Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘Got anybody in mind?’

Equitius looked out over the battlefield, still amazed at the slaughter committed across the valley’s green slopes.

‘I thought I might ask you for the Ninth Century, or what’s left of them. Young Corvus ought to be safe enough with Perennis out of the way… and at some point I need to give him this.’

Frontinius peered inside the oilskin package as Equitius opened it to display the weapon inside, taking in the sword’s fine workmanship.

‘Very pretty. Sollemnis?’

‘Yes. Tradition says it goes to his oldest son…’

‘And now might not be quite the right time for that story to be told.’

‘Exactly.’

Frontinius nodded.

‘Very well, Legatus, the Ninth it is. Just remember we want them back.’ For the 9th the next month passed as quickly as the previous week. Sixth Legion, reinforced by the addition of the two auxiliary cohorts, giving it an effective strength of six cohorts, marched into the north, while the 20th and the 2nd legions pulled back to hold the Wall and start the task of rebuilding its shattered forts. The legions’ task, carried out day after unremitting day, was to sweep the open countryside for tribal bands on the run after what had quickly became known to both army and the unwilling populace through which they moved as the Battle of the Lost Eagle. After the first week, with the weather turning sour and wind-driven drizzle working its way into armour and equipment, bringing the scourge of rust without constant care, the experience soon began to pall.

Waking before dawn, often in driving rain as a succession of cloud banks swept across the country, the legion was routinely on its feet until after dark, an eighteen-hour day at that time of the year and longer for men standing guard in the night. Moving into the increasingly mountainous country in search of the fleeing barbarians exposed them to likely ambush and inevitable pinprick attacks, knives in the dark and snatched bow shots from hidden archers who frequently escaped their clutches.

Intelligence gathered by their native scouts told Equitius that the captured eagle, and with it Sollemnis’s head, went before them, tantalisingly close to recapture, and for the sake of his dead friend he pushed its pursuit for longer than might have been judged prudent. Each village and farm they encountered greeted their passing with forced indifference, as if neither side knew that refugees from the battle were hidden close by. Even the petty revenges of searching the rough dwellings, stealing any valuables their inhabitants were stupid enough not to have hidden, and the confiscation and slaughter of the farm animals for food, did little to lift the spirits of men who knew their enemy was laughing at their failure to retake the legion’s precious standard.

Marcus’s men held up well enough, helped by the distraction of keeping Morban from dwelling on his loss. The burly standard-bearer didn’t sleep, lost weight and volunteered for guard duty at every opportunity, seeking activity to prevent opportunities to brood over his son’s death in the battle’s last minutes. Some of the century attempted to use humour to keep his spirits up. Marcus overheard two of his men attempting to lighten the standard-bearer’s mood in camp late one evening.

‘Morban, how many legion road-builders does it take to light a lamp?’

‘No idea.’

‘Five — one to light it and four lazy bastards leaning on their shovels to watch!’

The other soldier chipped in.

‘Morban, how many stores staff does it take to light a lamp?’

‘Go on.’

‘Ten — one to light it and nine to do the paperwork!’

The first man started back in.

‘Morban, how many prostitutes does it take to light a lamp?’

‘Look, just…’

‘Looks like one, but she’s only faking it!’

Morban smiled sadly as he stood to leave.

‘Look, lads, I know you’re just trying to cheer me up, and that last one wasn’t too bad, but just give it a rest, eh?’

Dubnus spoke darkly to Marcus on the subject, an unusual frown on his face.

‘The next action we see, he’ll take his first chance to jump into the blue-faces and get killed. Which is bad enough, but I wouldn’t trust some of the lads not to jump in behind him and try to save him…’

They agreed to keep an eye on their friend, and in the event of impending battle to make sure he was kept away from the shield wall. Marcus knew it could only be a temporary solution.

With the legionnaires visibly losing their edge under the constant strain, and without any indication that they might regain the legion’s badge of honour any time soon, Equitius was forced to bow to the inevitable. Standing in camp late one evening, watching the troops labour over yet another turf wall in the orange light of the setting sun, he turned to Marcus and looked at the young centurion properly for the first time in over a week.

‘You look tired, Centurion, in need of a decent bath and a cup of a decent red…’

Marcus straightened his back reflexively, opening eyes that had narrowed to slits in anticipation and need of sleep.

‘Relax, I wasn’t finding fault. The gods know I could sweat a helmet full of dirt given the chance. And as for a decent drink… anyway, I’ve come to a decision. Tomorrow we’ll have a rest day, give the cohorts a chance to get their tunics clean and polish the rust off their swords.’

Marcus nodded gratefully.

‘And the day after?’

‘We turn south. Four or five days’ march ought to see us back to the Wall.’

‘We’re giving up the hunt?’

‘Yes. They’re playing with us, you know, spreading rumours to lead us round the countryside like a bull being pulled round the farmyard by the ring in its nose. Soon enough Calgus will lure us into some nasty ambush or other, cost us more men we can’t afford to lose, and I don’t intend to give him the satisfaction. It’s time to go home and wait for reinforcements from Gaul.’

A shaft of orange sunlight lit the camp, and Equitius stretched luxuriously in the warm glow.

‘Share a beaker with me, Centurion?’

They sat in Equitius’s private tent, pitched alongside the massive command tent, and sipped their wine. For a while neither spoke. At last Equitius broke the silence.

‘I don’t suppose the last year has been anything other than a waking nightmare for you. If it’s any consolation, you’ve acquitted yourself better than I could have imagined when we took you in, back in the month of Mars. With hindsight, though, you were never going to fail this test. Not with your blood. I’ve been waiting for the right time to give you something, and now seems as good a time as any…’

He pulled the oilskin package from under his camp bed, putting it in Marcus’s hands with a smile.

‘It belonged to Legatus Sollemnis. He wanted you to have it…’

Marcus unwrapped the sword, looking closely at the hilt’s ornate decoration and inlay before pulling it from the scabbard and testing its fine balance.

‘It’s a beautiful weapon…’

‘So it should be. I was with him when he bought it and it cost him more money than I would ever have spent on a sword. It served him with honour too, right across the empire in the service of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.’

‘I’m honoured. But why me?’

‘He spoke to me the night before the Battle of the Lost Eagle. Perhaps he had a premonition, I don’t know, but he asked me to make sure that the sword went to you if he should be killed the next day. I’d say he wanted it to go to someone that will bring it further honour. Besides, you’re about the right age to have been the son he always wanted…’

He hovered close to breaking his promise to Frontinius at that moment, resisting the urge to tell Marcus the truth only with an effort of will.