Sentries challenged him as he passed the looming tent that housed the standards of the legion detachments, and he called back the watchword. Skirting the edge of the imperial enclosure beyond, he turned into the narrower avenue leading to the medical station. Two soldiers came staggering in the other direction, drawing themselves up and saluting quickly as they saw him. Castus turned to watch them move away, and caught a gleam of light from one of the smaller pavilions at the edge of the imperial enclosure.
As he watched, the tent flap was flung aside and a figure stepped out, illuminated briefly. Castus recognised Valens, and was about to call out to his friend when another man appeared in the tent doorway. It was the notary Nigrinus, smiling and saying something to Valens, before stepping back inside the tent again. Castus stood motionless, watching from the shadows as his friend turned, threw his hood over his head and stalked away between the tent lines. Moments later, the departing figure was lost in the mist of falling rain.
18
Kneeling beside the path, Castus plucked a stem of long grass and put it between his teeth. Through the scrub and the trees he could see the village boundary, wattle fences, low stone walls, and the humped grey thatch of the huts beyond.
‘What does it look like to you?’ he said.
‘Not much,’ Modestus replied. The optio tipped back his head, nostrils tightened, as if he might be able to smell danger. ‘No smoke from the huts. Reckon they’re long gone, centurion. Cleared out, same as the rest. No sound of animals – must have taken them too.’
No sound of birds either, Castus thought. No crows screech shy;ing and flapping around the abandoned grain stores. He sucked on the grass stem for a moment, turning it between his teeth. Behind him, thirty men of his century were waiting on the path, sitting along the verge with a few sentries watching the approaches. After the night’s rain the day was hot, still and sultry beneath a pale grey sky. Castus spat out the stem.
‘Macrinus,’ he called back down the track. The section leader nodded and came to join him at the head of the column. ‘Take two men and move up one hundred paces to the edge of the village. When you reach the first fence branch off to the left and follow the boundary around. Keep quiet and keep your eyes open. Remigius: do the same, around to the right. If you see anything or anyone give a shout then get back here quick.’
The two section leaders selected their men and moved off, walking slowly. Castus glanced at the scouts as they passed him. Macrinus and Remigius were in the lead, then the other five, with Diogenes lingering at the rear. They walked casually, spears across their shoulders.
‘Stipo! You going for a stroll in the forum? Helmet! Shield!’
The young soldier muttered an apology, put his helmet on and slung the shield from his back. Some of the others did the same. The group of scouts tightened up slightly, appearing more alert. Still not alert enough, Castus thought as he watched them move up the path. He realised he was grinding his back teeth together. A low stir of muttered voices came from the men behind him, and he hissed for them to be silent.
Four hours had passed since they had left camp. Four hours of picking their way slowly through an empty countryside, crossing streams and cutting through thickets. They were sup shy;posed to be capturing prisoners for questioning, but every settlement they found had been cleared out. No people, no animals. Even the food stores removed or destroyed. There were other patrols out too; they had been scouring the land in a twenty-mile radius from the camp for days, but none had brought in anything. How long could they continue like this? How long, Castus thought, could the emperor lead his army through an abandoned wasteland, using up supplies, wearing out men, on these pointless forays? Would the whole campaign end in nothing?
He watched the scouts as they arrived at the village boundary and separated, moving to the right and left between the high bushes and scrubby trees. Behind him he could hear the other soldiers muttering again, relaxing into bored discomfort. He glanced at Modestus, but the optio was gazing away towards the horizon.
‘Where are they, do you think?’ Modestus said. ‘Up there, in those hills?’
‘Maybe closer,’ Castus said quietly. For the last couple of hours he had felt a sensation of heat on the back of his neck, a tightening in his shoulders. The quiet of the land was unnerving, oppressive… maybe it was no more than that. Maybe no more than the pressure of keeping his men together, keeping them sharp and alert, when he knew as well as they did that this whole exercise could be pointless.
‘Why all this waiting around?’ a voice said from behind him somewhere, cutting through the low whispers. Placidus, the big Gaul. ‘Ought to just pile in there, kick down the doors, torch the place then take the long way home. Fucking waste of our lives, this is-’
‘Quiet!’ Castus said in a harsh whisper. He saw Modestus grimacing, gesturing to the others.
Turning back to the village, Castus squinted into the haze. Was that a sound, just then? He could not be sure – the voices of the men had almost covered it. Surely a sound, he thought; maybe a stifled cry, a scrape of metal… His face was damp with sweat, his fists clenched.
‘Did you hear something?’ he asked the optio.
‘What? No…’ Modestus shrugged.
Imagination, maybe? There was no sign of the scouts now, the village silent and still. Nothing moved.
‘Form the men up,’ he said. ‘Quietly – no horns. Marching order, but get them ready to fight if they need to.’
Modestus nodded quickly, frowning, and then hissed out the instructions. Clatter of kit, shields and spears, muffled curses. Too loud. Castus stayed kneeling, staring at the village. How stupid he would look if he was wrong – if the scouts were still picking their way around the boundary of an empty settlement, or maybe already at the far perimeter, sitting around eating apples… His head felt thick and hazy with dread and anticipation.
He got to his feet, stepped to the front of the column and gave the order to march. Behind him the regular crunch of boots on pathway dirt, the heat of men in armour, marching four abreast. He fought the temptation to double his pace, order them into a run. The sensation on his neck was like a fire burning at his back.
The path widened, and the village opened before him. The usual straggle of a dozen or so huts, ringed around by fences, animal pens between them and a broad dusty clearing in the middle with an old tree at the far end. All the hut doors closed. No sign of the scouting parties. Castus passed between the first couple of huts, flicking his eyes to left and right. He sensed the men behind him slowing and gathering closer as they marched, falling into step with a heavier tread.
Now they were into the central clearing. Wattle fences and low huts on all sides, the tree at the end, everything quiet. No point in secrecy now, Castus thought; he should recall the scouts. They must have got lost in the bushes somewhere…
‘Cornicen,’ he said, turning to the hornblower at his right shoulder, ‘sound the…’
A brief flicker of movement from the animal pens caught his eye. A spearhead, glinting in the sun. Castus tensed, staring, and then heard the sudden shouts from behind him.