see a young gentleman accept a position in an auxiliary unit, rather than insisting on serving with the legions. Although I’m surprised that a traditionally minded First Spear like Frontinius would ever accept such a recruit. I wonder, Centurion…’
Marcus willed his face to remain impassive.
‘… if Clodia Drusilla mentioned to you what she was doing over the Wall at such a time?’
Relief flooded his mind at the man’s obvious preoccupation with his woman, followed immediately by the realisation that he was still walking on eggshells.
‘Ah… no, sir, now that you mention it she didn’t tell me, and neither did I have the time to ask. I was preoccupied with getting my men away from danger, and…’
‘And not really your business anyway, eh? Very well, Centurion, since you’re clearly a man of discretion, I can see I shouldn’t delay you from your men any longer. Good day.’
Marcus saluted briskly and turned, relieved to be away without having to face difficult questions regarding either his own provenance or the other man’s wife. Accelerating his pace, he trotted smartly past the tail-end century, the men of the 10th striding along with their axes over their shoulders. As he passed the 10th’s front rank Titus stepped out with his fist raised for the tap.
‘Good work, young Two Knives, you’re the talk of the cohort.’
Marcus reflexively tapped the huge man’s fist with his own, shooting a surprised glance at the big man’s smug smile. Normally he would now have been running alongside his own men, but the 9th were at the column’s head. Otho, striding along beside his 8th Century, simply smiled his battered smile and winked as the young centurion passed. Ahead of him Brutus was walking along backwards at the head of the 7th… applauding? He slapped Marcus on the shoulder as he passed, calling after him.
‘And I thought I was supposed to be the lucky one!’
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.
