doubt either of you can comprehend, and who has a very good idea that Tribulus Corvus has found refuge with this cohort. I can assure you that for all the imperial favour that unearthing such a fugitive would bring him, it would give him nowhere near as much enjoyment as seeing me unmasked as his protector.’
The cohort awoke to mist and drizzle the next morning, took a hasty breakfast and prepared to stand to in the grey morning light. Marcus dressed in his tent attended by Antenoch and a sleepy Lupus, tucking his tunic into his woollen campaign trousers. The garment was a comfort permitted by the first spear only when the cohort was in the field late in the campaign season, a time of the year known for its wind and sudden rain.
‘I’ll never get used to wearing these blasted itchy things. All those years reading that trousers are the mark of the barbarian, and suddenly I can’t go outdoors in anything other than high summer – or whatever passes for summer here – without them.’
Antenoch muttered his response into the pile of his officer’s equipment.
‘I can see how your delicate legs would enjoy the protection, Centurion. Would you like the leg wrappings too?’
A look passed between them, and Marcus snorted gently, a half-smile creasing his face.
‘Don’t mock the afflicted, Clerk, and pass me those socks and my boots.’
He tugged the heavy woollen socks into place, tucking their open ends under his feet as he laced up his polished hobnailed boots. Streaks of mud decorated their gleaming leather, betraying the lack of any attention the previous evening.
‘We’ll move this morning.’ Antenoch brushed an errant horsehair back into place in Marcus’s helmet crest and placed it on his bedroll. ‘You don’t get this many troops in one place without the boys in bronze wanting to march them aimlessly round the countryside. It’s their way of convincing themselves that they’re doing something meaningful.’
Marcus pulled on his padded leather arming vest, meant to protect the wearer’s flesh from being cut by his mail’s rings if they were struck by sword or spear, carefully pulling it straight to ensure that it wouldn’t wrinkle and chafe under the armour.
‘There’s still a warband out there, or perhaps you’d forgotten that? We’ll be advancing to make contact with the enemy.’
His clerk snorted.
‘I’ll put down ten to your five that our glorious leaders don’t have the first clue where the blue-noses are hiding. “Somewhere in the forests to the north-east” is about the limit of their intelligence, so once again we’ll get to go and find them the hard way under the pretence of scouting to the flanks. Lupus, help me with the centurion’s mail.’
He lifted the heavy mail shirt over Marcus’s head and pulled it down on to the leather arming vest while Lupus pulled the mail’s hem down his thighs to ensure its close fit to his shoulders. Antenoch rubbed a finger at the rings across one shoulder, holding his hand out to the child.
‘Dirty. You were supposed to brush and polish this shirt before bed last night, you idle little bugger. You want me to send the centurion on parade in dirty armour?’
He reached for the soft brush and set about the rings with vigour, the swift strokes shaking the uncomplaining Marcus from side to side as he raised an eyebrow at an unabashed Lupus. Antenoch clipped the back of the child’s head with his open palm.
‘You leave this dirty another night this month and you can kiss your purse money goodbye… what’s that?’
Starting guiltily, the red-faced boy repeated his muttered comment aloud.
‘I said there’s nothing to spend it on anyway.’
Antenoch snorted.
‘Welcome to my army, you dozy little sod. Of course there’s nothing to spend it on, this is a fighting cohort on campaign, not a tour of the wall’s honey-cake stalls. And while we’re at it I can see mud spots on those boots. The centurion can see them too, but he’s too polite to mention it…’
He shot a hand out and grabbed the boy’s ear, twisting it painfully and pulling the child close to his face.
‘You can consider this your administrative punishment. Next time it’ll be loss of pay and privileges for you, my lad. Now off with you and find your grandad, make sure he’s ready for parade and bring him here.’
Lupus ran from the tent clutching his reddened ear. Marcus raised an eyebrow.
‘Pass my belt and baldrics. You’re too hard on the boy.’
Antenoch shrugged, passing over Marcus’s officer’s heavy belt and sword harnesses.
‘And you’re all too soft on him. You’re too nice, Morban’s too busy being his grandfather and the rest of the troops treat him more like a mascot than a kid with a need for discipline. Someone’s got to act like a father for him, and in the absence of anyone else…’
He raised an eyebrow at Marcus, inviting further comment, but none was forthcoming. After an uncomfortable pause the officer held out a hand.
‘Helmet, please. Thank you.’
The centurion pulled his helmet on, tightening the leather chin strap and looking around him.
‘Looking for this?’
Antenoch held out the thick knobbly vine stick, and Marcus took it, rotating it unconsciously until his thumb found its accustomed resting place in a small indentation.
‘You’re right, as it happens. We do spoil the boy in our own ways. I suppose we’re all trying to compensate him for the roll of the dice he’s had to endure in the last few months. I take your point, though, and I’ll try to be a bit more like an officer with him, and a bit less like…’
He fell silent, and Antenoch nodded his understanding, his face softening.
‘His older brother? Don’t change a thing, Centurion, I’ll make sure that the troops give him a bit of a harder time, starting with that old bugger Morban. You just teach him how to throw iron around the way that you do, and leave the tough stuff to the rest of us.’
Marcus nodded, his eyes momentarily far away, then gathered himself and turned, stepping out into the morning’s murk, calling for Qadir. Antenoch turned his attentions to packing away the centurion’s gear, muttering quietly in the tent’s silence.
‘No, don’t change a thing, Centurion. Being his older brother might help keep you the right side of sane, given all that’s happened in the last few months.’
8
Late in the afternoon of the day after the battle of the hill fort the 20th Legion rejoined the 6th, having completed their sweep of the ground to the south of the wall, bringing with them the governor and his staff. Shortly after their arrival the Votadini chieftain was escorted into the governor’s presence by the leader of Equitius’s bodyguard, a pair of soldiers with drawn swords guarding against the unlikely chance of his being able to shed the coils of thick rope that bound him so tightly it was all he could do to walk unaided. His face was badly bruised, testament to the harsh treatment he had received from his guards since being captured, men incensed by the massacre of the Frisian cohort. Ulpius Marcellus raised an eyebrow at Equitius.
‘Do we really need the swords, Legatus? Even ignoring my unlikely contribution, there are two legates, half a dozen prefects and the same number of tribunes facing this one prisoner, who, I am forced to note, is trussed up with enough rope to restrain a prize-winning ox. What are your men going to do, cut his throat if he hops towards me in a threatening manner?’
Equitius nodded his agreement, making a subtle gesture to his stony-faced guard commander, who, with a look that spoke volumes, ordered the two soldiers out of the tent. The governor leaned closer to the helpless prisoner.
‘That’s better. Who can focus when there’s sharpened iron six inches from the back of his neck, eh? So, whatever your name is, do you speak any Latin?’
The prisoner nodded, his battered face defiant.
‘I am Martos, sister’s son to King Brennus of the Votadini, and
