, the corner of his mouth lifting mirthlessly as each of them winced slightly at their selection. ‘You four, ride ahead and scout for any sign of the enemy. Any sign, mind you. Worried-looking badgers, shifty squirrels, anything you see or hear that makes you uneasy, you just turn around and you come back this way at just the same pace. No speeding up, or if you’ve already passed their forward scouts they’ll shoot enough arrows into you to put a nasty crimp in your day. Just make it look like you’ve scouted as far forward as you were told to and now you’re on your way back to report there’s nothing to be seen. Send a man back to the rest of us every now and then so that we know you’re still alive, and when the path starts to climb out of this bastard forest you can stop and wait for us. Off you go.’
He watched as they trotted away to the east, shaking his head again in disgust and commenting to nobody in particular.
‘This isn’t what I had in mind when I joined up to ride horses for a living, and that’s a fact.’ Shrugging fatalistically he untied the string of his leggings and turned to the forest, grunting with pleasure as he emptied his bladder onto the bushes beside the path. ‘Take the chance while you have it my lads. There’s nothing worse than fighting off a barbarian ambush with your legs soaked in cold piss.’
Feeling the vestiges of his self-control slipping away from him, as the pain in his chest swelled from a dull ache to the stabbing of a red-hot dagger, and as his pulse thundered in his ears, Marcus sensed the sword’s hilt moving gently in his grip as if it had become possessed of a life of its own, the pommel sliding from his grasp to be replaced by the feeling that his hand was being held by another, the fingers as long and powerful as he had always imagined they would be. Smiling beatifically at the obvious message from his god, he surrendered to the urge to take his last fatal breath, his eyes suddenly snapping open as, in the act of filling his lungs with the stinking water, he felt an abrupt sensation of rising up through the swamp’s clinging muck. Feeling solid ground beneath him he retched up a gout of filthy swamp water, opening his eyes to see a massive figure looming over him. Spluttering out another mouthful of water he stared helplessly up at his rescuer, sucking air into his lungs before coughing furiously into his hands, seeking to muffle the irresistible need to rid them of the last of the bog’s fetid liquid. When he managed to speak his voice was little better than a croak.
‘For a moment there I thought I was dead, and that you were Mithras himself.’
The answer came in a harsh whisper, the man crouched over him lowering his head to look into Marcus’s eyes.
‘No, Centurion. Mithras will have to wait for another day. Now cough quietly, unless you want to bring those harpies down on us!’
The Roman stared up in bemusement for a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head, chuckling quietly.
‘Thank you, Arminius, although for a moment there I was actually disappointed not to be in the underworld.’
The German raised an eyebrow.
‘It can still be arranged, if you really wish it to be so. But I doubt that our Lord would look as kindly on a man killed by an irritated German as one who had decided to accept drowning in silence in order to save his comrades from detection.’
Marcus struggled into a sitting position, looking about him at the men gathered around the bog and smiling wanly.
‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time …’
Arminius pulled him to his feet, then stooped to pick up the Roman’s sword, slotting it back into the empty scabbard in a gush of water from the soaked leather sheath.
‘And the right thing to do now is to get ourselves away from here before the mist lifts. It already seems a little lighter, although that might just be the sun getting higher.’ From across the swamp to their north a high-pitched call rang out, answered an instant later by a dozen more voices. ‘See, they’re still out there hunting for us.’
The Roman nodded, gesturing to Arabus.
‘Lead us to the river.’
The scout turned away and headed south once more, picking his steps with delicate care, and Arminius propelled Marcus along behind the Tungrian with a hand on his shoulder.
‘And this time, Centurion, watch where you put your feet. I’ve already repaid my debt of a life to you, so if I have to pull you from another stinking bog you’ll be building a debt to me instead.’
7
The deeper the mounted detachment moved into the Frying Pan’s heart, the less Silus was able to shrug off the feeling of disquiet that had gripped him since the moment they had ridden away from the cohort. The forest was silent, even the birds’ song stilled as if in reaction to the presence of intruders, and the absence of any natural noise other than that of the wind through the trees was more chilling than would have been the case in the presence of a marching cohort of soldiers to fill the silence. A rider cantered easily down the path towards them, reining his horse in with a salute to the decurion.