through the horrified tribesman’s thigh, easing its blade out of the wound’s opening with delicate care and passing it to Dubnus. The wounded man’s eyes rolled up as he lost consciousness, sagging back on to the hard ground. Marcus turned to the medic summoned by his call. ‘Get that leg tied off, enough to stop the bleeding and keep him alive.’ Wiping his hands on a handful of grass, the young officer turned back to his colleagues. ‘There you go. He’ll live, but he’ll be crippled for the rest of his days, a burden on his tribe, and every time he walks past it’ll send a powerful message to everyone around him. If you want to roll the dice with the big boys, you’d better be sure you can afford the stakes. Come on, let’s put your casualties on a cart and get back on the road to Arab Town. I suddenly find myself in need of a drink.’
Night was falling across the fortified port of Arab Town by the time the Tungrian officers had their men bedded down for the night and were free to head for the officers’ mess. The fort’s looming stable blocks and barracks were silent silhouettes against the sunset’s red glow, and only the port’s pilot boat was anchored at the wooden pier that jutted out into the German sea, in stark contrast to the barely organised chaos that had greeted their previous visits during the summer to collect supplies shipped in from across the empire’s northern provinces. Infantrymen and cavalrymen, their mounts, weapons, armour, boots, shields, supplies and more, had flowed through the port over the previous few weeks, drawn from legions and supply depots across the German frontier and beyond, as the Roman forces in Britannia scrambled to make good the disastrous losses incurred by the imperial 6th Legion at the battle of Lost Eagle. For the first time in all those weeks the fort’s officers’ mess was quiet, a relief from the hard drinking and inevitable boisterous behaviour of officers passing through to new roles with units in the field, determined to get thoroughly drunk one last time before months of enforced abstinence.
The Tungrian centurions had just settled down around the stove for the evening when the door opened to admit two officers, the newcomers shrugging off their cloaks and luxuriating for a moment in the room’s warmth. Rufius turned to greet them, frowning up from his chair.
‘You two look familiar. Aren’t you…?’
The older of the two newcomers nodded.
‘Second Tungrians. I’m Tertius, this is Appius.’
Rufius stood and offered his hand.
‘I’m Rufius, formerly Sixth Legion and now an adopted member of the First Tungrian cohort. These cheeky young bastards have taken to calling me “Grandfather”. This big arrogant specimen is Julius, or “Latrine” to his men, for reasons I’ll leave you to ponder, he commands the lead century, while this even bigger young lad is our newest centurion, Dubnus. The quiet man in the corner wearing, you’ll note, two swords, is “Two Knives”.’
Tertius narrowed his eyes.
‘“Two Knives”? Like the gladiators?’
‘Just like the gladiators. Only faster. Much faster.’
Tertius raised an eyebrow.
‘Now that I’d like to see.’
Rufius laughed grimly.
‘You’ve missed the last performance, at least for a while. He only really waves them around at full speed when there’s blood to be spilt, and we haven’t seen much of that since Lost Eagle. Speaking of which… Steward! Wine for our friends here. You lads saved our bacon on that shit-spattered hillside, and we haven’t forgotten it.’
The two newcomers pulled up chairs and made themselves comfortable, while the steward ferried cups of wine to the group.
‘A toast.’
Tertius raised his cup.
‘The lost eagle.’
They drank, and then Tertius wiped his mouth on his sleeve and spoke again.
‘You know there’s a hefty reward for the soldier that recovers the standard?’
Rufius nodded. Tertius took another mouthful of his wine.
‘Aye. And we’ll be out looking for the bloody thing soon enough. That, and the head of the idiot that lost it. Once we’ve collected our new prefect and legged it back to join the rest of the cohort we’re slated for a tour up north to see what’s going on along the main road to Three Mountains.’
Marcus Tribulus Corvus pulled a face and stared at the floor.
‘What’s the matter with your mate?’
Rufius took a sidelong glance at his companion.
‘Not everyone has a bad opinion of the late Legatus Sollemnis. We were there when a nasty little shit by the name of Perennis sent the Sixth Legion into that ambush by lying through his teeth that the ground for their approach march was safe. He tried to kill our prefect too, except Dubnus here put his axe through the would-be executioner’s spine and then shot the traitor off his horse at thirty paces. Beautiful piece of work, that shot…’
He darted a warning glance at Marcus, an imperceptible shake of his head, before turning back to the newcomers.
‘Anyway, a new prefect? Where’s he come from, to be coming ashore here?’
Tertius took another mouthful of wine.
‘Germania, apparently. Supposed to be some kind of fire-eater from what we’ve heard, keen as black seed mustard apparently. We’ve come down the wall with two centuries to escort him back to join up with the cohort at The Rock before we go north. And you lads are here for reinforcements?’
Julius spoke up, his voice a deep rumble.
‘Two centuries’ worth of real Tungrians, trained, armed, armoured and ready to march. Just enough to get us back to something like full strength after the losses we took in that goat-fuck at Lost Eagle, and the only troops left in the port if I don’t count a couple of centuries of Hamian fairies twanging their bows in the next barrack. We’re lucky to be getting them, with so much competition for replacements, but our old prefect’s commanding the Sixth Legion now, which counts for something. Grandfather and Two Knives have command of our two empty centuries, broken up to provide replacements to bring the other eight up to strength, and we’ve come to collect their replacement soldiers. Dubnus and I are along for the ride with our boys, just to make sure they got here unmolested. And just as well, given the fun we had on the way.’
Tertius nodded grimly.
‘Barbarian bowmen, between Fine View and White Strength?’
‘Yes. We lost one man and had another wounded. You?’
‘Two wounded. Local boys showing off to each other, most likely. They know we’ve got better things to do than take the time required to catch them in the act. One of these days, though…’
He tipped the rest of the wine down his neck.
‘My shout. More wine, Steward, and a beer for me. Make it a large one.’
An hour and several drinks later the Second Tungrian officers got to their feet. Appius, previously more or less silent, inclined his head in salute, his tongue clearly loosened by the wine.
‘You’ll have to excuse us, brothers; we have an appointment at the guest house with our new officer. Let’s hope this one’s a little more balanced than the previous idiot. That way he might get to live a bit longer.’
Even with the wine’s effects, Rufius was instantly alert, despite his apparent torpor. He nudged Marcus’s foot beneath the table to warn him, raising a curious eyebrow and smiling slyly up at the two men.
‘We did hear the rumours. It’s true, then? Prefect Bassus really stopped a friendly spear?’
Tertius grimaced, but his colleague Appius kept talking without any apparent concern.
‘Well now, if you ask the question that way I’ve got no idea what happened. But if you were to speculate that Bassus had pissed off the wrong men one time too many, I’d have to agree that there’s a certain kind of officer who takes a risk when he turns his back on his own men in a battle.
‘Anyway, enough said. Good luck with your recruits. And watch out for those bloody archers.’
He scooped up his helmet and reached for his cloak, dragging it across the pile of garments and pulling loose the pin from Marcus’s in the process. He bent and picked up the gold shield from the floor, giving its intricate workmanship an appreciative glance and turning it over and noting the words engraved on the obverse before he
