Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two (21 page)

Now was the critical moment in his oration, his chance to grab the men around him by the balls.

‘My brothers, if we can just take down one of the legions facing us there will be no more reinforcement for their northern frontier, and their general will be forced to make the terrible choice I have described to you. And this whole country will fall to us like an apple whose time on the tree has come to its end. We will be free to take back the wealth they have stolen from us, free to travel wherever we wish without needing their permission. Free to live the way we choose, without their legions forever forcing us to live by their rules.’ He waited for a moment, turning to look around his audience. Every man’s eyes were locked on to him, and in each face he saw nothing like the apathy of five minutes before.
Nearly
.

‘So, how do we destroy another legion? First, my brothers, we are going to anger the Romans, by taking our war to them in a way that they will neither predict nor be able to tolerate. Tonight will be a fat moon by which we will be able to make our way to their wall, and cross it undetected. Nightfall today will see us in position to strike at a border fort, to mount a swift and terrible attack that will destroy both fort and garrison, and by tomorrow evening we will have returned here in triumph. Of course, their cavalry will outpace the legions in the search for us as we retreat back here, they will find our trail and follow it here, bringing the legions in their wake, but that is exactly what we want them to do. When they think they have us trapped, that will be the moment for our greater trap to be sprung.’

‘And this greater trap, Calgus. Just what would that consist of?’

The question came from Brennus. Of course.

‘Powerful allies, King Brennus. Powerful enough to smash a legion with the shock of their attack, if that legion is stretched to besiege us here as I expect.’

Later, with his plan of attack reluctantly approved by the gathered tribal nobles, Calgus sought out Martos, King Brennus’s nephew. Ignoring the hostile looks he was getting from the men around the young noble, he strode up to the man, stepping close to speak in quiet and measured tones.

‘Prince Martos, I would like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you’ll hear me?’

Martos, checking the edge of his sword with his thumb, nodded dourly.

‘I will speak with you if that is your wish, Calgus. I may not agree with your methods, but I believe that we both want the same thing from these next few days.’

Indeed we do, mused Calgus inwardly as he extended an arm, inviting the Votadini prince to walk with him, but only one of us is going to live to enjoy it.

The sky clouded over in the early afternoon, and a thin drizzle contrived to insinuate itself into any and every place it could
possibly reach. The Tungrians spent the day making sure that they were ready for another lengthy spell in the field, sharpening weapons and checking their equipment for any fault that might let them down on the march. The 8th Century spent the morning on the exercise field practising with swords and shields, every man paired with a veteran soldier from the cohort’s other centuries and drilled time and time again in the simple disciplines of attack and defence.

Marcus walked among his allocated forty men with Qadir, gauging which of them might just be capable of standing in a battle line’s front rank by watching the faces of the soldiers set to teach them their murderous trade.

‘That one, training with the one-eyed soldier. Front rank.’

The imperturbable chosen man made a mark on his writing tablet and followed Marcus down the line. When they compared notes with Julius, Dubnus and Rufius, their combined findings made uncomfortable material for discussion with First Spear Frontinius when Marcus met up with him to discuss the morning session’s results.

‘I’ve got about a dozen men that I can put in the front rank with a clear conscience, and another thirty or so with a fighting chance of surviving their first fight. After that it’s a lottery, the rest of them are just so much padding ….’

Frontinius nodded gravely.

‘Work them harder. You’ve got a day, perhaps two.’

Soon after midday another cohort arrived at the fort, and was directed to establish their camp alongside the Tungrians. Once the soldiers realised the identity of the newcomers they quickly entered into the usual spirit of the two cohorts’ encounters, exchanges of abuse quickly giving way to exchanges of news and gossip. Scaurus and Frontinius waited for the appropriate period of time, then made their way into the 2nd Tungrian cohort’s camp and presented themselves at the command tent. Escorted inside, they found First Spear Neuto and Prefect Furius bent over an equipment list, working out what to raid the fort’s stores for. Furius turned, and, recognising Scaurus with a heartbeat’s pause that was imperceptible
unless the watcher was looking for it, he took the offered hand and shook it vigorously.

‘Rutilius Scaurus! I hear you’ve got the First Tungrians, and here I am with the Second Cohort! Just like old times with the good old Twelfth, eh? Here, meet my first spear, Neuto. Neuto, this is my old comrade Rutilius Scaurus, from my days in Germania with the Twelfth Legion. Scaurus and I were both thin-stripe tribunes with the legion when we were sent to root out the German tribes, both of us not much better than callow youths with no real idea of soldiering, and yet here we both are with independent commands to play with.’

The first spear gave Scaurus and Frontinius a look that spoke volumes for his relationship with his prefect, offering his hand to Scaurus before clasping Frontinius’s and slapping him on the shoulder with his other hand. The two men were clearly glad to see each other, and at Neuto’s suggestion they headed off to the fort’s officers’ mess to share information, and work out whether either could help the other with supplies or equipment. Outside the tent Neuto gave Frontinius a look that told him even more about Prefect Furius, his voice kept low but with a distinct edge of anger.

‘I’m glad to see you, old comrade, although I wish it were under happier circumstances. Let’s get a beaker of something warm inside us and I’ll share my news with you … not all of it good.’

With the first spears’ departure the two prefects stared at each other in a long moment of silence. Furius spoke first, his eyes suddenly hard as he faced his former comrade.

‘Well, Gaius Rutilius Scaurus, it’s been a long time since Moesia. What have you been up to for the last ten years?’

Scaurus shrugged.

‘I stayed with the Twelfth for three years after you left to return to Rome, until we’d finished off the Quadi in fact. A year after that I was back to Moesia for the war with their neighbours the Marcomani, this time with the Fifth
Macedonica
, and now I’ve been sent here to help put down another barbarian uprising. I’ve spent the occasional few months in Rome to remind me why we fight, but mostly I’ve been in the field.’

‘A warrior’s life, then. Still dedicated to Mithras, eh? And yet here we both are, both of us with an equal status after all those years, despite my little slip at Thunderbolt Gorge. Don’t you find that galling, eh, Scaurus? You toil away on the borders of the empire for a decade while I enjoy the comforts of home, then in six months I go from enforced retirement to command of a thousand-strong infantry cohort. Doesn’t that rankle just a little?’

Scaurus shrugged, without any visible sign of concern.

‘Not really. We come from different worlds, you and I, our families couldn’t be much more different if we’d tried. I do what I do, and you … well, you do whatever it is that you do. Still fond of the odd crucifixion, are you?’

Furius nodded slowly.

‘I’m still a firm believer in keeping discipline nice and taut, if that’s what you’re asking. While we were out over the wall I managed to find and punish the man that killed this cohort’s previous prefect. I had him …’

‘Whipped to death, from the rumours flying round the camp.’

Furius’s voice took on a note of self-justification.

‘He went on the cross as well.’

Scaurus shook his head gently.

‘You crucified a dead man?’

Furius bristled, his temperature clearly rising.

‘It served as an example.’

Scaurus kept a straight face, seeing the signs he had long ago learned to recognise in the other man’s reddening features.

‘I’m sure it did.’

Frontinius took a cautious sip at his broth, pursing his lips at the taste and putting the steaming beaker down as he passed judgement on his new prefect for Neuto’s benefit.

‘So at first I thought he was just another weak-chinned amateur like most of the idiots we get as prefects, but all in all I’d say he’s probably going to be good enough, given his experience. Not that he’s been very forthcoming about exactly what he’s done in the last ten years, but he seems to have seen enough action to have
knocked the corners off him, even if he won’t talk about it. What about yours?’

The two first spears had found a quiet corner in the officers’ mess and were sitting over their broth, waiting for it to cool slightly. The hot soup’s steam rose into the room’s chilly air as the steward laboured to get the fire properly lit. Frontinius had quickly recognised that his old friend needed to share his recent experiences with someone that he could trust. Having asked the question, he kept his mouth firmly shut in the hope of encouraging the 2nd Cohort’s senior centurion to tell his story. Neuto grimaced, shaking his head as he spoke.

‘At first I thought Furius might be a decent replacement for Prefect Bassus. He’s not short of money, that’s clear. He’s got a jar full of naphtha that he uses to light his brazier, just a small splash and the wood goes up like a grain store with the first spark from the flint, and that must have cost him a small fortune. He seemed to know what he was talking about too, he told a good story about his time in Moesia fighting some tribe or other, and he was brisk and businesslike in just about everything he did. “Here,” I thought, “is a man that I might be able to do business with. Perhaps not quite such a find as your last prefect – now
there
was an officer – but decent enough, nevertheless.”’ He sipped at his broth. ‘It took me about three days to get over that sadly mistaken first impression. First of all, he paraded the cohort at Red River and told them what a shower of bastards they were for killing Bassus, and how he was going to make them pay for it. Three months’ pay forfeit for the entire cohort, reduced to one month if he got his man before dark the same day.’

Frontinius grimaced in turn.

‘But he got his man, right? There’s simply no way a full cohort is going to stand for losing that much money to protect one man. I’d say his tactics were spot on.’

Neuto shrugged, unwilling to cede the point his friend was making.

‘Yes, he got his man, but …’

‘Then you can’t really argue too hard against his methods, can
you? After all, whoever it was did kill a prefect, let’s not forget that. Anybody I know?’

Neuto shook his head dismissively.

‘No. Just some idiot soldier, a typical wooden-skulled headcase who acted on impulse and stuck his iron through Prefect Bassus’s back simply because he didn’t like the man. To make it worse, he was the older brother of one of my centurions. Something I was supposed not to know, and of course something I actually knew from about an hour after the younger brother joined up. Our new prefect had him crucified …’

Frontinius blew on his broth and took a mouthful.

‘We heard. The cavalry lads were full of it when they pulled in last night. A little severe, for all that he killed an officer. I hear the man died on the whipping post?’

Neuto nodded, a small smile touching his lips.

‘Yes. Prefect Furius made the mistake of ordering him to receive fifty lashes.’

‘
Fifty?
’

‘Exactly. He’d probably have died even if my officers hadn’t contrived to open the poor bastard’s throat with the scourge, after I’d had a few quiet words in the right ears, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Then the idiot had him nailed up anyway.’

Frontinius grimaced again.

‘I still couldn’t argue that he’s unfit for command. So what if he’s a little free with the hammer and nails, the man had it coming to him, right?’

Neuto sat back, looking at his friend.

‘I can live with the carpentry fixation, just about, but he’s just not very
good
. We were sent out to look for the blue-noses, a roving commission for a new prefect and the perfect chance for him to get used to his new command, right? I advised him to use the cavalry to screen our movements and seek out any signs of the warband …’

‘And?’

Neuto’s face wrinkled with disgust.

‘He didn’t allow them out of sight for the entire time we were
out there. The man was in perpetual fear of bumping into a fight, and he said he wanted all his spears close to hand in case of a pitched battle. I tried to get across to him that four hundred horsemen weren’t going to put any sizeable hole in a decent warband, and we’d be better finding them without being found ourselves, and then steering well clear, but he wasn’t having any of it. No, we just blundered round the hills without a bloody clue, and for all I know the only thing that stopped the blue-nosed bastards from hacking us to bits was either simple dumb luck in that we missed them or else they were too busy laughing at us. And he’s hardly walked a mile since he arrived, rides a horse alongside the cohort on the march like he’s a legion tribune!’