for longer than might have been judged prudent. Each village and farm they encountered greeted their passing with forced indifference, as if neither side knew that refugees from the battle were hidden close by. Even the petty revenges of searching the rough dwellings, stealing any valuables their inhabitants were stupid enough not to have hidden, and the confiscation and slaughter of the farm animals for food, did little to lift the spirits of men who knew their enemy was laughing at their failure to retake the legion’s precious standard.
Marcus’s men held up well enough, helped by the distraction of keeping Morban from dwelling on his loss. The burly standard-bearer didn’t sleep, lost weight and volunteered for guard duty at every opportunity, seeking activity to prevent opportunities to brood over his son’s death in the battle’s last minutes. Some of the century attempted to use humour to keep his spirits up. Marcus overheard two of his men attempting to lighten the standard-bearer’s mood in camp late one evening.
‘Morban, how many legion road-builders does it take to light a lamp?’
‘No idea.’
‘Five – one to light it and four lazy bastards leaning on their shovels to watch!’
The other soldier chipped in.
‘Morban, how many stores staff does it take to light a lamp?’
‘Go on.’
‘Ten – one to light it and nine to do the paperwork!’
The first man started back in.
‘Morban, how many prostitutes does it take to light a lamp?’
‘Look, just…’
‘Looks like one, but she’s only faking it!’
Morban smiled sadly as he stood to leave.
‘Look, lads, I know you’re just trying to cheer me up, and that last one wasn’t too bad, but just give it a rest, eh?’
Dubnus spoke darkly to Marcus on the subject, an unusual frown on his face.
‘The next action we see, he’ll take his first chance to jump into the blue-faces and get killed. Which is bad enough, but I wouldn’t trust some of the lads not to jump in behind him and try to save him…’
They agreed to keep an eye on their friend, and in the event of impending battle to make sure he was kept away from the shield wall. Marcus knew it could only be a temporary solution.
With the legionnaires visibly losing their edge under the constant strain, and without any indication that they might regain the legion’s badge of honour any time soon, Equitius was forced to bow to the inevitable. Standing in camp late one evening, watching the troops labour over yet another turf wall in the orange light of the setting sun, he turned to Marcus and looked at the young centurion properly for the first time in over a week.
‘You look tired, Centurion, in need of a decent bath and a cup of a decent red…’
Marcus straightened his back reflexively, opening eyes that had narrowed to slits in anticipation and need of sleep.
‘Relax, I wasn’t finding fault. The gods know I could sweat a helmet full of dirt given the chance. And as for a decent drink… anyway, I’ve come to a decision. Tomorrow we’ll have a rest day, give the cohorts a chance to get their tunics clean and polish the rust off their swords.’
Marcus nodded gratefully.
‘And the day after?’
‘We turn south. Four or five days’ march ought to see us back to the Wall.’
‘We’re giving up the hunt?’
‘Yes. They’re playing with us, you know, spreading rumours to lead us round the countryside like a bull being pulled round the farmyard by the ring in its nose. Soon enough Calgus will lure us into some nasty ambush or other, cost us more men we can’t afford to lose, and I don’t intend to give him the satisfaction. It’s time to go home and wait for reinforcements from Gaul.’
A shaft of orange sunlight lit the camp, and Equitius stretched luxuriously in the warm glow.
‘Share a beaker with me, Centurion?’
They sat in Equitius’s private tent, pitched alongside the massive command tent, and sipped their wine. For a while neither spoke. At last Equitius broke the silence.
‘I don’t suppose the last year has been anything other than a waking nightmare for you. If it’s any consolation, you’ve acquitted yourself better than I could have imagined when we took you in, back in the month of Mars. With hindsight, though, you were never going to fail this test. Not with your blood. I’ve been waiting for the right time to give you something, and now seems as good a time as any…’
He pulled the oilskin package from under his camp bed, putting it in Marcus’s hands with a smile.
‘It belonged to Legatus Sollemnis. He wanted you to have it…’
Marcus unwrapped the sword, looking closely at the hilt’s ornate decoration and inlay before pulling it from the scabbard and testing its fine balance.
‘It’s a beautiful weapon…’
‘So it should be. I was with him when he bought it and it cost him more money than I would ever have spent on a sword. It served him with honour too, right across the empire in the service of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.’
‘I’m honoured. But why me?’
‘He spoke to me the night before the Battle of the Lost Eagle. Perhaps he had a premonition, I don’t know, but he asked me to make sure that the sword went to you if he should be killed the next day. I’d say he wanted it to go to someone that will bring it further honour. Besides, you’re about the right age to have been the son he always wanted…’
He hovered close to breaking his promise to Frontinius at that moment, resisting the urge to tell Marcus the truth only with an effort of will.
‘And now, Centurion, you can get that lamp fuel down your neck and fetch the senior centurions to come and see me. The sooner that lot out there know they’ve got a day of rest tomorrow the happier we’ll all be.’ The depleted legion turned south the day after next as promised and, with thoughts of home in their hearts, made the journey back to the Wall in four days. At Noisy Valley, where buildings were being thrown up to replace those burned out to deny the warband their supplies, the other legions had set about building a temporary camp to house them until they could march south to their fortresses at the campaign’s end. Equitius went looking for the 20th’s legate to make his report, taking Marcus and a tent party of his men as close escort. They found the Northern Command’s new general in his freshly erected wooden principia, a clutch of legion tribunes and senior centurions gathered around him as they planned the campaign’s next moves. Dismissing his escort for the time being, Equitius approached Legatus Macrinus and made his salute before joining the group.
Marcus took his men outside to wait for the legatus, sitting them down in the early afternoon’s warmth with a quiet order to Dubnus to keep them busy polishing their helmets, and to call him when Equitius had completed his duties inside, then headed for the infirmary. The legionaries guarding the hospital confirmed that there were Tungrian wounded inside. He found a couple of dozen of them, including five of his own men, sporting bandages and, in a couple of cases, fracture splints. Their delight at the visit was obvious, and they sat him down on a bed and plied him with questions on the state of the campaign.
It soon became clear that they knew more about what was going on than he did, and the consensus was that there was another advance to the north planned before the end of the summer. The Tungrians had been sent back to the Hill a few days before for a week’s leave and to do whatever recruiting was possible locally to boost their strength, but were scheduled to return to the swiftly growing legionary fortress that Noisy Valley was becoming for further duty. Yes, they were all well enough, although several of their mates had died in the difficult days of the march south from the battlefield, too badly hurt to survive for the most part, but the care in the hospital had saved several others, particularly that from one doctor, the last said with much rolling of eyes and significant nods.
Marcus, knowing exactly where the conversation was going, smiled weakly and took his leave, promising to remember them to their friends and, if time allowed, to send their mates in to see them. In truth he’d forced himself to forget her, assisted by the strains of the last month, and being reminded of her existence was like having an ice- cold dagger twisted in his soul. Turning away, he came face to face with Felicia, who had been standing watching him with his men with a small smile on her face. He froze with uncertainty, blushing uncontrollably.
‘Centurion. I trust you find your men in good condition?’
