hand, gestured with an open hand towards the distant treeline. ‘With your permission? Before they realise what we are?’
Marcus nodded blankly, unprepared for the sudden turn of events. ‘Be my guest.’
A half-dozen tribal bowmen were standing a few paces from the safety of the trees, ready to dart into their shelter just as they had during the outward march three days before. Nocking a wickedly barbed arrow to his weapon’s bowstring, the Hamian effortlessly pulled the bow back to the limit of its ability to store the energy he was forcing into its stressed wood-and-bone frame. He took a moment longer to compose his shot, breathing in and half releasing the breath before loosing the arrow in a long shallow arc. As the arrow punched into his first target he was already nocking a second missile, sending it after the first before the barbarian had completed his nerveless slump to the ground, dropping the man standing alongside his first victim even as he gaped at his fallen comrade without quite comprehending what was happening. A third man fell as he started to shout a warning, and a fourth as the remaining tribesmen turned to run, the Hamian loosing his arrows with a speed and accuracy unlike any that Marcus had seen before. Morban, standing alongside him, gaped in astonishment. His mouth hung open unnoticed as the big Syrian’s bow spat arrow after arrow at the now terrified barbarians.
Two men were left now, another shot dropping one of the pair as they sprinted for the trees in terror of the arrows that were killing them in remorseless succession. The last man reached the treeline and darted behind the trunk of a massive oak, peeping back out at the watching troops. Morban roared his approval, shaking the century’s standard in triumph.
‘Five men dead in twenty heartbeats! Cocidius’s hairy nuts, but you’re…’
He fell silent as the Hamian chosen man nocked a last arrow, ignoring the standard-bearer’s noisy approval. Qadir waited for a long moment, holding another deep breath with his eye fixed on the distant tree, then loosed his last arrow just as the Briton looked out from his hiding place again, turning away to resling the weapon across his shoulder without any apparent interest in the shot’s success. For a moment nothing happened, but then the last of the tribesmen staggered from his hiding place behind the oak with the last arrow protruding from his neck, and fell full length to the ground. Qadir turned to Marcus and repeated his small bow of the previous morning, hands open wide at his side.
Julius ran down the road towards them, a broad smile on his face. ‘Bloody good work, that’ll make the stupid young bastards think twice before any of them try that again. Let’s get on the move again.’
Qadir inclined his head respectfully. ‘I would, with your permission, Centurion, prefer to retrieve my spent arrows. And some of those men may not be dead… I think I can see one of them moving.’
Julius clapped him on the arm, pointing to the forest’s edge, and the wounded barbarians. ‘You’re shit-hot with a bow, that’s clear enough, but you still have a lot to learn about war here on the frontier. Those men you just put down can lie there and bleed to death for all I care. They might all die where they fell, or one or two of them might well make it back to their village. Either works well enough for us, since either way the message gets round the locals in double-quick time. Your arrows will give them pause for thought, and that’s a price worth paying. Centurions, saddle your men up and get them moving!’
The exhausted Hamians trailed the other centuries on to The Hill’s parade ground late that afternoon, wearily forming up for review alongside the replacement Tungrians as Acting Prefect Frontinius marched down from the fort.
Morban nudged Qadir in the ribs, muttering from the side of his mouth. ‘Right, mate, that’s First Spear Sextus Frontinius, or ‘Uncle Sextus’ when he’s not within earshot. He’s a decent enough officer, straight enough, and doesn’t even mind being told when he’s wrong as long as you don’t rub it in. If he asks you a question don’t try to be clever, just answer him and then shut up. If he wants to know more he’ll ask you quick enough.’
Frontinius’s step was lively enough but the waiting officers saw the obvious stiffness in his gait and exchanged meaningful glances.
‘You can stop pulling faces at each other when you think I’m not looking. Yes, my bloody knee is still as stiff as a spear shaft and yes, it still hurts like buggery when I bend it first thing in the morning, and not much less at any other time. That’s the price you pay for offering an easy target when there are blue-nose archers within bowshot. All of which is of far less importance than exactly what you’ve brought back from Arab Town. “A double order of tunic lifters” was the term the officer of the guard used when he put his head round my office door five minutes ago… and it doesn’t look like he was far off the mark, for all the nice new armour they’re struggling to keep upright. So, who’s going to enlighten me?’
Julius stepped forward, snapping a crisp salute before walking across to his superior, leaning close enough that his words would be for the first spear’s ear alone.
‘Our rules, Sextus?’
Frontinius shot him a penetrating stare, raising an eyebrow. ‘Our rules? Twice in one year? This ought to be good…’
The centurion nodded to acknowledge his old friend and superior officer’s point.
‘Our rules, then. The Second Cohort has a new prefect, some hothead fresh from Germania with a point to prove. The bastard bribed the Arab Town replacements officer to let him walk off with one of our centuries, which left us with two choices, either to come back eighty men short, or to bring back enough of these Hamians to get us back to full strength.’
The first spear raised an eyebrow, looking out over the centuries paraded in front of him. ‘And you went for numbers.’
‘It wasn’t my first choice. I’ll live with it, seeing as we’ve got them re-equipped somewhat more like soldiers than dancing girls, and given that one of them killed a half-dozen of the local idiots on the way back, but left to me they’d still be sitting in Arab Town wondering why it’s so cold in the middle of summer.’
‘I see. We’ll come back to the local idiots. So exactly whose first choice was it?’
‘Our young gladiator, who else? Oh, I ought to mention that he’s asked a certain lady doctor, recently widowed, if you get my drift, for her hand in marriage. Which, Cocidius the mighty hunter be forever mystified, she seems to have agreed to. You can expect the boy at your table one evening soon now asking for your formal permission.’
The first spear raised a sardonic eyebrow, shaking his head gently.
‘That young man’s been nothing but a source of entertainment ever since Prince Dubnus walked him through the gates, but let’s concentrate on the Hamians for the time being. We’ll worry about the marriage later. I presume he’s intending to practise his transformation skills on his new century?’
Julius nodded sagely. ‘Looks like it. I’m not sure that he understands the difference between what he managed with the Ninth Century and turning untrained men into soldiers, never mind untrained men quite so lacking in muscle. He did persuade Legatus Equitius to cough up the kit to make them look respectable, although they talked him into letting them keep their bows.’
‘Hence the dead idiots?’
‘Yes. Amazing shooting by their chosen man, too, he knocked over half a dozen of them in less time than it takes to tell the story. The fools never knew what hit them until it was too late. They were trying the usual shoot- and-run stuff – in fact they’d already hit us on the road east, killed one man and wounded another. We left him with Centurion Corvus’s wife-to-be in the Noisy Valley base hospital.’
Frontinius snorted without mirth. ‘So, the locals bit off more than they could chew? Good. Perhaps they’ll think twice in future. So, these are useful tunic lifters then, despite appearances?’
Julius shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes lifted briefly to the sky in unspoken comment. ‘They’ll shoot well enough, but the rest of the picture’s just one broken tile after another. They’re nearly all twenty pounds underweight and a hand’s length too short, they handle their weapons so badly the blue-noses will piss themselves laughing if we ever have to put them into a battle line, and their feet are as soft as silk. Or at least they were two days ago. Now they’re just a bloody mess. Like I said, I’ll live with it, and I’ll give Two Knives all the help I can, but I think it’s a lost cause. Two minutes of toe-to-toe with the locals will see half of them dead and the other half running.’
Frontinius nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the Hamian ranks. ‘I can see your point from here. On the other hand, we’re likely to be back in the action before very long, and a double-strength century isn’t a thing I can afford
