3
Centurion Dubnus shifted uncomfortably on the examination table, feeling the doctor’s cool hands gently probing around the fresh scar that would be his permanent reminder of the battle at the Red River. The spear wound had been inflicted by a barbarian who had run full pelt into his century’s line and punched his weapon’s iron head through the big man’s armour, burying it deep in his side to put him out of the fight, and into the hands of the Noisy Valley fortress’s medical staff.
‘I can’t feel anything to indicate any infection, Centurion, and your wound seems to have healed nicely enough. You’re a lucky man. You can get back on your feet for a few hours a day, nothing strenuous, mind you, and no clever ideas about sneaking back to your cohort either. I know you’re desperate to get back into the fight, but you won’t be fit to get back into armour for at least a month. Do you understand what I’m saying this time?’
Dubnus returned her questioning stare with a rueful smile. He had been caught at his room’s window a few days previously, watching the legionaries practising with their weapons when he was supposed to be confined to bed.
‘I understand, Doctor. I’ll sit in my chair and listen to the idiots comparing the size of their scars.’
She nodded firmly.
‘Good. And no trying to make your way down the corridor unobserved either. You need at least another week of inactivity before we can be sure that your wound is really healed.’
He nodded, sitting up with the help of the doctor’s orderly Julius, a quiet and good-natured man rarely without a smile on his face.
‘Is there any news from the legions?’
Julius answered after a moment’s silence, shooting a troubled glance at his mistress.
‘Yes, Centurion, a message rider arrived last evening. I would have woken you when I heard the message he was carrying, but you looked so…’
‘And?’
The orderly smiled at the questioning tone, but the doctor turned back to him and wagged a finger.
‘Calm yourself, Centurion. There’s nothing either of us can do, whatever the news might be. As it happens, the news is good, or so it seems. The rebellion is broken, their camp stormed and destroyed, and those barbarians who escaped are scattered, and running for their lives. And no, there’s no detail as to which units took what part in the fight.’
Dubnus pulled his tunic back on gingerly, feeling the fresh scar tissue flexing with his movements.
‘Doctor…’
She shook her head.
‘After all that’s happened in the last few months I think you should call me Felicia, Centurion.’
‘Very well, Felicia. Whatever fighting he might have seen, Marcus will have come through it in one piece. He’s faster with two swords than I am with one, his century are determined not to let “their young gentleman” come to any harm, and he’s got Tiberius Rufius to keep him from making an idiot of himself. He’ll be back here soon enough.’
Her eyes moist, Felicia reached out for the big soldier’s hand.
‘I know. And if anything were to have happened to him, I could cope with it. It’s just the not knowing…’
Dubnus gave her a wry smile.
‘I know. Believe me, cooped up in here, I know exactly what you mean. And now I must give you this.’
He picked up a small cloth-wrapped package and handed it to her, catching Julius’s eye and tipping his head at the door. The orderly took the hint and made his excuses while the doctor unwrapped the cloth, revealing a small knife in a soft leather sheath.
‘What…?’
‘It’s for your protection. I asked the soldier that you discharged yesterday to bring it in for me. I want you to promise that you’ll wear it until Marcus can come for you. You need to be able to protect yourself if the need arises. You know where a man is vulnerable to a small blade just as well as I do, and that one’s long enough to open a throat if need be. It will strap around your leg above the knee, and be hidden under your stola. Promise me that you’ll wear it.’
She drew the knife from its sheath, examining the razor-sharp six-inch blade with a critical eye well used to gauging the sharpness of her surgical tools.
‘Dubnus, I took an oath to protect human life, not to take it.’
The big centurion shook his head, but his reply was gentle.
‘These are difficult times, and you’re too precious to my friend for me to see you without some way of defending yourself. What if the Brigantes break into this fort?’ He took a deep breath in through his nose, then exhaled and raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘And besides, it’s not just about you any more, is it?’
The Tungrian cohorts marched two abreast down the well-beaten track that ran from the barbarian camp to the edge of the forest, and which would bring them out on to the flatter land of the Red River’s flood plain. The gently waving branches above their heads cast sun-dappled patterns across their ranks until they marched out on to the rolling plain, leaving behind the forest in which Calgus had planned to ambush and destroy the legions, before the presence of his Venicone allies had been detected by a chance encounter with one of Marcus’s soldiers. Emerging from the trees on to the plain’s gently undulating ground, the centuries drew up in parade formation and waited for the other components of Tribune Scaurus’s command to make their appearance. Marching at the head of his 9th Century, and still wrapped in the grief of Rufius’s sudden and violent death, Marcus was nevertheless aware of a collective melancholy sitting heavily on his men, a feeling he was himself quite powerless to resist. When the cohort’s column halted he stood his men at ease and strolled out in front of them, staring hollow eyed up and down the Tungrian cohort’s line and noting with a sudden pang the absence of Rufius’s 6th Century, and the stocky figure of his friend out in front of them. After a few minutes a column of legionaries began to emerge from the trees, their centurions drawing them up in front of the Tungrian line and standing them to attention until the cohort’s full strength was arrayed across the plain. First Spear Frontinius spoke without taking his eyes off the legion detachment’s flag, the representation of the leaping boar that the 20th had made its badge over a century before.
‘We are honoured. The Twentieth’s legatus has given you their First Cohort to play with. He must have a soft spot for you, Tribune.’
Scaurus nodded, watching as the cohort’s five centurions walked the lengths of their double-strength centuries, checking their men’s line and equipment with an attention to detail that would have done honour to preparation for a triumphal parade through Rome. He answered his deputy’s question in a matter-of-fact tone, not taking his eyes off the legion cohort’s fluttering detachment banner.
‘Indeed. I believe that Postumius Avitus Macrinus had a good relationship with my sponsor, before he left Rome to serve in Britannia. Ah, here comes their tribune. I’d suggest, First Spear, that you leave the talking to me. No matter what the man says. This man is the son of a most distinguished family, and I’m not sure that he’s going to find this very easy.’
They stood in silence as the detachment’s tribune walked across the gap between the two cohorts, his first spear walking at his shoulder and one pace behind. He halted in front of Scaurus and nodded brusquely, while his senior centurion snapped to attention and stared blankly over Scaurus’s head. A man of about twenty-five, Tribune Laenas was of above-average height, with black hair and a broad face which, unsurprisingly under the circumstances, was set in a look of deep dissatisfaction.
‘Marcus Popillius Laenas, tribune, Twentieth Legion Valiant and Victorious, reporting for duty as ordered.’
Scaurus stood in silence, holding the younger man’s gaze and waiting patiently. After a long moment’s wait Laenas raised an eyebrow.
‘Ah, is there something wrong, colleague?’
‘A small matter of military courtesy, Popillius Laenas. I fear that it is usual for the officers of a detachment to salute its commander.’
