‘And you recommend…?’
‘That we get both cohorts turned around and running for their lives. In very short order this man’s mates are going to miss him, look for him and fail to find him, at which point they’ll come over that hill. The second they realise we’re here we’ll have a full warband at our heels. I’d get the message riders away to the legions too, tell them that we’ll be holding the line of the Red River at the waterfall ford.’
Prefect Furius’s frown deepened.
‘Not so fast, First Spear. We find a single barbarian several miles from our objective and we’re going to take to our heels for fear of the rest of the warband coming to find him? This is probably just a stray hunter, or…’
Rufius spoke out, having regained his wind from his run up the hill.
‘With respect, Prefect, that’s no stray. I’ve fought these bastards in the hills to the north of the River Tava, and those tattoos tell me he’s a warrior. And the scout century reported wood smoke, cooking fires most likely.’
Scaurus nodded decisively.
‘Enough chat.’ He raised a hand to silence his open-mouthed colleague. ‘No, Gracilus Furius, one moment. First Spear Frontinius, get the First Cohort turned round and headed for the ford. I’d recommend the double march, but that’s for your discretion. I’ll have a quiet word with my colleague while you get them moving.’
Frontinius saluted and turned away, then stopped and half turned back.
‘One problem, Prefect. The Eighth Century won’t sustain the double for more than a couple of miles, and I can’t risk three other officers to chivvy them along under these circumstances.’
‘I know. Tell Centurion Corvus that he’s on his own, free to make his way back to the ford by any route he sees fit, but we can’t wait for him. Now, my colleague…’
He led a protesting Furius away, ignoring the curious glances the message riders were giving the two of them as they waited for their instructions.
‘Come over here and listen to what I have to say. No, just for once, just this once, listen to another man’s opinion before shouting your own from the rooftops.’ The other man’s spluttering protests ran dry under his level stare, replaced by a thin-lipped glare as Scaurus spoke quickly, and with a hard edge in his voice that his colleague had not heard before.
‘That dead man belonged to a tribe we call the Venicones. In their own language they call themselves the “Hunting Hounds”. And if we think we’ve had a rough war this far, then I can tell you it’s about to get worse. Much worse. They live beyond the Antonine Wall and their men are tattooed, wearing their warpaint all the time and not just when the mood takes them. There are thousands of them, and they live to raid, and burn, and most of all to kill their enemies in cruel and barbarous ways. They have an utter disregard for danger, and a burning desire to see us dead. All of us.’
Furius had quickly lost any hint of his previous bluster, his eyes flicking nervously to the 1st Cohort which had now turned around and was heading back across the hill’s empty expanse at the double march. Scaurus continued to speak as he tightened his helmet strap ready for the march.
‘You want to know how I know this? You’ve doubtless heard about the Antonine Wall, and how we decided to abandon it, purely to shorten lines of supply back to Yew Grove and Fortress Deva. All of which was a carefully concocted fiction. There were nineteen forts on the northern wall, more than we have on the current border, yet guarding a frontier less than half the length. It was perfect, less than forty miles to defend, easy to build a concentration of troops that would intimidate the locals into peace.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve read the governor’s report scrolls from the period, and they were genuinely terrifying. Those inked-up bastards burned out more than half of the forts at one time or another, killing thousands of men before we decided to cut our losses and leave them well alone. So, colleague Furius, when whoever’s camped over that hill comes looking and finds our tracks beaten into the grass, I want to be as far along the march back to the Red River as possible. You can stay if you like, but I guarantee that the last few minutes of your life will be more exciting than you would have wished.’
He turned to go and Furius recovered his wits, putting a hand on his sleeve and blurting out a question. His voice quavered slightly, and his gaze flicked to left and right, like that of a man seeking a means of escape.
‘Surely the governor would want us to hold our ground? Shouldn’t we…’
Scaurus turned back to his brother officer, a softer look on his face than the hard-eyed stare he’d fixed on the other man a moment before.
‘It’s all right, Furius, I was there at Thunderbolt Gorge, remember? I know what you’re going through, because I was there the last time it happened to you. And no, there’s nothing to be gained from making a stand here except a quick and unpleasant death. The governor put us out here to make sure that nobody gets to swing a hook into the legions’ left flank when they go in to dig Calgus out from his hidey-hole, agreed? Which, you might have guessed, is exactly the reason that these barbarian maniacs are lurking out here. They won’t have come south looking for a fight in anything less than full strength, so unless we manage to alert Ulpius Marcellus to their presence, he’ll find that even two over-strength legions are not really any match for thirty thousand or more angry barbarians driving in hard from two or three different directions. Unless we manage to warn him what’s waiting out here we’ll end up with Calgus in possession of every bloody eagle in Britannia, the country aflame and probably lost for good. I suggest that you get your men moving, Prefect.’
Marcus and Qadir watched as the 1st Cohort’s centuries ground past them, the soldiers too busy gulping air to shout the usual insults at the Hamians. Indeed, he wondered whether he detected a hint of sympathy in the glances that the labouring troops were shooting at them as they left the 8th Century toiling along in their wake. His discussion with the first spear had been both brief and bleak.
‘I can’t leave anyone to help you, my main priority now is to get the cohort back to the ford and ready to fight off the Venicones when they come swarming across the Red. You’ll have to make your own way back and join up with us when you can. My advice would be not to push your boys too hard, and make sure they’re ready to use their bows on anything that catches up with you. It won’t be much use having the ability to hit a man at a hundred paces if you’re too winded to pull the arrow back.’
He’d slapped Marcus on the shoulder, wished him good luck and marched off at the head of the cohort. Prefect Scaurus had done much the same a few minutes later, having the good grace to look a little guilty at leaving the Hamians to fend for themselves.
‘It will rain soon.’
Qadir stared skywards as they marched, watching the heavy grey clouds hanging over them, a slight green tinge hinting at the downpour lurking within their dark, looming bulk. Marcus looked upwards briefly, then shot a glance back over his shoulder, past the rapidly closing 2nd Cohort at the hill behind them.
‘Let’s hope so. A decent downpour might give us the chance to get back to the ford before the Venicones catch us out here and…’
With a brilliant flash a lightning bolt crackled between cloud and ground a mile or so distant, a crashing boom loud enough to wake the dead rolling over the marching Hamians a few seconds later. Marcus tapped Qadir on the arm, shouting over the thunder’s reverberation.
‘Keep them moving, in fact push them up to a hundred and twenty paces a minute. If they get to brooding about what’s behind them they’ll be more likely to get twitchy, so let’s give them something else to think about.’
The 2nd Cohort thundered past at the double march, their glowering prefect sneering across at the single labouring century from his horse. Behind them, appearing over the hill in their wake, came half a dozen horsemen. Marcus shouted to Qadir, pointing back at the barbarian riders.
‘Have the men ready to shoot, but keep their bows hidden until the moment comes. I want them nice and close before we show our hand, so wait for my signal.’
The chosen man dropped back down the column and spoke quietly with the archers as he went, his hands emphasising his orders. The horsemen closed steadily on the century’s rear, stringing arrows to their own bows in anticipation of ranging alongside the century and shooting into their helpless mass, further slowing their retreat.
‘Qadir, chisel tips! Get ready!’
The chosen man nodded, unslinging his own bow under the cover of his men’s rank’s and reaching back to pull one of a few flat-headed arrows from the quiver hung over his shoulder, locating the arrow by a small protrusion on its base. The horsemen rode up alongside the century, their loose formation opening up as they prepared to start shooting, no more than thirty paces from the Hamians.
