a lifetime. The Ninth Century would fight to the death for him, almost to a man, and my centurions count him as a brother. If we send him away to uncertainty, even with the best intentions, we’ll have a very unhappy cohort on our hands, I can promise you that.’
‘And yet if we keep him here, and that meathead Furius denounces us to Ulpius Marcellus, neither of us is going to see many more sunsets. And don’t forget that there are at least two senior officers embroiled in this nasty little affair, both your former tribune and tribune Licinius. I can think of half a dozen heads that will end up on stakes if this goes public. No, he has to disappear into thin air, and it has to happen soon. Once we’re south of the wall again, the same day we pass through the north road gate, he has to vanish, and take his doctor with him or she’ll be the next subject of Furius’s ill intentions.’
Frontinius nodded sadly.
‘I’d hoped that we could keep him here a while longer, and that the excitement would die down and allow him to settle and make a new life. If any man has earned some peace then that young man is a decent enough candidate.’
Scaurus tipped the rest of the cup down his throat.
‘And you, of all people, First Spear, are well placed to know just how unfair life is. As it happens I have an idea that might just keep the lad alive for long enough that he gets to enjoy a little of the peace you describe, and his woman too, but it requires him to leave this cohort at the first opportunity. Preferably with ‘killed in action’ noted against his name in the pay records. It’s either that, or watch your command be torn apart around you while Furius has a cross built for you. It may not be much of a choice, but it’s the only one you’ve got. Oh, and by the way…’
He pointed a finger at the view through the tent’s open end. In the 9th Century’s lines the Tungrians and Votadini were indulging in a temporary weapons swap. The soldiers were hefting the barbarians’ heavy swords above their heads, marvelling at the strength required to make more than a couple of the chopping attacks the long blades were made for, while the tribesmen were laughing at them from behind a row of borrowed shields, grimacing through the gaps between the shields and the brow pieces of the helmets they had donned to complete their impersonation.
‘Amazing, isn’t it, how quickly fighting men find the things that make them the same, and learn to ignore the things that make them different?’
Dubnus strolled into the 8th Century’s section of the camp an hour later, Martos walking alongside him with a hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his sword. The Hamians were already asleep in their tents, exhausted by the day’s march, but, as the young centurion had expected, Marcus was still wide awake, discussing possible tactics for the next day with Qadir and his watch officers. All four men were wearing their heavy woollen cloaks, in contrast to the two Britons, who seemed not to notice the evening’s chill. Marcus stood, clasping hands with Dubnus and turning to regard Martos steadily, his expression neutral.
‘Martos, this is my brother-in-arms Marcus. Marcus, this is Martos, a prince of the Votadini tribe, now our ally and, as of today, my friend.’
Marcus nodded his greeting, extending a hand. Martos took it, sustaining the grip for a moment.
‘Your hand is cold, Marcus. That, and your face, tells me that you were not born in this land.’
Marcus nodded.
‘I was born in Rome, and lived there for most of my life. This may be a pleasant evening to you, but I’m used to warmer.’
‘And your soldiers?’
Marcus smiled, extending a hand to Qadir, who took his cue to bow his head slightly.
‘My chosen man can speak for himself, but since his homeland is even warmer than my own, you can probably draw your own conclusions.’
The Briton looked at the Hamians bleakly for a long moment before speaking again.
‘I asked Dubnus to show me the men who broke my warriors’ will in the battle for the hill fort. I was curious to meet the soldiers who rained death on to my people, to look into their eyes and see what kind of men they were. I expected cold-hearted killers, and yet, as with the other men of your cohort, find only ordinary men like my own. If anything, your men look even more out of place here than mine.’
Qadir stood, offering his hand to the Briton.
‘I must ask your forgiveness, Prince Martos. My men have been trained for years to regard their targets as simply that… targets.
I am not proud that we killed so many of your warriors, although I am in honesty pleased that they managed their first battle as well as they did. Please accept my sympathy for your losses.’
Martos nodded, his eyes locked on the big Hamian.
‘My heart is still bleeding for the men that have preceded me across the river, and I have hardened it for revenge on my enemies, but I cannot number you among them for simply fighting as you have been trained.’
His eyes flicked on to Marcus, narrowing with curiosity.
‘A few among my men, warriors that managed to fight their way clear of the slaughter you called down upon us, speak of a lone officer who stood against a dozen of them two and three at a time. This man, they say, fought with two swords, and possessed both speed and skill they have not seen before…’ He looked at the Roman expectantly, gesturing to the two swords at his sides. ‘This man was you?’
Marcus smiled.
‘My archers are new to this style of fighting, and to war itself, and even a few of your warriors would have put them to flight in minutes. I had no choice except to get out in front of them.’
The Briton surprised him by bowing slightly.
‘Necessity or not, you have the respect of my tribe. To stand alone against so many angry men will have taken great bravery…’
‘Either that, or he’s had the sense knocked out of him by too many blows to the head.’
Martos tossed his head back and laughed uproariously at Dubnus’s jibe.
‘That’s good, I’ll tell my warriors that the man who bested several of their number single handed was punch drunk at the time.’ He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, his focus on the Roman intent. ‘It’s a good thing I didn’t manage to get free of the press of my men, or I too would probably have ended up face down under your blades. I look forward to the opportunity to wield my own sword at your side, now that fate sees us both looking for the chance to take the same man’s head. And now, new friend Dubnus, I’d better get back to my men before they grow restive.’
Dubnus turned to follow him, raising a fist to Marcus for a tap in parting and nodding to Qadir. The chosen man watched the two men walk away towards the 9th Century’s tents.
‘They have a different approach to life, these Britons. In my country a man in his position would take his first opportunity to put a knife between your ribs, and mine too in all probability.’
Marcus pursed his lips, considering the point.
‘I can’t say that it would be any different in mine. And yet to all appearances the man’s happy to treat the whole thing as water under the bridge. Let’s hope he feels the same way when we’re toe to toe with his former allies.’
The next morning started out fine enough, the cohorts’ stand-to, their breakfast and preparations for the march illuminated by the early morning’s soft red light. The supply carts were to be left in the marching camp’s shelter for the day, each man carrying a double ration in his pack in case, as seemed likely, they were unable to return to the camp that evening. Morban, freed from his duties minding Lupus by Antenoch’s reluctant agreement to remain at the ford with the boy and a tent party of men to guard the supply wagons, stared sourly into the sky above the hill to their east, nudging the 8th’s trumpeter with an elbow.
‘Red sky…’
The youth followed his pointing arm.
‘And?’
The standard-bearer raised his eyebrows despairingly, looking around at the equally uncomprehending Hamians.
‘Fuck me backwards, you really don’t have a clue, do you. Didn’t your dad ever tell you what happens when the sky’s that colour?’
‘What colour? Pink?’
