Later, with his plan of attack reluctantly approved by the gathered tribal nobles, Calgus sought out Martos, King Brennus’s nephew. Ignoring the hostile looks he was getting from the men around the young noble, he strode up to the man, stepping close to speak in quiet and measured tones.
‘Prince Martos, I would like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you’ll hear me?’
Martos, checking the edge of his sword with his thumb, nodded dourly.
‘I will speak with you if that is your wish, Calgus. I may not agree with your methods, but I believe that we both want the same thing from these next few days.’
Indeed we do, mused Calgus inwardly as he extended an arm, inviting the Votadini prince to walk with him, but only one of us is going to live to enjoy it.
The sky clouded over in the early afternoon, and a thin drizzle contrived to insinuate itself into any and every place it could possibly reach. The Tungrians spent the day making sure that they were ready for another lengthy spell in the field, sharpening weapons and checking their equipment for any fault that might let them down on the march. The 8th Century spent the morning on the exercise field practising with swords and shields, every man paired with a veteran soldier from the cohort’s other centuries and drilled time and time again in the simple disciplines of attack and defence.
Marcus walked among his allocated forty men with Qadir, gauging which of them might just be capable of standing in a battle line’s front rank by watching the faces of the soldiers set to teach them their murderous trade.
‘That one, training with the one-eyed soldier. Front rank.’
The imperturbable chosen man made a mark on his writing tablet and followed Marcus down the line. When they compared notes with Julius, Dubnus and Rufius, their combined findings made uncomfortable material for discussion with First Spear Frontinius when Marcus met up with him to discuss the morning session’s results.
‘I’ve got about a dozen men that I can put in the front rank with a clear conscience, and another thirty or so with a fighting chance of surviving their first fight. After that it’s a lottery, the rest of them are just so much padding…’
Frontinius nodded gravely.
‘Work them harder. You’ve got a day, perhaps two.’
Soon after midday another cohort arrived at the fort, and was directed to establish their camp alongside the Tungrians. Once the soldiers realised the identity of the newcomers they quickly entered into the usual spirit of the two cohorts’ encounters, exchanges of abuse quickly giving way to exchanges of news and gossip. Scaurus and Frontinius waited for the appropriate period of time, then made their way into the 2nd Tungrian cohort’s camp and presented themselves at the command tent. Escorted inside, they found First Spear Neuto and Prefect Furius bent over an equipment list, working out what to raid the fort’s stores for. Furius turned, and, recognising Scaurus with a heartbeat’s pause that was imperceptible unless the watcher was looking for it, he took the offered hand and shook it vigorously.
‘Rutilius Scaurus! I hear you’ve got the First Tungrians, and here I am with the Second Cohort! Just like old times with the good old Twelfth, eh? Here, meet my first spear, Neuto. Neuto, this is my old comrade Rutilius Scaurus, from my days in Germania with the Twelfth Legion. Scaurus and I were both thin-stripe tribunes with the legion when we were sent to root out the German tribes, both of us not much better than callow youths with no real idea of soldiering, and yet here we both are with independent commands to play with.’
The first spear gave Scaurus and Frontinius a look that spoke volumes for his relationship with his prefect, offering his hand to Scaurus before clasping Frontinius’s and slapping him on the shoulder with his other hand. The two men were clearly glad to see each other, and at Neuto’s suggestion they headed off to the fort’s officers’ mess to share information, and work out whether either could help the other with supplies or equipment. Outside the tent Neuto gave Frontinius a look that told him even more about Prefect Furius, his voice kept low but with a distinct edge of anger.
‘I’m glad to see you, old comrade, although I wish it were under happier circumstances. Let’s get a beaker of something warm inside us and I’ll share my news with you… not all of it good.’
With the first spears’ departure the two prefects stared at each other in a long moment of silence. Furius spoke first, his eyes suddenly hard as he faced his former comrade.
‘Well, Gaius Rutilius Scaurus, it’s been a long time since Moesia. What have you been up to for the last ten years?’
Scaurus shrugged.
‘I stayed with the Twelfth for three years after you left to return to Rome, until we’d finished off the Quadi in fact. A year after that I was back to Moesia for the war with their neighbours the Marcomani, this time with the Fifth Macedonica, and now I’ve been sent here to help put down another barbarian uprising. I’ve spent the occasional few months in Rome to remind me why we fight, but mostly I’ve been in the field.’
‘A warrior’s life, then. Still dedicated to Mithras, eh? And yet here we both are, both of us with an equal status after all those years, despite my little slip at Thunderbolt Gorge. Don’t you find that galling, eh, Scaurus? You toil away on the borders of the empire for a decade while I enjoy the comforts of home, then in six months I go from enforced retirement to command of a thousand-strong infantry cohort. Doesn’t that rankle just a little?’
Scaurus shrugged, without any visible sign of concern.
‘Not really. We come from different worlds, you and I, our families couldn’t be much more different if we’d tried. I do what I do, and you… well, you do whatever it is that you do. Still fond of the odd crucifixion, are you?’
Furius nodded slowly.
‘I’m still a firm believer in keeping discipline nice and taut, if that’s what you’re asking. While we were out over the wall I managed to find and punish the man that killed this cohort’s previous prefect. I had him…’
‘Whipped to death, from the rumours flying round the camp.’
Furius’s voice took on a note of self-justification.
‘He went on the cross as well.’
Scaurus shook his head gently.
‘You crucified a dead man?’
Furius bristled, his temperature clearly rising.
‘It served as an example.’
Scaurus kept a straight face, seeing the signs he had long ago learned to recognise in the other man’s reddening features.
‘I’m sure it did.’
Frontinius took a cautious sip at his broth, pursing his lips at the taste and putting the steaming beaker down as he passed judgement on his new prefect for Neuto’s benefit.
‘So at first I thought he was just another weak-chinned amateur like most of the idiots we get as prefects, but all in all I’d say he’s probably going to be good enough, given his experience. Not that he’s been very forthcoming about exactly what he’s done in the last ten years, but he seems to have seen enough action to have knocked the corners off him, even if he won’t talk about it. What about yours?’
The two first spears had found a quiet corner in the officers’ mess and were sitting over their broth, waiting for it to cool slightly. The hot soup’s steam rose into the room’s chilly air as the steward laboured to get the fire properly lit. Frontinius had quickly recognised that his old friend needed to share his recent experiences with someone that he could trust. Having asked the question, he kept his mouth firmly shut in the hope of encouraging the 2nd Cohort’s senior centurion to tell his story. Neuto grimaced, shaking his head as he spoke.
‘At first I thought Furius might be a decent replacement for Prefect Bassus. He’s not short of money, that’s clear. He’s got a jar full of naphtha that he uses to light his brazier, just a small splash and the wood goes up like a grain store with the first spark from the flint, and that must have cost him a small fortune. He seemed to know what he was talking about too, he told a good story about his time in Moesia fighting some tribe or other, and he was brisk and businesslike in just about everything he did. “Here,” I thought, “is a man that I might be able to do business with. Perhaps not quite such a find as your last prefect – now there was an officer – but decent enough, nevertheless.”’ He sipped at his broth. ‘It took me about three days to get over that sadly mistaken first impression. First of all, he paraded the cohort at Red River and told them what a shower of bastards they were for killing Bassus, and how he was going to make them pay for it. Three months’ pay forfeit for the entire cohort, reduced to one month if he got his man before dark the same day.’
