Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

He turned and walked away, shaking his head in disbelief. Frontinius waited until he was out of sight, stepping out from beneath the rain cover and eyeing the steadily lightening clouds with a critical gaze.

‘It’ll have stopped within the hour. Very well, Centurion Two Knives, I hereby commute your punishment to confinement to your tent until dusk. Get some sleep; your century has the night guard. Doubtless the Prince will be keen to introduce you to the art of aggressive night patrolling…’

Marcus slept soundly, despite the noise of the camp, until Antenoch shook him awake again at sunset; he wolfed down a plate of cold meat and bread and went in search of his chosen man, closely followed by his clerk. Dubnus was detailing the guard roster for the night, counting the century off into tent parties and giving each one a part of the Tungrians’ area of the camp to patrol. When he was finished, one last eight-man group of soldiers remained in front of the headquarters tent, a collection of older men, more than one bearing the scars of previous skirmishes. He spoke quietly into Marcus’s ear.

‘These are the best men for a night patrol, steadier than some of the others. We’ll go over the Wall, up into the trees on the high ground, then wait and listen. This is a good camp, but we’ve used it many times before, so it ought to be known to the enemy. The tribes will have scouts out, and will try to infiltrate men in to watch the camp, perhaps even snatch a sentry or an officer from his tent. We hear them, we stalk them, and we kill them. Simple. You’ll learn some new skills tonight. Morban can stand in as watch officer while we’re out in the forest.’

He passed Marcus a thick wooden stave and a length of black cloth.

‘Your cloak will hide you in the forest and keep you warm. Wrap the cloth around your head until your helmet’s full, it’ll keep your head warm and offer some protection if you get hit on the head. The club’s a lot better for fighting in the dark than a sword, but the other side will be using clubs of their own.’

Turning to Antenoch, standing to one side with a large and distinctly non-regulation sword strapped across his back, he waved a hand dismissively.

‘We won’t need you tonight. Stay here, and guard your tent.’

Antenoch turned away impassively and disappeared into the surrounding shadows.

‘I still don’t trust him. Better if we leave him behind, and avoid the risk of a knife in the back.’

He led the party through the gap in the earth wall and up a shallow slope towards the dark treeline at a slow trot. As they reached the trees the patrol flattened themselves against the cold earth, waiting in silence for Dubnus to decide whether it was safe to move. Marcus stared out into the maze of tree trunks, his night vision slowly improving as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Dubnus muttered into his ear.

‘Look to one side of what you want to see. Seeing in the darkness is better from the corner of the eye than the centre.’

It was true. He looked into the forest, seeing the tree branches sway gently as a breeze lifted their leaves, and heard the distant hoot of a hunting owl. Below them, huddled into the river bend, the camp squatted in its solid bulk, studded with the pinprick light of torches at each guard position. Behind it loomed Cauldron Pool’s fort, its whitewashed walls standing out in the gloom to his now completely night-adjusted eyes. At length Dubnus nodded to the patrol, splaying three fingers forward. Two groups of three men moved silently into the trees, heading to left and right, while Dubnus led Marcus and the remaining soldier forward to their own listening position, a hundred yards inside the forest wall.

They padded slowly and quietly through the tree trunks, fallen twigs crackling minutely under their boots. Marcus copied Dubnus’s exaggerated steps and slow, cautious footfall, each foot searching for larger twigs as it sank to meet the ground, avoiding making any loud noises. At length they settled into their listening post for the night, a space between two fallen trees that Dubnus had clearly used before from the ease with which he found the sheltered spot. Marcus and the other soldier huddled into their cloaks at Dubnus’s whispered suggestion, leaving him to stare out into the silent darkness. Down in the camp, with the troops asleep for the night, and night patrols padding morosely around the perimeter fence, Annius slipped quietly through the ranks of tents, through the doglegged gap in the six-foot-tall earth rampart and up to the stone-built fort’s walls. A pair of soldiers stepped forward with their spears levelled, letting him past and into the fort once it was established that he was on official business. Since the fort was more or less a duplicate of the Hill, he found his way to the supply building quickly enough, and knocked quietly on the door, slipping quickly inside as soon as it opened.

The storeman closed the door behind him, sliding a pair of massive iron bolts into their sockets, turned and silently beckoned Annius to follow him. At the rear of the storeroom he opened another, smaller door, gesturing the quartermaster through in front of him. A small personal room lay beyond, well lit by oil lamps, the walls insulated against the cold air outside by hanging carpets, while a flask of wine and a tray of small honey cakes decorated a delicately carved wooden table. A man lounged on a couch by the room’s far wall, nodding graciously to Annius and indicating the couch’s companion on the other side of the small table.

The quartermaster arranged himself on the couch in a dignified silence, waiting for his host to speak first. With this, as with any other negotiation, every tiny advantage was to be sought. The other man waited another moment before stirring himself to lean on an elbow, baring his teeth in a cockeyed smile below calculating eyes.

‘So, friend and colleague Annius. When your mob marched in yesterday I wondered how long it would be before you and I were doing business. Are you buying, or selling?’

Annius pursed his lips, forcing his face to stay neutral.

‘A little of both, my trusted friend Tacitus.’

‘Excellent! Here’s to a mutually profitable exchange!’

They drank, both sipping politely at the wine rather than risk its effects on their skills. Tacitus gestured to the cakes, and took one himself in the age-old gesture of trustworthiness. Annius nibbled at another.

‘These are good.’

‘My own baker, in the vicus. You’ll take a dozen, as my gift?’

‘I’m grateful.’

And down a bargaining point already. He fished in the folds of his cloak, passing the other man a small wooden box.

‘Saffron?’

‘The best Persian. I remembered your affection for the spice. Perhaps your baker can use it to good effect.’

And up two. The spice had cost him a small fortune, but put Tacitus in his debt by the rules of the game they routinely played.

‘Well, if you have more of this to sell, our bargaining will be a memorable event…’

‘Unfortunately not the case. That was the last of the traveller’s supply.’

‘A shame. So tell me, brother, what is it you bring to the table?’

‘Little enough — we marched too quickly for detailed preparation. Five jars of Iberian wine, a small quantity of a precious ointment from Judaea… and money.’

‘Money, indeed? You must be keen. And what is it that you seek?’

Damn him for a cool bastard.

‘Information, Tacitus. I have a small local difficulty to manage, and remembering how good your sources have been in the past…’

Tacitus adjusted his position, rising up on one elbow.

‘Ah. Problems with your First Spear? I wondered how long he’d tolerate your ways of making money. I…’