‘Time we weren’t here. Century, form ranks for the march!’
Men ran to assume formation, transforming chaos into ordered ranks with a practised ease, half a dozen men holding the halters of ponies taken from the farm’s enclosure. Marcus turned to the woman, his smile tight lipped with fatigue and residual anger at her outburst.
‘Well, ma’am, would you care to ride or walk?’
She glared at him, then stalked away and mounted one of the ponies.
‘Ninth Century, at the quick march… march!’
They moved quickly down to the farm. The flour intended for loaves to feed the oncoming warband had been stacked in the farm’s main room, and doused with more jars of the aromatic amber pine pitch, ready for burning. Dubnus tossed a torch in through the door with a sad smile, then led them back up the hill on the far side in grim silence. At the crest he halted them temporarily, turning them to look back into the valley as the first rays of the rising sun lit the hilltops around them. The reek from the burning oxen and the newly fired farmhouse was rising in a thick dark column that would be visible for twenty miles. If there were a warband heading for the farm, its leader would shortly be doubling his efforts to reach the scene, and probably throwing whatever he had by way of mounted scouts forward at their best speed to investigate the reason for the fire. Marcus turned to face his men.
‘Ninth Century, this is a major victory. There’s almost certainly a large enemy warband within a day or two’s march of this place, probably marching in the expectation of replenishing their supplies in preparation for an attack on the Wall. Perhaps even on the Hill… What they will find, thanks to us, is their meat destroyed, the pitch for their torches burned and their flour gone up in flames with it. Unless they have an alternative source of supply, their leader will be forced to fall back on more friendly territory in search of food.
‘Now…’
He paused for effect, aware that every eye was locked on him, their sensitivities about the destruction of so many fine oxen forgotten. The responsibility of bringing the century back to its parent unit intact weighed him down for a moment.
‘… now we have to think of ourselves. There might well be scouts heading for the farm even as we speak, quite possibly in numbers that would overwhelm us on open ground. My intention is that we should make a forced march for the Wall, and get it between us and any potential threat.’
He grinned at them wolfishly.
‘Now’s the time that we get some return on all that training. We’ll eat breakfast once we’re back on the civilised side of the Wall. We move in two minutes, so make fast and get ready to run.’
The soldiers set to work, tightening fastenings and making sure that their boots were secure. Once the century was on the move, any man who dropped an item, or whose footwear loosened, would be forced to drop out, then run twice as hard to catch up again. He pulled Dubnus to one side, speaking quietly in his ear.
‘We need to know what happens here in the next couple of hours. Choose a good distance runner, share his kit out and have him find a sheltered spot to watch the fire. He waits until mid-morning, then pulls out and follows us back to the Wall.’
The chosen nodded silently, walking away into the century’s activity. The morning air was a cool relief as the 9th jogged towards the Wall; it was too early for the sun to be uncomfortable. Looking back, even ten miles from the farm, Marcus was amazed at the size of the pillar of smoke that rose into the heavens, shearing suddenly to the west where it met a high air current thousands of feet above the ground. He smiled wryly at the probable effect of the sign on his own side of the Wall, and what it might be mistaken for. At least he could expect to meet friendly faces once the 9th had crossed the border. Scout units would in all likelihood be racing for the spot from both east and west.
They reached their original crossing point at mid-morning, and set up a temporary camp on the southern side of the Wall. Marcus gave the command for field rations to be opened, and luxuriated in dried meat and the last of the previous day’s bread issue, with a little pickle from a jar that Antenoch had slipped into his pack. Climbing the rampart to survey the ground to their north, he saw that the pillar of smoke was lightening, the fire presumably having consumed the farm buildings. Its top stretched, a dirty stain in the clear blue sky, for a dozen miles or so to the west, slowly dispersing in the gentle winds. The ground in front of the Wall climbed gently for a few hundred years before falling away towards a distant line of trees. From the ground on that slope, he mused, it would be impossible to see the Wall.
He made his way back to the ground, and walked over to where the woman was taking a solitary breakfast, still guarded by the same soldiers who had shared her vigil over the dying man at dawn. Dismissing the men, Marcus squatted on to his haunches when she showed no sign of standing to meet him. Her face, seen for the first time in the daylight, bore the marks of a heavy beating within the past week, bruises past their first lividity still evident as shadows on her cheekbones and jawline.
‘Ma’am, we’ve had no formal introduction…’
She looked up at him with a quizzical gaze, then offered her hand. He noticed the wedding ring.
‘Your husband must be worried…’
‘I doubt that very much. He’s the reason I’m here.’
He caught the tone in her voice, and skirted away from the subject.
‘Marcus Valerius Aquila at your service… although that isn’t a name I’ve spoken to anybody else these last three months.’
She smiled for the first time, perhaps at his formality.
‘When I left Rome the Valerius Aquila brothers were among the most respected senators in the city. My father spoke of them frequently. What relation are you to them?’
His eyes must have clouded, since she reached out a hand to touch his arm with an unnerving concern.
‘I’m sorry…’
He smiled at her, feeling another layer of his mental scar tissue fall away.
‘That’s all right… It’s just that you’re the first Roman to ask me that question. I always wondered what I’d do when the time came — lie, and protect myself, or tell the truth and honour the dead.’
He took a deep breath, grateful that she waited patiently for him to gather himself.
‘My father was Senator Appius Valerius Aquila. He fell victim to a palace intrigue led by the praetorian prefect, and, from what I’ve been told, my entire family was murdered to prevent any danger of attempts at vengeance. I was a praetorian centurion…’
Her eyes widened momentarily as the irony dawned on her, then softened with sympathy.
‘… my father managed to bribe a tribune to send me away on a false imperial errand to this country. He told me that I was carrying a message for the legatus in Yew Grove, but it was really a last message from my father…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you. I escaped two attempts to finish the job by killing me, thanks to the efforts of two men I count my as closest friends, and now I fight under the name Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Only five other men know of this deception and so now, lady, you hold the power of life and death over me. A simple denunciation will be enough to have me imprisoned and executed within days. Won’t you return the compliment by telling me your name?’
She smiled briefly, her face lighting up with the expression.
‘With honour, Centurion. I am Felicia Clodia Drusilla, daughter of Octavius Clodius Drusus and wife of Quintus Dexter Bassus, the prefect commanding the Second Tungrian Cohort at Vindolanda. A name with which I would far rather not have fouled my mouth!’
She glowered at the ground for a moment.
‘Forgive me, Centurion. An unhappy marriage is neither your business nor your concern.’