fully two-thirds of its length in his chest, a chance hit by a shot fired at random into the figures struggling in the gate’s skylined opening by some frustrated artilleryman on the far slope. The chieftain struggled to get back on his feet, making it no farther than one knee. He stared stupidly down at the bolt protruding from his body, feeling the strength ebbing from him with the blood coursing down his chest, then gave Marcus a beseeching look as he dropped the axe and shield, holding out his arms in readiness for a mercy stroke. The Roman looked into his eyes for a moment before nodding, and then dropped his gladius and wielded the spatha two-handed to sever the grievously wounded tribal leader’s head from his shoulders with an executioner’s stroke. The dead man’s bodyguard stopped fighting and stepped back from the exhausted prisoner, dropping his sword and prostrating himself on the ground. Gathering his strength, the barbarian lifted his sword, looking to Marcus for a decision. The centurion shook his head tiredly, pulling the big man out of the gate’s deadly opening before any more bolts could be sent their way, and sat down heavily on the turf, his body suddenly trembling as the relentless urge to fight burned out of his blood to leave him shivering in the afternoon’s warmth.
‘Let me make sure that I’ve fully understood this. Once the fort’s first gate was open you took half a dozen soldiers and charged off like a man with his arse on fire, ignoring your instructions to hold and let the legion cohorts come forward?’
First Spear Sextus Frontinius fixed Marcus with a fierce stare from behind his desk, raising an eyebrow in a silent invitation to comment.
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘And as a consequence of disobeying your orders, you proceeded to secure both of the gates that the regulars were supposed to capture, once you’d made the initial break in and cleared the way for them?’
Marcus kept his face stony, only too well aware of the first spear’s swift temper. He shifted his stare from the wall of The Hill’s hospital, visible through the office’s open window, to the heavy gold torc sitting on the first spear’s desk. Frontinius caught the quick glance and his face hardened.
‘Never mind the jewellery, Centurion, just answer the question.’
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘And to round things off nicely, you also engaged the tribal leader of the Carvetii in single combat?’
‘Yes, First Spear, although I should point out that I can’t…’
‘… take the credit for his death? Yes, I read the dispatch that Julius sent ahead of your return march so I’ve had a day to consider the implications of this latest feat of arms. He stopped a bolt in the middle of the fight. Has anyone got anything to add to this tale of disobeyed orders and glorious victory?’
Rufius spoke quickly, his tone light.
‘Yes, First Spear. You should have seen Legion Tribune Antonius’s face – he had a golden fortification crown all polished up and ready to hand over to whichever of his officers was first man over the fort’s last wall and he ended up having to put it away again, or else hand it over to an auxiliary cohort centurion.’
Marcus shook his head ruefully at the memory of the legion tribune’s amazement on hearing that the Tungrians had taken the hill fort in less than ten minutes, and with only a handful of casualties. On the other side of the desk from the four centurions standing to attention in front of him, still in their mail armour from the march back to The Hill, the first spear raised his eyes in amazement to the low ceiling of his office in the cohort’s headquarters before turning his glare on the subject of their discussion. Marcus kept his eyes fixed firmly on the view through the open window and his face expressionless.
‘You may well shake your bloody head, Centurion. Once again you present me with the ultimate conundrum, young man. Once again I’ve allowed you out into the countryside only to have you come back with your reputation enhanced and your profile raised. You’ve drawn more attention to yourself than either you or this cohort can bear. It’s a mystery to me that we’ve not all been nailed up months ago…’ He rubbed reflexively at his bald scalp, turning to Julius. ‘I know Tribune Antonius isn’t the sharpest officer you’ve ever served under, but surely even he could see that there’s something not quite right about a man so obviously Roman serving in an auxiliary cohort?’
His deputy shrugged.
‘In truth, First Spear, I think he was somewhat preoccupied with the fact that a pack of auxiliaries had whipped whatever glory there was to be had from stamping the remnants of the Carvetii flat out from under his nose.’
The first spear mused on the comment for a moment.
‘Yes. With a bit of luck he’ll have been too busy working out how he’s ever going to distinguish himself enough to get command of his own legion, and not looking too closely at you, Centurion Corvus. Very well, I’d better go and report to the prefect. You four can go and get ready to march to the coast tomorrow. We’ve had word that our replacements have arrived from Germania, so you’d best get over to Arab Town and get them before someone less deserving finds out they’ve arrived and has them away. And you, Corvus, can reflect on whether there’s any way that you could manage a simple march to the coast and back without taking on and defeating any more barbarian warbands. Dismissed.’
The four men saluted and trooped out of the office, heading for the officers’ mess. The oldest of them, a stocky veteran with iron-grey hair, put an arm around Marcus’s shoulders and ruffled his coal-black hair affectionately.
‘Not to worry, young Marcus, I was watching the wet-nosed aristocrat like a hawk and I’ll swear he never made the connection. Let’s go and get a drink, eh? You and I have new centuries to collect tomorrow, eighty big strong Tungrian boys apiece and an end to marching around alongside our old centuries while other men undo all our good work.’ He ducked away from Dubnus’s playful slap. ‘Current company excepted, of course.’
First Spear Frontinius made his way from the headquarters building to the prefect’s residence with a reflective look on his face, the heavy torc carried in one hand. The new prefect had been posted to take command of the cohort less than two weeks previously, a post made vacant by the promotion of their previous commanding officer to lead the 6th Legion earlier the same summer. The two men had hardly begun the gradual process of getting to know one another, so essential if they were to lead their cohort successfully once the fight with the rebels north of the wall was rejoined, and yet there was already something about the man that made him feel uncomfortable. Unlike his previous prefect, now the legatus of the imperial 6th Legion and privy to the secrets behind Centurion Corvus’s position with the cohort, Gaius Rutilius Scaurus had made no attempt to seek any sort of relationship with his first spear.
He nodded to the sentries standing guard on the residence and stepped into the building’s cool shade, waiting while the prefect’s taciturn German bodyguard went to fetch his master. After a moment’s delay his superior appeared at the door of his office. A tall man in his early thirties with a thin, almost ascetic face, he was dressed in a simple white tunic with the thin purple stripe on his left shoulder denoting that he was a member of the equestrian class. Scaurus’s eyes were a watery grey, their seemingly soft gaze set below black hair in a narrow face and with a chin that the first spear was unsure whether to characterise as aristocratic or simply weak, but his bearing was confident and his voice was cultured, almost urbane.
‘First Spear. Won’t you come and join me?’
Frontinius stepped into the prefect’s office, accepting a beaker of water and taking a seat opposite the prefect. The room was lit by a single lamp, its shadows pressing in on the two men. Prefect Scaurus took his seat on the other side of his desk, his face half lit by the lamp’s soft glow, and took a sip from his own beaker before speaking.
‘The detachment has returned, I hear. I presume that the job of dealing with the locals went well enough, since we don’t seem to be overrun with wounded?’
‘Yes, sir. We played our part as requested, broke into the fort and dealt with the defenders easily enough. Three dead and half a dozen wounded, none of them seriously enough to need transferring to Noisy Valley. Flesh wounds for the most part. The officers also managed to retrieve this…’ He put the heavy gold neck ring on the prefect’s desk, watching as the other man picked it up and inspected the finely worked bull’s heads that knobbed both ends of the torc. ‘… a nice donation to the burial club.’
The prefect put the torc back on the desk and nodded with satisfaction, but his next words instantly put the older man on his guard.
‘And centurion Corvus?’
‘Prefect?’
‘I said, “And Centurion Corvus?” By which, First Spear, I meant to ask you how your youngest officer performed during the defeat of the Carvetii.’
