thump. Obduro spoke again into the hush that followed, his voice raised to a harsh shout.
‘Nobody questions my judgement without paying the going price for that brief moment of pleasure, a price that only I can decide! Nobody! Now, does anybody else want to ask the same question, or might we head for the fortress and get out from under Arduenna’s divine intervention?’ A moment’s silence spun out, with only the faint sound of snowflakes hitting the men’s helmets to break the quiet. ‘No? Very well, let’s be away from here. You can leave him to lie where he fell, and the animals can have his corpse as an offering to the goddess. Get his cloak around the prisoner and let’s get moving. Storm or no storm, his comrades are still searching for him, and I’d rather not risk them finding us. Let’s move! ’
A heavy weight settled on Marcus’s shoulders, the stink of wet cloak wool a momentary and comforting reminder of his men, and then a hand gripped his arm tightly, pulling him in the direction of their travel with a steady but irresistible strength. Obduro’s unearthly voice spoke quietly, close to his ear.
‘Well, I couldn’t let him live, now could I, Centurion? You of all people will understand the confidence trick that is leadership, the art of convincing those who follow you that you are a man to be feared. I lead these men as you might command a pack of dangerous dogs: I throw them scraps to keep them quiet, and I punish with a fist of iron any of them who decide to challenge me.’ Marcus nodded his understanding, and the bandit leader spoke again, guiding him to the left with a gentle pull of his arm. ‘Let’s not have you walking into a tree, eh? I want you conscious to witness what I have decided to reveal to you. You are to be privileged, Centurion; you are to see a part of Arduenna that no man not already pledged to our cause has ever seen without dying in agony as a sacrifice to the goddess. Today is clearly your lucky day.’
Frontinius found the Tenth Century’s centurion standing in the middle of the bandit camp, the freshly cleared ground beyond its edge studded with the stumps of felled trees. With a rending tear of splintering wood another tree on the clearing’s edge arced into the open space, and two tent parties of the bearded pioneers fell on it in a flurry of axes, working swiftly to trim off the branches, which in turn were dragged away by waiting soldiers from the other Tungrian centuries already across the river. The remaining axemen set about the long trunk with practised strokes, hacking the sixty-foot log into sections short enough to be grappled by a team of soldiers and carried away to the growing pile of wood in the clearing’s centre, while other men laid the resin laden branches as the foundations for more fires.
‘Your boys are making good progress, Titus. I’ll soon have more labour across the bridge than you’ll be able to supply with work.’
The huge centurion nodded, casting an experienced eye around the clearing.
‘There’s space for three, maybe four fires. Enough to keep us all alive until this snow stops falling.’ He pointed to the first pile of wood. ‘This is tall enough to burn for hours. Leave me to start building the next fire, and you get that one alight.’
The first spear nodded and turned away, calling out into the clearing’s frenzied activity.
‘ Martos! ’
The barbarian prince stepped out of the pack of labouring soldiers, an earthenware jar tucked under one arm, while on either side of him a pair of his warriors fended off any man who ventured too close.
‘First Spear. Has the time come for your fire miracle?’
Frontinius nodded.
‘It has.’ Martos made to put the jar at Frontinius’s feet, but the first spear raised a hand to stop him. ‘No, hold it a little longer, if you will. It’s harmless enough sealed up in that container, and I need fire ready to use before I can release it to work its magic.’
Martos grunted, flicking snow from his long hair and turning to his men.
‘“Fire”, he says, as if the lighting of a fire in a snow storm were the easiest thing in all the world. Aerth! We need a flame!’
One of his warriors came forward from the group gathered about their leader, an older man with a deeply lined face. At his side a younger man carried a bundle of some kind wrapped up in his cloak. Aerth fished in a belt pouch, waving several more of Martos’s warriors forward with a grumbling, gravel-throated command in his own language.
‘Make the shelter.’
Four men knelt together in a huddle, three of them placing their shields to form a small curved wall against the wind, the fourth placing his board over the others to complete the enclosure. Snow no longer fell inside the tiny space and the blizzard’s wind was no more than a swirl of air. Aerth now knelt on the tiny patch of ground and bent his head, growling another command.
‘Kindling.’
The young warrior knelt beside him, opening his bundled cloak and spilling an armful of twigs and dead bracken into the shields’ protection. The barbarian tested the kindling with his fingers, shaking his head at the results.
‘Still damp.’ He reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of rough wool, the untreated woven fibres thick with the natural waxy grease that soldiers treasured as waterproofing. Frontinius smiled darkly at Martos, ignoring the snow whipping past his face.
‘Your man seems to know his subject. That’s from one of our cloaks, I presume?’
The Votadini leader nodded wryly, his one eye narrowing in a smile.
‘You know how it is, First Spear. A man must take his opportunities to gather the materials required for his expertise wherever he can. And your soldier will not have missed such a small piece of his garment.’
Aerth stared up at the two men for a moment and then turned back to his task, his face a mask of concentration. Using a small knife he shredded the oil-encrusted wool into thin strips and reduced each one to its constituent fibres, then his nimble fingers wove them into a ball of kindling. Seeing Frontinius’s frown, Martos leaned forward and spoke quietly into the Tungrian’s ear.
‘He is a master at this. The secret lies in achieving the right mix of dry and damp material to sustain a flame.’
As he spoke the kneeling warrior looked up, his grating voice barely distinguishable from the blizzard’s howl.
‘And knowing which of the gods will answer my prayer.’
He stared up into the grey clouds briefly, his lips moving as he muttered an invocation to whatever deity it was that guided his hands, then he bent forward and struck a hard blow at the flint in his left hand with the rough iron haft of his dagger. A shower of sparks spat down into the kindling, and he bent so close to the ball that his nose was almost touching it, then blew softly onto the tiny spots of light. The men around him held their breath, but after a moment he knelt back on his heels with a grunt, raising his head to stare into the sky and repeat his invocation for divine assistance. Flint and iron met again, and again the barbarian bent over his kindling and blew with the delicate care of a man tending his firstborn, but again he sat back with a slight shake of his head. ‘The forest goddess is strong, and she forbids the flame in her kingdom.’ He lifted the dagger and pulled back his left sleeve to reveal a forearm crudely scored with cuts. Most of them had long since healed to white scars, but a few were fresher, their marks a livid red on his pale flesh. Martos leaned close to Frontinius, muttering in his ear.
‘Sometimes the gods want blood as the price of their assistance. This is his secret.’
Frontinius nodded solemnly, watching as Aerth dragged the dagger’s shining blade down the length of his arm, the cut finely judged to be more than a scratch yet not so deep as to require stitching. A dark red rivulet ran down his arm to his fingertips, and, once more intoning the vow to serve his gods, the barbarian flicked his fingers three times, shooting drops of blood into the kindling’s entwined wood and leaves. Bending to his task again he lifted the dagger to strike, muttered a final word of entreaty, and hammered the iron home, sending a shower of sparks into the ball. After blowing gently on the kindling he turned his head away to breathe, then blew again, a little harder this time and with an intent focus on one of the few lingering spots of light. At first the spark remained no more than a hint of fire, but then it blossomed, taking hold of a scrap of greasy cloak material and swelling from spark to tiny flame. Aerth turned the ball in his hands, seeking to play the infant fire onto the best of the kindling, then looked up at Martos with a decisive nod. The one-eyed Votadini chieftain gestured urgently to the mound of wood and foliage.
‘Now is the time, First Spear! The fire will quickly burn through that much fuel!’
Frontinius reached out to take the jar and pulling its stopper. He turned to the dark mass of wood, pouring a generous measure of the liquid onto a thick limb that protruded into the clearing, its branches thickly coated with
