in from the rain, taking his helmet off and shaking the drops from its bedraggled crest. He regarded Marcus with a sideways glance, sweeping a hand across his pale scalp to catch the odd raindrops gleaming there.
‘And now, Centurion Two Knives, since you have me as a captive audience, you may tell me all about your exploits of yesterday.’
When Prefect Licinius appeared after breakfast, he too came up short at the sight of the rain cover. What put the honey in that particular cake, Morban later confided to Dubnus, was the fact that custody of the four poles was in the process of being transferred from one four-man group to another. The cavalryman had watched, speechless, while the eight men transferred the cover from one group to another with the precision of a legion parading its eagle. When the handover was finished, and the outgoing men had completed the effect by marching smartly around the corner of the headquarters tent before collapsing in stifled laughter, the prefect approached, taking in the silent centurion and his First Spear. The latter was happily chatting away about the fighting habits of their enemy, and affecting not to have noticed the senior officer.
‘… whereas the warband, you see, is usually a one-shot weapon. The tribal leader points them in the right direction, whips them up into a frenzy, and then lets them run wild. Which can be a problem if they need to be turned around for any reason, since you can’t just…’
He snapped to attention, shouting to Marcus and the roof-bearers to follow his example. Licinius, having thus been formally recognised, strolled forward, nodding to Frontinius and staring with visible envy at the mobile roof while rain beat at his oiled leather cape.
‘At ease, First Spear.’
Frontinius relaxed, throwing the tribune an impeccable salute.
‘Prefect Licinius, sir, welcome to the First Tungrian camp.’
The prefect returned the salute with casual ease, stepping close enough to gain some shelter from the incessant rain.
‘First Spear Frontinius. Might one ask the purpose of this…?’
He waved an arm vaguely at the scene, raising an eyebrow at the sober-faced Frontinius.
‘Prefect this centurion is under administrative punishment, one day’s parade in full uniform and withdrawal of speech. For exceeding the remit of written orders specified by Prefect Equitius in that he took his century over the Wall to rescue one of his men and ended up having to be rescued by you.’
‘And the prefect himself?’
‘Out with four centuries, sir, patrolling down towards the North Road.’
‘And this?’
He gestured again at the rain cover, its roof sagging slightly with the weight of water soaked into the oiled leather.
‘Simple, sir. It would appear that this young officer has instilled sufficient pride in his men that they regard the punishment of one as a collective duty.’
The other man smiled gently, recognising the deflection of any comment he might have regarding the shelter’s legal irregularity.
‘I see. Very well, First Spear, please inform the centurion that I’m sorry to have missed the chance to meet him properly. The Petriana is ordered to conduct a reconnaissance in force to the west, to discover the exact dispositions of our blue-nosed friends. Doubtless we’ll get another chance, though. Quite amazing…’
He turned and walked away, shaking his head in disbelief. Frontinius waited until he was out of sight, stepping out from beneath the rain cover and eyeing the steadily lightening clouds with a critical gaze.
‘It’ll have stopped within the hour. Very well, Centurion Two Knives, I hereby commute your punishment to confinement to your tent until dusk. Get some sleep; your century has the night guard. Doubtless the Prince will be keen to introduce you to the art of aggressive night patrolling…’
Marcus slept soundly, despite the noise of the camp, until Antenoch shook him awake again at sunset; he wolfed down a plate of cold meat and bread and went in search of his chosen man, closely followed by his clerk. Dubnus was detailing the guard roster for the night, counting the century off into tent parties and giving each one a part of the Tungrians’ area of the camp to patrol. When he was finished, one last eight-man group of soldiers remained in front of the headquarters tent, a collection of older men, more than one bearing the scars of previous skirmishes. He spoke quietly into Marcus’s ear.
‘These are the best men for a night patrol, steadier than some of the others. We’ll go over the Wall, up into the trees on the high ground, then wait and listen. This is a good camp, but we’ve used it many times before, so it ought to be known to the enemy. The tribes will have scouts out, and will try to infiltrate men in to watch the camp, perhaps even snatch a sentry or an officer from his tent. We hear them, we stalk them, and we kill them. Simple. You’ll learn some new skills tonight. Morban can stand in as watch officer while we’re out in the forest.’
He passed Marcus a thick wooden stave and a length of black cloth.
‘Your cloak will hide you in the forest and keep you warm. Wrap the cloth around your head until your helmet’s full, it’ll keep your head warm and offer some protection if you get hit on the head. The club’s a lot better for fighting in the dark than a sword, but the other side will be using clubs of their own.’
Turning to Antenoch, standing to one side with a large and distinctly non-regulation sword strapped across his back, he waved a hand dismissively.
‘We won’t need you tonight. Stay here, and guard your tent.’
Antenoch turned away impassively and disappeared into the surrounding shadows.
‘I still don’t trust him. Better if we leave him behind, and avoid the risk of a knife in the back.’
He led the party through the gap in the earth wall and up a shallow slope towards the dark treeline at a slow trot. As they reached the trees the patrol flattened themselves against the cold earth, waiting in silence for Dubnus to decide whether it was safe to move. Marcus stared out into the maze of tree trunks, his night vision slowly improving as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Dubnus muttered into his ear.
‘Look to one side of what you want to see. Seeing in the darkness is better from the corner of the eye than the centre.’
It was true. He looked into the forest, seeing the tree branches sway gently as a breeze lifted their leaves, and heard the distant hoot of a hunting owl. Below them, huddled into the river bend, the camp squatted in its solid bulk, studded with the pinprick light of torches at each guard position. Behind it loomed Cauldron Pool’s fort, its whitewashed walls standing out in the gloom to his now completely night-adjusted eyes. At length Dubnus nodded to the patrol, splaying three fingers forward. Two groups of three men moved silently into the trees, heading to left and right, while Dubnus led Marcus and the remaining soldier forward to their own listening position, a hundred yards inside the forest wall.
They padded slowly and quietly through the tree trunks, fallen twigs crackling minutely under their boots. Marcus copied Dubnus’s exaggerated steps and slow, cautious footfall, each foot searching for larger twigs as it sank to meet the ground, avoiding making any loud noises. At length they settled into their listening post for the night, a space between two fallen trees that Dubnus had clearly used before from the ease with which he found the sheltered spot. Marcus and the other soldier huddled into their cloaks at Dubnus’s whispered suggestion, leaving him to stare out into the silent darkness. Down in the camp, with the troops asleep for the night, and night patrols padding morosely around the perimeter fence, Annius slipped quietly through the ranks of tents, through the doglegged gap in the six-foot-tall earth rampart and up to the stone-built fort’s walls. A pair of soldiers stepped forward with their spears levelled, letting him past and into the fort once it was established that he was on official business. Since the fort was more or less a duplicate of the Hill, he found his way to the supply building quickly enough, and knocked quietly on the door, slipping quickly inside as soon as it opened.
The storeman closed the door behind him, sliding a pair of massive iron bolts into their sockets, turned and silently beckoned Annius to follow him. At the rear of the storeroom he opened another, smaller door, gesturing the quartermaster through in front of him. A small personal room lay beyond, well lit by oil lamps, the walls insulated against the cold air outside by hanging carpets, while a flask of wine and a tray of small honey cakes decorated a delicately carved wooden table. A man lounged on a couch by the room’s far wall, nodding graciously to Annius and indicating the couch’s companion on the other side of the small table.
The quartermaster arranged himself on the couch in a dignified silence, waiting for his host to speak first. With this, as with any other negotiation, every tiny advantage was to be sought. The other man waited another moment before stirring himself to lean on an elbow, baring his teeth in a cockeyed smile below calculating eyes.
