Caelius walked back to face him, starlight dimly illuminating the harsh lines of his helmet, its shadows reducing his face to a death mask between the cheek-pieces.
‘That depends on the man. I’ve known some who’ve called the odds in barracks but shat themselves at the sight of a half-dozen angry farmers. Others, the sleepy-eyed men that you wouldn’t trust to chase cattle out of a cornfield, go wild in battle and paint themselves black with enemy blood… You need to be ready for it, you, not just your men. You don’t get a second chance in a real fight — you hesitate for a second and some big blue-nosed bastard with a tenth of your skill will have your guts steaming in the dirt. When we meet the enemy, you remember what I told you, eh? And offer a prayer to Cocidius for me when you come out alive?’
He swept his hand past Marcus’s face, as if catching a delicate butterfly from out of the air, holding the closed fist up in front of him.
‘That’s life, grabbed from nowhere, easily lost. Don’t throw yours away.’
Marcus put up his own fist, tapping Caelius’s gently in the gesture of respect common between the cohort’s soldiers. They walked on in silence, drawing closer to the torches moving in the trees, until Marcus saw that they were held by soldiers standing facing into the forest, as if on guard duty. A figure materialised out of the darkness, with a walk that was familiar even in the near-darkness, pure arrogant power in the strides.
‘Julius?’
‘Two Knives.’
‘What…?’
‘There’s no time. Come. And whatever Sextus asks of you, you just say “Yes, First Spear”.’
Both men took an arm, propelling the mystified Marcus towards a darker shape that loomed large in the gloom, until its unseen bulk blocked all view of the lights in the trees. Julius abruptly put a hand on Marcus’s chest to stop him, giving a soft whistle to signal his presence. Another voice spoke out of the darkness.
‘It is time. Light the fire.’
For a moment nothing seemed to be happening, although Marcus sensed the presence of men around him, one or two darker spots against the darkness. Then, the flames creeping round the sides of the massive pile of brushwood and branches, fire applied on its far side took hold, gradually illuminating the scene. Almost a dozen men stood around him, all of the cohort’s centurions, all with faces set in solemnity, although Rufius did manage a crafty wink of greeting. Frontinius stepped forward, speaking clearly so that all could hear him above the fire’s growing crackle.
‘Welcome, Centurion. Until today you were probationary, under the assessment of these men, your brothers-to-be. For all our initial doubts, it is our belief that you will make an excellent addition to our number, and provide leadership for your century that will be sorely needed in the coming days. This is your moment to renounce your past and join your brother officers in our chosen duty…’
He paused significantly, giving Marcus an interrogatory stare.
‘Do you wish to become a part of the cohort’s brotherhood, in spite of the heavy weight of responsibility that the position brings, renouncing all that has gone before in your life?’
Julius nudged his arm.
‘… Yes, First Spear.’
‘Do you swear to uphold the traditions of the cohort, even at cost of your life?’
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘Will you give faithful service to the cohort until death or the end of your service?’
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘Will you fight and die as commanded by your superiors?’
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘Will you demand the same of your men if required?’
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘And will you pay appropriate respect to the cohort’s chosen god, mighty Cocidius the warrior?’
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘Very well, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, I formally and irrevocably appoint you a centurion of the First Tungrian Cohort. Your previous life ends in this place, purged in the fire. Your new life begins here, forged in the fire. Remember your vows well, youngest brother, for the time for you to fulfil them will come when you least expect it. Be true to your words.’
He walked forward, offering Marcus his hand, and the other officers crowded round with congratulations and slaps on his back.
‘Now, brothers, there is one last matter with our new brother officer before we give thanks to Cocidius for his meeting our high standards. Within a week we’ll be camping alongside the other Wall units, some of them cohorts of doubtful honour and with many sharp ears besides. If it becomes obvious that we have a Roman officer serving with the cohort, that information might reach the wrong people. The men who destroyed our brother’s family and made him outlaw for no good reason would come for him, and that would most likely bring death and dishonour on all of us, and our families, and upon the prefect for that matter. Understand me clearly, we have taken a calculated risk in accepting this man into our family. From this moment he is to be referred to only as “Centurion” or by the unofficial title that his century has seen fit to give him. Make sure that your deputies are all aware of the rule, and their soldiers. From now, this man is to be known only by the name of Two Knives.’
8
Legatus Sollemnis arrived on the Wall at the Rock with the Sixth Legion’s cavalry detachment shortly after darkness fell two nights later. The rest of the legion was more than thirty miles back down the road to Yew Grove, encamped after a day slogging their way north at the forced march, and still a day away. He had raced forward to take control of the Wall forces on receiving word from his Asturian scouts, ranging across the frontier zone under Perennis’s command, reports that the barbarian warband was already in the field. Their latest dispatches had Calgus poised to strike down the North Road towards his main eastern strength, and a much greater prize besides. Once past the Rock, the Wall’s eastern gateway, it was less than a five-mile march south to Noisy Valley, his main supply base for the Wall units. This, he suspected, was the prize for which Calgus would commit his strength.
Jumping down from his horse, he hurried into the fort’s headquarters, acknowledging the sentries’ salutes with a distracted wave of his hand. As he’d hoped, not only the cohort’s grim-faced prefect but also his own senior tribune Appius were waiting for him in the lamplight, a map of the area spread across the table in front of them.
‘Gentlemen, I suspect we haven’t much time so I’ll forgo the usual formalities. What’s the situation?’
Appius swiftly painted a picture for him, pointing to the key points on the map.
‘Calgus has thrown at least two-thirds of his force straight down the main road, with no attempt at concealment whatsoever. They’re about ten miles out right now and coming straight on. They’ve already burnt out the fort at Three Mountains, Yew Tree and Red River, and we expect them to do the same to Roaring River very shortly.’
‘What about the garrisons?’
‘The cavalry detachment attached to the Three Mountains garrison seems to have attempted a defence of the fort. A few survivors have straggled in, but from their reports we shouldn’t expect to recover the unit. The Brits seem to have a substantial cavalry force in the field, perhaps five hundred horses.’
‘Fools! Of all the times that we can least afford to lose horsemen… and the detachments at the other forts?’
‘Falling back in good order, sir. It would seem that the sight of burning forts on the horizon got their attention.’
‘At least we can count them into our covering force. What about the Twentieth?’
‘A messenger arrived three hours ago, with bad news, I’m afraid sir. Twentieth Legion won’t arrive for another five days; they’ve had problems of their own with the local tribes. The Second has caught up with them as planned, but they’ve still only got as far as Veterans’ Hill.’