‘Ask yourselves, however, what would happen if we managed to repeat that trick, and crush another of their legions in the same way. What then, when there are no more replacement soldiers to be had?’ He allowed the silence to build, looking around him with a broad grin, watching realisation starting to dawn on the men around him. ‘Three legions, my brothers, that’s all they have. There will be no further reinforcement from over the sea. If we break one more legion they will be unable to replace it, not now that every available man in the northern empire is already in this province. The Roman governor will be faced with a stark choice, to defend their wall with only two legions, and one of those needed in the south to keep the western tribes under control, or to retreat south by a hundred miles, and form a new line of defence based on the fortresses of Yew Grove and Fortress Deva. An indefensible line, with a mountain range running straight through the middle and the whole of the Brigantes tribe south of their wall suddenly liberated to join the rebellion and to double our strength in fighting men. The governor will try to hold on, to wait for eventual reinforcement rather than face the disgrace of abandoning a wall built by an emperor and making their defence of Britannia impossible. And he will be doomed to fail.’
Now was the critical moment in his oration, his chance to grab the men around him by the balls.
‘My brothers, if we can just take down one of the legions facing us there will be no more reinforcement for their northern frontier, and their general will be forced to make the terrible choice I have described to you. And this whole country will fall to us like an apple whose time on the tree has come to its end. We will be free to take back the wealth they have stolen from us, free to travel wherever we wish without needing their permission. Free to live the way we choose, without their legions forever forcing us to live by their rules.’ He waited for a moment, turning to look around his audience. Every man’s eyes were locked on to him, and in each face he saw nothing like the apathy of five minutes before. Nearly.
‘So, how do we destroy another legion? First, my brothers, we are going to anger the Romans, by taking our war to them in a way that they will neither predict nor be able to tolerate. Tonight will be a fat moon by which we will be able to make our way to their wall, and cross it undetected. Nightfall today will see us in position to strike at a border fort, to mount a swift and terrible attack that will destroy both fort and garrison, and by tomorrow evening we will have returned here in triumph. Of course, their cavalry will outpace the legions in the search for us as we retreat back here, they will find our trail and follow it here, bringing the legions in their wake, but that is exactly what we want them to do. When they think they have us trapped, that will be the moment for our greater trap to be sprung.’
‘And this greater trap, Calgus. Just what would that consist of?’
The question came from Brennus. Of course.
‘Powerful allies, King Brennus. Powerful enough to smash a legion with the shock of their attack, if that legion is stretched to besiege us here as I expect.’
Later, with his plan of attack reluctantly approved by the gathered tribal nobles, Calgus sought out Martos, King Brennus’s nephew. Ignoring the hostile looks he was getting from the men around the young noble, he strode up to the man, stepping close to speak in quiet and measured tones.
‘Prince Martos, I would like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you’ll hear me?’
Martos, checking the edge of his sword with his thumb, nodded dourly.
‘I will speak with you if that is your wish, Calgus. I may not agree with your methods, but I believe that we both want the same thing from these next few days.’
Indeed we do, mused Calgus inwardly as he extended an arm, inviting the Votadini prince to walk with him, but only one of us is going to live to enjoy it.
The sky clouded over in the early afternoon, and a thin drizzle contrived to insinuate itself into any and every place it could possibly reach. The Tungrians spent the day making sure that they were ready for another lengthy spell in the field, sharpening weapons and checking their equipment for any fault that might let them down on the march. The 8th Century spent the morning on the exercise field practising with swords and shields, every man paired with a veteran soldier from the cohort’s other centuries and drilled time and time again in the simple disciplines of attack and defence.
Marcus walked among his allocated forty men with Qadir, gauging which of them might just be capable of standing in a battle line’s front rank by watching the faces of the soldiers set to teach them their murderous trade.
‘That one, training with the one-eyed soldier. Front rank.’
The imperturbable chosen man made a mark on his writing tablet and followed Marcus down the line. When they compared notes with Julius, Dubnus and Rufius, their combined findings made uncomfortable material for discussion with First Spear Frontinius when Marcus met up with him to discuss the morning session’s results.
‘I’ve got about a dozen men that I can put in the front rank with a clear conscience, and another thirty or so with a fighting chance of surviving their first fight. After that it’s a lottery, the rest of them are just so much padding…’
Frontinius nodded gravely.
‘Work them harder. You’ve got a day, perhaps two.’
Soon after midday another cohort arrived at the fort, and was directed to establish their camp alongside the Tungrians. Once the soldiers realised the identity of the newcomers they quickly entered into the usual spirit of the two cohorts’ encounters, exchanges of abuse quickly giving way to exchanges of news and gossip. Scaurus and Frontinius waited for the appropriate period of time, then made their way into the 2nd Tungrian cohort’s camp and presented themselves at the command tent. Escorted inside, they found First Spear Neuto and Prefect Furius bent over an equipment list, working out what to raid the fort’s stores for. Furius turned, and, recognising Scaurus with a heartbeat’s pause that was imperceptible unless the watcher was looking for it, he took the offered hand and shook it vigorously.
‘Rutilius Scaurus! I hear you’ve got the First Tungrians, and here I am with the Second Cohort! Just like old times with the good old Twelfth, eh? Here, meet my first spear, Neuto. Neuto, this is my old comrade Rutilius Scaurus, from my days in Germania with the Twelfth Legion. Scaurus and I were both thin-stripe tribunes with the legion when we were sent to root out the German tribes, both of us not much better than callow youths with no real idea of soldiering, and yet here we both are with independent commands to play with.’
The first spear gave Scaurus and Frontinius a look that spoke volumes for his relationship with his prefect, offering his hand to Scaurus before clasping Frontinius’s and slapping him on the shoulder with his other hand. The two men were clearly glad to see each other, and at Neuto’s suggestion they headed off to the fort’s officers’ mess to share information, and work out whether either could help the other with supplies or equipment. Outside the tent Neuto gave Frontinius a look that told him even more about Prefect Furius, his voice kept low but with a distinct edge of anger.
‘I’m glad to see you, old comrade, although I wish it were under happier circumstances. Let’s get a beaker of something warm inside us and I’ll share my news with you… not all of it good.’
With the first spears’ departure the two prefects stared at each other in a long moment of silence. Furius spoke first, his eyes suddenly hard as he faced his former comrade.