Authors: N. M. Browne
Next I need to find my contubernium, my messmates. Although I have little time, my footsteps slow as I approach the newly built timber barracks.
Marcellus, the Decanus, is outside talking to another soldier. I slip inside without him seeing me. The place smells of new wood, fish sauce, hot oil and the stale odour of men sleeping too closely together.
Julius, the injured scout, is snoring on one of the four bunk beds that line the walls. I can tell by the steady rhythm of his breathing that he is very deeply asleep. I can see even in the dimness that Marcellus’ kitbag and shield are in their places against the wall and, hanging from a nail on the wall, is his pouch. He won’t keep money there; his valuables are in a small arm bag, but he might keep his game pieces in the pouch and, if I am lucky, other things that would be more use to me. I tiptoe across the hard earth floor. All my senses strain. I can smell the wine on Julius’ breath as he breathes out; its sourness fills the room. My fingers find the drawstring of his pouch and close over one small disc of bone. I was right; it is where he keeps the passes. With this disc I can leave the fort to enjoy the delights of the bathhouse and of the alehouse. Praise be to Mithras, and to Lugh. It is only when I have palmed two of the discs that I become aware of a third person in the room – Marcellus.
‘What are you up to sneaking round in here?’ He keeps his voice low and I guess that he doesn’t want to provoke a scene with a drunken Julius any more than I do. I can hear the violence in his tone as clearly as if he’d shouted.
‘I’m getting a pass token. I need to buy a replacement knife in the vicus and get a bath. I’ve been on patrol for days . . . I’m entitled.’
‘There are rumours that Lucius is dead. You’d better tell me what happened, you dirty little Brit spawn. If he died because of your pissing cowardice, all you’re “entitled” to is a spear through the guts and a lingering death . . .’
I slip the tokens into my pouch as he moves towards me.
‘Is he dead?’
I nod, then realise he can’t see me. ‘Yes. He’s dead,’ I say.
‘Bastard.’ Marcellus is a big man of twenty or so, fit and lean and angry. It was a mistake to try to sneak past him. I notice that he has wound the dangling metal-decorated leather strips of his cingulum around his buckle to keep them from jangling. I take this to mean that he intends to hurt me – silently. He has something in his hand – not his sword but his pugio, his dagger – a handy enough weapon at close quarters. I know that he and Lucius were close, that they had served together in Gaul. Of all of us in this contubernium they were the only regular pairing. I fumble for my belt knife but I’ve lost it somewhere in the snow-covered wilds. At least I’m taller than Marcellus, with a longer reach: I’ll have to make that count.
Julius snorts in his sleep and turns over. Marcellus and I both hold our breath. Will he wake? Neither of us moves until his snoring has settled again into its regular pattern. Marcellus switches his dagger to his left hand and drops into a crouch. In spite of the darkness I can see him all too clearly. He is breathing hard too so that his surprise attack is nothing of the sort. Even so I fail to dodge his punch that smacks across my jaw. He has a strong right hand, but I’m more worried by the pugio. I grapple with him. I take a couple of solid punches to the kidneys as I abandon all efforts at defence to get to the dagger. He is panting with the effort he is putting behind his blows, but I don’t feel them. I use both my hands and all my force to twist his arm and wrist until he drops the dagger. It falls with a clang on the hard mud floor, but Julius doesn’t wake. I could have broken Marcellus’ arm. He isn’t as strong as I’ve always supposed. He headbutts me and I go down. We are rolling on the floor now. He keeps raining punches down on me, but I protect myself as best I can until I get an opening. I fight the urge to growl. He shifts. I duck out from under him and manage to free my right hand. I hit him hard, full in the face. The blow connects with a satisfying crack. Marcellus gives a muffled cry. I’m pretty sure I’ve broken his nose. He staunches the blood with his cloak and drags me across the ground by the neck of my mail shirt as I scrabble to my feet. We spill out of the door together, barely keeping upright.
It is sleeting now and in moments we are both soaked and shivering. His blood mingles with rain and runs down his face. He pulls me to him. His voice is too low for anyone else to hear.
‘I know you killed Lucius, you arse-wipe, and one day we’ll be somewhere without witnesses.’ He straightens up and waves away the gathering onlookers. Everyone likes a fight but the officers. He’s our Decanus and it would send a poor example if he was on a charge. His knuckles are raw and bleeding, but as long as no one saw him hit me, he’ll get away with it. I’m out of breath too and I can’t stand up. My back and side have taken some punishment, but I still have the tokens and they were worth the beating.
‘Look at the state of you!’ Marcellus says contemptuously in a voice pitched to be heard. He is still breathing hard and can’t staunch the blood from his nose, but is hanging on to his dignity. ‘Straighten up, you native bastard, you’re a disgrace to the legion.’ Men are staring. Everyone knows what has happened. I’d bet that the rumour mill already has me down as a cursed liability, causing the death of two of my contubernium. He glares at me and mimes slitting my throat. I don’t think so. I could have had him in there, if I’d gone all out. Something in me has definitely changed.
I wait for him to march off in the direction of the bathhouse and then I limp hastily to the valetudinarium. I’m still in full travel-stained kit and that raises a few curious looks. I don’t know what state my face is in either, but I can taste blood and my lip feels oddly swollen and sore. There are only two centuries camped here, not more than a hundred and sixty men, and we all know each other by sight at least. Rumour of my beating at Marcellus’ hand will be all round the fort within the hour. That might work in my favour. No one would be surprised if I escaped to the bathhouse to clean up and recover. All I have to do is smuggle Trista out with me.
I know as soon as I see her that she is having another of her visions. She is thrashing around like one possessed and moaning as if in the grip of the vilest of nightmares.
‘Trista!’ I don’t dare to touch her and make the sign against the evil eye. She opens her eyes and then a moment later appears to focus on my face. I don’t ask her what she’s seen. By her expression it was nothing pleasant and we have trouble enough as it is.
‘What happened to you?’ she begins, her voice croaky.
‘Shh. Don’t talk. Can you stand?’ She nods but doesn’t move. It hurts when I bend, but I lean forward so that she can put her arms round my neck. I try not to wince as I help her to a sitting position. She has a spicy, heady perfume that fills my head with unwanted images, which remind me that she isn’t a soldier and she isn’t a man.
‘You’re going to have to walk by yourself. We can’t attract attention.’ Once more she nods her agreement but seems incapable of doing anything further. She seems dazed, shocked, and when I accidentally brush her hand it is cold and clammy. I can see that under her helmet her pale face shines with sweat: she doesn’t look well.
She doesn’t complain, but drags herself to her feet. I collect her pack, shield and spear, which have been propped against the wall, though it’s agony. She leans on me and I have to shake her free. It pains me to hold her, but I don’t want to let her go.
‘You have to be a Roman soldier, Trista, and a healthy one. I have a pass to get to the vicus.’ She looks blank. ‘I can get us out to the village outside the fort, the vicus. We need a token to be allowed out of the gates. This army is very organised. There are systems for everything.’ She nods but I don’t think she understands. My mother never could deal with the way my father’s people had rules for everything. It’s no wonder she could not stay with him.
The sleet has turned to rain by the time the two of us stagger outside. In the light of the braziers Trista looks ghastly, as if she has been battling demons in her dreams. She readjusts her helmet and her equipment.
‘Will they not think it odd that we go into the vicus fully armed?’
She’s right of course, but if we have the right pass no one will question us. ‘Leave the talking to me.’ She raises an eyebrow and I feel a fool because, of course, we have no choice about that.
I lead the way and try to look normal; I’m not sure I know what that is any more. I can’t imagine how I ever thought I belonged here among these people, these rules. It all smells so wrong. I pull myself together, nod at a couple of the men I recognise and chat loudly to Trista in the Latin that she doesn’t understand.
The fort is laid out in orderly rows in exactly the same way as our temporary camps and every other fort I’ve ever been in. Those not on duty busy themselves with kit maintenance, dice games or sleeping. It is early yet for the evening meal, but the bread ovens are fired and already in use. I lick my lips. We still haven’t eaten.
We are at the heavy, reinforced fortress gates. I know the guard slightly – he is around my age and also from Armorica. I allow myself to limp as I approach and try to smile the rueful smile of a young recruit who’s just been beaten by his Decanus. Smiling hurts. I hand over the bone discs I took from Marcellus. The guardsman, Brutus, examines them carefully.
‘Need a bath,’ I say conversationally as he wrinkles his nose.
‘Who’s your friend?’ he asks. Trista gives him a hard unfriendly stare and he looks away. She can be very intimidating when she chooses. It works to our advantage.
‘Oh, this is Triss from Gaul.’ I point casually at her with my thumb and she gives a barely perceptible nod.
‘I hear you ran into some trouble,’ Brutus says. I know he’s bored and ready for any conversation. I don’t have time for that. It is fully dark now and the moon is so bright I can barely look at it. I can smell the night air. It is full of delicious, tempting aromas, the reek of dead things and the stench of dirty man-things. I am hungry and there are things out there I can eat. An owl hoots in the darkness and my blood stirs. When a lone wolf howls, I shiver at the sound. My muscles tremble and for a moment I feel a surge of raw animal power.
‘Morcant – are you all right?’
I want to shake away this strange feeling. It is making it impossible to behave as I should. I can’t answer. As I shake my head, I can almost convince myself that I feel the soft movement of luxuriant fur ruffling under my cloak. I am so hot. The man things cling to me, stinking of sheep and smoke and the acrid flavour of dirty human bodies. I have to get free of the things that tangle and trap me. I bite and tear with my teeth, rip socks and caligae, taste leather and the cold tang of oil and metal. Man stuff. I gag because the stench chokes me. There is too much of it everywhere. I stretch out my long, strong spine and the man-things no longer cling and confine. I can wriggle free of them. The sword clangs to the ground with a sharp clatter that startles me. The clean air tastes crisply of snow, of wolf and hunger. Hunger has a hard, bitter smell, bright as stripped bone.
The male cries out and the female makes a sound. I had almost forgotten her, though it is her stink that is in my nose. She makes a small mewling cry like a hare in its death throes. I remember plump flesh tearing, frail bones splintering in wolf jaws. Hot blood spurts like berry juice, sweet and wet in my maw. Hungry. Hungry. She steps back and her smell is rank with fear. Can I do that to her? She is much bigger than a hare. My mouth is wet with hunger, my wetness drips on to the ground. No I can’t do that to her. I remember her. She is Trista, my ally not my prey.
I hear the lone wolf cry again and I throw back my head and howl my message: I am near, a strong, fast male in my prime, with a fine voice in my throat and a powerful hunger in my belly.
The she-wolf has come for me and I will answer her call.
Chapter Thirteen
Morcant howls and he is a wolf again. There is no warning. One moment Morcant is talking to the guard and grinning in spite of his battered face, the next he changes. The man becomes the shadow and the shadow becomes flesh, fur and fierce predator’s eyes. The soldier guarding the gates screams and fumbles for his weapon. My longsword is in my hand before I’ve thought about it. I cry out. The wolf’s glance is baleful. He bares his teeth, but does not attack. Morcant the man is not asleep. I see that. It must make a difference and I trust that the wolf will not attack me. I’m right. He doesn’t attack but leaps past the still startled guard, streaking through the vicus. I have to follow him.
The guard wears only a tunic beneath his body armour. He has no shield. Shock has made him slow. I thrust the pointed edge of my blade into the only weakness in his metal carapace I can see, his unprotected underarm. I feel the sword pierce then slice through his muscled flesh. I push down hard until it bites into bone and then I withdraw it cleanly. The cut is more than enough to disable him. He shrieks and falls away from me. It is too dark to see the blood flow. He can’t chase me – that is all that matters – and I sprint through the gate before the rest of the fort can come to his aid.
Outside the gate there is little light and I run blindly away from the fort. Ahead I glimpse the low, lithe figure of the wolf, loping towards the distant blackness of the forest. I hear screams, the sound of stalls overturned. It is all confusion and behind me I hear the alarming, musical blast of a horn; it can only be a call to arms and I know that the soldiers are mustering. Soon I’ll be pursued.