centred on stabbing barbarians, means that I will explain.’
The Hamian stared out across the ranks of blank-faced soldiers, his face set hard.
‘In terms that you men will understand, we are marching to attack the bandits who hide in the big forest. They are currently living in a camp close to the far bank of the river, and we will be seeking to trap them there, and prevent them from escaping to their fortress deeper in the forest. If they escape into the forest it will be a bad thing, and much unhappiness will result. And unhappiness, as we all know, flows in only one direction. So I suggest that you all do what you’re told, when you’re told to do it! And one last thought, gentlemen. We’re going to be fighting a hardened enemy, on his own ground and after several months of doing little but guard duty. And if I add up all the money that your weapons and equipment have cost, and then throw in the small brass coin each of you is worth into the bargain, it’s clear that Tribune Scaurus will want to lose as few of you as possible. So keep your guards up and be ready to fight! And here, to spare us any further debate, is the centurion. Air your iron, soldiers, and let’s see what sort of job you’ve done in readying yourselves. Present your swords!’
The twin Tungrian cohorts marched out of the city’s south-west gate in a compact column, fourteen hundred hard-faced and battle-tested men whose equipment bore the scars of their previous battles like badges of honour. Whilst their shield’s brass edging and bosses shone in the chilly morning’s sunshine like gold, most of them were roughly scored by swords and axe blows, the laurel wreathes and crescent moons that decorated their linen- covered wooden surfaces sometimes almost completely erased by battle damage and the effects of the harsh frontier weather. Their iron helmets, whilst rust free, were frequently dented and scored by sharp iron, their brow guards deeply notched by enemy blades. In every century there were several men whose faces, while they were protected on either side by their cheek guards, were riven by crude scars that had left thick white lines through eyebrows and lips, or deep gouges in noses and cheek bones. The soldiers marched past the 1st Minervia’s Cohort with parade-ground precision, their hobnailed boots rapping on the road’s cobbles in perfect unison, and more than one flicked a contemptuous sideways glance at the raw legionaries waiting for them, their breath puffing out in silver plumes.
Behind the 1st Tungrian Cohort came the barbarian warriors of Martos’s Votadini, their long hair and thick, brightly coloured woollen clothing at odds with the soldiers’ uniform appearance. Some of the warriors were swathed in fur for warmth and all were carrying whichever weapon they favoured, swords, spears and axes as they saw fit. Where the 1st Cohort’s men had confined their expressions of disregard to the odd casual glance, these ragged, scarred fighters simply stared at the legionaries in open disgust. A few of the band were carrying war hammers, including the hulking Selgovae warrior Lugos, who loomed over even the tallest of them, his weapon’s heavy beak counterweighted by a massive half-moon blade with wicked points at either end with which to snag a fleeing enemy, its vicious edge rough-sharpened to inflict a grievous wound in combat.
Behind the Votadini, and in a position deliberately intended to demonstrate his utter trust in men who had been his enemies only months before, walked Tribune Scaurus, his only escort his German bodyguard, Arminius. Behind them came the 2nd Tungrian Cohort, every bit as crisply turned out and battle-scarred as their brothers in the 1st, and at their rear came the thirty horsemen of the detachment’s mounted unit. Each of the animals was led out by its rider, each man marching alongside his mount and keeping a tight hold on its bridle as a precaution against any skittishness from the beasts who clearly sensed that a chance for exercise was to hand. Once the 2nd Cohort’s last century had cleared the legion’s line, First Spear Frontinius stepped out in front of his men and bellowed an order down the line, pointing to his left.
‘Halt! Right turn! Forward march!’ The order was echoed instantly by each century’s centurion, and the men of both cohorts pivoted on the spot, marching the ten paces that put their formation alongside that of the legion cohort’s. ‘Halt! About turn! Stand at… ease!’
Frontinius looked down the road to the spot where Tribune Scaurus had stopped to wait in the wake of the marching centuries, then saluted smartly before marching to his place at the point where his two cohorts joined. Scaurus, Tribune Belletor at his side, looked up and down the line of silent soldiers before speaking.
‘Men of the First Minervia and the Tungrian Cohorts! This is the day when we move onto an offensive footing against the bandit leader Obduro! Today we march to a position close to their forest encampment, and the day after that we will attack. You must stay alert to anything unusual, for these are not ordinary opponents in any sense of the word. They may only be a few hundred strong, but they have local knowledge, and many of them have military skills. I expect that they will fight like animals to avoid capture and execution, and you may find that you must attack with equal ferocity to best them even though we ought to have superiority in numbers. That is all. First Spears?’
Frontinius walked forward again, exchanging nods with Sergius, who stepped out in front of the legionaries.
‘Forward… march!’ Their combined bellow of command set the three cohorts into movement, and as the long line of men reached the road they shouted another command. ‘Halt! Right… turn!’ Within seconds the three cohorts were lined up along the road, while Scaurus, who had stepped back off the road’s surface to avoid being caught in their mass movement, turned a sardonic grin on his colleague.
‘Ready to march for a while, eh Tribune?’
Belletor raised an eyebrow.
‘March? March, Rutilius Scaurus? Why would we be marching?’
His colleague smiled knowingly.
‘Some senior officers, Tribune, like to match their fitness against that of their men, to see if they can keep pace with the old sweats through a long marching day. And besides, it’s such a lovely day for a stroll.’
Belletor’s snort of disbelief dripped with his incredulity at the suggestion.
‘A lovely day for a stroll? I shall be riding my horse, and I’d suggest you do the same unless you want to be taken for one of those men that seek the favour of their soldiers by attempting to emulate them.’
Scaurus laughed and turned away.
‘And you, Tribune, might want to consider walking for a while, unless you want to be taken for one of those men whose feet aren’t hard enough to sustain the pace. I can assure you that there are worse things than being taken for an officer who respects his men well enough to share their hardships.’ He raised his voice to parade- ground volume. ‘Shall we be on our way, gentlemen? This Obduro isn’t going to wait around forever!’
Frontinius raised his vine stick above his head, stepping to one side of the long column to be seen by as many men as possible.
‘First Cohort! At the standard march… march!’
As the leading centuries strode out down the road Prefect Caninus turned to Scaurus, gesturing at his men who were waiting alongside their horses, and speaking in a quiet tone intended to keep their discussion private.
‘I wish you good hunting, Tribune. As agreed, I will take my men away down the road to the west again, to ensure that there’s no chance of a traitor in their ranks alerting the bandits to your approach.’
The tribune nodded.
‘Thank you, Prefect, I’ll certainly be happier knowing that we don’t have to worry about whoever it is Obduro might have planted on you. My own mounted detachment will go forward alongside you as far as the junction where the road to Augusta Treverorum branches off to the south, and will then report back to me that the road is clear of any sign of Obduro’s band. It will be good exercise for their horses, and a nice change for their riders from having nothing to do except brush their animals and shovel away their droppings.’
Caninus nodded his understanding, then turned away, shouting orders to his men. Scaurus raised his arm and signalled to Decurion Silus. The decurion saluted and signalled to his men, who promptly mounted and trotted their horses up the column, with Caninus and his detachment following them. Scaurus looked back at Belletor, gesturing to the road stretching away to the west.
‘Your last chance, Tribune. Will you accompany me for a while? Perhaps we might share a discussion about Rome. I’m sure you miss it as much as I do.’
The other man shook his head dismissively.
‘I’ll be riding, thank you. By all means come for a chat when you get tired of slumming it with your soldiers.’
Scaurus turned away with a wry shake of his head.
‘The company of my men is likely to entertain me for longer than you might imagine possible.’
Silus reined in his horse alongside the 9th Century’s marching men, grinning down at Marcus and raising an
