four-man-wide column as Clodius, at the exact moment that his colleague raised his drawn sword and bellowed an order at his men.
‘Third Century, take them down!’
The bandits scattered in all directions, and the centurions watched in bemusement as the column’s ordered ranks broke into organised chaos in the space of an instant, individual soldiers choosing their victims and going after them like hunting dogs. Each of the desperate men suddenly found himself pursued by half a dozen soldiers eager for blood, and the mist filled with the shouts and screams of hunter and hunted. One zealous soldier ran at the three barbarian scouts with his spear raised, mistaking them for robbers in the heat of battle. A moment later he was staggering backwards, clutching his face, as Arminius, his face dark with anger, stepped forward to stop him dead with a swift jab of his massive fist. The unfortunate Tungrian fell onto his backside with blood streaming down his face.
‘You’ve broken by dose!’
The German shook his head contemptuously, gesturing back at his companions.
‘And whose fault is that? Just count yourself fortunate it was me and neither of these two that put you right. The prince would have gutted you like a fish, and the big lad would have taken off your head with the same punch. Now go and bleed somewhere else.’
Clodius walked across to his brother officers with a raised eyebrow, pulling off both his helmet and its padded linen liner, allowing the cold air to get to his grey-streaked hair. He watched as his men dragged the corpses of their victims back across the muddy fields.
‘I should have known you three would find some kind of trouble.’
Dubnus wiped his sword clean on the greasy fabric of a dead man’s tunic and sheathed the blade before replying.
‘It found us.’
Clodius grunted morosely.
‘Nothing new there. How’s your wound, young Dubnus? Still giving you problems when you get down on your knees for a…’ Catching a movement in the corner of his eye he half turned and then snapped out an order. ‘Third Century, stand at attention!’
Tribune Scaurus strolled into the knot of centurions with First Spear Sextus Frontinius in close attendance, returning their salutes while his deceptively soft grey eyes took in the scene about them.
‘I know we’re here to kill bandits, gentlemen, but given that we haven’t even reached Tungrorum yet this all seems a little keen, even by your standards.’ He looked around him at the litter of scattered corpses and the few groaning survivors of the swift fight. ‘And that, I have to say, seems to be that. Normally I’d be of the opinion that since we killed them we’d best burn or bury them, but under the circumstances…’ He turned to Frontinius with a questioning look. ‘What do you say, First Spear?’
The senior centurion limped across to the fallen body of the robbers’ leader, pulling the cavalry helmet from the corpse’s head to reveal the dead man’s smashed face; the blood that had streamed from his broken nose was stark against the pale grey of his skin.
‘I’d say he didn’t find this helmet at the side of the road. I’d say he’s probably killed enough good men that his death will please our gods. And I’d say that we leave him here to rot with the rest of his gang.’
Scaurus pursed his lips and nodded.
‘Agreed. Strip them of their weapons and anything else of value, and load the survivors onto the supply carts. I’d imagine the authorities in Tungrorum will be happy enough to receive a few captured bandits for some public punishment.’ He half turned away, then swung back to Frontinius with a swift nod. ‘And that’ll be enough of these gentlemen walking out in front of the cohort for one day. I don’t mind losing officers in battle as long as they have the good grace to die expensively, but given we’re already short of good centurions I won’t risk making our problems any worse by tempting fate like that.’ The 1st spear nodded, giving the three officers a significant stare. ‘And what happened to him?’
A bandage carrier was fussing over the soldier whose nose had been broken by Arminius. The German stepped forward, nodding to Scaurus.
‘He seemed set on putting his spear through me, so I changed his mind for him.’
The tribune raised an eyebrow at his bodyguard.
‘You seem to have done rather too good a job of it, from what I can see.’ He tapped the hapless medic on the shoulder, eliciting a flustered, bloody-fingered salute from the man. ‘Either you get that back in place now or you can deal with it at the end of the day. We’ve no time to be standing round in the mist while you work it out.’
The bandage carrier spread his wet and bloodied hands in apology.
‘Sorry, Tribune, I just can’t get a grip on the bone.’
Arminius pushed him aside without ceremony, putting a hand on the terrified soldier’s shoulder to prevent him from rising.
‘Stay put, you. This won’t take a minute.’ He grasped the soldier’s nose, rubbing it briskly between finger and thumb to gauge the break’s location. While the soldier was still squawking in pain at this rough treatment, the German took a handful of hair to hold his head in place and quickly manipulated the bone back into place. With a shrill scream of agony the soldier passed out, his weight suspended from the German’s grip on his scalp. Shaking his head, Arminius pushed him into the bandage carrier’s arms. ‘It’s done. He’ll have a pair of black eyes for a week or so. It might teach him to pick his targets with a little more care.’
First Spear Frontinius nodded to his tribune, a wry smile touching his lips.
‘It seems that your man has a way with mending broken bones, Tribune. Perhaps Centurion Corvus’s wife might do well to recruit him for her clinic?’
Scaurus shook his head, watching the German walk away.
‘I think not. He’s more than a little lacking in the delicate approach required of a medical man. He’s been that way ever since I saved him from the sword back in the war with the Quadi, and I can’t see him changing now.’ He turned to look at the road ahead, still wreathed in drifting curtains of mist. ‘Well, then, shall we get these cohorts back on the road? I’d estimate there’s still another ten miles to the city, and there’ll be no respite from this cursed drizzle until we get there.’
As the leading centuries formed back into their marching column Marcus noted that Julius was scanning the ground around the corpse of the bandit group’s leader.
‘Lost something?’
His friend nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.
‘My whistle. It was a nice one too.’
Glancing about him, Marcus caught Dubnus’s eye, and saw that he was pointing ostentatiously at his own belt pouch and grinning smugly. Giving up the search, Julius turned back to his colleagues to find Dubnus apparently searching the ground at his feet with exaggerated interest.
‘I could do with a nice whistle; mine sounds like a castrated cat.’
The older man shook his head in disgust as the 3rd Century, set to lead the long two-cohort-strong column of march, started to move again at Clodius’s bellow of command.
‘Very funny, Dubnus. I suppose that’s the price I have to pay for being first into the fight. As per fucking usual.’
He stamped away to join his own 5th Century, leaving the two friends to wait for their men to march past.
‘How long will you hold onto it?’
Dubnus shrugged at Marcus’s question.
‘Until he’s bought a new one? I’ll sneak it back into his pouch once he’s laid out some coin for a replacement.’ He frowned at his friend’s sudden solemnity. ‘ What? It’s not like I’ve lifted his purse!’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No, it’s me. I was just thinking how funny Rufius was going to find this.’
Dubnus put a spade-like hand on his friend’s mailed shoulder.
‘I know. I miss the old bastard almost as much as you do, but life, as Morban keeps telling anyone that will listen, is for those left around to profit from it. And here come your boys now. Go and cheer up Qadir with the story of our colleague’s whistle. You know he always turns grumpy when it’s too wet for his lads to play with their bows.’
