‘So why tolerate him?’
‘I refer you back to my first answer. His skills will be invaluable to the legion in this campaign, after which I’ll send him back to Rome as a hero to report our victory, and recommended to take command of a legion of his own, with promotion to senatorial rank. In the meantime I’ll do everything possible to keep our secret from him. Now, I believe another young man’s been making something of a reputation for himself in the last week?’
Equitius smiled wryly.
‘Yes. His adoptive father did too good a job of the boy’s training, turned him into a bloody assassin. We paired him with an experienced chosen man, in the hope that he’d temper the boy’s lack of experience, instead of which they went storming around the countryside at the first opportunity, burning out Calgus’s supplies and taking on his cavalry at suicidal odds. But for old Licinius you’d have no son now.’
‘Licinius. Gods! How long did it take that old bastard to see through the matter?’
‘He didn’t have to. He asked me for the truth and I gave it to him. You lie to that man at your peril.’
‘Hmm. And his verdict was…?’
‘That the boy’s too good a soldier to throw away. If the emperor’s men discover him, Licinius will of course disown the pair of us as traitors.’
‘So we’re not discovered… yet.’
The legatus blew a long breath out.
‘You have my thanks for your risk. I’ll find a way to make amends once this is all dealt with. The Twentieth comes up for command rotation early next year. My recommendation will be for you to take the rank of legatus… not that the position is guaranteed to be in my gift. I never quite understood why it was that you didn’t get command of the Twenty-second Primigenia in Germania. You were senior tribune, after all…’
‘The legatus and I didn’t entirely see eye to eye. He thought it was appropriate for the senior officers to benefit from a variety of incautious frauds against official funds. I didn’t. I was caught between two fires — I either informed on him and earned a reputation as a toady, or ignored the situation and paid the price with the rest of them when they were found out. I managed to get the appropriate information to the governor, but I didn’t want promotion into the shoes of a man I’d effectively condemned to death, so I asked him to send me to Britannia instead. Being appointed to an auxiliary cohort was the closest thing to a promotion I could have expected under the circumstances. Command of a legion would be a very fine thing indeed, but I’m happy enough with the Tungrians.’
His friend nodded.
‘Well, if I get my way you’ll have a legion soon enough. In the meanwhile, we should probably concentrate on more pressing business. Tell me about this new development with our esteemed adversary…’ The cohort went north at a fast pace, twice marching past burned-out forts. The smell of charred wood stayed with them long after the ruined outposts were out of sight, as had an altogether more disturbing odour. Marcus was kept busy until after sunset once the cohorts turned off the line of march for the day. Since the prefects had decided to avoid the previous marching camps which abounded in the frontier area, their locations likely to be known and watched, there was a four-foot turf wall to be built and no time to waste. One tent party was drawn by lot and sent to form part of the guard force, an important precaution even if the enemy could not be expected to find their encampment this late in the day, even less attack it. Another tent party was set to prepare the cohort’s evening meal. With all tasks distributed and under way, and their section of the rampart growing steadily under Dubnus’s expert eye, Marcus suddenly found himself lacking any worthwhile task. Knowing looks were exchanged a moment later as his wiry figure joined the working party to carry cut turfs from the increasingly distant cutting gang to the wall builders.
Antenoch, one of the more skilled rampart builders, threw down the turf he was holding in disgust, watching his officer’s more or less clean mail shirt swiftly deteriorate under his first muddy load. He nudged Dubnus, who had graciously made a great show of accepting his presence in the century, who in turn set out to intercept his centurion, but a raised hand forestalled his comment.
‘The more bodies involved, the quicker we finish. I can’t supervise the wall building, and I can’t cut turf or build the rampart with any expertise. The century is all working, I’ll bet most of the officers are working, and I’m damned if I’ll stand by and watch. Get on with making that rampart sound, and you can teach me the basics later.’
Frontinius walked past on an inspection a few minutes later, searched without success for the centurion’s distinctive crested helmet, and was about to ask Dubnus where his officer was when he made out just who the slightly grubby figure delivering turfs to the wall-building gang was. He stood and watched as the tired centurion headed back out to the turf cutters, nodded to himself and then, with a raised eyebrow to Dubnus, went on his way.
With the wall declared complete, high enough to slow an attacker’s charge to a walking pace and make excellent spear targets of anyone crossing the obstacle, the cohorts went to dinner, with the exception of the guard units, who paid for their inactivity during the building work with a later meal. Fed, the men turned their hands to their domestic chores in the flickering torchlight, making hurried repairs to clothing and equipment, well-worn jokes and insults flying between the working men in equal measure as they relaxed tired limbs and minds. Their last task was to remove the worst of the day’s dirt from their uniforms and faces. A delegation from the 9th promptly demanded Marcus’s dirt-caked mail, which they brushed out and returned with a polished gleam.
As the troops turned in for the night, huddled into their blankets and packed tight in their eight-man tents, the officers were called to the headquarters tent for their briefing. Equitius, who had returned just before sunset, ordered the tired centurions to stand easy.
‘As you know, I met with the Sixth’s legatus early this afternoon. Our situation is more than stabilised — it has become, on the whole, favourable. The Sixth is camped in this forest here…’
He pointed to a point on their rough map twenty miles distant.
‘Second and Twentieth Legions have reached the Wall and are marching along the main road to join us. They’ll probably arrive some time the day after tomorrow. Sollemnis plans to tackle the warband during that day with everything we can throw at it, and as quickly as possible, before it can gather any more spears. Even if it means starting the attack before the Second and Twentieth arrive. So, we break camp in the morning and march with all speed to join the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings, which are currently holding position ten miles to the north-west. The Sixth will also move tomorrow, with the intention of joining our forces together and forcing a decisive action. Once we have their position fixed we’ll gauge how best to bring them to battle but, and I emphasise this, we’ll only fight if we can bring the legion and our own spears to bear, and on the right terrain for our tactics. Together we’re twelve thousand men with the cavalry wings, quite enough to make a mess of twice our number of undisciplined barbarians on the right ground. So, go and get some sleep and have your men ready to move at first light. We’ve got a long marching day in front of us tomorrow.’
Marcus headed back to his tent, eager to roll up in his blanket and snatch a few hours’ sleep. As he took his boots off something poked him in the ribs, and he remembered the tablet the orderly had given him that morning, hastily pushed into a tunic pocket and then forgotten in the rush of the day. Opening it, he leaned over close to the single lamp, straining to read the stylus marks on the tablet’s hard wax.
‘Marcus, thank you for last night. If I were not already taken, you would be my choice. It’s cruel how the fates conspire to make this clear only after it’s too late. With my love.’ The next day dawned to a thin summer drizzle, accompanied by a sharp wind to mercifully cool the hard-marching cohorts. Goaded by their centurions to a brisk pace, and for once grateful for the absence of unobstructed sunlight, they headed up the North Road towards the abandoned outpost fort at Red River. In the 9th, half a mile ahead of the leading units since the Tungrians were leading the column, nobody was in any doubt as to what they should expect.