‘We’ll have to do it in two trips. Arabus and I will take Drest and his men across first, and then Arabus can bring the boat back for the two of you while we scout the ground on the far side. With luck we’ll be away before the fog lifts, and the Venicones will be none the wiser.’
Arminius nodded reluctantly.
‘It’s logical enough, if you think you can trust those evil little Sarmatae bastards.’
The Roman shrugged.
‘They’ve had enough opportunities to betray us, wouldn’t you say?’
The German raised an eyebrow.
‘Perhaps. Best if you don’t turn your back on them though.’
They shared a look of mutual understanding, and then Arminius gathered the rest of the party to move the boat from its hiding place thirty paces down to the water. The men watched critically as it settled onto the river’s surface with Arabus standing thigh-deep in the river to hold it steady, and Marcus leaning into the boat to examine the bottom.
‘There’s a little water coming in, but not enough to worry about.’ He turned to Drest, gesturing him forward. ‘We’ll go first, with your men, and Arabus will bring the boat back for these two once we’re across.’
The Thracian nodded, climbing into the boat and gesturing to Ram and Radu to follow him. They leaned over the skiff’s other side to counterbalance the weight of Marcus boarding, then pulled Arabus over the side as Arminius pushed the boat away from the shore. Rowing slowly, careful not to make any loud splashing sounds that might betray their passage across the river, Marcus and Drest paddled the boat across the slow, silent river while the two Sarmatae stared out into the mist to either side, their faces unreadable to the Roman’s snatched glances. Within a dozen strokes the river’s northern shore was almost invisible, and they rowed on through the mist’s densest concentration in silence, each man alone with his thoughts. After a few moments of steady paddling the river’s southern bank materialised out of the murk, an expanse of wind-ruffled reeds and marshy ground beyond that mirrored the northern shore, and as the boat grounded on the bank’s mud Marcus gingerly climbed out, drawing his patterned spatha and advancing up into the reeds. Tilting his head for a moment to listen, he turned back to the others.
‘Nothing. Drest, get your men out of the boat and hold a position here while I scout ahead to make sure there’s nobody waiting for us out there. Arabus, you can be on your way back for the others.’
The tracker nodded and turned the boat around, settling into the prow and paddling to either side of the pointed bow with the boat’s stern slightly lifted. The boat was swiftly lost in the mist, and Marcus turned back to Drest, shrugging off the thief’s cloak and dropping it beside the Thracian.
‘Keep an eye on that for me. That way if there are men waiting for us in the mist you’ve still got the eagle, and a chance of getting it back to Prefect Castus.’
Drest nodded wearily, getting to his feet and putting a hand to his sword’s hilt.
‘It’ll be safe here. Don’t go so far into the mist that you lose your bearings and fail to find the way back, eh?’ Marcus nodded, turning away and stepping forward into the swamp that bordered the river’s bank, and Drest was clearly unable to avoid a further gentle jibe at his expense. ‘And don’t go falling into any more-’
He grunted in mid-sentence, and Marcus turned back to find the Thracian standing stock still with a startled expression. A harsh voice sounded from behind him, his pronunciation a little rough-edged but surprisingly fluent by comparison with the Sarmatae twin’s previous utterances.
‘Enough of your prattle, old man.’
Drest was staring down at his chest with a look of amazement, as if he were trying to work out where the sword point that was thrust out between his ribs had come from. As the Roman watched, Ram, who had moved to stand close behind the Thracian, raised a hand and pushed Drest off the long blade with a lopsided grin, shrugging as his erstwhile master slumped to the sodden ground with blood blossoming from the wounds in his back and chest.
‘And now you want to know why, don’t you?’ Radu stepped around his brother, drawing his own sword and pointing it at Marcus. ‘Why didn’t we just wait for you to get out of earshot before killing him and taking the eagle?’
The Roman lowered his own sword’s point to the ground, shaking his head in response.
‘I already know why. You’ve been paid to retrieve the eagle, and make sure its discovery remains hidden, for whatever purpose, but there’s something more that you’ve been offered money to deliver back to your new master, isn’t there?’
Ram stepped over Drest’s slumped body to stand beside his brother, his bloodstained weapon levelled at Marcus’s face.
‘Yes. We’ve been paid to bring back the eagle, but the price is trebled if we have your head in the bag with it.’
Radu grinned at Marcus in anticipation.
‘And it’ll be the easiest money we’ll ever make.’
The Roman raised his spatha, drawing the eagle-pommelled gladius and putting the shorter weapon’s blade alongside it.
‘You’re forgetting two things.’
The twins edged forward, their interest in the conversation clearly limited to the amount of distraction it would provide for them while they moved slowly apart, seeking to outflank the Roman and attack him from both sides at once.
‘And what are those two things, dead meat?’
Marcus grinned mirthlessly at Ram.
‘Firstly, I’ve already had a knife at your throat once, and this time I won’t be dropping my swords.’
The Sarmatae snorted derisively, and took another pace to the side.
‘And the other thing, before we cut you down and take your head?’
The Roman turned sideways on to the two men, swinging the spatha in a quick, whirring arc that left an eddy in the riverbank’s mist-laden air.
‘I’ve already held my god’s hand once today. And once was enough.’
‘We’ve ridden the path from here to the rim of the Frying Pan.’
‘And seen nothing?’
Silus nodded at Julius’s question. The cavalry detachment had met the marching cohort a mile west of the fork in the path, and the first spear had called a rest break while he consulted with his decurion.
‘And seen nothing at all. This forest is as quiet as the grave, First Spear, so if this is the path you want to use to get back to the wall then I suggest we get on with it before the ink monkeys stop being quite so accommodating.’ Julius nodded decisively, and was turning away to start issuing orders when Silus spoke again. ‘One more thought, First Spear?’
The senior centurion turned back to him, one eyebrow raised in sardonic challenge of the unaccustomed formality.
‘Decurion?’
‘My boys and I were talking through that story the tribune told us the other night, the one about the three legions that were lost to the barbarians in Germania, and one of my brighter lads came up with a decent idea to put the bluenoses on the back foot if they were to spring an ambush on us out here.’
Julius frowned.
‘I thought you said the path was clear?’
Silus spread his hands.
‘I did. And I also said that the forest was as quiet as the grave. But that’s not the same as knowing for sure that the Venicones have all taken the tribune’s bait and gone charging off to the north-east, is it?’
The first spear nodded slowly.
‘So what was the bright idea then, being ready to run like fuck at the first sign of unpleasant men with sharp iron?’
Silus nodded, his face lighting up with genuine amusement.
‘Pretty much, although he did have one small wrinkle to add to that basic tactic.’
Julius listened to the decurion’s proposal with a guarded expression, nodding slowly as the point of Silus’s suggestion became clear.
‘Not bad, even if it is as risky as anything the tribune might have come up with. You’ll soon be giving Scaurus a run for his money in coming up with devious schemes that will either work like miracles or get us all killed.’ He turned to his chosen man. ‘Fetch me the tribune and centurions, will you Pugio? I think this needs a bit of a wider discussion …’