Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two (36 page)

The two cohorts marched at the standard campaign pace for most of the morning, skirting along the edge of the mountains in bright sunshine. From their path along the mountains’ outskirts, two and three hundred feet above the plain, they could see the main body of the army. The two legions were marching alongside the river as it snaked across the valley, and a mile beyond their columns the two cohorts thrown out as guards on the right flank clung to the low slopes of the hills to the south. Dubnus and Martos walked together between the 9th Century and the Votadini remnant, deep in conversation. Speaking in their own language, their initial diffidence had quickly been forgotten as the barriers of their respective causes fell under their mutual curiosity.

‘So I had little choice. Once my father was gone I knew that going back to my own people would see me dead inside a day. Besides, he made me swear to go to the Romans as he lay dying …’

Martos nodded solemnly.

‘Such an oath cannot be denied once made.’

‘Aye. It was hard for me here at first, even if Uncle Sextus …’ He caught the Briton’s uncomprehending frown, ‘Sorry, First Spear Frontinius, only he was a centurion at the time, had made a promise to my father to take me in. The men that commanded this cohort then did all they could to break me.’ He smiled. ‘The formal beatings never really bothered me, and they stopped the informal beatings after I got tired of defending myself and put three men in the fort’s hospital for a month. After that things just settled down, and we all got used to each other. Mind you, I still wouldn’t be an officer today if it weren’t for a Ro … for a man that joined us a few months ago. But that’s another story. And you, how do you come to be walking into danger alongside us, instead of waiting for us with your comrades?’

Martos recounted the story of his desire to supplant his uncle the king, and the subsequent betrayal by Calgus, his voice bitter with the recent memory.

‘I was a fool, and nothing less. I should have stood by my king, but my head was turned by Calgus and his promises that I would return to my tribal lands in victory, and as his closest ally.’ His voice fell, the words so soft that Dubnus strained to hear them. ‘I wanted to be king, and all I achieved was the massacre of my warriors and the destruction of our family. My king is probably dead by now, and Calgus will send one of his trusted men north to rule my kingdom. My children will be put to death and my woman will either be killed or more likely made a toy for the new leader’s men.’

He stared out over the plain below them in silence for a moment before speaking again, his voice stronger.

‘All these things will happen, there’s no way to prevent them, but I tell you this, Centurion Dubnus, I will have revenge on that slimy piece of shit that calls himself ‘Lord of the Northern Tribes’. I will twist his guts in my hand and tear them from his body, and I will fill his clever mouth with his torn manhood before I allow him to die. Either that, or I will die with my sword thick with his men’s blood. I have sworn this, and my warriors have sworn to follow me to either victory or death.’

Dubnus smiled darkly.

‘And such an oath cannot be denied, once made. I wish you well in your quest for revenge, and given the chance I would count myself honoured to fight alongside you. I too have a score to settle with Calgus.’

The other man gave him a scornful look.

‘You think we’ll be allowed to fight in your line? I doubt it, Centurion, our ways are too different, and I doubt that we’re trusted even half well enough for such an
honour
.’

Dubnus nodded, ignoring the bitter tone in the other man’s voice.

‘True enough, but we’re not like them.’ He pointed down at the two legions grinding their way across the plain below them. ‘They fight in a ponderous fashion, much as they move across the land, their movements cautious and measured, always seeking to bring their swords and shields to bear on the right ground. We, on the
other hand, are faster across ground, and while we can fight their way we can also take our iron to the enemy with speed and stealth. Your chance to fight alongside us may come sooner than you think …’

After the midday rest stop, Tribune Scaurus and the first spear walked down the cohort to meet up with Furius and Neuto at the head of the second cohort.

‘The Votadini say it’s time to turn north and get up the mountain a fair way if we’re going to keep scouting along the mountain flanks. Apparently we’ll have to cross the Red River about ten miles from here, and the only good ford is above a waterfall up in the hills.’

Furius grimaced.

‘I still don’t like following these savages off into the wild. For all we know there’s a fucking great warband waiting for us up there. We’ll be cut off from the main body, probably out of sight too …’

Scaurus nodded in apparent sympathy.

‘I know. If it’s any consolation I don’t think these men will lead us astray. Their hunger for revenge on Calgus is too strong.’

Furius snorted.

‘A view based on your long experience of dealing with the locals, eh, Rutilius Scaurus?’

Scaurus leaned closer to Furius, lowering his voice.

‘You know, Gracilus Furius, one of these days you’re going to make one thoughtless remark too many for your own good. As it happens, I do know much more about this country and its people than most people appreciate, and while there are some very good reasons why I intend keeping it that way, I’m happy to tell you this; in my opinion Martos doesn’t intend us ill. Call it instinct, or call it the very simple fact that he has the strongest possible motivation for guiding us to the right place – either way I don’t think he’ll be selling us out. So I suggest that we show some balls and get on with it, before our subordinates start wondering if we’re just a little bit lacking in eagerness to do our jobs.’

He turned away without waiting for an answer from his astonished colleague.

‘First Spear Frontinius, let’s have the first Tungrian back on their feet and ready to march, please. We’ll camp beside this ford for the night and head off into the wild tomorrow morning.’

The afternoon’s march was harder on the troops than the morning’s progress, the late summer sun beating down on them without interruption, and by the time the river came into view their tunics were wet with sweat beneath their mail armour. Frontinius knew that every man in the cohort was looking at the clear cold water flowing down from the mountains above them with something close to desperation. He paraded them with their backs to the water, raising his voice to be heard above the river’s rippling cascade down its rocky bed, and the thunder of its fifty-foot drop over the falls a hundred paces farther downstream. The 2nd Cohort formed up alongside them, their first spear gesturing to him to brief both cohorts as to their previously agreed course of action.

First and Second cohorts, you will dump your kit in the places where your tents will be pitched once the wall’s built. You can have a drink from your water bottles if you’ve got any left, and then get on with building the turf wall. If you have no water left …’ He paused to gauge how many of them were straining to hear the next words. ‘… then you are an idiot and will go thirsty until the wall is up to the satisfaction of myself and my brother officers. Each cohort will build one long and two short sides to the camp, and link up in the standard two-cohort pattern. Lots have been drawn, and the guard centuries will be the Third and Eighth centuries of both cohorts.’

Which was fortunate, given that the Hamians still had little talent for cutting turf to the right dimensions or placing it to form a strong wall, and were little better than porters for the cut turf.

‘When the turf wall is complete both cohorts will use the river to wash, two centuries at a time, in strict lottery order and for the length of a five-hundred count. The guard centuries will patrol the area to ensure that we don’t get any nasty surprises, and will
wash and eat last. All centurions to First Spear Neuto for camp layout and guard duties. Centurions Tertius and Corvus, to me, please. Soldiers, to your duties!’

The parade broke up into the usual purposeful chaos of camp-building, the centuries streaming away to their allotted sections of the earth wall. Marcus told his men to wait where they stood, and hurried across to the first spear, who was giving instructions to a pair of message riders who were to ride out and find the legions, and deliver the customary report as to the cohorts’ position to the governor. The two centurions nodded their greeting to each other as Frontinius turned back to them.

‘This country should be empty of any barbarian forces, since we’re supposed to have them penned up to the north-east, but you can consider me as sceptical as ever when it comes to the words “should be”. So, centurions, you’re going to scout the vicinity and tell me what you can see. Tertius, you’re going to take your boys across the river and see what’s over the next hill. Cautiously, though, I don’t want to advertise that we’re here. Centurion Corvus, you can do some climbing too. Go to the top of that hill behind us and take a good look around. Dismissed.’

The two centurions saluted, shared another brief nod and headed away to their men. Gathering the 8th, Marcus pointed up the hill to the camp’s west, its slopes rising steeply from the riverbank to a rounded summit high above the ford.

‘We’re going up there. Chosen, we’ll leave our shields here with a tent party to watch over them. Tell them I want every one of them washed clean by the time we come down again, just in case they think they’ve drawn easy duty.’

The century started to climb, at first grumbling quietly at the renewed exercise but then, as the view below them expanded with their progress up the slope, and as the cooling breeze dried their sweat, with less complaining and more chatter about what they could see from their elevated viewpoint. After a few minutes of climbing Marcus stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath to slow down his racing heart. Qadir, following close behind him, took the opportunity to pause in his turn.

‘This is harder work than I expected.’

Marcus nodded, pointing down at the marching camp.

‘Yes, but look at the view. See, there’s my old century toiling away at the ankle-breaker.’

‘Ankle … breaker?’

‘Sorry, I don’t suppose you’re familiar with our terms. It’s a ditch that is dug all the way around a marching camp, if time allows, and the spoil is thrown to the inside of the ditch to form the basis for the turf wall. It’s called the ankle-breaker because the sides are cut straight, and at least two feet deep. If you fall into it in the darkness you’ll almost certainly break your ankle. We haven’t bothered with it until now, not with two legions within earshot, but now that we’re well and truly alone out here it’s a necessity.’

His chosen man nodded, gazing down at the labouring troops.

‘I see. And you know they are your former troops because …?’

‘Ah, that’s easy. I can see Dubnus striding round and shouting at the idlers. There, see? Add to that the fact that there seem to be a gang of barbarians carrying turf for him …’

Qadir nodded.

‘Should we perhaps resume our climb? Some of the men are already close to the top.’

Marcus turned back to look up the hill.

‘Gods below, you lot might not like marching, but give you a peak to climb …’

The view from the top of the hill was worth the climb. Down in the valley below they could see some of Tertius’s men working their way up the hill on the far side of the river, while other tent parties had split off to left and right to follow the line of the river to north and south. The marching camp was already half built, its wall casting an appreciable shadow in the late afternoon sunshine. The land was pretty much bare of any vegetation bigger than small bushes except for a number of trees scattered down both banks of the Red River to the south of the falls. To the north and west were rolling hilltops of much the same height, although a succession of gradually higher peaks rose towards the highest of all, a good ten miles distant. To the east, the
southern slope of the hill facing the ford ended abruptly in a near-vertical drop.

‘That’s interesting.’ Marcus pointed down at the river. ‘See, there’s a shelf of hard rock running through the hillside, that’s what makes the waterfall so tall. This side of the river it’s hidden under the ground, but on the other side of the river it’s been uncovered.’ He stared down at the seam of rock running away into the distance. To the south of the outcrop was gently sloping land seamed by tributary streams of the Red. ‘You know, that makes the riverbank below the falls much easier to defend. It would take a good while to get a body of men down that rock face to the far bank, it’s steep enough to make for a slow climb, and far too tall to jump.’

‘Yes, but look over there.’

Marcus followed Qadir’s pointing finger. Off to the east, almost at the limit of visibility, a line of smoke was rising from a valley three or four peaks away.

‘Might that be the barbarian camp?’

Marcus nodded.

‘I’d guess so. And if we can see that …’

They turned to the south-east, taking in the view down the Red River’s valley. Far away, down on the flat land out of the hills’ undulations, they could see the occasional flash of sun on polished metal.

‘The legions. They’ll be camping for the night too, probably busy doing exactly the same as us. Hacking out a marching camp and dreaming of a dip in the river.’