‘I’d be a little more careful who you insult, if I were you. And when you’re done with trying to get yourself killed, you can take a message to your employer. Tell him that there’s a customer looking for enough wine to keep twenty thirsty centurions happy for a month, and quickly. We’re camped on the empty ground by the west gate, and he needs to ask for First Spear Frontinius. The good stuff, mind you, and we’re paying in gold.’
Unabashed, the bodyguard raised an eyebrow at his mate, a slight smirk on his face.
‘In gold, is it? We’ll pass your message on, soldier. Fresh gold’s always welcome here.’
He turned away, putting a proprietorial hand on the lady’s arm and leading her towards one of the market’s exits. Julius watched them walk away across the forum, his expression still wistful as he addressed his colleagues, ignoring the newly arrived bruisers who closed ranks behind Annia’s bodyguards to deny the Tungrians a chance to follow her.
‘And that, brothers, was my first love. The blows that life deals you just when you least expect them, eh?’ He sighed, his voice hardening as he regained control of himself. ‘Feel free to mention this meeting to anyone you like, but be prepared to sleep with one eye open if you do.’
To his surprise Dubnus, usually the first with a quip at his expense, shook his head dourly.
‘It wouldn’t be funny, brother. Forget you ever laid eyes on her, and we’ll do the same.’ He winked at Marcus, tapping his pouch with a significant stare at the back of Julius’s head. ‘And if you ever want someone to cheer you up, I’m your man. All you have to do is whistle. ’
The view to the west from the top of the Tungrorum city wall was less than impressive, Qadir decided, its monotony made all the worse by the frequency with which the 9th Century’s Hamians were being allocated the duty of standing watch over the open fields beyond them, while the two Tungrian cohorts were on construction duties. Half of the century, and among them all of the twenty-odd Hamians who had elected to stay with the cohort, were dispersed along three hundred paces of the wall’s eastern length, while the rest were hard at work with the other centuries below them. The sounds of hammering and sawing were an incessant accompaniment to their vigil, as the soldiers below laboured, sweated and bled to erect the wooden barrack blocks required to house their numbers. Empty fields that receded into the featureless grey had been intriguing to the Hamian members of the century at first, but their interest in the open ground’s potential for archery had quickly palled with the continued presence of the bitterly cold fog that wreathed the landscape beyond the city’s walls.
‘There!’ The man at his side started and pointed into the mist, his voice lowered to avoid spooking the cautious animal. Following his arm Qadir saw the outline of a magnificent stag advancing slowly out of the murk, bending its heavily antlered head to pick carefully at the sparse grass. The soldier shrugged the bow case from his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at his chosen man. Qadir looked long and hard at the animal, calculating the amount of meat that his men’s skilled hands would strip from its carcass, before regretfully shaking his head and putting a restraining hand on the man’s arm.
‘Our goddess will not look with favour upon the man who looses an arrow at such an easy target. That animal was made to be hunted with skill and stealth through the great forest, not to be shot down for straying into this unnatural wilderness of empty land. Spread the word: the man that shoots a single arrow at the beast will suffer my displeasure, and likely that of Our Lady the Deasura too. Go.’
The soldier nodded and turned away to pass Qadir’s command to his fellow Hamians. The big chosen man was a placid individual for the most part, but every man in the 9th Century was only too well aware that they crossed him at their peril, such was his temper when eventually roused. Qadir watched with satisfaction as the soldier walked down the wall’s broad fighting platform, taking pleasure from the fact that he had spared an innocent creature of the forest from an ignoble death.
‘That’s a fine-looking beast. Plenty of meat on those bones, I’d guess?’
The chosen man turned, rolling his eyes in mock disgust.
‘Still you have the ability to ghost your way to my shoulder, Centurion. I stand abashed at your skills.’
He opened his arms in a slight bow of respect, and Marcus nodded in return, his face creased by a wry smile.
‘So we’re not hunting today?’
Qadir shook his head, watching the stag as it turned and slid back into the mist.
‘It would not be fitting. Such a prize needs to be taken in a true hunt, not like the target on a practice ground. As long as he is under my men’s bows, he will have the protection of the Deasura herself.’
Marcus shrugged easily, still smiling.
‘In which case he’s lucky to have encountered the only leader of men with your eastern philosophy for a hundred miles or more.’
They stared out into the empty fog in silence for a moment before Marcus found the words for which he had been groping.
‘You’ve been a different man of late, Qadir. Morban thinks you’ve realised what a mistake you made in deciding to stay with us.’
The Hamian stared out into the mist.
‘An easy assumption to make, I suppose. The easterner comes to his senses when he realises that most of the infantryman’s life is nothing more than rain, marching, boredom and more rain.’
Marcus laughed.
‘And that the other small part is nothing but blood, terror and death?’
The Hamian smiled slowly.
‘In your company, Centurion, it does seem that way.’ He turned to look at his friend. ‘But in all truth, none of that bothers me. I am troubled by a different fact.’
He fell silent again and turned back to the mist, his face bleak in the morning’s cold light. And just when Marcus thought that the subject was closed, the Hamian sighed and turned to face his friend again.
‘My continuing black mood, Centurion, is the result of your near death at the hands of imperial killers before we left Britannia. And I’m not the only man that feels this way. If not for three unwashed barbarians and a centurion still recovering from a serious wound, both you and your woman would have suffered the fate they had planned for you. We are all ashamed to have allowed those Roman animals to have taken you from the cohort without any attempt at rescue.’
Marcus smiled gently at his words.
‘You couldn’t have saved me even if you’d been aware of what had happened, which you weren’t. Nobody but Arminius, Martos and Lugos could have run fast enough to arrive in time, not with all the weight we all carry in weapons and armour. And since it worked out well enough in the end, let’s have an end to this introspection, shall we? There’ll be plenty of other chances for you to pull my grapes out of the press.’
The Hamian looked into his face, his weary expression brightening.
‘Very well. I will put the failure behind me, and consider only how best to provide you and yours with the protection I have sworn to deliver.’
‘Sworn?’ Marcus’s expression turned quizzical. ‘You mean an oath to the gods?’
‘Just one goddess, Our Lady the Deasura. And I’m not the only one. You’re unjustly accused, every other member of your family has been murdered, and only you, your woman and her unborn child stand between the empire and the final destruction of your name. None of your friends will allow that to happen, not without challenge.’
The Roman shook his head, his eyebrows raised in amazement.
‘I’m speechless, Qadir. I…’
‘There is no need for you to comment. We need neither your approval nor your assistance in this matter. Simply accept that you have friends who will fight to see you survive this injustice, and go about the duties that accompany this new identity you have chosen knowing that we watch over you.’