Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

The soldiers set to work, tightening fastenings and making sure that their boots were secure. Once the century was on the move, any man who dropped an item, or whose footwear loosened, would be forced to drop out, then run twice as hard to catch up again. He pulled Dubnus to one side, speaking quietly in his ear.

‘We need to know what happens here in the next couple of hours. Choose a good distance runner, share his kit out and have him find a sheltered spot to watch the fire. He waits until mid-morning, then pulls out and follows us back to the Wall.’

The chosen nodded silently, walking away into the century’s activity. The morning air was a cool relief as the 9th jogged towards the Wall; it was too early for the sun to be uncomfortable. Looking back, even ten miles from the farm, Marcus was amazed at the size of the pillar of smoke that rose into the heavens, shearing suddenly to the west where it met a high air current thousands of feet above the ground. He smiled wryly at the probable effect of the sign on his own side of the Wall, and what it might be mistaken for. At least he could expect to meet friendly faces once the 9th had crossed the border. Scout units would in all likelihood be racing for the spot from both east and west.

They reached their original crossing point at mid-morning, and set up a temporary camp on the southern side of the Wall. Marcus gave the command for field rations to be opened, and luxuriated in dried meat and the last of the previous day’s bread issue, with a little pickle from a jar that Antenoch had slipped into his pack. Climbing the rampart to survey the ground to their north, he saw that the pillar of smoke was lightening, the fire presumably having consumed the farm buildings. Its top stretched, a dirty stain in the clear blue sky, for a dozen miles or so to the west, slowly dispersing in the gentle winds. The ground in front of the Wall climbed gently for a few hundred years before falling away towards a distant line of trees. From the ground on that slope, he mused, it would be impossible to see the Wall.

He made his way back to the ground, and walked over to where the woman was taking a solitary breakfast, still guarded by the same soldiers who had shared her vigil over the dying man at dawn. Dismissing the men, Marcus squatted on to his haunches when she showed no sign of standing to meet him. Her face, seen for the first time in the daylight, bore the marks of a heavy beating within the past week, bruises past their first lividity still evident as shadows on her cheekbones and jawline.

‘Ma’am, we’ve had no formal introduction…’

She looked up at him with a quizzical gaze, then offered her hand. He noticed the wedding ring.

‘Your husband must be worried…’

‘I doubt that very much. He’s the reason I’m here.’

He caught the tone in her voice, and skirted away from the subject.

‘Marcus Valerius Aquila at your service… although that isn’t a name I’ve spoken to anybody else these last three months.’

She smiled for the first time, perhaps at his formality.

‘When I left Rome the Valerius Aquila brothers were among the most respected senators in the city. My father spoke of them frequently. What relation are you to them?’

His eyes must have clouded, since she reached out a hand to touch his arm with an unnerving concern.

‘I’m sorry…’

He smiled at her, feeling another layer of his mental scar tissue fall away.

‘That’s all right… It’s just that you’re the first Roman to ask me that question. I always wondered what I’d do when the time came — lie, and protect myself, or tell the truth and honour the dead.’

He took a deep breath, grateful that she waited patiently for him to gather himself.

‘My father was Senator Appius Valerius Aquila. He fell victim to a palace intrigue led by the praetorian prefect, and, from what I’ve been told, my entire family was murdered to prevent any danger of attempts at vengeance. I was a praetorian centurion…’

Her eyes widened momentarily as the irony dawned on her, then softened with sympathy.

‘… my father managed to bribe a tribune to send me away on a false imperial errand to this country. He told me that I was carrying a message for the legatus in Yew Grove, but it was really a last message from my father…’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you. I escaped two attempts to finish the job by killing me, thanks to the efforts of two men I count my as closest friends, and now I fight under the name Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Only five other men know of this deception and so now, lady, you hold the power of life and death over me. A simple denunciation will be enough to have me imprisoned and executed within days. Won’t you return the compliment by telling me your name?’

She smiled briefly, her face lighting up with the expression.

‘With honour, Centurion. I am Felicia Clodia Drusilla, daughter of Octavius Clodius Drusus and wife of Quintus Dexter Bassus, the prefect commanding the Second Tungrian Cohort at Vindolanda. A name with which I would far rather not have fouled my mouth!’

She glowered at the ground for a moment.

‘Forgive me, Centurion. An unhappy marriage is neither your business nor your concern.’

‘Except, perhaps, when it results in the abduction and… mistreatment of a Roman citizen?’

She laughed again, a strange reaction in someone who had endured the torments attributed to her captivity by their first informant.

‘I wasn’t mistreated in any particular way, and these bruises predate my time in captivity. I probably would have been raped senseless if the warband had arrived before your rescue, but those people were more embarrassed than excited by my presence. I ran away from my husband’s fort when his cruelty and violence towards me became too much to bear. I persuaded my serving maid to disguise me as one of her own once we were out of sight of the fort. We slipped through one of the mile fort gates a week ago, and were caught by the master of that farm a day later, heading for my maid’s home village. He locked me up, probably wanted to force himself on me, but his wife was too fiercely opposed, said it would bring the legions down on them. I think she took pity on the state of my face.’

‘She might well have been jealous too.’

She smiled again, ruefully this time.

‘Thank you for your gallantry. They still hadn’t decided what to do with me when you arrived. What made you come?’

‘We captured the husband spying on our fort at the Hill. One of his men told us that he’d already…’

He paused, embarrassed at the word’s implication. Touched by his embarrassment, she put her hand on his arm.

‘I’d guess he boasted in public to maintain his reputation. I…’

A shout from the Wall’s top grabbed Marcus’s attention. Dubnus beat him to the ladder, the pair of them bundling breathlessly on to the flat surface atop the mile fort’s structure. In the middle distance, half a mile or so from their gate, a single man was running across the wind-blown grass.

‘That’s our scout!’

Dubnus nodded grimly.

‘Yes, and he’s running too fast for my liking…’

He turned back to look down at the resting soldiers.

‘Ninth Century, stand to! Fighting order.’

Even as he spoke, a dozen horsemen broke from the cover of the trees to the north, another mile or so behind the running figure.

Dubnus hurled himself down the ladder, while Marcus scanned the distant trees for any more movement. He turned to look down at the century, each man holding his shield and javelins at the parade rest, their faces filthy from the night’s impromptu camouflage of dirt, their armour and bodies covered with dried blood. Get them moving first, his instincts told him, and then explain the dangers.