the five centurions gathered round him in a silent, hard-faced group, Prince Martos standing slightly off to one side in unconscious reflection of his place within the cohort’s world. He looked at them in silence for a moment before speaking.
‘Gentlemen. Our colleague Prefect Caninus has been murdered along with his men, ambushed by his brother Sextus, the man known as “Obduro”. He was killed out of hand as an act of revenge for an imagined slight from their shared past. By now the bandits will have crossed the Mosa and turned west, and they plan to track First Spear Frontinius and your brother officers down the road towards Beech Forest with the intention of striking at them after dark, when our men are camped for the night. And under such circumstances they might just prevail.’ He shook his head, looking about him again with an intent stare, gauging his officers’ resolve. ‘Which, Centurions, is not an eventuality I intend to permit. We will march to the west behind them, moving as fast as the men can carry their equipment and weapons, and we will trap the scum between our shields and those of our comrades. Martos, I’d be grateful if your men would scout the ground before us to avoid our falling into any trap that might be laid out for us.’ The Votadini prince nodded his acquiescence. ‘Thank you. Decurion Silus will lead his mounted century ahead of us, find the enemy and report back, whilst also taking word of this development to the first spear and carrying my orders for him to turn east and put Obduro and his men into the jaws of a trap from which there will be no escape. I’ll have that man’s head on a spear, cavalry helmet and all, by the end of the day. You’ve got a five-hundred count to get them ready to march, and then we move. Centurion Clodius, you are hereby appointed senior centurion until we join up with the rest of our force, then First Spear Frontinius will resume his command. Centurion Julius, a moment, please. The rest of you are dismissed.’
Julius waited stone-faced as the other centurions scattered to their centuries, eager to make sure their men were ready for a forced march, none of them wanting to suffer the embarrassment of causing the cohort any delay in their headlong charge to the west. The tribune watched them go for a moment, then turned back to the heavily built centurion with a grim smile.
‘So, Centurion, what, you are wondering, have you done to have your expected position as Uncle Sextus’s deputy usurped by your colleague Clodius?’
Julius shrugged, his heavyset face impassive.
‘The Badger’s a good man, Tribune, more than capable of leading the cohort down a road and deploying them to wipe out a few hundred bandits. I’ll admit I’m curious though. Was it something I’ve done?’
Scaurus smiled, putting a hand on the big man’s shoulder.
‘Yes, Julius, it was something you’ve done. It was every little bit of professionalism you’ve displayed since I took this cohort under my command, every order given and every enemy killed. In the absence of the first spear you’re my best individual officer, and I’ve got a job that needs doing here that I can’t entrust to anyone less than my best centurion. We’re forced to withdraw our force from Tungrorum to deal with this new threat, but there’s enough money being held in the headquarters’ safe room to attract every thief and gang leader in this whole city, what with the pay chests and the proceeds of the grain fraud. I’m leaving you here, Julius, you and your century, and depending on you to make sure that nobody gets their grubby fingers on that money. I want a double-strength guard on the vault, and the rest of your men, whether eating, resting or sleeping, no more than a dozen heartbeats away. You can also keep Centurion Corvus’s wife and the wounded safe from harm while you’re at it, and relieve me of the trouble of carting that jar of naphtha around. As of this moment you’re free to kill anyone and everyone you suspect to be a threat to the emperor’s gold, without hesitation or fear of any repercussion. If we return that gold to the throne we will be congratulated and possibly even rewarded, but if we lose it again, having exposed its original loss and recapture to the throne’s eyes, the outcome will be altogether darker for everyone concerned. Do we understand each other, Centurion?’
‘Many men came this way, within the last half day. See?’ Marcus looked down from his saddle, grimacing non-committally at the ground where Arabus was pointing. The hunter climbed down gingerly from his place behind the Roman, wincing at the pain in his ribs as his feet touched the forest floor, then he squatted on his haunches and pointed at the numerous indentations in the soft ground ‘Look. Boot prints.’
Marcus climbed down and squatted beside him, peering closely at the marks of men’s passage in the forest’s green-tinged light.
‘You’re right. And there are hundreds of them.’
Arabus nodded sagely.
‘Enough boots for the whole of Obduro’s army. And they all point in one direction. That way.’ He pointed to the west. ‘They were making for the bridge over the Mosa, now that their own way across the river has been destroyed. What they will do when they have crossed the river is the question to be answered.’
He looked at Marcus with a level gaze, clearly waiting for the Roman to deduce whatever conclusion it was that had already formed in his own mind.
‘And if the entire bandit army has marched, their stronghold may be unguarded, or only very lightly manned.’
The tracker inclined his head in agreement.
‘Exactly. And we’re close to it now; I can smell woodsmoke in the air. Do you see that hill in front of us?’
The Roman squinted through the dimly lit expanse of trees, struggling to make out the feature that Arabus was pointing to. The forest was sloping gently upwards before them, and he could see several dark knots of foliage studding the wooded slope as it rose to a crest four hundred or so paces distant.
‘Yes, I see it.’
‘From there we will be able to see Obduro’s fortress.’ We must leave the horse here. If Obduro has left men to guard their stronghold, then one unexpected sound might bring the entire band down on us. Come.’
Marcus tied the animal’s reins to a tree and took the heavy leather bag from its place on his saddle horn before following the limping hunter up the long slope. He weaved around the thicker clusters of trees in the wake of the other man’s shadow-like progress up the hill, and earned a scornful glance over Arabus’s shoulder as he snagged a branch and flicked the leaves backwards in an unwanted burst of movement. Staring into the closest of the copses, the Roman discerned a figure hidden within the confusion of branches, something close to human but betrayed by its stark lines and unnatural stillness. Craning his neck to see better, and putting a hand to his sword’s hilt, he froze as a harsh voice whispered in his ear, the hunter’s approach so quiet that he had not realised the man was close behind him.
‘You are in the presence of Arduenna herself, Roman, closer than any non-believer has ever come and left with his life.’ The confusing image within the copse resolved itself as if cued by Arabus’s words, and Marcus realised that he was looking at a man-sized representation of the goddess. ‘I may owe you my life, and you may be the means by which I take my revenge, if you can prove that I have been so horribly wronged, but you must show her the proper respect or you will pay the price for failing to do so.’
The Roman nodded, averting his eyes and muttering a swift prayer to Mithras for the god’s protection, and Arabus tugged at his sleeve, drawing him away from the sacred grove with the impatience of a man whose divided loyalties were being sorely tested. Climbing behind the tracker up the shadow-dappled slope, Marcus realised that each of the copses to either side of their path was similarly deified, the trees’ branches woven around statues of Arduenna. Sometimes the goddess was standing, sometimes she was mounted on a charging boar, but every one of the statues showed her wielding her bow. Remembering the sudden onset of the snow that had frustrated the Tungrians’ efforts to penetrate the forest, he shivered and silently mouthed another entreaty to Mithras before following Arabus towards the slope’s crest. He made barely ten paces progress before glancing into another thicket and, with a sick lurch of his stomach, discerning a pile of bones scattered around the statue’s feet. In a moment Arabus was at his side again, his face hard.
‘Sacrifice. Men taken in the course of their raids, those they don’t kill out of hand, are led here with the promise of being brought to the goddess, and joining in her eternal glory. It is a cruel lie. Obduro leaves them bound and helpless, their arms lashed to branches from different trees to suspend them before the goddess, and they die while she watches, sending her creatures to feed upon their corpses.’ He shook his head, his gaze averted from the evidence of the sacrificial victims. ‘Sometimes even upon their living bodies. And every sacrifice to her strengthens Obduro’s cause with Arduenna.’ A note of impatience entered his voice. ‘Now come, and pay no further heed to the goddess. My presence will protect you, for I am her devout follower, but she watches us nevertheless.’
Following his guide’s example, Marcus got down onto his hands and knees, then slid onto his belly as they crested the ridge. He whistled quietly as the view afforded by its elevation was revealed, drawing an exasperated
