Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

Sollemnis nodded, staring intently at the map in front of him.

‘Yes, we seem to have Calgus in a trap of his failed strategy. Without his western force he’s unable to remove Licinius’s threat to his flank, and effectively unable to move either west or south without dire risk. And to attack to the east would be both largely pointless and risk hemming himself in between Wall and sea. I think we have him, gentlemen, or at least we’ve balanced the situation enough to have stopped his rampage for the time being. My opinion is that we keep sufficient measure of the initiative just by digging in where we are, and so forcing Calgus to decide what to do next. If he attacks he puts himself at risk of being assaulted from two sides; if he waits he plays into our hands by bringing the Second and Twentieth Legions into play. Any other opinions?’

His First Spear spoke up.

‘I agree, Legatus. We must stay defensive until the other legions arrive. Fighting from behind our temporary defences, with our artillery positioned to support the line, we can hold his barbarians off for long enough to let the auxiliaries strike to flank and rear. Moving forward would be suicide with only our six thousand spears.’

Perennis nodded his support.

‘I agree with the First Spear, with one small addition. When Calgus moves back to the north, as he is bound to do given his position, we should follow up smartly and get north of the Wall. I have a perfect location for a forward camp in mind once we’re free to advance.’

Sollemnis stood with the decision clear.

‘Very well, we hold what we have for now, and push the decision on to Calgus. Let’s see what he does with several barbarian tribes baying for our heads but no safe way to give them what they crave.’ The road to the fort at Cauldron Pool was uneventful enough, a gentle stroll by the standard of their regular exertions, but the spectacle of the cavalrymen riding easily to either side, heads dangling from saddle horns and spears, eventually started to rankle. Morban rattled his standard at the 9th Century, leading them off in a spirited rendition of a favourite marching song. ‘Oh, the, cavalry don’t use latrines. They piss in their leather britches, They drag their arse in the tickly grass, Those dirty sons of bitches!’

Marcus gave the decurion riding alongside him a wry smile as the song progressed into a description of the sexual habits of the cavalry, guessing that he’d probably heard it a few times before.

After a while, as clouds rolled over the landscape and threatened rain, they concentrated on covering ground, eager to rejoin the cohort at Cauldron Pool and get the chance to eat hot food. When darkness fell, finding them still a good five miles from their destination, the horsemen lit torches and illuminated their way, triumphantly escorting them to the walls of the fort, where the First Spear was waiting for them in front of twenty men with torches. He stepped forward, gesturing them to follow him into the temporary defences of a six-foot-high turf wall, within which burned the watch fires of dozens of centuries. The 9th marched into the Tungrian section of the camp with their heads held high, to be greeted by a respectful silence from their peers as they paraded.

Marcus stepped out in front of the century, turned on the spot and saluted the waiting chief centurion, who returned the salute with a grim face.

‘First Spear, Ninth Century reporting back from detached duty.’

Sextus Frontinius stared back at him, still deadpan, before speaking.

‘Ninth Century, if the reports we have received of your activities are correct, you have reflected much pride on the cohort. For now you will be tired, and in need of a wash, food and rest. Your colleagues will show you where your tents have been erected, and will have washing water and hot food ready for you. Morning parade is cancelled for the Ninth Century, you will parade at midday before lunch. Without your current coating of blood and soil, that is. Dismissed.’

He turned to Marcus, putting a hand on his arm.

‘Not you, Centurion. You come with me.’

He took Marcus through the darkened camp, threading between the leather tents until they reached the headquarters tent, three times the size of those designed to house a ten-man tent party. Inside, dimly lit by the guttering flames of oil lamps, a large wooden table dominated the space, scrolls neatly stacked across its width indicating that it would be a hive of administrative activity during daylight hours. In one corner a hanging screen rendered the prefect’s quarters private, a pair of fully armed soldiers from the 5th Century providing immediate protection for their commanding officer. Frontinius coughed discreetly, the slight noise summoning his superior from behind the screen.

Equitius nodded to them both, indicating the seats that clustered around a low table in another corner of the tent.

‘Centurion, news of your exploits travels before you. If I am to believe the dispatch relayed to me by the local prefect, your century, in the course of a simple search mission, found and destroyed not only a barbarian scouting party, but fifty head of cattle that had apparently been gathered to feed an enemy warband. Is this correct?’

Marcus nodded, dropping wearily into the proffered chair.

‘Yes, sir.’

Frontinius remained silent while the prefect pulled at his beard in a distracted manner.

‘I was afraid of that. You present us, young man, with something of a quandary. On one hand, you are still, had you forgotten, a wanted man, with a hefty price on your head. On the other, you are the hero of the hour, responsible for turning back an enemy warband, which might well have been ten or fifteen thousand strong, for the loss of two men. Prefect Licinius is singing your praises to anybody that will listen, and has already sent me a formal request for an interview with you. Probably wants to offer you a position with the Petriana, something better fitted to the well-bred young man you so obviously are… And there’s the main problem. Once the euphoria wears off it’ll take him about five minutes to start asking all sorts of difficult questions, and it doesn’t take a top-class mind to see where that’ll end up. If, however, I refuse him permission to speak to you, his questions will be addressed to a wider, and infinitely more dangerous, audience. I am still undecided as to my best course of action…’

Marcus nodded.

‘Prefect, I’ve given it much thought in the last few hours. Perhaps I have a solution, for tomorrow at least.’

He spoke for a moment, gauging the other man’s reaction. Equitius mulled over his idea briefly, nodding his assent.

‘From first light, mind you. Let’s not risk Prefect Licinius being an early riser. Very well, dismissed.’

Marcus and Frontinius stood to leave. Equitius turned away and then back again as a thought occurred to him.

‘Oh, and Centurion…’

‘Prefect?’

‘Excellent work. Sleep well.’

Outside the tent, Frontinius put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder to detain him. His eyes glinted in the torchlight, his face expressionless in the heavy shadows.

‘You took your whole century back over the Wall to save the life of a single soldier?’

Marcus nodded soberly.

‘Yes. In retrospect it seems a little far fetched, but yes, First Spear, I did.’

He waited for the storm. To his amazement, the older man looked at him strangely for a moment, nodding slowly.

‘In the best traditions of the Tungrians, whether you knew it or not. Very well done, Centurion, very well done indeed.’

Marcus frowned.

‘But what if I’d lost the whole century trying to save one man? I’ve thought of little else since it happened.’

Frontinius looked at him in the torchlight, shaking his head.