group. First Spear Sergius tipped Belletor a quick salute and sidled across to join them, while soldiers on all sides stared at the gathering with undisguised curiosity. Scarface stared at the cluster of armoured men for a moment and then turned away, shaking his head and reaching for his shield and helmet.
‘Best get your gear on, lads. The last time I seen Uncle Sextus looking that serious was before the battle where the Sixth Legion lost their eagle, and I ended up fighting off the fucking bluenoses for the rest of the afternoon. Got a nasty gash down one arm and lost both my best mates, one dead before he hit the ground, the other one coughing up blood for half a day before his eyes closed. This’ll end up with us out in front, if my guess is right. And it looks set to fucking rain.’
In the heart of his gathered officers, Frontinius looked around the intent faces that surrounded him, nodding his recognition of their solemnity.
‘Yes, you’ve all guessed it; we’ve got a direct route to the enemy camp and we’re going straight in. Dubnus found what looks like a way across the river while he was out scouting with Centurions Julius and Corvus, so we’re marching south to the Mosa at speed. We’ll get deployed over the river as fast and as quietly as possible, and then go for an encirclement of the rebel camp before they even know they’re under attack, never mind who’s behind the spears. And if we put this lot in the bag then our job here really will be done, and we can enjoy some well-earned peace and quiet. Once we leave this rest halt we’ll deploy into approach march formation.’ He looked around the group again. ‘I’ll have the Ninth Century out in front in extended order looking for trouble all the way to the river, fast and light-footed. Try to keep it inconspicuous, Centurion Corvus. I don’t want them to know we’re coming until we’re across the river at the very earliest, and preferably not until we’ve got their camp surrounded by enough spears that they’ll just go straight to the bit where they throw down their iron without even considering a fight. Think you can manage that?’
Marcus nodded silently, already rehearsing the orders he would issue to his men. Frontinius recognised his preoccupation and moved the briefing on.
‘Good. Dubnus, you’ll be out in front with the Ninth. I need you to take us straight to the place in question without any risk of it turning into the scenic route, your chosen man can look after your men in your absence. Following up behind the scouts I want a three-century front, one solid wall of shields if the need arises, so keep the formation as tight as you like. Centurions Clodius, Caelius and Otho, your lads ought to find that well enough to their liking.’
Julius snorted his laughter into the intent silence.
‘The Badger, the Hedgehog and Knuckles all in a row. You really do mean business.’
Marcus winked at Caelius, watching as his brother officer rubbed self-consciously at the spiky, brush-like hair that had led to his nickname, smiling to himself at Julius’s praise. While Clodius and Otho were brutal, bombastic leaders, continually goading their men in competition for the unofficial title of the cohort’s most dangerous century, Caelius was a quieter man by comparison, until, that was, the enemy were within spear throw. Then, and only then, did he seem to swell beyond his usual size, and become a leader whose simple example could encourage bravery from his men where words might fail.
Frontinius nodded at Julius with a determined expression.
‘If by some chance we’re in action before we reach the river I want to be up and in their faces the instant they show themselves. So you three had better be ready for anything.’
Julius nodded knowingly.
‘And since the Ninth will all be dead or dying, you want these three to overrun them and rescue that pretty sword, eh First Spear?’
His superior smiled grimly.
‘Well, you won’t be in with any chance of recovering it, Julius, because you’ll be leading one of the wings. We’ll have three centuries on your side of the line, ready for an envelopment once the front three have got the enemy fixed, when and if we bump into them. The left wing will be commanded by you, Julius, and will consist of your Fifth Century with the Eighth and Second behind you, and the right will consist of the First and Tenth Centuries, led by Titus.’
The hulking commander of the Tenth Century spoke up, his voice a bass growl as he pointed a finger at Julius.
‘Be ready to bring your girls running if we take the brunt of an attack, eh little man? Two centuries might struggle to hold back five hundred mutineers, even if the two centuries involved are the best in the cohort.’
Julius, himself a hulking brute of a man even if he was a head shorter than his colleague, grinned at him wolfishly before turning back to his old friend Frontinius.
‘And you, First Spear, where will you be if I’ve got your boys alongside mine?’
‘Me? I’ll be accompanying Centurion Caelius, as close behind the Ninth as we can manage. Now, Second Cohort…’ Their sister unit’s centurions stepped forward, their faces every bit as grim as those of their colleagues. ‘We all know that the legion cohort isn’t experienced enough to stand alone against a determined attack — no insult intended, colleague.’ Sergius nodded graciously to show that none was taken. ‘So I’ll have your lads close up behind us to provide fast reinforcement.’
‘You’re sure you know where to find this crossing?’
Dubnus nodded grimly in response to Arminius’s question, his head thrown back to suck greedily at the cold air as they followed the 9th Century’s extended line at a pace closer to a jog than a march.
‘As sure as I can be, given that I only saw the place from the opposite bank, and that was with my head six inches from the ground. Like I told your lads that have run forward to scout the river bank, the only real landmark I could see was a bloody great tree on this side of the river, as I recall it, bent over almost double and with its branches trailing over the water. When we find that, we’ve found the crossing.’
Marcus and Qadir had already decided to add even more pace to their advance by sending forward the half- dozen fastest distance runners in the century. The men in question had dumped their shields and spears on their mates and hared forward in front of the Ninth’s already rapid progress across the open ground between the road and the river, briefed to look for the landmark that Dubnus had described to them. Looking back, Marcus could see the shields of the centuries following them, a good half mile behind.
‘It’s getting so cold that my bloody fingers are starting to go numb.’ Dubnus clenched his fists, trying to get more blood into them, and sniffed the air dubiously. ‘If it wasn’t already the middle of Aprilis I’d swear there was snow on the way.’
They looked unhappily at the heavy grey wall looming over them out of the western sky, and Marcus shook his head with a look of unease.
‘Whatever comes out of that cloud, it isn’t going to be warm.’
Arminius looked across at Marcus, who was staring up at the towering mass of dark grey cloud with a bemused expression.
‘This happened every now and then in my home village. We knew well enough to find shelter and not come out until the storm had passed. When the rain starts we won’t be able to see any further than the ends of our fingers.’
Dubnus shrugged.
‘Nobody made you come forward with us. You could have been safe back there with the tribunes if you hadn’t been so determined to keep us company.’
A brief smirk lifted one side of the German’s face, and he shook his head dismissively, waving a hand towards Marcus.
‘I’m not here for you, Dubnus, for all that you make a decent sparring partner on occasion. I’m here for him. I still owe the centurion here a life, and when the tribune sees fit to send us forward into the teeth of a spring storm to hunt army deserters I expect that my chance to repay that debt might be to hand.’
A sharp-eyed Hamian soldier striding along in front of Marcus pointed and shouted something in his own language to Qadir, who stared for a moment before calling to Marcus.
‘One of the runners is waving back to us. They see the tree!’
Taking the 9th Century within two hundred paces of the river bank, Marcus advanced down the ground’s gentle slope to the Mosa’s meandering stream, then waved the soldiers into the cover of the scattered bushes and long grass. He made his way forward with Dubnus and Arminius until they were crouched in the shelter of the bent tree, using its trunk to protect them from the wind’s biting chill. The scout who had spotted the landmark, one of the century’s Hamian archers, huddled alongside them wrapped in his cloak; he eyed the river’s hard, cold water
