‘You? A junior tribune? An equestrian in command of a legion?’
‘Oh yes, didn’t I mention my imperial warrant?’
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a scroll, tossing it down to Equitius. The prefect read it, taking in the imperial seal and the wide range of power it bestowed upon Perennis.
‘I particularly like the sentence that says I should take command of the Sixth Legion should Legatus Sollemnis be found incapable of his task. I’d say he’ll reach a state of incapability some time quite soon, so while I may not be of senatorial class, I will be exercising the power granted to me by the Emperor…’
Frontinius leaned over to Marcus, muttering quietly into his ear.
‘Get yourself back over to the cohort. Be ready to bring your century over here in a hurry.’
‘… And so, from this moment I’m assuming command. I’ll incorporate the auxiliary cohorts into my legion to bolster our strength, but not your cohort, Prefect. You and your people have a special place in my plans. Stay where you are, Marcus Valerius Aquila, no trying to creep away when you think nobody’s looking!’
Marcus stopped, turning slowly to look up at Perennis.
‘Yes, I’ve known that you took refuge with these half-savages and their disloyal prefect for a while now. Your supply officer was very forthcoming one night in the camp at Cauldron Pool, when the decurion here applied the tip of a dagger to his throat. Did you really think that you could hide with these bumpkins for ever? All that you’ve done is bring your own disaster down on this entire cohort. Just as Legatus Sollemnis has paid the ultimate price for his treacherous attempt to hide you, so will this collection of semi-barbarian traitors!’
Dubnus put a hand behind his back, and muttered the word ‘axe’ quietly over his shoulder to Cyclops. The weapon slid from its place in the small of his back, the handle slapping unnoticed on to his palm, its comfortingly familiar wood rubbed smooth by years of handling. Perennis nodded to the stone-faced decurion, who jumped down from his horse and drew his sword. The other cavalrymen watched intently, arrows nocked to their bows, ignoring the single tent party of men standing in a huddle to their left. Perennis leant out of his saddle, pointing towards the wood that Marcus and his men had recently scouted.
‘And now, gentlemen, your orders. The First Tungrians will establish a defensive position on the slope below that wood, and prevent the barbarians from breaking out of the valley by that route for as long as possible. There is to be no retreat from the position, which must be held at all costs and to the last man. You, First Spear, will command the cohort, since I am now declaring a sentence of death on your prefect for his treachery in harbouring an enemy of the emperor and the state. I could be more thorough in my punishment, but the rest of you will obviously be dead soon enough.’
Equitius scowled up at Perennis, full realisation of the true nature of the last hour’s events striking him.
‘You’ve just thrown six legion cohorts into a barbarian trap to get rid of one man that was in your way? And now you’ll casually toss away eight hundred more spears because one innocent victim of Rome’s descent into despotism takes shelter among them?’
Perennis smiled broadly.
‘Your friend Sollemnis is reaping the crop he’s sown, and so will you all, soon enough. The rest is detail. We’ll go on the defensive for a while, Rome will send in a legion or two from Gaul, the Sixth will be reinforced back to full strength, and all will be as it should be. Besides, you’ve got more pressing matters to worry about. Decurion, execute the prefect.’
Frontinius half drew his sword, stopping as half a dozen drawn bows swung in his direction. Equitius put his hands on his hips, and straightened his back in readiness. The decurion took a step forward, raising his long cavalry sword for the executioner’s blow before his eyes widened with shock as Dubnus’s throwing axe smashed into his back. The heavy axe blade’s weight punched through his armour, chopping through his spine and into the organs clustered behind it. A gout of blood spilled from his open mouth in a scarlet flood as he sank forward on to his knees, his hands helplessly seeking the source of the sudden rush of enervating pain. Before any of the cavalrymen could react, Dubnus was among them, his sword flashing as he struck at one and then another. Marcus and Frontinius drew their swords and charged in alongside him.
One of the horsemen loosed an arrow at Frontinius, the missile’s iron head flicking off his helmet just as Marcus hacked at the man’s leg with a fierce downward cut, his sword severing the limb just above the knee and chopping into the horse’s ribs with the force of the blow. The animal reared up, tossing the crippled cavalryman from his horned saddle, then kicked out hard with its back legs in protest at the pain, catapulting another Asturian from his mount with his chest caved in.
Marcus was knocked to one side as Cyclops jumped in front of him, raising his shield to block an arrow from a horseman the young centurion had failed to notice in the melee. At less than twenty paces’ range the missile punched through his shield’s layered wood and leather, the iron head transfixing his shield arm and drawing an agonised grimace from the one-eyed soldier. Pivoting on his left leg with a swelling bellow of rage, Cyclops slung his spear with deadly accuracy into the horseman’s chest as he reached back for another arrow. The throw’s huge power punched through a weak point in the cavalryman’s mail shirt, scattering a handful of broken rings from the point of impact and thrusting the spear’s steel point deep into the horseman’s lungs. Eyes rolling upwards, he fell backwards over the side of his horse and vanished under the hoofs of the horses surrounding him. Cyclops pointed to his one good eye, shouting over the fight’s swelling volume.
‘Less stabbing and more looking, young sir.’
He drew his sword, nodding to Marcus before charging into the whirling melee in search of another target for his wrath. Perennis kicked his horse’s sides hard, galloping out of the knot of infantrymen which was growing bigger and nastier by the second as the rest of the tent party took on the Asturians with their spears. He was thirty paces distant when Dubnus’s arrow slammed through the back of his neck an inch above the top of his cuirass’s protection, and stayed in the saddle for another five seconds before collapsing stiffly over its hindquarters to land in a heap on the turf. The few remaining Asturians bolted, thrashing their horses to escape as the fastest of the 9th Century’s men arrived on the scene seeking targets for their unblooded spears. Marcus was the first man to reach Perennis, coming up short when he saw the arrowhead protruding from the tribune’s throat, and the man’s desperate attempts to breathe. Frontinius ran up a moment later, took one look and turned away with a grim smile.
‘He’s got two minutes, five at the best. Say hello to the ferryman for us, Perennis, you’ll be across the river a while before we get there.’
Equitius walked up to them, a haunted look on his face. Frontinius slapped him on the arm.
‘Cheer up, Prefect, it isn’t every day that you’re condemned to death and then reprieved inside a minute.’
‘Not such a reprieve, First Spear. I…’
His head lifted as he spotted a movement in the middle distance, horsemen moving through the waving grass, a long white banner twisting proudly in the breeze. He smiled wanly at the sight.
‘I see Licinius retains his impeccable sense of timing…’
A single decurius of the Petriana rode up to them, Prefect Licinius dismounting before his horse had stopped moving. Grim faced, he stared down at the fighting below for a moment before turning back to speak, taking in the scene in front of him as he did.