The Eagle's Vengeance (27 page)

Unwilling to move a muscle under her scrutiny, even though he judged that he was safe enough behind the bush’s camouflage if he remained completely still, Marcus raised his eyes in search of the hill fort’s brooding presence high above them. He was relieved to find The Fang still invisible in the early morning’s shifting banks of fog, although, he noted, the hill’s presence was detectable by a darker band low down in the mist to their north. After a long, slow scan across the muddy wasteland the woman turned away and vanished, wraithlike, into the murk. Wondering how long it would be before the sun rose high enough to burn away the layer of vapour that was helping to protect them from discovery, the Roman slowly lowered his head back to the ground before working his way slowly down the line of prostrate men until he found Arabus.

‘We can’t stay here much longer. Once the mist’s gone we’ll be caught, unable to move, and once they get sight of us there’ll be two or three spears for every one of us.’

The tracker nodded glumly.

‘The Dirty River’s half a mile or so that way …’ He tilted his head fractionally to the south. ‘As we get close to the water there’ll be more vegetation to hide in, but for most of the way we’ll only have the moss and grass to hide us, and for all I know there are more rotting pits waiting between us and the water.’

Marcus nodded, putting a hand on his shoulder.

‘We need a way out of here, and we need it soon. You go forward to the river and look for something, anything that can help us to escape, and I’ll keep these men quiet and still.’

Far out in the mist the sound of urgent fluttering wing beats broke the dawn’s quiet as something sent a covey of waterfowl splashing and squawking into the damp air, and with a chorus of shouts the Vixens ran for the spot, water splashing up beneath their bare feet where they sank deep into the moss. Marcus tilted his head fractionally, listening to the dogs baying with excitement as the hunters’ net closed around whatever it was that had flushed the birds from their nesting places. The grunt and savage yell of triumph as one of them cast her spear swiftly turned to a groan of disgust, as the high-pitched squeal of an animal in agony sounded across the marsh. After a moment’s pause the dogs raised their voices in yelping, snarling flurries as they fought for the meat of whatever hapless creature had crossed the hunters’ path, the animal’s last screams piteous as it was torn to pieces. Arminius grunted beside Marcus, staring out into the impenetrable mist.

‘They must have found an otter or some other water animal. And that’s what they’ll do to us, if they find us …’

Marcus turned back to Arabus, but the tracker had already vanished into the mist.

‘You called for us, First Spear?’

The Tungrians had marched south back up through the gap in the Frying Pan’s northern wall of hills in silence, alternating between the standard pace and the exhausting double march as Julius sought to put as much distance between them and the unseen Venicones as possible before the tribesmen hopefully discovered that they had been duped for a second time. With the column halted for a brief breather, once the cohort was safely inside the ring of hills and the concealment of the sea of trees that carpeted its broad bowl, Silus had trotted his detachment of horsemen up to the first spear as commanded. One look at the senior centurion’s face had persuaded him that this would not be the best time to indulge in their usual banter, and he had simply jumped down from his horse with a businesslike salute to first spear and tribune. Julius stepped forward, saluting in reply.

‘It’s time to get back on the other side of the wall, Decurion, before we put a foot wrong in this dance with the Venicones and end up getting the chance to see what colour our livers are when they’re ripped out.’

Silus nodded, looking about him at the trees that stretched away into the seemingly infinite woodland on either side of the hunter’s path.

‘And given that we can’t see more than fifty paces in this lot, I presume you’d like me to scout ahead and make sure the ground’s clear for you, Tribune?’

Julius nodded grimly, stepping closer to the decurion and lowering his voice.

‘You’ve got it. Better to have you find any barbarians than for us to drive the entire cohort into a bloody great ambush.’ He raised an eyebrow at Silus. ‘But in the event of an attack I want
you
back alive, understood? Send a few men up the path ahead of you and have them send a rider back every now and then; that way you’ll get some warning of any nastiness waiting for us without having to stop an arrow yourself.’

Silus pulled a lopsided smile as he saluted again, barking out the army’s standard response to an order.

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready!’

Julius stared at the decurion for a moment before showing him the rough drawing he and Scaurus had made in his wax-faced tablet.

‘Follow this path for another two miles and you’ll come to a fork in the road. Follow the right-hand path until it climbs out of the Pan on the south-western rim, then send word back that the road’s clear. We’ll be following up at a decent pace behind you, so hold there and we’ll make the march in to the closest of the wall forts together. And there will be
no
fucking heroics, Decurion. If you see any sign of the Venicones you kick hard this way and we’ll head back to the east and get onto safe ground via Lazy Hill. Got it?’

Silus nodded, saluted again and vaulted onto his horse, leading his squadron away at a brisk trot.

‘And you honestly think he’ll follow the order not to put himself at risk?’

Julius turned back to Scaurus, shaking his head slowly.

‘After last night? Not for one moment, Tribune. He’s been smarting ever since you ordered them away from the frozen lake in Dacia, having to abandon his men to the Venicone archers will have re-opened that wound, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to show his lads that he still has a pair. His
“we will do what is ordered”
act doesn’t fool me for a moment, but at least he’s ridden off knowing that I’d rather get him back alive if they do blunder into the shit. Let’s hope he doesn’t end up having to make the decision whether to fight or run, shall we? In fact, this might be a good moment to have a quiet chat with your man the Lightbringer and ask for his blessing on us all …’

The voices of the Vixens slowly faded away to the north, the young female warriors calling to each other as they hunted across the swamp’s mossy surface in the obvious hope that a closely spaced line of hunters would stumble over the hidden soldiers in mist which seemed to be getting thicker as the morning progressed. Marcus and the other men around him were shivering with the cold when Arabus reappeared out of the murk and crawled up to the Roman’s side.

‘I’ve found the river, and a way to get to it without being sighted. Follow me.’

He led them across the marsh’s claustrophobically fog-bound landscape, confident in his path as he retraced the steps he had taken moments before, weaving around the darker patches of the spongy surface beneath their feet which betrayed the presence of sinkholes waiting to trap the unwary. The raiding party followed him, Marcus waving the others to go before him and backing away from the spot cautiously, dividing his attention between watching the path and straining his eyes to stare out into the wall of mist that hid them from the hunters, looking for any trace of movement which might indicate that their withdrawal to the river had been detected. Starting involuntarily at an eddy in the fog that for an instant looked like a human figure advancing out of the murk, he lost his concentration for one critical moment and strayed a pace or so from the path along which the tracker was leading them. With dismay the Roman felt his foot sink into the moss, his already waterlogged boot flooding to the brim with the swamp’s fetid water. Before he had the chance to wrench himself free, the straining layer of vegetation beneath his foot tore and his leg sank into the watery void beneath the ruptured surface. Suddenly and helplessly unbalanced, he lurched uncontrollably into the fetid mixture of water and rotting vegetation that had been concealed by the moss’s covering layer with a squelching hiss of displaced gases from below the surface. Wincing at the fetid stink of decay, the Roman found himself up to his waist in the sink hole, and instinctively struggled to climb out for a moment before realising that his efforts to escape were only working him deeper into the mire. The water had now risen to his armpits, and even as he froze into immobility he could feel the weight of his weapons, and the heavy gold cup hidden in the thick woollen cloak’s carrying pouch, slowly pulling him deeper into the morass.

Looking around he realised that the raiding party had vanished into the mist to the south without realising what had happened to the last man in their straggling column, and the true depth of his predicament dawned upon him with a simple but chilling logic. He was doomed to drown in the swamp, alone and unnoticed, unless he called for help, but his only means of summoning rescue would almost certainly bring their pursuers down upon them all, and guarantee that every one of them would suffer torment and death of a far more prolonged nature than the relatively painless demise that now beckoned him. His mind raced, and alighted on the two most important things left in his life, his family and his faith, and closing his eyes he muttered a prayer to the deity.

‘Lightbringer, I implore you to grant me one last favour …’

Moving one arm from the surface of the swamp he reached down into the slurry, feeling his body slip lower into the morass as he shifted position to grip the hilt of his long spatha and slid it from the scabbard. He lifted the weapon through the soupy water, straining to free the blade from the mass of rotting vegetation. Exerting all the strength he had, he forced the sword’s blade up out of the swamp, holding it upright in the grey light and staring at the delicately carved intaglio tied to its pommel with silver wire, nodding with a gentle smile at the beneficent figure of the god.

‘Thank you, my Lord. If it be your will, allow this fine weapon to be returned to my wife.’

Holding the blade’s shining line of finely polished steel above his head he felt the swamp belch beneath him, another pocket of gas bursting as his feet sank into it, the sudden release of gas sucking his body down into the stinking pit so that his nostrils were barely clearing the disgusting water’s surface. Instinctively gasping in a deep breath, he barely had time to close his eyes as the morass took him down into its heart, feeling the cold water close over his head. At peace with himself, Marcus waited for the darkness to claim him as he knew it surely would when the effort of holding his last snatched breath became unbearable.

Silus and his men reached the path’s fork without seeing any sign of the Venicones, and when they dismounted to listen, the forest was silent apart from the rustle of the trees’ canopy as it was stirred by the breeze. The decurion grimaced at the forest about them, shaking his head at the apparent tranquillity.

‘Nothing. This place is as innocent as your sister before she discovers the joys of cock.’ He spat on the path’s verge. ‘Of course there could be a whole fucking tribe within bowshot of us and we’d never know it until one of them farted and gave us a clue.’ The detachment’s men grinned wryly at each other, well accustomed to their leader’s colourful turn of phrase. ‘So, let’s play this just the way that dear old Julius wanted it.’ He pointed at four men in succession, the corner of his mouth lifting mirthlessly as each of them winced slightly at their selection. ‘You four, ride ahead and scout for any sign of the enemy.
Any
sign, mind you. Worried-looking badgers, shifty squirrels, anything you see or hear that makes you uneasy, you just turn around and you come back this way at just the same pace. No speeding up, or if you’ve already passed their forward scouts they’ll shoot enough arrows into you to put a nasty crimp in your day. Just make it look like you’ve scouted as far forward as you were told to and now you’re on your way back to report there’s nothing to be seen. Send a man back to the rest of us every now and then so that we know you’re still alive, and when the path starts to climb out of this bastard forest you can stop and wait for us. Off you go.’

He watched as they trotted away to the east, shaking his head again in disgust and commenting to nobody in particular.

‘This isn’t what I had in mind when I joined up to ride horses for a living, and that’s a fact.’ Shrugging fatalistically he untied the string of his leggings and turned to the forest, grunting with pleasure as he emptied his bladder onto the bushes beside the path. ‘Take the chance while you have it my lads. There’s nothing worse than fighting off a barbarian ambush with your legs soaked in cold piss.’

Feeling the vestiges of his self-control slipping away from him, as the pain in his chest swelled from a dull ache to the stabbing of a red-hot dagger, and as his pulse thundered in his ears, Marcus sensed the sword’s hilt moving gently in his grip as if it had become possessed of a life of its own, the pommel sliding from his grasp to be replaced by the feeling that his hand was being held by another, the fingers as long and powerful as he had always imagined they would be. Smiling beatifically at the obvious message from his god, he surrendered to the urge to take his last fatal breath, his eyes suddenly snapping open as, in the act of filling his lungs with the stinking water, he felt an abrupt sensation of rising up through the swamp’s clinging muck. Feeling solid ground beneath him he retched up a gout of filthy swamp water, opening his eyes to see a massive figure looming over him. Spluttering out another mouthful of water he stared helplessly up at his rescuer, sucking air into his lungs before coughing furiously into his hands, seeking to muffle the irresistible need to rid them of the last of the bog’s fetid liquid. When he managed to speak his voice was little better than a croak.

‘For a moment there I thought I was dead, and that you were Mithras himself.’

The answer came in a harsh whisper, the man crouched over him lowering his head to look into Marcus’s eyes.