The troops obeyed the order without thought, their obedience drummed into them over long years of drill and practice fighting and reinforced by the shouts and pushes of their chosen man and his watch officer. The 5th Century advanced to their left into the scrub between road and forest, their shields raised against the continual harassing rain of arrows from the trees a hundred paces away, while the 9th Century to their right advanced briskly into the forest to their front in broken order, hunting through the trees for the rebel archers. Marcus, who had been marching alongside Dubnus, snatched a spear from the man closest to him and sprinted ahead of the advancing soldiers, outpacing even the fastest of them as he weaved around the massive oaks at a dead run, bursting through the scrubby bushes that dotted the gloomy forest floor.
The half-dozen Brigantian archers took fright in the face of the 5th Century’s advance across the open ground in front of them, their attack only ever intended to harass the auxiliary soldiers rather than bring them to open battle, turning in their retreat to loose one last volley at the advancing Romans. As they turned back to run for the shelter of the deeper forest, Marcus, now a good twenty paces ahead of Dubnus and his men and still running hard, drew back his spear arm and fixed his gaze on the rearmost of the barbarians, slowing his run to a trot, and drawing back the spear until its razor-sharp iron head was level with his ear. He hurled the weapon with a power and artistry that made light of his sprint through the trees, his arm extended to follow the missile’s trajectory to its target. Caught in the act of turning to run from the vengeful soldiers, the archer had only a split second’s realisation, a fleeting glimpse of the weapon’s blurred flight, before the spear arced down out of the trees and spitted him cleanly through the thigh. He toppled to the forest floor, his mouth gaping in a howl of agony as Marcus covered the remaining distance to stand over him with his sword drawn, watching the remaining tribesmen vanish into the forest’s gloom as he sheathed the weapon. Julius and Dubnus joined him, his hands on his hips as he stared down at the fallen barbarian, apparently breathing normally in spite of his exertions.
‘Nice throw, Marcus, that’s worth a few cups of wine once we get to Arab Town. You didn’t even hit the bone…’
The younger man scowled, stretching out his arm and spreading the fingers wide before bunching them into a fist and looking down at his knuckles, crisscrossed with scar tissue from his long years of tuition at the hands of his father’s bodyguards.
‘I must be losing my touch, Julius. I was aiming for the middle of his back.’
His brother officer laughed mirthlessly.
‘And nevertheless, tragic though it is that you missed your mark by a foot with a spear slung on the run between trees, here we have that rarest of commodities…’ He extended an arm to gesture to the tribesman, still writhing with the pain of his wound. ‘… a live barbarian captive. A bit soiled, I’ll give you that, but in no real danger of dying any time soon and ripe for a few questions, I’d say.’ He reached out and rapped on the spear’s wooden shaft, then took a hold of it and twisted it sharply, rotating the wooden shaft inside the man’s wound. The tribesman screamed again, louder than before, his eyes bulging with the effort wrung from his pain-racked body. The centurion smiled down at him. ‘I thought that might hurt. Anything you feel like telling us?’ The barbarian snarled back at him, spitting defiantly at his armoured chest. Julius smiled back even more broadly, looking down at the spittle dribbling down the shining metal rings. ‘Oh, good, a challenge…’
Hearing a voice behind him he stood up, turning away from the fallen tribesman. Rufius had crossed the gap between the road and the forest’s edge, and now stood staring into the shadows cast by the trees. He had picked up a fallen arrow and was examining the barbed head closely, talking in conversational tones to his comrades.
‘One of ours, I’d say. That puts paid to the story that they were all burned when we put the Noisy Valley stores to the torch. Just a shoot-and-run, do you think, or were they hoping to lure us into some nasty little ambush? That was the way in my day.’
Julius shrugged his indifference.
‘Your day, Rufius? Well, my friend, these days it’s just shoot-and-run. These are simple village boys, not tattooed Tava valley head jobs. I suppose it beats shooting at the squirrels. Casualties?’
The older man nodded, his face solemn.
‘You’ve lost one man, he choked on his own blood before I could even get a bandage carrier to him, and you’ve one man with another one of these stuck in his leg. It’ll come out easily enough once we get him to Arab Town.’
The centurion shook his head disgustedly, and then squatted back down next to his captive, batting away the man’s hands from their ineffectual fretting at the spear wound and switching to the man’s native language as he addressed the captive.
‘I’d leave that well alone if I were you, it’s going to hurt a lot more when it comes out.’ He took a firm grip of the spear’s shaft, the fallen tribesman’s eyes slitting in expectation of the pain to come. ‘And now, my lad, and without any further delay since we’re in a hurry to get off down the road to collect some more soldiers, you can tell me which village you’re from.’
The wounded man closed his eyes and shook his head, a tear trickling down his cheek. Julius slapped his face gently, shaking his head with mock sadness.
‘Come on, sonny, you know you’re going to tell me sooner or later, just cough it up now and save us both the unpleasantness.’
The tribesman shook his head grimly.
‘You’re going to kill me anyway. Just get it over with…’
Marcus squatted down alongside Julius, his expert eye appraising the tribesman’s wound as he spoke.
‘He’s got a point.’
‘Piss off, Two Knives, I’m going to get the name of this stupid bastard’s village, and then…’
‘And then you’re going to do what, exactly? Burn it to the ground? Kill every adult male? The place will probably be deserted once his mates get back there and tell their story. All we’ll ever achieve if we seek to punish these people for the crimes of a very few is turn more of them against us than ever attacked us in the first place.’
Julius stood, his face a picture of exasperation, one hand gesturing back to their captive.
‘So what do we do then, eh, Marcus? Just how do you propose to send these bastards the message that if they take us on they’ll end up regretting it?’
The younger man shrugged, pointing down at the wounded tribesman.
‘Kill him. Either that or get that spear out of his leg and get us back on the road. Just don’t fool yourself that if you kill him you’ll achieve anything other than to turn another dozen men from neutrals to enemies.’
The older man stared at him with a troubled expression.
‘And what about the fact that he was part of an ambush that killed one of our men?’
Marcus nodded, extending a hand to indicate the tribesman’s wound.
‘He’s got a spear through his leg. I’d say that’s a decent down payment on what he’ll have to suffer for the rest of his life. He’ll probably never run again, he’ll most likely walk with a limp… he’ll pay for his stupidity over the next thirty years, but this way he’s not a martyr for these fools to shout about, just a constant reminder of what happens when you cross the wrong people. Bandage carrier!’ He reached out and pulled the weapon smoothly up through the horrified tribesman’s thigh, easing its blade out of the wound’s opening with delicate care and passing it to Dubnus. The wounded man’s eyes rolled up as he lost consciousness, sagging back on to the hard ground. Marcus turned to the medic summoned by his call. ‘Get that leg tied off, enough to stop the bleeding and keep him alive.’ Wiping his hands on a handful of grass, the young officer turned back to his colleagues. ‘There you go. He’ll live, but he’ll be crippled for the rest of his days, a burden on his tribe, and every time he walks past it’ll send a powerful message to everyone around him. If you want to roll the dice with the big boys, you’d better be sure you can afford the stakes. Come on, let’s put your casualties on a cart and get back on the road to Arab Town. I suddenly find myself in need of a drink.’