The Wolf's Gold (16 page)

Sigilis laughed loudly enough to turn heads at the nearest cooking fires.

‘The sequence of offices can be buggered, Centurion. Unlike my father I have no appetite for politics, that’s the whole reason I insisted on being posted to the frontier rather than allowing him to manipulate his contacts and slide me into some carefully purchased position in the empire’s heart. If he’d been doing the choosing I would have ended up in a role that was all kudos and no real responsibility. Besides, it seems that even Roman politics isn’t all that safe a calling at the moment.’

He held Marcus’s stare for a long moment before looking away, with the disquieting air of a man who knew more than he was saying, then took another mouthful of stew. While he was chewing the gristly meat a figure appeared out of the gloom and took a seat next to Marcus, gratefully taking the bowl of food waiting for him and speaking in a softer tone than the young tribune had expected.

‘I have checked all of the scouts. None of them has seen or heard anything to indicate that the enemy is attempting a night approach.’

Marcus put down his empty bowl, swallowing the last of his stew before addressing Sigilis.

‘Tribune, this is my friend Centurion Qadir. He is from Hama in the east, and his men are expert hunters. If they say that we are under no threat then I think we can be assured that the Sarmatae will not attack tonight.’

Arminius stretched, lying down on the grass and making himself comfortable.

‘They will come with the dawn, most likely. Wake me when the sky in the east turns from black to grey.’

The Roman stood up, putting a hand on Qadir’s shoulder to prevent him following suit.

‘You’ve done enough tonight, my friend. Get some sleep, and I’ll wake you in plenty of time to be ready for the fun and games. It’s time for me to do the rounds of the men and make sure that my brother officers understand tomorrow’s plan.’

Sigilis jumped to his feet.

‘I’ll come with you, Centurion.’

They walked away from the fire, Marcus putting out a hand and pulling the tribune’s sleeve.

‘Walk further to the right, Tribune, unless you want to end up with your foot full of holes and faeces. Titus’s men have the endearing habit of emptying their bowels into the stake pits they dig.’

Sigilis was silent for a moment, looking up to contemplate the blaze of stars above them before he spoke again.

‘Centurion, my father told me something a long time ago that I’ve never forgotten, back before the last emperor’s death. He said that all that was necessary for evil to flourish was for the decent men in the empire to be cowed into taking no action when injustices are perpetrated. And then two years ago he repeated that statement in connection with the death of a well-respected senator, a man known for putting his family’s long tradition of service to Rome ahead of his own interests. He told me that this man, whilst held in high regard by his peers and at the height of his powers, had nevertheless been murdered on false charges of treason whose main objective seemed to be the seizure of his considerable fortune. Understandably, given his closeness to this senator, a man with whom he shared much of his political attitudes, he took particular pleasure in the fact that the man’s son had apparently been spirited away to an unknown part of the empire and seemed to have escaped this perversion of justice. It was the talk of the Forum for a while, until it became clear that the son was not going to be found any time soon.’ He looked long and hard at Marcus in the firelight. ‘And now here I stand before an obvious Roman whose background is shrouded in mystery but who seems to me very much alike to that murdered man’s son.’

Marcus shrugged, long prepared for the moment when he might be recognised.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s been mistaken for another, Tribune, and it’s not as if you’ve much of a physical description to go on. We should turn uphill a little, I suspect we’ll find Otho just about to beat the snot out of one of his—’

Sigilis shook his head, putting a hand on Marcus’s arm as he made to turn away.

‘Hear me out, Centurion. Before I joined the legion my father made a point of making sure that I understood the nature of service to the empire by arranging for me to make a series of visits to military units stationed close to the city. I sailed on a warship out of Misenum, I watched as the Third Augusta paraded in the dust at Lambaesis in Africa, and most interestingly of all, I spent a day at the Praetorian Fortress on the Viminal Hill. I remember the view of the city from the vantage point of the fortress’s walls, I remember the spotless turnout of the soldiers, but most of all, Centurion, I remember the young officer who was given the duty of showing me around the fortress. You were younger then, unscarred by either iron or your fate, but you were very much the man standing before me now. You recognised me the instant you set eyes on me back in Fortress Bonna, of course, I could see it in your eyes even if I didn’t realise what it was that was bothering me about you for a while.’ Marcus stopped walking and turned to the other man with a rebuttal ready, only to see Sigilis shaking his head, his eyes hard in the fire’s red light. ‘Don’t waste your breath denying it, Valerius Aquila, I won’t betray you. There’s been too much murder in Rome of late without adding another name to the list.’

Marcus nodded, his face set in stonelike immobility.

‘So why tell me all this now?’

‘That’s simple. Tomorrow, if your expectation is well founded, we will face thousands of barbarian warriors across this narrow strip of ground, and for me this coming battle is a thing of mystery. It may well find me lacking. It may even kill me. If I fail to speak my mind to you now I may never have the chance to do so again. In which case you will continue to live in ignorance of information that might well be of inestimable value to you if indeed you are, as I believe you to be, Marcus Valerius Aquila.’

Marcus looked up at the stars for a moment before speaking.

‘In truth, I have almost ceased to consider myself by that name. I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, centurion, husband and father, and nothing more than that. My former life is a grey memory of something I once had, but which is burned and gone for ever. I’ll admit that there are times when I dream of revenge, and I am haunted in my sleep by the ghosts of my family . . .’ He shook his head wearily. ‘And yet I also wonder why I should give any more thought to something I cannot change, inflicted upon my family by men whose names I will never know and whose damage can never be reversed? How can one man hope to take on the throne and hope to find anything other than death both for himself and his loved ones?’

Sigilis nodded, his voice taking on a note of urgency.

‘And in your place I expect that I would feel the same uncertainties. But before I left Rome I was party to several discussions between my father and like-minded men of influence, men with the money required to buy the best investigator to be found in the city. He came to our house just once, sliding in through the servants’ entrance with one hand on the handle of his knife, a grey man who seemed happiest merging into the shadows. He told us what he had discovered of your father’s murder, details which, if I were you, would fill me with both despair and hope, and fuel my desire for revenge. And if I die tomorrow with these facts unshared, then your chance to hear what he had to say will be gone for ever.’

Marcus shook his head, looking away into the darkness.

‘I cannot listen to this now.’ He waved an arm at the fires burning along the hill’s slope. ‘You call me Centurion, and in all truth this is my family now. Every one of these men is my responsibility, and if I allow thoughts of murder and revenge to cloud my thinking I will lose my concentration at the time when I need it the most. I appreciate your wanting to help me, but it must wait until a time when I can afford the distraction. And now, Tribune, I suggest we find my brother officer Otho, and find out how many black eyes he’s handed out to his men today.’

The Tungrians and their Thracian archers took up their positions across the slope in the dawn’s grey light, centurions pacing out their sections of the defensive line and adjusting their men’s places until the infantrymen’s frontage was a single unbroken line of soldiery. Fifty paces behind the line the defence was anchored at either end, as the ground rose to meet the mountains on each side, by impenetrable barriers formed of trees expertly felled by the pioneers of the cohort’s Tenth Century to present their branches to any attacker. Martos and his two hundred or so warriors lurked behind the barriers on either side of the Tungrian line, the Votadini prince having insisted on leading his men up the slope behind the soldiers the previous evening, ignoring the nervous looks cast at them by the Thracian archers. Martos had shared a swift breakfast with the officers before rejoining his men, exchanging crude banter with Arminius while Sigilis had listened with a face white with tension. He’d clasped arms with Marcus, raising a scarred clenched fist, and grinning savagely at the thought of impending battle.

‘When your men are getting tired, you just shout for the Votadini. We’ll show you the meaning of war.’ He leaned closer to the Roman, muttering in his ear. ‘And watch out for the boy there, a pale face before battle is the sign of a fighter, as well you know. He’ll be in the line and trying to carve up the enemy before you know it, if you let him.’

Marcus gathered his brother officers on the slope behind the line, sipping at a beaker of water and watching as their soldiers stood in line waiting for the Sarmatae to make their appearance. The Tungrians were for the most part talking with each other as matter-of-factly as men discussing their favourite gladiator or chariot racer, although he could see a few small huddles of men as veteran front rankers prepared their comrades for the terror of what was to come with hard words and rallying cries.

‘It occurs to me that we’ve been here before, brothers, or somewhere very much like it.’ The other four centurions nodded sagely, their minds going back to a similar hillside on which the cohort had fought for its life the previous year. ‘Only this time we’ve had long enough with this ground to make any army that comes at us up that slope deeply regret the idea. I saw the Sarmatae force that’s pitted against us up here this morning while I was scouting yesterday, and I’d say there were barely fifteen hundred of them. And that, brothers, is clearly not enough men to assault experienced heavy infantry in a position like this, especially given the fact that I expect our archers to neutralise theirs.’

He looked around at his comrades, the pugnacious Otho, Caelius with his usual deceptive look of innocence, Qadir’s customary imperturbability and Titus’s glowering scowl, and felt his spirits rise at the sight.

‘No tribal warband of that size can threaten us, brothers, not while we retain our discipline. So we’ll stay safe behind our defences and let them come to us, as we discussed last night. And at the right moment . . .’

‘We go for the knock out, eh young ’un?’

The Roman grinned at his colleague.

‘Very apt, Otho. Yes, at the right moment we’ll go forward and land the killer punch. Wait for my signal, and when I give it back me up with everything you have left to throw at them.’

A horn blared from down the slope, swiftly followed by another, and the officers turned to see their Hamian scouts breaking from the treeline three hundred paces distant and running up the hill toward the safety of the waiting soldiers. As the Tungrians watched, the first enemy warriors came out of the trees behind them, some putting arrows to their bows. Qadir, seeing the danger to his men, raised his voice to bellow a command.

‘Dodge!’

The fleeing scouts angled their runs from side to side, changing direction every few strides to put the barbarian archers off their aim, running hard to get beyond the Sarmatae bowmen’s maximum range, but one unfortunate was hit squarely between the shoulders and dropped to his knees, writhing in agony from the arrowhead’s deep intrusion. Half a dozen barbarians ran forward with their swords and knives drawn, clearly eager to take their first trophy. Qadir looked grimly at Marcus and then strode across to his century, taking a bow and a handful of arrows from one of his men and nocking the first missile to the weapon’s bowstring as he pushed his way through the Tungrian line.

‘Surely the distance is too great for any accuracy?’

Otho snorted through his battered nose, shaking his head at Sigilis with no regard for the younger man’s rank.

‘Just you watch and learn, young sir.’

Sigilis raised his eyebrows and turned back to the scene just in time to see Qadir’s first arrow hit his stricken comrade squarely in the chest, dropping him to the ground to lie unmoving.

‘That’s astound—’

Otho snorted again.

‘He ain’t done yet.’

While the Sarmatae warriors who had been advancing on the wounded scout were still digesting the stricken Hamian’s merciful death, a second arrow punched into the closest man’s body and toppled him into the long grass. Another warrior staggered to his knees with a fletched shaft protruding from his side as he turned to run, and Qadir shot the last of his arrows at the rearmost man as the rest of them sprinted back down the hill, missing by a hand’s breadth as his target dodged to one side. He turned with a look of disgust at the miss and walked back up the hill, handing the bow back to its owner as he passed.

‘That will keep their archers from getting too pushy until they’ve got some numbers gathered.’

Marcus nodded at the blunt statement, turning back to the other centurions.

‘Return to your centuries, brothers.’

He strode out in front of his men, ignoring the Sarmatae warriors mustering at the edge of the forest three hundred paces down the slope, stalking along the Tungrian line with his eyes fixed on the soldiers of the five centuries under his command. Some of them returned the stare with faces set hard against the coming violence, others looked straight through him as they retreated into private places to protect themselves from the coming horror. Stopping before them he drew his spatha, holding the long patterned blade above his head until he had their attention and shouting his challenge across the hillside.