Wounds of Honour: Empire I (34 page)

Rufius’s chosen man was apparently in command of the 6th, and quite sensibly kept his mouth shut and his eyes to the front as a red-faced Marcus hurried past. As he progressed up the column’s length shouts of ribald encouragement from the marching ranks accompanied his progress until he reached the standard, carried in the midst of the 5th Century. Julius was marching at the Fifth’s head with Rufius striding alongside him. His friend’s face widened into a broad smile of welcome.

‘Here’s the young fellow, fresh from his deathbed. Here, Two Knives, clasp hands with me once more.’

Marcus put his hand out, only for Rufius to grasp it eagerly, rolling his eyes.

‘I shook his hand! A real live hero! I won’t ever wash it again …’

Julius nodded to him, his eyes showing a mix of respect and something else that Marcus was hard placed to identify. It looked almost like … concern?

‘How’s your head, Two Knives?’

‘Harder than I thought, thank you, Julius.’

The other man nodded with a sardonic smile.

‘It’s going to have to be, if you’re going to keep on like this.’

Rufius poked Julius in the ribs.

‘He’s just jealous. We’ve spent the last three days patrolling and sitting around bored, not tucked up in hospital with a nice lady doctor to look after our
every
need.’

Marcus blushed a deeper shade of red, unable to control the reaction, and Rufius pounced on the display, his bearded face split in a disbelieving grin.

‘Ah, so there
is
something to the rumour?! You
lucky
bastard! I swear you could fall into shit and come out smelling of myrrh!’

Marcus bit his tongue to prevent a sheepish grin that was hovering on the bounds of his control.

‘A gentleman would never discuss such a question. I’ll talk to you later.’

He set off up the column with his ears still hot under the helmet’s protection, making a mental note to murder his clerk at the first opportunity. The prefect was nowhere to be seen, but Frontinius dropped back from the column’s head as soon as he heard Marcus’s voice, returning the younger man’s salute.

‘You can have your century back now that you’ve caught up with us. Keep them moving at the double march until the signal for a rest comes, and otherwise take your cue from the Raetians ahead. If you see men to the flank, take a good look before you shout – there’s a legion out here somewhere, and I wouldn’t want the Tungrians to be the ones to point the spear at our own side. Keep your eyes open.’

Marcus nodded acknowledgement, then ran to the head of his century, settling into the ground-eating double march, a blessed relief after the morning’s exertion. Antenoch appeared at his shoulder after a moment.

‘Good morning, Centurion, I trust you slept well?’

Marcus’s eyes slitted, daring the man to push his question any farther. Antenoch took the hint.

‘Er, good. I’ve got some bread and dried meat if you’re hungry after your … er … exertions?’

‘Give me the food, Antenoch, and keep your mouth shut. It seems that there are far too many people in this cohort making assumptions about my behaviour without you making it any worse.’

He accepted the food and chewed quickly, wanting it inside him and not in his hands if trouble developed, gave his clerk another withering stare and then dropped down the line of march to talk to Dubnus at the century’s rear.

‘How are they?’

The Briton nodded grimly.

‘Ready.’

‘What was the morning’s briefing?’

‘There’s a lot happened since your bang on the head. The warbands that came south of the Wall didn’t stay long to fight once they found Noisy Valley burnt out and a legion dug in between them and Yew Grove. They’ve retreated to the north, back past Red River apparently. No one knows why. The Sixth Legion followed up and is somewhere north of the Wall. They’ve got cavalry in contact with the blue-noses, so now we’re moving to close them down for a battle. The prefect’s gone to meet the Sixth’s legatus, to agree the overall plan. There’s a big fight waiting for us, and not too far off either.’

Equitius wondered for the hundredth time how Sollemnis had managed to manoeuvre a whole legion through such close country, and, for that matter, why? His escort, a thirty-man detachment from the Asturian cavalry who seemed to have become Tribune Perennis’s personal command, looked nervously to either side of the narrow path, into dense forest vegetation that made vision impossible after no more than a dozen yards. Something took fright deep in the undergrowth and bolted away from the path, making his horse prance nervously for a moment.

‘This rather reminds me of the accounts of the Teutoburger Forest I read as a boy.’

The comment went seemingly unnoticed by the younger man for a long moment, before he responded over his shoulder, not bothering to turn in the saddle.

‘I had the Asturians map this area’s paths during the spring, just in case we needed to move one of the legions round an enemy’s flank, if the Wall were under threat. I’ve got this country etched into my head. Varus made the mistake of advancing into close terrain he’d failed to thoroughly scout.
That’s
the way to lose a legion or three.’

Equitius scowled at the other man’s back, hating his self-assured swagger. And yet his plan had succeeded brilliantly so far, moving the legion from its blocking position behind the Wall into a hidden temporary fortress from where they could strike at the enemy warbands without warning, given the right opportunity. It was this very opportunity with which Equitius was riding to join the 6th, news that the Petriana had managed to pinpoint the warband’s location. A horseman had galloped into the Cauldron Pool camp the previous afternoon, with news that his detachment had chanced upon the warband’s well-beaten path north of the wreck of the Red River fort. Successful in their stealthy tracking of the enemy formation to its current resting place, they were calling for reinforcement, and quickly, before the warband decided to move again.

That old war horse Licinius had led the rest of the Petriana out an hour later, leaving instructions with Equitius to get the 6th Legion committed in their support as soon as possible. They had been riding ever deeper into barbarian territory since early morning, following the legion’s path down what was no more than a hunter’s track, and now the sun was close to its zenith. The Asturians kept to themselves, leaving him with nobody to talk to other than Perennis, a young man for whom he was gradually developing a marked aversion.

‘So, Tribune, how did you come to be posted to this miserable end of the empire?’

Again the calculated pause.

‘I asked for the posting. My father told me that the emperor wanted to send a young man of the equestrian class to serve with the Northern Command, to provide him with a first-hand description of the country and its people …’

A thinly disguised reference to his role as an imperial spy which, Equitius sensed, was deliberately sufficiently implausible as to make the real purpose quite apparent.

‘Hearing this, I persuaded him to present me to Commodus, and to make the case for my taking the role. The emperor asked me what I would do in the case of my discovering treachery at
any
level of the army. Even that of a legionary legatus.’

And he paused again, letting the silence drag out.

‘I told him that I would quite cheerfully condemn the traitor to a public and agonising death, as a lesson to any others of the same mind. It seemed to hit the right note …’

Equitius would have bet it did. Commodus’s reputation for insecurity and bloody overcompensation was already well established. Perennis turned in this saddle, looking back at him.

‘I expect you would have said exactly the same.’

Equitius met his eye, suddenly frightened for the first time in several years, hiding his fear behind a slow smile.

‘I expect I would.’

Thirty yards ahead of them, and without warning, half a dozen armoured men stepped from the undergrowth, their spears ready to throw. It was, now he thought about it, perfect country to defend. If a column of attackers were surprised on the path they would be bottled up like rats in a lead drainpipe. He glanced to one side, and saw armoured men moving through the woods, closing the trap. The centurion on the path ahead demanded the password, and waited to receive it from Perennis without a change of expression.

Password given and accepted, Equitius looked down at the men as they rode past, grim-faced veterans who looked up at him with the disdain to which he’d become accustomed as an auxiliary officer. Regulars, as convinced of their superiority over any other fighting man as they were that the sun would rise the next day. Proud, and nasty with it, habitually taking no prisoners and expecting no quarter. Where a captured auxiliary would be slaughtered without compunction, as a traitor to his own people, a legionary would be saved for more exquisite treatment, to be exacted at leisure if possible. To the tribes they were not simply soldiers of the hated oppressor, but enemy citizens, or as good as, and both feared and hated in greater proportions accordingly.

A mile down the track they broke out into the open, a clearing in the forest greatly enlarged by the legionaries’ labour in felling trees, the fallen trunks stripped of their branches and converted into a rough log palisade around the temporary camp’s perimeter. Their branches had been hacked into thousands of stakes and set outside the wall at angles that would impale a careless night attacker. Tents mushroomed across the open space inside the fence, enough for a full legion at eight men to a tent, men still working at strengthening the camp’s defences. Equitius smiled, remembering the old adage – give a legion open ground for a night and you got a field camp surrounded by an earthwork four feet high. A week, and they would pillage the surrounding land for the materials to build a full-blown fort. A month, and the officers’ mess would look as if it had been there for a year.

The small party passed through the open gateway, making their way to the camp’s centre, where the command tents rose above the lower troop and officer versions. Sollemnis met them at the door of his headquarters tent, accepting Perennis’s salute with appropriate gravity before clasping Equitius’s arm in a warm greeting.

‘My good friend, it’s been almost a year!’

Equitius nodded soberly, glancing significantly at the tent.

‘And now we meet in a time of war, with little time for talk.’

‘But talk we must. Perennis, I would invite you to share our discussion, but you probably have duties to attend to?’

The tribune nodded.

‘Indeed, sir. I thought I might take a squadron of the Asturians to the west, and make sure that the barbarians haven’t slipped away from the Petriana.’

Sollemnis waved a hand absently.

‘Very good. Regular dispatches, mind you. I want to know where you are when we move.’

He turned away, gesturing Equitius into the command tent, past the hard-bitten legionaries guarding its flap.

‘A drink?’

An orderly came forward with a tray, pouring them both a cup of wine, and then withdrew, leaving the two men alone. Sollemnis gestured to the couch.

‘Please, my friend, sit down, you must be tired after a day in the saddle. Now, firstly, tell me what you think about my tribune.’

‘Freely?’

‘Of course. You’re not overheard, and you and I are old friends. Your opinions have always been important to me, never more so than now. So, tell me what you think.’

Equitius weighed his words.

‘On one level he seems the most complete soldier. Was this location really his idea?’

‘Oh yes, he spent most of last summer cataloguing the ground. He has a sound grasp of tactics, and an understanding of war fighting and strategy that puts men twice his age to shame. And on the other level?’

‘He’s … dangerous. Do you trust him?’

‘Trust his abilities? Absolutely. You’ll have heard the stories about our great victory over the Twentieth in last autumn’s manoeuvres? That was our Perennis, using the Asturians to scout a way around their flank patrols and bring us down on their supply train like wolves on the flock while the shepherd was away. The senior centurions recognise a kindred spirit, and they worship the ground he walks on. Trust the
man
? Not likely! He was imposed on me by the governor and on him by the emperor, for the purpose of ensuring my loyalty, but for a young man his ambition burns exceedingly brightly. Too brightly for my liking, I’m afraid. His father’s influence, I suppose.’

‘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 …’