Fortress of Spears (8 page)

First Spear Frontinius frowned again, raising a bemused eyebrow at his superior, his voice acerbic with disapproval.

‘Two cohorts? Sixteen hundred men, even if we were at full strength? We ought to be twice the number, and with a bloody sight more than two hundred horsemen. Not only do we not know how many warriors might be waiting for us, but there’s still the small question of the Venicones. The last I heard on the subject was that some weak-chinned fool in a stripy tunic dithered outside the barbarian camp for long enough that the entire Venicone warband was able to make a sharp exit through the north fence.’

Scaurus nodded sharply, his eyes signalling disapproval of the language his subordinate was using to describe a senior officer, if not the offended sentiment behind them.

‘I know, First Spear, and I won’t bore you with the excitement that little error of judgement has inspired among the great and the good, except to tell you that we’ve had a cohort detached from the Twentieth Legion under the command of the “weak-chinned fool” in question attached to us. Apparently it was either that, or go home in disgrace for letting the Venicones escape from under his nose, so he’s chosen to work under me for a few weeks as punishment.’

‘And the Venicones?’

‘Last seen running hard to the north, after a day spent exchanging iron and insults with the Petriana. Honours even, apparently, according to the first message riders back from the fight, with several hundred of their warriors killed by the cavalry as they fell out of the line of march with exhaustion, but fifty or so of Tribune Licinius’s men torn limb from limb as a result of getting carried away and riding too close to the enemy with the excitement of it all.’

Neuto stared at the map for a moment before speaking, his voice rich with irony.

‘So while the legions get to sit back and count barbarian heads, we go north with three cohorts, one commanded by some custard-livered aristo, and a couple of hundred horsemen, not only charged with taking the Dinpaladyr but potentially having to fend off the entire Venicone warband as well.’

Scaurus nodded, his smile tight.

‘Almost, First Spear. But the legions won’t be getting any time to polish up their armour. The one thing I haven’t mentioned yet is going to keep them very busy until the snow comes.’

Both of the senior centurions’ eyes narrowed. Neuto breathed the question in a hushed tone, his face set in the expectation of bad news.

‘The Brigantes?’

Scaurus nodded.

‘Yes, First Spear, the Brigantes. Calgus has the full-scale revolt he was desperate for, only just too late for it to do him any good. And we, gentlemen, will just have to manage with what we’re given.’

‘Curse this fucking rebellion. Another couple of days would have seen us on the Wall with the Aquila boy in our grasp. Instead of which we’re sat here like spare pricks, waiting for the bloody army to get off their arses and clear these impudent Brits away, only these useless provincial bastards are too scared of a few uppity blue-painted farmers to get out into the countryside and do what needs to be done. The bloody Guard would go through this lot like a hot knife through butter …’

Centurions Rapax and Excingus were standing on the walls of the Waterfall Town fort, forty miles to the north of the legionary fortress at Elm Grove, staring out at the dusk’s purple landscape in frustration. The praetorian was complaining bitterly to his colleague, slapping his palm down on the wall’s stone parapet to emphasise his disgust with the soldiers manning the fort below them.

‘All the way to the edge of the bloody empire in less than a month, changing horses three times a day until my arse feels like it’s made of leather, and now we’re sat here looking at the hills and wondering how the fuck we’re going to get any farther north. A few of the locals get uppity and these cowards all run home to mummy, and wait for someone else to sort it out for them.’

Excingus laughed wryly, shaking his head in mock dismay.

‘Yes, colleague, I have little doubt that your fellow guardsmen would cleave a bloody path through these rebels, were they here. Which nevertheless leaves us with the same question. Do we wait for the legions to finish their business in the frontier zone and turn south to clear out these bandits, or do we make our own way north immediately, in pursuance of Prefect Perennis’s orders? I think you can guess my preference, but I must defer to you in all such military matters.’

Rapax gave him a dirty look, tapping the hilt of his sword thoughtfully.

‘Your preference and mine are one and the same, brother, to get north and find the Aquila brat before he takes flight again. It could be rough, though. Two centurions and a few guardsmen won’t offer much resistance to a decent-sized warband, should we happen across one, even if the soldiers in question are praetorians. And I, unlike
you
, have fought against barbarians, in the last emperor’s wars against the Quadi and Marcomanni. I’ve heard the screams of men staked out for flaying and disembowelling, men taken in battle or from the camp in the night, and never seen again except for their ruined corpses on the tribes’ sacrificial altars. We can ride north tomorrow morning and hope to make our way through to the Wall without seeing another living soul, trusting that the advantage of surprise will be on our side …’ He grinned darkly at the corn officer. ‘… since only a bunch of madmen would attempt such a thing. I’m sure my guardsmen will think I’ve kissed my marbles goodbye, but they’ll do what I tell them readily enough. So the question isn’t really a military matter, since militarily the idea of riding north from here without enough men to sweep away the tribesmen in our path is quite likely to prove suicidal.’

He raised an eyebrow at his colleague, inviting him to comment. The corn officer stared out into the darkening and silent hills to the north for a long moment before speaking.

‘Agreed. Riding north tomorrow does seem to carry somewhat more risk than waiting here for the army to march south and restore order. If it were that simple the decision would already be made as far as I’m concerned, but I’m afraid it isn’t. If we sit here for the best part of another month, what are the odds that the news of a praetorian and a corn officer coming north will reach the army in the north well in advance of our arrival? Pretty good, I’d say, given what we know of the average soldier’s love of gossip. And if that news reaches either the Aquila boy or the men sheltering him from justice, I’ll wager my balls to a denarius that he’ll be away to another hiding place before we ever reach the Wall, much less find this Tungrian cohort he’s supposed to be hiding with.’

He paused, smiling at his colleague’s sour expression.

‘Yes, and therein lies the problem with inaction, eh, Quintus? If we go home empty handed, having paused here for the legions to regain control and make it safe for us to proceed, I wouldn’t expect all that happy a welcome when we get there. So no, the problem isn’t military, it’s more about balancing the uncertain risk of being killed or captured by the rebels against the absolute certainty of what will happen to us both if we go back without the prize. I say we go north tomorrow, and use your undoubted skills to avoid the barbarians and get us through to the Wall in one piece.’

Rapax grimaced, nodding his head reluctantly.

‘In that case you’d better go and see the centurion of the guard, and get us some better directions than “out of the north gate and don’t stop riding until you see the Wall”, and I’ll go and break the good news to my lads. They’re going to love this …’

‘You there! Who’s that sneaking round the camp after dark?’

Soldier Manius very nearly lost control of his bowels as he recognised the voice challenging him from the shadows of a pair of tents, the familiar sound of a gladius being pulled from its scabbard freezing him where he stood.

‘It’s me, Centurion, Manius!’

Otho stepped forward from the shadows, his familiar, ruined face creased into a frown.

‘What in Hades are you doing out here? I was just about to put my bloody iron through you.’

Manius caught a whiff of wine on the centurion’s breath and breathed a little more easily.

‘I couldn’t sleep, Centurion, so I came out here to avoid waking my mates up, and to get some air …’

To his surprise the officer nodded sagely, puffing a snort of recognition from his flattened nose.

‘Can’t sleep? Nor can I. Too many good men dead … too many men …’

He staggered, and Manius put out a hand to steady him, pulling it back hastily as the drunken officer started at the gesture.

‘Get your fucking hands off me! Get back to your tent and go to sleep!’

‘Yes, sir!’

Saluting, the wary soldier turned away and walked back towards his tent, then slid into the cover of the shadows and watched while Otho weaved unsteadily away to his own bed, blowing out a long, slow breath of relief. Somewhere close by a man whimpered in his sleep, reliving some horror or other from the dawn’s desperate fighting. Waiting until Otho was safely out of sight, Manius resumed his progress through the camp, using the rows of canvas tents for cover. His armour exchanged for a clean tunic and his cloak, with only his dagger for protection, he worked his way from the 1st Tungrian Cohort’s section of the camp, through the 2nd Cohort’s tents and on into the area reserved for the Petriana’s cavalrymen. Skirting round the tethered horses, well aware that any one of them could kick him unconscious if he were unwise enough to present them with an unexpected presence in their midst, he made his way slowly and stealthily into the heart of the cavalry wing’s lines, until he came upon the tent he was seeking. Several times the size of those around it, bigger even than that in which the wing’s tribune worked and slept, it contained every stores item required to keep the wing in the field for an extended period. Loosening his dagger in the sheath hidden under his cloak, he stepped through the tent’s flap to find its single occupant hunched over a scroll at his desk, his lips moving silently as he totted up the day’s consumption of his precious equipment. Without looking up from his task, he spoke in an irritated tone, shaking his head slightly.

‘And what might you be needing? A new sword? A couple of spears? Perhaps you lost your boots in the fighting today, eh? I swear I’ve not met a bigger bunch of robbers than …’

His voice tailed off as he glanced up to find the infantryman waiting silently before him, one hand sliding beneath the table’s surface to reach for the handle of a club he kept there to discourage anyone with the idea that his equipment might be available without the necessary permissions and formal records. The soldier held up his empty hands in reassurance, reaching into his tunic despite the now openly wielded club and fishing out a piece of jewellery of quite abnormal proportions. The yellow light from the storeman’s lamps shone from its ornate surface in a manner guaranteed to beguile a man whose entire life had been devoted to the pursuit of gold, and the club clattered unheeded to the floor as the supply officer advanced round his desk and stared dumbfounded at the heavy torc gripped in the unknown soldier’s hand. Rediscovering his voice, he spoke again, his tone softer than before, as if he knew that this was a prize to be pursued with delicate care.

‘Quite … amazing …’ He coughed, clearing his throat before continuing, adopting a more businesslike tone as the torc’s initial impact on him began to subside. ‘And so, soldier …?’

Manius shook his head, his face tense.

‘I’m not that stupid. If we’re going to do business I need to be sure that my piece of the bargain will be between the two of us. If anyone outside of my tent party discovers I’m carrying the sort of coin this will earn they’ll have it off me quicker than you could rob a new recruit of half a year’s pay for his gear. And this little beauty is our retirement, me and my mates.’

The supply officer kept a straight face, nodding his under -standing.

‘There are thieves all around, my friend, and so I completely understand your need to remain nameless. Might I ask how you came by this … interesting … spoil of battle? It was my understanding that such a precious ornament would most likely decorate the neck of a tribal chief, and yet no such head is reported as having been taken today. How can I be sure that this is what it seems?’

The Tungrian snorted, smiling with little humour in his face.

‘Oh, it’s real, I can guarantee you that. We were first into the barbarian camp, once the fence came down, and when the blue-noses finally broke and ran it was my cohort that swept up the hillside, ripping through their tents and capturing those men that were trying to hide from us in them, taking them to be slaves. I found a barbarian hunched over this with the missile from a bolt thrower stuck clean through him. He was probably supposed to be looking after it when the artillery boys got lucky, but it was me and my mates that struck the gold they uncovered. So now then, what will you offer me for this pretty little trinket?’

The supply officer held out a hand for the torc, smiling at the reluctance with which the nameless soldier handed across the heavy ornament. Examining it closely under the light of one of his lamps, he nodded his head in appreciation.

‘Quite lovely. Beautifully engraved, clearly authentic and once a suitable provenance has been dreamed up with a little more romance than some poor bugger getting an accidental bolt in the back, it’ll be worth a small fortune from the right collector. I can’t offer you any more than five hundred for it, though …’ He handed the torc back to the open-mouthed soldier, shrugging at the other man’s obvious outrage. ‘What were you expecting? Ten thousand denarii and a night alone with the prettiest horse in the cohort …?’ He sighed wearily, as if explaining the mechanics of fencing stolen tribal jewellery were a routine topic of conversation, and Manius narrowed his eyes at the storeman’s well-practised act without the ability to gainsay his words. ‘Look, whatever your name is, this stuff doesn’t just sell itself. I’ll sell it to a man in the south of the province, for a profit of course. He’ll move it to Rome, to a businessman he knows, for a profit. He in turn will know the right dealer in such precious and risky items, a man who knows where the discreet and wealthy customers are found for this sort of rather specialised merchandise. And he in turn will take a profit.’