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As the leading centuries formed back into their marching column Marcus noted that Julius was scanning the ground around the corpse of the bandit group’s leader.

‘Lost something?’

His friend nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.

‘My whistle. It was a nice one too.’

Glancing about him, Marcus caught Dubnus’s eye, and saw that he was pointing ostentatiously at his own belt pouch and grinning smugly. Giving up the search, Julius turned back to his colleagues to find Dubnus apparently searching the ground at his feet with exaggerated interest.

‘I could do with a nice whistle; mine sounds like a castrated cat.’

The older man shook his head in disgust as the 3rd Century, set to lead the long two-cohort-strong column of march, started to move again at Clodius’s bellow of command.

‘Very funny, Dubnus. I suppose that’s the price I have to pay for being first into the fight. As per fucking usual.’

He stamped away to join his own 5th Century, leaving the two friends to wait for their men to march past.

‘How long will you hold onto it?’

Dubnus shrugged at Marcus’s question.

‘Until he’s bought a new one? I’ll sneak it back into his pouch once he’s laid out some coin for a replacement.’ He frowned at his friend’s sudden solemnity. ‘ What? It’s not like I’ve lifted his purse!’

Marcus shook his head.

‘No, it’s me. I was just thinking how funny Rufius was going to find this.’

Dubnus put a spade-like hand on his friend’s mailed shoulder.

‘I know. I miss the old bastard almost as much as you do, but life, as Morban keeps telling anyone that will listen, is for those left around to profit from it. And here come your boys now. Go and cheer up Qadir with the story of our colleague’s whistle. You know he always turns grumpy when it’s too wet for his lads to play with their bows.’

After another four hours of marching, all of it through an afternoon made into premature twilight by the swirling mist, even Marcus was ready for the day’s journey to end. Marching alongside his chosen man, Qadir, at his century’s rear, he noted that the usually imperturbable Hamian’s demeanour became grimmer as the day progressed.

‘I’m going up to the front to make sure Morban’s not bullying the trumpeter too badly.’

The Hamian grunted in reply, his eyes locked on the gloomy landscape fitfully revealed by the mist’s drifting grey curtains.

Marching up to the century’s head, the Roman found his standard bearer, a twenty-five-year veteran famed for both his acerbic wit and his prodigious appetites for gambling, drinking and whoring, in reflective mood on the subject of their colleague’s unhappiness.

‘I tried to cheer him up at the lunch stop with a few jokes, but he wasn’t having any of it. Perhaps he’s starting to realise what him and his mates tossed away when they decided not to stay with the Hamian cohort back on the Wall. Carting around half their weight in iron can’t be much fun when they’re more used to prancing round the forest wearing next to nothing and shooting the occasion animal for the pot.’ Oblivious to his centurion’s icy stare, he ploughed on. ‘And now here he is, freezing cold, water dripping from the end of his nose and his bow hidden away for days on end for fear of the glue rotting. No wonder the poor bastard’s feeling miserable. Not like us, we’re used to this.’ Marcus stared out into the mist, shaking his head slightly at the realisation that Morban’s view of what might be affecting Qadir’s mood could just as easily be applied to his own situation. ‘Anyway, we’ll be tucked up in this new place’s barracks soon enough, with a few logs in the stove and all this nastiness behind us. And if dear old Qadir can’t take a joke then perhaps he shouldn’t have-’

The standard bearer’s sentiment was interrupted by a shout from further up the column, which promptly came to a halt in a succession of shouted commands from each centurion down the cohort’s column. Hearing the century in front of his own being told to halt Marcus shouted the same command to his men, then barked a terse order to Qadir to watch the ranks and walked forward to see what was happening. He passed the back of the leading century and the reason for the unscheduled halt became clear: a twenty-foot-high stone wall loomed out of the mist. A group of bemused centurions were gathered around a pair of massive wooden gates set in an imposing stone archway that barred the cohorts’ route into the city. The first spear was craning his neck to call up to a pair of soldiers who in turn were peering down into the mist with looks of deep suspicion.

‘Just open the bloody gates and we’ll worry about the paperwork later. I’ve got two full cohorts of soldiers slowly freezing their balls off out here, and I want them in barracks before dark.’

Julius, who was standing behind the senior centurion with a grim look on his dark, bearded face, shook his head at Marcus.

‘This isn’t going to end well. Those are legion troops if I’m not mistaken, and whenever the road menders get involved there’s usually grief.’

Another soldier appeared on the walls, this one wearing the feathered and crested helmet of a legion chosen man. He spoke to the guards for a moment, then leaned out and called down to the auxiliaries gathered below.

‘I’m sorry, Centurion. I’m under strict orders not to open the gates without permission from my own officer. I’ve sent one of my men to find him, but until he gets here there’s no way I can let you in.’

He spread his hands to convey his helplessness with the situation, and then disappeared from sight to leave the first spear fuming with anger.

‘Was that segmented armour I saw before that man went to hide from the wrath of an infuriated first spear?’

The centurions turned to find Tribune Scaurus standing behind them with a questioning look on his face. Frontinius nodded grimly, his face creased with anger.

‘Yes, Tribune. It would appear that the regulars have got here before us.’

Scaurus looked out into the swirling mist for a moment.

‘And I suppose that if we leave this to take its apparent course, the men could be standing around here for quite a while.’

Frontinius nodded again, the angry lines of his expression softening as he turned a quizzical gaze on his superior.

The tribune nodded at him, cleared his throat, and shouted up at the apparently deserted wall.

‘ Chosen Man! Show yourself!’ After a long silence the chosen man looked over the wall again, his face falling when he saw the tribune staring up at him. Scaurus lifted his cloak, showing the other man his finely wrought bronze plate armour, sculpted to resemble a muscled torso. ‘Have a good look, Chosen Man! You’ll observe that I’m not a centurion but the commander of these cohorts, and not without influence, or an understanding of how things work. Which legion might this be that I’m talking with, I wonder? Either the “grunts” or the “scribblers”, I’d guess. Which is it, Chosen Man?’

The chosen man sprang to attention.

‘First Minervia Faithful and Loyal, Tribune!’

Scaurus smiled, muttering quietly to himself.

‘ Got you.’ He looked up at the chosen man for a long moment before speaking again. ‘The “grunts”, then. First Minervia, Faithful and Loyal. A proud name for a proud legion. Tell me, Chosen Man, is that sour-faced old bastard Gladio still First Spear of the Third Cohort?’

The chosen man squinted down at him, clearly wondering just how much influence this unknown tribune might have with his own officers. His answer was carefully balanced to avoid giving any potential offence.

‘Yes, sir. He’s still as cheerful as he ever was.’