She looked up at him with a quizzical gaze, then offered her hand. He noticed the wedding ring.
‘Your husband must be worried…’
‘I doubt that very much. He’s the reason I’m here.’
He caught the tone in her voice, and skirted away from the subject.
‘Marcus Valerius Aquila at your service… although that isn’t a name I’ve spoken to anybody else these last three months.’
She smiled for the first time, perhaps at his formality.
‘When I left Rome the Valerius Aquila brothers were among the most respected senators in the city. My father spoke of them frequently. What relation are you to them?’
His eyes must have clouded, since she reached out a hand to touch his arm with an unnerving concern.
‘I’m sorry…’
He smiled at her, feeling another layer of his mental scar tissue fall away.
‘That’s all right… It’s just that you’re the first Roman to ask me that question. I always wondered what I’d do when the time came – lie, and protect myself, or tell the truth and honour the dead.’
He took a deep breath, grateful that she waited patiently for him to gather himself.
‘My father was Senator Appius Valerius Aquila. He fell victim to a palace intrigue led by the praetorian prefect, and, from what I’ve been told, my entire family was murdered to prevent any danger of attempts at vengeance. I was a praetorian centurion…’
Her eyes widened momentarily as the irony dawned on her, then softened with sympathy.
‘… my father managed to bribe a tribune to send me away on a false imperial errand to this country. He told me that I was carrying a message for the legatus in Yew Grove, but it was really a last message from my father…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you. I escaped two attempts to finish the job by killing me, thanks to the efforts of two men I count my as closest friends, and now I fight under the name Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Only five other men know of this deception and so now, lady, you hold the power of life and death over me. A simple denunciation will be enough to have me imprisoned and executed within days. Won’t you return the compliment by telling me your name?’
She smiled briefly, her face lighting up with the expression.
‘With honour, Centurion. I am Felicia Clodia Drusilla, daughter of Octavius Clodius Drusus and wife of Quintus Dexter Bassus, the prefect commanding the Second Tungrian Cohort at Vindolanda. A name with which I would far rather not have fouled my mouth!’
She glowered at the ground for a moment.
‘Forgive me, Centurion. An unhappy marriage is neither your business nor your concern.’
‘Except, perhaps, when it results in the abduction and… mistreatment of a Roman citizen?’
She laughed again, a strange reaction in someone who had endured the torments attributed to her captivity by their first informant.
‘I wasn’t mistreated in any particular way, and these bruises predate my time in captivity. I probably would have been raped senseless if the warband had arrived before your rescue, but those people were more embarrassed than excited by my presence. I ran away from my husband’s fort when his cruelty and violence towards me became too much to bear. I persuaded my serving maid to disguise me as one of her own once we were out of sight of the fort. We slipped through one of the mile fort gates a week ago, and were caught by the master of that farm a day later, heading for my maid’s home village. He locked me up, probably wanted to force himself on me, but his wife was too fiercely opposed, said it would bring the legions down on them. I think she took pity on the state of my face.’
‘She might well have been jealous too.’
She smiled again, ruefully this time.
‘Thank you for your gallantry. They still hadn’t decided what to do with me when you arrived. What made you come?’
‘We captured the husband spying on our fort at the Hill. One of his men told us that he’d already…’
He paused, embarrassed at the word’s implication. Touched by his embarrassment, she put her hand on his arm.
‘I’d guess he boasted in public to maintain his reputation. I…’
A shout from the Wall’s top grabbed Marcus’s attention. Dubnus beat him to the ladder, the pair of them bundling breathlessly on to the flat surface atop the mile fort’s structure. In the middle distance, half a mile or so from their gate, a single man was running across the wind-blown grass.
‘That’s our scout!’
Dubnus nodded grimly.
‘Yes, and he’s running too fast for my liking…’
He turned back to look down at the resting soldiers.
‘Ninth Century, stand to! Fighting order.’
Even as he spoke, a dozen horsemen broke from the cover of the trees to the north, another mile or so behind the running figure.
Dubnus hurled himself down the ladder, while Marcus scanned the distant trees for any more movement. He turned to look down at the century, each man holding his shield and javelins at the parade rest, their faces filthy from the night’s impromptu camouflage of dirt, their armour and bodies covered with dried blood. Get them moving first, his instincts told him, and then explain the dangers.
‘First tent party, open the gate!’
Marcus slid down the ladder, drawing his sword, which flashed in the sunlight.
‘Follow me!’
He ran through the open gate, turning to watch his men charge through the opening four abreast. Jogging backwards and watching their faces, he saw fear and determination written in equal proportions. He gestured with the sword, catching their attention with its flashing arc.
‘Ninth Century, we have a comrade in danger. There may be more cavalry lurking in ambush, waiting until we’re clear of the Wall. If there are, we might all die seeking to rescue one man, but think how he feels seeing us coming out to him. We’re going out to him, we’re going to bring him back with us, or they’ll have to cut every one of us down to take any one of us.’
More than a few faces stared at him in disbelief, though their legs kept them moving away from the Wall’s shelter. He sensed the situation slipping away from him, and felt the first touch of panic grip his mind. Suddenly he had no words to reassure or embolden them. He turned his back on them, mutely waving the sword forward in another flashing arc that pointed to the enemy cavalry galloping across the grass. From the century’s rear another voice sounded, deep and harsh, booming across the open space.
‘Ninth Century… at the run… Run!’
Where the appeal to reason had faltered, the whiplash of command took the soldiers and threw them forward into a headlong run without any conscious thought process. The century put its collective head back and ran, the ranks opening out slightly as men opened their legs for the task. Marcus looked gratefully back at Dubnus, but the big chosen simply waved him forward to do his job, and in that second he understood and embraced what he had to do if they were to succeed, the adrenalin kick giving his words an unaccustomed savagery.
‘Run, you bastards, no fucking horse boy beats me to one of my own!’
Grabbing a deep breath, he ran to catch the front rank, then matched strides with them and started to accelerate, pulling them out across the murderously empty ground in a race with the barbarian cavalry. They crested the gentle ridge and ran down the slope on its far side to reach the exhausted scout with seconds to spare, bundling him into the hollow square that Marcus had shouted for as he fell into their arms. The small cavalry band, shaggy-haired men on hardy ponies with long spears and round wooden shields, simply parted to either side of the square and rode around them, clearly not willing to tackle so many infantrymen readied in defensive formation. The 9th jeered and waved their spears, shouting abuse at the circling horsemen, venting their relief at the stand-off. As he stood in their midst watching the native cavalry circle impotently, Marcus felt a pull at his shoulder.
‘Oh, Brigantia! Gods help us…’
Marcus looked at the point to which Antenoch pointed, his face suddenly pale with the sickening realisation that there was in reality no need for the relatively few horsemen riding round their square to take them on. A
