The Leopard Sword: Empire IV (24 page)

One of the younger soldiers marching beside him was unable to contain himself, and raised his voice above the rattle of hobnails.

‘And sheep, Centurion!’

The century’s watch officer, a one-eyed veteran universally called Cyclops whenever he wasn’t listening, promptly stepped out of the rank ahead of the miscreant and marched next to him with his face inches from his victim’s, bellowing admonishment and imprecation at the top of his voice, much to the young soldier’s dismay and Silus’s pleasure.

‘
Don’t
you dare to interrupt the young gentleman when he’s talking to another officer, you nasty little man! I’ll have you shovelling shit on latrine duty for the next month!’ Marcus raised an eyebrow at the decurion, rolling his eyes at the vehemence of the tirade. The watch officer caught a glimpse of the expression from the corner of his eye, but misinterpreted the cause and redoubled his verbal assault on the visibly wilting soldier. ‘And now you’ve upset the officer, you worthless excuse for a soldier. He thinks you’re a prick, the decurion thinks you’re a prick, and I’m fucking certain you’re a prick, which makes you what? Eh?’

‘A . . . a prick?’

‘A prick,
Watch Officer
! Come with me!’ He dragged the soldier out of the ranks, putting a booted foot into his backside. ‘Run, you fucker! Let’s see how long you can keep up with the horses, shall we?’

‘Ah, the enjoyment of watching an experienced professional in action. I see man management is still a strong point with the infantry.’

Marcus shook his head in resigned amusement, waving Silus away.

‘You’d best be off to see what’s going on over the next hill. And I’d better rescue that soldier before Watch Officer Augustus puts his severed head on a spear to encourage the rest of my men. Enjoy your day’s scouting!’

The decurion shot him an ironic salute and moved away to rejoin his men, shouting a command and nudging his horse into a fast trot. As the scouts headed for the horizon Marcus turned his attention back to the hapless soldier, already fifty paces up the road with Cyclops in vigorous and noisy pursuit.

‘Hold this for a minute. I need to dig my cloak out and put the bloody thing on.’

Morban passed his standard to the trumpeter marching at his side and reached for the heavy woollen rectangle, thanking the foresight that had made him roll it up and wrap it around his belt. The younger man smirked down at him as he tugged it about his barrel-shaped body with a grunt of satisfaction.

‘Feeling the cold, are you?’

The standard bearer answered in a voice loud enough to be heard over the clash of hobnails, never taking his attention off the brooch’s stubborn pin.

‘Bloody thing won’t close. I knew I should have got this seen to while we were in barracks. The pin’s too short, and the bloody thing’s bent in the middle.’ He shot the trumpeter a vindictive glance, then turned his head and raised an eyebrow to the soldiers marching behind them. ‘A bit like your cucumber, from what I could see of that rather unpleasant act you were performing last night when I walked into the barrack without knocking and giving you time to hide it away. Now have you had enough, or do you want some more, tiny bent cock?’ Morban waited for a moment to be sure that the abashed trumpeter wasn’t going to scrape together enough wit to come back at him with any one of the retorts he would have mustered under the same accusation, then shook his head in genuine disgust. ‘Soldiers with less than ten years’ service should be seen and not heard, I’d say.’ The veteran marching behind him nodded his agreement, his voice a gravelly rasp as he rose to Morban’s game.

‘I knows. Give ’em a few months and they loves to play with the big lads, but they goes all quiet and runs away the second you gives ’em a proper smacking. Shouldn’t be allowed to join in with the fun and games until they’ve done their ten and learned to stand up for themselves. And to hold their beer . . .’

He winked at Morban, who gave the trumpeter a significant glance. The younger man started to protest, but swiftly closed his mouth again as Morban raised an eyebrow at him.

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. Just make do with starting a conversation about something that can’t be turned against you.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the weather. See, when we set out this morning the sun was all bright and shiny, and you were thinking about a lovely warm day for marching, but now the sky’s the same colour as . . .’

The trumpeter opened his mouth to suggest something that matched the western sky’s dull grey, but was beaten to it by the soldier behind him.

‘. . . as his face when he’d done puking all over his boots the other night?’

‘That’s it, just the same colour!’ Morban smirked at the younger man for a moment before taking pity on his expression of bemused fury. ‘Now, now, don’t you go getting all hot and bothered. Look, there’s trees on the horizon; that’s the forest we’re marching to conquer!’

‘So that’s this Arduenna the locals all worship, is it?’

Tribune Scaurus looked across the farmland that stretched out before them to the forested hills in the distance, their dark slopes blending with the overcast sky.

Frontinius was marching beside him with a slight limp, the legacy of a sharp-eyed barbarian archer’s arrow at the battle of Lost Eagle the previous year. He nodded without breaking step.

‘Yes, Tribune, that’s the Arduenna. If the maps are right we’re only a couple of miles from the forest edge, although that might as well be twenty given the river that runs between here and the hills. A hundred paces wide and more, and apparently deep enough to be unfordable, other than across the shallows at Mosa Ford. If Dubnus has it wrong then we’ll have to go all the way west to the river bridge on the road to the Treveri capital, then march back to the east along the river bank.’

He stopped talking, raising an eyebrow at the tribune, who was gently shaking his head.

‘We’ll just have to hope that your centurion’s eyes weren’t deceiving him, then, won’t we? Ah, here come the mounted scouts now. You can stop the column for a rest, First Spear; let’s see what your man Silus has to say for himself.’

The decurion rode up and dismounted, saluting smartly to the tribune and the two first spears, who had gathered to hear his report.

‘We went all the way to the bridge, Tribune, without any sign of movement. There’s a couple of carts a few miles down the road, but nothing to interest us. Prefect Caninus took his men away to the west, as agreed.’

Scaurus nodded to Frontinius, who returned his gaze with a questioning look.

‘As we discussed it, Tribune?’

Opening his mouth to confirm the order, Scaurus was silenced by a voice from behind him.

‘As you discussed
what
?’

Scaurus turned to find Belletor, still mounted on his horse, close behind him. He looked up at the bemused tribune with a tight smile and pointed in the direction of the river.

‘We’re leaving the road and marching south for the Mosa. Once we’re off the road we’ll deploy into formation for an approach march, and your men can bring up the rear.’

Belletor frowned down at him.

‘But I thought . . .’

‘. . . that we were heading for the road bridge over the Mosa another ten miles to the west? Indeed, you did, along with the entire population of Tungrorum, I’d imagine. But one of my centurions has discovered a little secret, a piece of tactical intelligence I personally rate as pure gold, so we’re going to try something else, something not even Caninus and his men know about.’ He turned away from the baffled tribune, gesturing to Frontinius. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Sextus.’

Frontinius limped away, shouting for his centurions and quickly gathering the officers around him in a tight group. First Spear Sergius tipped Belletor a quick salute and sidled across to join them, while soldiers on all sides stared at the gathering with undisguised curiosity. Scarface stared at the cluster of armoured men for a moment and then turned away, shaking his head and reaching for his shield and helmet.

‘Best get your gear on, lads. The last time I seen Uncle Sextus looking that serious was before the battle where the Sixth Legion lost their eagle, and I ended up fighting off the fucking bluenoses for the rest of the afternoon. Got a nasty gash down one arm and lost both my best mates, one dead before he hit the ground, the other one coughing up blood for half a day before his eyes closed. This’ll end up with us out in front, if my guess is right. And it looks set to fucking rain.’

In the heart of his gathered officers, Frontinius looked around the intent faces that surrounded him, nodding his recognition of their solemnity.

‘Yes, you’ve all guessed it; we’ve got a direct route to the enemy camp and we’re going straight in. Dubnus found what looks like a way across the river while he was out scouting with Centurions Julius and Corvus, so we’re marching south to the Mosa at speed. We’ll get deployed over the river as fast and as quietly as possible, and then go for an encirclement of the rebel camp before they even know they’re under attack, never mind who’s behind the spears. And if we put this lot in the bag then our job here really will be done, and we can enjoy some well-earned peace and quiet. Once we leave this rest halt we’ll deploy into approach march formation.’ He looked around the group again. ‘I’ll have the Ninth Century out in front in extended order looking for trouble all the way to the river, fast and light-footed. Try to keep it inconspicuous, Centurion Corvus. I don’t want them to know we’re coming until we’re across the river at the very earliest, and preferably not until we’ve got their camp surrounded by enough spears that they’ll just go straight to the bit where they throw down their iron without even considering a fight. Think you can manage that?’

Marcus nodded silently, already rehearsing the orders he would issue to his men. Frontinius recognised his preoccupation and moved the briefing on.

‘Good. Dubnus, you’ll be out in front with the Ninth. I need you to take us straight to the place in question without any risk of it turning into the scenic route, your chosen man can look after your men in your absence. Following up behind the scouts I want a three-century front, one solid wall of shields if the need arises, so keep the formation as tight as you like. Centurions Clodius, Caelius and Otho, your lads ought to find that well enough to their liking.’

Julius snorted his laughter into the intent silence.

‘The Badger, the Hedgehog and Knuckles all in a row. You really do mean business.’

Marcus winked at Caelius, watching as his brother officer rubbed self-consciously at the spiky, brush-like hair that had led to his nickname, smiling to himself at Julius’s praise. While Clodius and Otho were brutal, bombastic leaders, continually goading their men in competition for the unofficial title of the cohort’s most dangerous century, Caelius was a quieter man by comparison, until, that was, the enemy were within spear throw. Then, and only then, did he seem to swell beyond his usual size, and become a leader whose simple example could encourage bravery from his men where words might fail.

Frontinius nodded at Julius with a determined expression.

‘If by some chance we’re in action before we reach the river I want to be up and in their faces the instant they show themselves. So you three had better be ready for anything.’

Julius nodded knowingly.

‘And since the Ninth will all be dead or dying, you want these three to overrun them and rescue that pretty sword, eh First Spear?’

His superior smiled grimly.

‘Well, you won’t be in with any chance of recovering it, Julius, because you’ll be leading one of the wings. We’ll have three centuries on your side of the line, ready for an envelopment once the front three have got the enemy fixed, when and if we bump into them. The left wing will be commanded by you, Julius, and will consist of your Fifth Century with the Eighth and Second behind you, and the right will consist of the First and Tenth Centuries, led by Titus.’

The hulking commander of the Tenth Century spoke up, his voice a bass growl as he pointed a finger at Julius.

‘Be ready to bring your girls running if we take the brunt of an attack, eh little man? Two centuries might struggle to hold back five hundred mutineers, even if the two centuries involved are the best in the cohort.’

Julius, himself a hulking brute of a man even if he was a head shorter than his colleague, grinned at him wolfishly before turning back to his old friend Frontinius.

‘And you, First Spear, where will you be if I’ve got your boys alongside mine?’

‘Me? I’ll be accompanying Centurion Caelius, as close behind the Ninth as we can manage. Now, Second Cohort . . .’ Their sister unit’s centurions stepped forward, their faces every bit as grim as those of their colleagues. ‘We all know that the legion cohort isn’t experienced enough to stand alone against a determined attack – no insult intended, colleague.’ Sergius nodded graciously to show that none was taken. ‘So I’ll have your lads close up behind us to provide fast reinforcement.’

‘You’re sure you know where to find this crossing?’

Dubnus nodded grimly in response to Arminius’s question, his head thrown back to suck greedily at the cold air as they followed the 9th Century’s extended line at a pace closer to a jog than a march.

‘As sure as I can be, given that I only saw the place from the opposite bank, and that was with my head six inches from the ground. Like I told your lads that have run forward to scout the river bank, the only real landmark I could see was a bloody great tree on this side of the river, as I recall it, bent over almost double and with its branches trailing over the water. When we find that, we’ve found the crossing.’

Marcus and Qadir had already decided to add even more pace to their advance by sending forward the half-dozen fastest distance runners in the century. The men in question had dumped their shields and spears on their mates and hared forward in front of the Ninth’s already rapid progress across the open ground between the road and the river, briefed to look for the landmark that Dubnus had described to them. Looking back, Marcus could see the shields of the centuries following them, a good half mile behind.