Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘I will take him over the mountains to the west.’

Rufius nodded agreement.

‘And I need to be back about my business, away from the pair of you, at least for now.’

He embraced Marcus briefly, stepping back to appraise the younger man one last time.

‘Farewell, then, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, we’ll meet again in the north, Mars willing. My horse is safe in the woods below, so I’ll leave you to it.’

He nodded to Marcus, clasped hands with Dubnus and started back down the slope. The Briton turned to face Marcus, unwrapping a bundle that Rufius had left behind.

‘Clothes and boots, as worn by my people. Rufius bought them for you in Yew Grove. Let’s hope they fit. Also, a blanket, and a nice heavy hooded cape to keep you dry in the rain.’

Fit they did, although they were a rude surprise to Marcus after the quality of his own clothing, rough material and ill-made boots that chafed his feet before he’d even started walking. They buried his tunic, cloak and boots to prevent their discovery, wrapping his gold cloak pin and the message from his father in their folds, and marked their position with a small pile of rocks. Dubnus strapped the cavalry sword to his right hip.

‘Better I throw it to you if it comes to a fight. What would a roughly dressed peasant like you be doing with such a fine weapon? You can have it back when we reach the Hill.’

He wiped mud across the younger man’s face to complete the transformation, standing back to admire his handiwork.

‘You’ll pass. Your hands are too soft, you need to get some dirt under your nails, and your hair is too short, but we’ll cut it even shorter once we’ve got the time, make it look military. You’re a tribesman now, my nephew in fact, and I’m taking you to join my cohort at the Hill… Cocidius forgive me. Anyone talks to us, you keep your mouth closed, your head down and you let me do the talking. Very well, let’s march.’

He turned to leave, shouldering his pack pole and spears. Marcus tested his new boots by walking a few paces, grimacing at their fierce grip on his feet.

‘So how far is it to the Hill?’

‘One hundred and fifty miles, seven days’ march for a legionary. We’re going to march at that pace, like legionaries. Your legions use the roads they build to move fast and concentrate dispersed forces to gain superior strength before they attack, it’s their strongest weapon against the rebel tribes because it multiplies their strength. Now we’re going to use their roads to get you away from their patrols.’

Marcus nodded his acknowledgement of the point.

‘I’m impressed with your knowledge.’

Dubnus snorted, his nostrils flaring as he looked at the bedraggled Roman.

‘You look at me and see a barbarian in Roman armour. You view me with Rome’s contempt, or something close to it, because that’s what you’ve been taught. I’m an educated man, and a soldier in a country where soldiers are guaranteed to see action several times over their term of service, even if only in dirty little skirmishes with locals. Let me tell you, you can die in a skirmish just as easily as in a full-scale gang fuck unless you’re trained and ready. I will start to train and ready you as we travel north.’

Marcus smiled wanly.

‘At the speed you promise to travel you may kill me first.’

The Briton shook his head slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his eyes.

‘Far from it. Instead I’ll give you the stamina of a Tungrian by the time we reach the Hill.’

Marcus rolled his eyes to heaven in mock despair.

‘Or kill me trying. Gods help me!’

Dubnus, unable to retain his outrage, replaced it with an evil smile.

‘Roman gods won’t save you now. You belong to me, and you’re just a recruit as far as I’m concerned, and therefore subject to a new god. My god, Cocidius, a warrior god, a hunter god. So run, master recruit. Run!’

They ran, Marcus gulping the cold upland air deep into his bursting lungs. Between education and exercise it threatened to be a long week.

That evening, as the sun dipped slowly towards the horizon, Dubnus broke off the line of their march and climbed a short distance into the forest before lowering his pack to the ground. The fugitives had avoided the road for much of the day, moving cross-country on game paths that threaded through the thin scatter of copses decorating the mountain slopes. Having avoided the first angry heat of the inevitable cavalry sweep for the murderers of Perennis’s men, they had returned to the road when the sun was quite low in the sky. The Briton gestured to the small hollow he had found, sweeping his arm in around to indicate the sparsely wooded land around them.

‘We need to light a fire. It should be safe enough here, hidden from the road. You look for some kindling, dead stuff only, mind you, we don’t want to make smoke. And stay out of sight of the road. Keep within shouting distance, there are wolves in these hills.’

By the time Marcus, limping from the pain of his blisters, had found sufficient wood to make a good-sized pile of dry twigs and sticks, the Briton had cut and lashed branches to form a spit above the spot where the fire would burn. A large chunk of meat was in place, ready to cook. He examined the wood carefully, nodding sagely.

‘Good enough. If you’re wondering what the meat is, I cut it from one of the horses I killed this morning. If that bothers you, you have a choice — eat horse or go hungry, tonight and tomorrow. I took two pieces like this. While you think about that you can go and find twice as much wood again — we’ll need to burn the fire through the night in this temperature. Thicker branches, mind you, to last longer.’

Dubnus had the fire glowing hot by the time Marcus returned with his last load of wood. His boots were off, and he had the horsemeat turning over the flames. They sat a while in the evening’s peace while the meat started to cook, drops of fat falling on to the flames and burning in bright flares. The aroma tormented Marcus’s empty belly until he broke the silence, as much to distract him from his hunger as from any desire to talk.

‘Dubnus, who taught you to fight so well?’

‘My father. He was a hunter, killed animals for food and skins, then traded the skins with Roman traders like Rufius. Former soldiers usually. He taught me to fight, and to track and hunt… how to live off the country for months, with no need go back to our village. The land has everything required for survival if you have the right tools. Here, take a spell turning this meat.’

Marcus shuffled over to the fire to do as he was asked.

‘So why did you join the army?’

The other man’s eyes clouded for a moment.

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘I’m sorry. I had no intention of…’

‘I joined the army because my father sent me to the Tungrian fort when he was dying, told me to ask the recruiting centurion to take me. He said that the army would be the best place for me when he was gone…’

‘Were you sad to leave home?’

‘Sad? Yes, I was sad. Leaving the land was difficult. Life in the army was very different.’

‘Hard?’

‘No. Nothing they could throw at me bothered me. My centurion beat me with his vine stick to get my attention and drum in the lessons. I told him to keep it up, told him I loved it. He broke it on my back and called for another one.’

The big man sat in silence for a moment.

‘It wasn’t any harder than what I was already used to. It just wasn’t home.’

Marcus fell silent, eyeing the meat critically. He could imagine the huge Briton as a younger man, little different from how he was now, silent and proud. Every inch warrior blood. What a challenge to his first centurion, a man expected to turn him from barbarian into trained soldier. The meat was starting to crisp above the fire’s heat, almost ready to eat.