Calgus bristled.
‘No man of my tribe would submit to being part of such treachery!’
Licinius shrugged, turning back to his horse and spoke his final words back over his shoulder.
‘You know your men better than I do, Calgus, so I’m sure you’re right. Your kinsman Harn would never play a part in such a scheme, not even with his sons at the point of a Roman spear. So the Dinpaladyr must still be in your hands, mustn’t it…?’
The Romans rode away, leaving their barbarian counterparts staring quizzically at their receding backs. Tribune Scaurus leaned out of his saddle to mutter in his colleague’s ear, his tone bemused.
‘So you’ve told them that we have the fortress. You’ve told them that we’re going to be fighting them in “the usual way” in the morning, and you’ve given that red-faced barbarian sheep-fucker his pretty gold neckpiece back. Did I miss something?’
Licinius winked across Scaurus at an openly curious Marcus before replying, a sardonic smile wreathing his face.
‘Firstly, respected colleague, I want them… no, I want Calgus to fester in his own juices this night, at the thought that his brother warrior might have betrayed his cause. Secondly, yes, he now knows exactly how we’ll be meeting their attack tomorrow, in precisely the same way we always do, in a nice straight line with spears, swords and shields. And that’s just the way I like it. And lastly, with regard to that “red-faced barbarian sheep-fucker’s” pretty gold neckpiece, please believe me when I tell you that I meant every word. I want my headhunters to be looking for that tidy little fortune when they chase those horse-eating bastards back into the hills they came from. I’d rather have him in one piece for shipment to Rome, but I’ll settle for his head. And whoever brings me his head will only get their reward if the torc’s still attached. As far as I’m concerned it’s only on loan.’
Later that evening, as the Tungrians prepared for sleep in rather different circumstances to usual, Licinius walked into the 9th Century’s lines with a thoughtful look on his face. Directed to where Marcus lay stretched out on his rough woollen cloak, he left his bodyguard waiting at a discreet distance and stood over the young officer with his helmet in both hands. Opening his eyes, the younger man saluted and started getting to his feet, but Licinius waved him back with a gloomy smile that was barely visible in the twilight.
‘I thought I might find you here. It seems I owe you an apology, young man, and I’ve been too busy to come and see you until now. Bit of a first for me, y’know, to be apologising for not saying something. Usually it’s because I can’t keep my bloody mouth shut. May I sit?’
The younger man gestured to the ground alongside him, and Licinius lowered himself on to it with a grateful sigh.
‘So, that rascal Calgus has let the cat out of the bag and I have no choice but to acknowledge the truth, if not the helpfulness of the bastard’s words. Yes, Legatus Sollemnis was your birth father. He got your mother pregnant while he was serving in Hispania. Your adoptive father was serving alongside him and was already married, and so he and your mother agreed to take you as their own rather than see their friend’s child farmed out to some peasant family, or worse. And he was, after all, a senator. His house was not a bad place for an infant to find himself.’
He paused, rubbing his face wearily.
‘Sollemnis told me all this when I discovered that the senator had arranged for you to be spirited to Britannia, rather than share his fate in Rome. He enlisted me in the plot to keep you alive, and he also swore me and everyone else that knew the secret to keep it that way until the rebellion was over, and he had the chance to tell you the story in his own time, rather than in some snatched conversation with no chance to explain his actions. And then, of course, he was betrayed to the Selgovae by Praetorian Prefect Perennis’s arsehole of a son, and murdered on the battlefield at Lost Eagle. And yes, I could have told you the truth after his death, but I decided that you’d had enough mourning for one year. My mistake…’
He looked up to find Marcus staring at him with a level gaze, with no hint of the emotions he was feeling on his face.
‘Enough mourning for one year? That’s true enough, Tribune, more than true enough. My father – because he’ll always be my father – and all my family, and then the best friend I have left in the world, and now the man I discover to have been my birth father. All of them dead in less than six months. I would mourn for the legatus, if I had another tear in my body, but I can’t. Don’t apologise to me for keeping this from me, because believe me, I would much rather never have known. And if Calgus thinks he’s left a wound on me with his words, he’ll do well to make very sure that he avoids me on the battlefield tomorrow, if he wants to live to enjoy the memory of my face this afternoon. Given the misery that man’s heaped on me in the last few months, taking his head would be a good way to pay him back. Eventually.’
The Venicone scouts slid noiselessly through the night’s silence, slipping along the forest’s edge until they came within sight of the Roman camp. Going to ground in the trees, they watched their enemies in the full moon’s light for long enough to be sure they understood the precautions the soldiers were taking before making their next step. A dozen watch fires lit the camp’s interior, and patrolling soldiers paced along the length of the earth wall, staring out into the night’s shadows. At length one man removed his boots and detached himself from the scouting party, slipping into the forest and moving silently through the trees at a stealthy pace, feeling forward with his bare feet for any potential source of noise as he took each step. His progress was painstakingly slow, but without any disturbance of the surrounding foliage or any noise to betray his presence. An hour’s quiet stalk brought him within sight of the camp’s rear wall, and he sank into the shadow of a tree to listen intently to the forest for one hundred patient breaths before moving again. Eventually, satisfied that he was alone in the night, and that the apparent lack of any patrol on this face of the Roman defences was as it seemed, he slithered over the waist-high barrier and into the heart of his enemy’s stronghold.
A tent loomed before him, and he snuggled into its shadow to wait for any sign that he might have been detected, but none came. The camp was quiet, eerily so, and with a faint frown he put his ear to the tent’s leather wall and listened carefully for a moment. No sound could be heard from within, no snores, no conversation, and his frown of uncertainty deepened. Taking a small blade from his belt, he sliced into the thick leather with a smooth, slow stroke, then put an eye to the hole thus created. The tent was empty. Eyes narrowed with suspicion, he crawled forward and around the corner, his hands outstretched to feel for anything that might betray his presence, and as he reached the tent’s doorway they encountered a hole in the ground covered with slender branches cut from the forest behind him. Parting the leaves, he reached cautiously down into the pit, his fingertips searching for and exploring the trap’s contents with delicate care.
Grim faced, he looked out across the camp, shaking his head at the utter and complete lack of movement. Watch fires burned untended amid a sea of empty tents, their faint hissing and popping of burning sap the only disturbance in an otherwise silent scene. Nodding to himself, he turned back to the wall, a slight smile creasing his face. Drust would reward them well for the knowledge that the enemy camp was an empty shell, a trap set for the unwary to blunder into, and provide a hidden enemy with the perfect opportunity to strike at them from the rear. Going back over the camp’s wall, he allowed himself to relax slightly, confident that there was nobody to see him roll across the earth barrier and cross the gap into the silent trees. As his feet touched the ground he jolted back against the wall, a sudden searing pain in his chest rooting him where he stood, sudden torture tearing at his lungs as he fought for each agonised panting breath. Looking down, he saw the shaft of an arrow protruding from his rough shirt, and even as his shocked wits fought to make sense of its presence another arced out of the trees and slammed into his body, ripping a hole in his heart that killed him in seconds. His glazed eyes stared vacantly out across the forest as the hidden archers broke from their cover and moved with hunters’ caution to stand over him.
‘Not bad. But not good enough.’
Qadir nodded at his fellow Hamian’s whispered verdict on the dead man’s abilities, leaning close to speak quietly into his ear.
‘Good enough to have got past anyone but us, I’d say. You’d better go and tell the tribune about this while I keep watch for any others. And be careful, there’ll be more of them between us and the cohort.’
His fellow archer jerked his head in silent amusement and vanished into the forest without a sound. Qadir turned and slid back through the trees, settling back into a hiding place within bowshot of the dead scout’s cooling corpse to wait for the dawn, silently mouthing a prayer for his victim’s spirit as he nocked another arrow to his bow and froze into perfect immobility.
Drust roused his warriors before dawn the next morning and gathered their family leaders around him in the grey light of the sun’s waking beneath the horizon. The previous night had been the time to fire his men up with
