After another four hours of marching, all of it through an afternoon made into premature twilight by the swirling mist, even Marcus was ready for the day’s journey to end. Marching alongside his chosen man, Qadir, at his century’s rear, he noted that the usually imperturbable Hamian’s demeanour became grimmer as the day progressed.
‘I’m going up to the front to make sure Morban’s not bullying the trumpeter too badly.’
The Hamian grunted in reply, his eyes locked on the gloomy landscape fitfully revealed by the mist’s drifting grey curtains.
Marching up to the century’s head, the Roman found his standard bearer, a twenty-five-year veteran famed for both his acerbic wit and his prodigious appetites for gambling, drinking and whoring, in reflective mood on the subject of their colleague’s unhappiness.
‘I tried to cheer him up at the lunch stop with a few jokes, but he wasn’t having any of it. Perhaps he’s starting to realise what him and his mates tossed away when they decided not to stay with the Hamian cohort back on the Wall. Carting around half their weight in iron can’t be much fun when they’re more used to prancing round the forest wearing next to nothing and shooting the occasion animal for the pot.’ Oblivious to his centurion’s icy stare, he ploughed on. ‘And now here he is, freezing cold, water dripping from the end of his nose and his bow hidden away for days on end for fear of the glue rotting. No wonder the poor bastard’s feeling miserable. Not like us, we’re used to this.’ Marcus stared out into the mist, shaking his head slightly at the realisation that Morban’s view of what might be affecting Qadir’s mood could just as easily be applied to his own situation. ‘Anyway, we’ll be tucked up in this new place’s barracks soon enough, with a few logs in the stove and all this nastiness behind us. And if dear old Qadir can’t take a joke then perhaps he shouldn’t have-’
The standard bearer’s sentiment was interrupted by a shout from further up the column, which promptly came to a halt in a succession of shouted commands from each centurion down the cohort’s column. Hearing the century in front of his own being told to halt Marcus shouted the same command to his men, then barked a terse order to Qadir to watch the ranks and walked forward to see what was happening. He passed the back of the leading century and the reason for the unscheduled halt became clear: a twenty-foot-high stone wall loomed out of the mist. A group of bemused centurions were gathered around a pair of massive wooden gates set in an imposing stone archway that barred the cohorts’ route into the city. The first spear was craning his neck to call up to a pair of soldiers who in turn were peering down into the mist with looks of deep suspicion.
‘Just open the bloody gates and we’ll worry about the paperwork later. I’ve got two full cohorts of soldiers slowly freezing their balls off out here, and I want them in barracks before dark.’
Julius, who was standing behind the senior centurion with a grim look on his dark, bearded face, shook his head at Marcus.
‘This isn’t going to end well. Those are legion troops if I’m not mistaken, and whenever the road menders get involved there’s usually grief.’
Another soldier appeared on the walls, this one wearing the feathered and crested helmet of a legion chosen man. He spoke to the guards for a moment, then leaned out and called down to the auxiliaries gathered below.
‘I’m sorry, Centurion. I’m under strict orders not to open the gates without permission from my own officer. I’ve sent one of my men to find him, but until he gets here there’s no way I can let you in.’
He spread his hands to convey his helplessness with the situation, and then disappeared from sight to leave the first spear fuming with anger.
‘Was that segmented armour I saw before that man went to hide from the wrath of an infuriated first spear?’
The centurions turned to find Tribune Scaurus standing behind them with a questioning look on his face. Frontinius nodded grimly, his face creased with anger.
‘Yes, Tribune. It would appear that the regulars have got here before us.’
Scaurus looked out into the swirling mist for a moment.
‘And I suppose that if we leave this to take its apparent course, the men could be standing around here for quite a while.’
Frontinius nodded again, the angry lines of his expression softening as he turned a quizzical gaze on his superior.
The tribune nodded at him, cleared his throat, and shouted up at the apparently deserted wall.
‘ Chosen Man! Show yourself!’ After a long silence the chosen man looked over the wall again, his face falling when he saw the tribune staring up at him. Scaurus lifted his cloak, showing the other man his finely wrought bronze plate armour, sculpted to resemble a muscled torso. ‘Have a good look, Chosen Man! You’ll observe that I’m not a centurion but the commander of these cohorts, and not without influence, or an understanding of how things work. Which legion might this be that I’m talking with, I wonder? Either the “grunts” or the “scribblers”, I’d guess. Which is it, Chosen Man?’
The chosen man sprang to attention.
‘First Minervia Faithful and Loyal, Tribune!’
Scaurus smiled, muttering quietly to himself.
‘ Got you.’ He looked up at the chosen man for a long moment before speaking again. ‘The “grunts”, then. First Minervia, Faithful and Loyal. A proud name for a proud legion. Tell me, Chosen Man, is that sour-faced old bastard Gladio still First Spear of the Third Cohort?’
The chosen man squinted down at him, clearly wondering just how much influence this unknown tribune might have with his own officers. His answer was carefully balanced to avoid giving any potential offence.
‘Yes, sir. He’s still as cheerful as he ever was.’
Calculating that the moment to attack had arrived, Scaurus raised his voice to an enraged bellow.
‘Well, if I’m not through those fucking gates before I’ve counted to thirty, you’ll soon find out that I’m a good deal less sunny of character than he is, and a good deal more vindictive! Do you understand me?’ The chosen man nodded unhappily. ‘Good. Then let’s get on with it, shall we? Or do I actually have to embarrass us both by starting to count?’
After a few seconds of silence the chosen man turned and disappeared, and a moment later the gate’s man- sized wicket gate yawned open. Shooting a glance at his first spear, Scaurus stepped forward.
‘I’ll go and get this sorted out before the cohorts freeze to death.’
Frontinius pointed to the group of centurions, gesturing them forward with a jerk of his thumb.
‘Centurions Julius, Dubnus and Corvus, you can provide the tribune with an escort. There’s no telling what sort of person’s running around behind those walls, given that there’s a legion involved.’
The men guarding the gate made to close the man-sized door as Scaurus stepped through it, but a firm shove from Julius held it open, while his fierce glare dissuaded them from any thought of objecting to the presence of the tribune’s escort. The hulking Tungrian stared about him with a curled lip before addressing the chosen man.
‘If you toy soldiers are supposed to be keeping the city safe you’re not doing much of a job of it. We’ve got several wounded men on wagons out there, all that’s left of a score or so of bandits who tried to ambush us on the road. You might want to bring them in for medical attention before they die of cold and deny the people of this city the chance to watch them being executed.’ Shaking his head he turned away, staring unhappily into the mist that wreathed the ground inside the city’s wall; it was just as impenetrable as it had been outside. ‘Now, which way to the headquarters building?’
The chosen man waved his men back to the warmth of their guard house before pointing down the road that continued from the gate into the city’s murky interior.
‘That way, Centurion. But don’t be looking for a headquarters. This is a civilian settlement, not a fort. Go down there for a quarter mile or so and you’ll come to a crossroads. The big building on the right is the forum, and, at a guess, you’ll find the officers there, in the basilica.’
The three centurions formed a protective cordon around Scaurus as the party walked forward. Dubnus put a hand on the hilt of his sword, muttering nervously as he stared out into the fog.
‘Four hundred paces to the middle of the city? That would make this place bigger than the Sixth Legion’s fortress at Yew Grove. It’s
…’
‘Enormous?’ A gentle smile was playing on Scaurus’s face as he looked with interest at the buildings looming out of the fog on either side of the road. ‘This is a provincial centre, Centurion. There are perhaps eight or ten
