The Eagle's Vengeance (8 page)

The boy had nodded solemnly at him, his eyes widening at the centurion’s words, and put his hand to the hilt of the half-sized sword strapped to his waist, much to the amusement of the soldiers. Catching the direction of his companion’s stare, the Prefect nudged him with an elbow and nodded towards the two women.

‘Don’t worry, Centurion, I’ll make sure they’re not bothered by the soldiery. Indeed it will be a pleasure to escort two such agreeable ladies to a place of safety. I believe that your woman is a doctor with some experience of treating battlefield wounds?’

Marcus smiled wryly.

‘She has saved the lives of several men I would have said were fit for nothing more than a quick and merciful release from their suffering, but she has experience at inflicting damage as well as repairing it, if the need presents itself. And I suggest that you approach her assistant with care. Annia is, as you can see, somewhat heavy with child and she is not, I can assure you from recent experience, particularly happy with that condition. I think the father of her child is looking forward to facing off with the Venicones as a relief from her vividly expressed disappointment that his manhood hasn’t yet dropped off as the price for putting her through such discomfort.’

The older man snorted a laugh.

‘Your first spear is keen to jump out of the skillet, is he? In that case we’ll just have to hope that the fire isn’t too hot!’ His expression softened as he watched Felicia climb up into the cart and take the child from her friend. ‘As for your woman, you needn’t worry yourself as to her safety while you’re away pulling barbarian beards. I have a woman in the vicus at Yew Grove who’s well accustomed to the life of a soldier’s wife, and she’ll make sure that they’re both looked after.’

Marcus nodded his thanks, tensing slightly as he saw that Julius was beckoning to him.

‘Excuse me, Prefect, my presence is being requested by my superior officer.’

The prefect nodded, his face creasing into a smile.

‘It’s time then, is it? Have fun …’

The young centurion saluted Castus and turned away, walking towards the parade ground across which the First Tungrian Cohort was arrayed. As he made his way between two of the convoy’s gold carts he found his path blocked by the Sarmatae, Ram and Radu, who stood waiting for him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. He paused for a moment, waiting for them to step aside, but neither man showed any intention of moving.

‘Gentlemen?’

Ram stepped forward, a broad grin on his face as he closed to within a foot of the Roman.

‘We fight. Now.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘No. We
march
now. There’ll be plenty of time to fight later, and besides, we have no practice weapons to hand.’

The answer was instant, and delivered in a tone of voice which raised the hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck.

‘
Now!
We practise like we fight, not with wood, but with iron! We fight like men! We promise not to cut your pretty face, Centurion …’ Ram looked back at his brother with a smirk, missing Marcus’s quick pace backwards, and the sudden narrowing of his eyes as he readied himself to fight. ‘But perhaps he not a man, perhaps he a—’

Whatever insult the Sarmatae had intended to throw at Marcus was lost in the sudden woosh of air from his lungs as the centurion stepped forward swiftly and put a hobnailed boot into his groin, sending him reeling away from the wagons, clutching at his abused testicles and fighting for breath. Regaining his balance to toss his helmet aside and unsheathe his swords in a flicker of polished metal, the Roman barely had time to raise his defence before Radu was upon him, his swords a whirling torrent of sharp iron, and for the next dozen heartbeats it was all he could do to parry the other man’s cuts and lunges.

Only distantly aware of an uproar of noise from the gathered soldiers, and wondering what his wife was making of the unexpected display, he bared his teeth in a snarl of naked aggression and sprang forward at the Dacian with a ferocity born of the anger that had swiftly replaced his initial surprise at the nature of the twins’ challenge. Matching his opponent blow for blow he began to force the pace, his retaliatory cuts and lunges delivered so fast that the Sarmatae’s eyes widened as he found himself unexpectedly on the back foot in the face of the Roman’s speed and power. Parrying a thrust of the long spatha’s evilly sharp patterned blade, Radu spun away to his right, escaping from Marcus’s incessant attacks for a moment and shouting to Ram in a tone laced with urgency.

Flicking a glance at Ram, Marcus realised that while he was bent over with his hands on his knees and his chest heaving, still struggling to breathe, he was clearly already over the worst of the kick’s physical impact. Looking back to Radu just in time to steer a vicious stab aside with his gladius, he realised that his opponent would simply seek to hold him at bay until his brother regained his wind and returned to the fight, at which point the two men would clearly overwhelm him with their combined pace and ferocity. Realising that he needed to overcome the man facing him in the next few strokes or face inevitable defeat, the Roman stepped into the next attack and pushed Radu’s swords wide before snapping a vicious butt into his face, the crushing impact sending the Sarmatae reeling away with blood streaming down his face from his broken nose.

Grasping at the fleeting opportunity he had created, the Roman took two quick strides to Ram, tossing his own weapons aside and smashing the stooped tribesman’s head back with a vicious uppercut before grasping his tunic and spinning him round, wrapping one arm across his face. Whipping out his dagger he put the weapon’s point under his captive’s jaw, pressing its point on the spot where a simple thrust would open the blood vessel beneath the skin. The Sarmatae reacted instinctively, biting down hard on the tunic-covered arm that was holding his head back, stiffening with a squeal of pain as Marcus quickly moved the knife’s point to the soft flesh beneath his ear and pushed it into the gap between cartilage and skull to send a thin runnel of blood down his captive’s neck.

‘If you bite me again I will make a gift to you of this ear, as a memento of our fight today. That, and your brother’s head.’

Radu shook his head and advanced towards the two men, ignoring the blood that masked his lips and chin, crabbing sideways in search of an angle at which he could renew his attack on the Roman only to be frustrated as Marcus manhandled his brother round to negate the threat.

‘You’ve lost. I could cut his throat and take his swords in less time than it takes to tell, and you wouldn’t be much of a challenge now that I understand your rather crude style. Stand down.’

Before the younger twin had time to reply a commanding voice rapped out from behind him.

‘Leave it!’

Marcus craned his neck over Ram’s shoulder, jerking the dagger’s blade fractionally to ensure that the Sarmatae stayed quiet. Drest was approaching them across the parade ground with a hard grin, and as he passed Radu he patted his man on the shoulder.

‘You lost to a man with more battlefield experience. Learn from that, eh? And next time, you might want to give him a little more warning. It seems that the centurion here has something of a temper once he’s roused.’

Radu shook his head dourly, re-sheathing his swords as he spoke to Marcus with a dismissive tone to his voice.

‘If this fight were real I would have killed you by putting my iron through my brother.
We
take no prisoners!’

Marcus pushed Ram away, bending to wipe the dagger’s point on the grass before dropping it back into its sheath and reaching for his swords.

‘I will remember that. And perhaps next time we spar you can give me a little more warning, so that I won’t have to resort to such ungentlemanly conduct to fight the pair of you off.’ He turned to Drest. ‘That was a little more intense than I was expecting, not to mention somewhat sooner than I
thought
we’d planned it?’

The Scythian shrugged.

‘This way it looked somewhat more convincing than would otherwise have been the case. And this way we had an audience of men all baying for blood, and one man in particular who was sufficiently distracted for Tarion to perform his magic.’

The Roman resisted the temptation to look around at the spot where Procurator Avus had been standing a moment before.

‘And it worked?’

Drest shrugged again.

‘I have no idea. But I hear no cries of
“thief”
, which is always a good sign …’

The Thracian tipped his head towards the waiting cohort, and Marcus turned just in time to see the thief pass something to Tribune Scaurus and slip away between two centuries, a wink of gold catching his eye as whatever it was changed hands. He glanced at Drest before walking away towards his place in the cohort’s line, shaking his head at the cheers that were now echoing off the Arab Town transit barracks as the Tungrian soldiers roared their approval of his victory. His Fifth Century greeted his return by beating their spear shafts against the brass rims of their shields until Quintus called for silence, and the Roman settled into position next to Morban with a sidelong glance at the standard gleaming atop its pole.

‘How much did you pay to have it polished up that well?’

The standard bearer opened his mouth to protest, but a familiar voice from behind him pre-empted his complaint.

‘Two denarii, Centurion.’

The young centurion shook his head in bemusement at Sanga’s interruption.

‘Which you doubtless recouped handsomely with a wager on that unexpected display of extemporisation?’

‘Extemp …?’

Marcus spoke over his shoulder, an acerbic note in his voice.

‘Extemporisation, Soldier Sanga. It means making it up under pressure, an ability to which I believe you’re no stranger given some of the legendary excuses you’ve offered up for your misdemeanours during the short time I’ve been your centurion.’

Morban shook his head, stiffening his back as Julius called the cohort to attention and speaking out of the side of his mouth.

‘Didn’t make as much as a sestertius. None of these cowards would gamble on the outcome.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘You can’t blame them, there were two of them against one of me.’

Sanga’s voice grated out again.

‘It weren’t that, Two Knives—’

‘Call the fucking Centurion
“Centurion”
Sanga, or I’ll put another fucking dent in your helmet!’

Marcus heard the soldier mutter an obscenity under his breath before shouting out the answer that he knew Quintus was waiting to hear.

‘Yes, Chosen Man!’

‘That’s better! Carry on with your little story …’

‘Morban was trying to get us to bet against you, and none of us was having any.’

Marcus frowned, unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed.

‘Really?’

‘Yes sir. No bugger here’s going to bet against you in a sword fight, not given what a mad bastard you are once your temper’s lit, beggin’ your pard—’

A sharp rap of brass on iron silenced the soldier in mid-sentence, and a moment later the command was given for the cohort’s seven hundred men to turn to their right. Lifting spears and shields from their resting places the soldiers swivelled into the line of march, ignoring the sniggers of the Votadini warriors who had accompanied them all the way to Dacia and back. Morban scowled at them, shaking his head in disgust.

‘I don’t know what that lot are laughing at, they look like a right bunch of mongrels.’

The Votadini warriors were clad in and equipped with a widely varied assortment of Roman and Sarmatae armour and weapons, equipment taken from dead friend and foe according to need and circumstance. ‘Legion plate armour, barbarian dog caps, and of course they’re all wearing our hobnailed boots. Poor old Uncle Sextus would have been ripping his hair out, if he’d had any …’

Marcus frowned down at him.

‘They do have a rather informal appearance, I’ll give you that, and yes, perhaps our last First Spear, the gods grant ease to his departed spirit, would have found their mixture of kit a little challenging. Should I point out that harsh truth to Martos on your behalf, do you think?’

A warrior of fearsome countenance who had lost an eye in the liberation of his tribe’s fortress city from Calgus’s men two years before, the Votadini prince had long since settled into a state of contentment with his place in the cohort as an ally, but still kept his men apart from the centuries and guarded both their independence and their reputation jealously. Morban recoiled visibly, shaking his head vigorously.

‘There’s no need for that Centurion, I was just saying …’

Marcus ignored the standard bearer’s grumbling and raised his hand in salute to Martos.

‘You’re whining because they get to go home while we have to march north.’

If the Roman had expected that stating the obvious would silence Morban’s complaints, he was to be disappointed.

‘It don’t seem all that fair, now that you raise the matter, sir. How come they get to wander off to enjoy themselves while we’re straight off to the north without even the chance to put our noses round the door at the Hill?’

‘Because, Standard Bearer, as you might be reminded by the prince’s missing eye, their home was ravaged by Calgus’s Selgovae and left under Roman control once we recaptured it. He’s going to make sure that none of the tribal elders have had any clever ideas about taking the throne from his nephew, and to make an offering at the shrine to his wife and son. And besides, it’s not your
nose
you want to put round the door at our old fort, is it?’

‘You’re right, Centurion, it ain’t his nose! Not that his old chap would reach round a door! It can barely poke its head out of his bush unless he gives it a good old tugging!’

Sanga’s gruff voice and the answering laughs of the soldiers around them were lost in a sudden bray of trumpets as Julius decided that the cohort was ready to march. Knowing that the soldiers would be quietly seething at having their return home snatched away from them so suddenly, the first spear only waited long enough for the last century to be clear of the fort before ordering his trumpeter to sound the signal for the double march. The ferocious pace soon quelled the unhappy mutterings of his troops as they threw back their heads to gulp down the cold morning air. After an hour or so the harsh pace started to tell on men whose previous few days had been characterised by the forced inactivity of waiting around in barracks for the transport convoy to assemble, followed by the cramped circumstances of the crossing itself. Marcus and Morban, marching at the Fifth Century’s head, exchanged knowing glances as the Fourth Century’s chosen man stalked down the line of his men looking for strugglers, pouncing on one soldier who was marching with a slight limp.