The century started to climb, at first grumbling quietly at the renewed exercise but then, as the view below them expanded with their progress up the slope, and as the cooling breeze dried their sweat, with less complaining and more chatter about what they could see from their elevated viewpoint. After a few minutes of climbing Marcus stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath to slow down his racing heart. Qadir, following close behind him, took the opportunity to pause in his turn.
‘This is harder work than I expected.’
Marcus nodded, pointing down at the marching camp.
‘Yes, but look at the view. See, there’s my old century toiling away at the ankle-breaker.’
‘Ankle… breaker?’
‘Sorry, I don’t suppose you’re familiar with our terms. It’s a ditch that is dug all the way around a marching camp, if time allows, and the spoil is thrown to the inside of the ditch to form the basis for the turf wall. It’s called the ankle-breaker because the sides are cut straight, and at least two feet deep. If you fall into it in the darkness you’ll almost certainly break your ankle. We haven’t bothered with it until now, not with two legions within earshot, but now that we’re well and truly alone out here it’s a necessity.’
His chosen man nodded, gazing down at the labouring troops.
‘I see. And you know they are your former troops because…?’
‘Ah, that’s easy. I can see Dubnus striding round and shouting at the idlers. There, see? Add to that the fact that there seem to be a gang of barbarians carrying turf for him…’
Qadir nodded.
‘Should we perhaps resume our climb? Some of the men are already close to the top.’
Marcus turned back to look up the hill.
‘Gods below, you lot might not like marching, but give you a peak to climb…’
The view from the top of the hill was worth the climb. Down in the valley below they could see some of Tertius’s men working their way up the hill on the far side of the river, while other tent parties had split off to left and right to follow the line of the river to north and south. The marching camp was already half built, its wall casting an appreciable shadow in the late afternoon sunshine. The land was pretty much bare of any vegetation bigger than small bushes except for a number of trees scattered down both banks of the Red River to the south of the falls. To the north and west were rolling hilltops of much the same height, although a succession of gradually higher peaks rose towards the highest of all, a good ten miles distant. To the east, the southern slope of the hill facing the ford ended abruptly in a near-vertical drop.
‘That’s interesting.’ Marcus pointed down at the river. ‘See, there’s a shelf of hard rock running through the hillside, that’s what makes the waterfall so tall. This side of the river it’s hidden under the ground, but on the other side of the river it’s been uncovered.’ He stared down at the seam of rock running away into the distance. To the south of the outcrop was gently sloping land seamed by tributary streams of the Red. ‘You know, that makes the riverbank below the falls much easier to defend. It would take a good while to get a body of men down that rock face to the far bank, it’s steep enough to make for a slow climb, and far too tall to jump.’
‘Yes, but look over there.’
Marcus followed Qadir’s pointing finger. Off to the east, almost at the limit of visibility, a line of smoke was rising from a valley three or four peaks away.
‘Might that be the barbarian camp?’
Marcus nodded.
‘I’d guess so. And if we can see that…’
They turned to the south-east, taking in the view down the Red River’s valley. Far away, down on the flat land out of the hills’ undulations, they could see the occasional flash of sun on polished metal.
‘The legions. They’ll be camping for the night too, probably busy doing exactly the same as us. Hacking out a marching camp and dreaming of a dip in the river.’
‘Yes. Unaware that up here there are two cohorts who have already washed their sweaty backsides in the water that will flow past them in an hour’s time.’
Marcus laughed at him, unable to contain his amusement at the Hamian’s turn of phrase.
‘If I didn’t know better, Chosen Man Qadir, I’d say that you’ve spent too much time consorting with Morban of late. “Washed their sweaty backsides…?”’
Qadir grimaced.
‘It’s inevitable. You should hear some of the things that our men have started coming out with.’
First Spear Frontinius caught Tertius watching him again as they reached the crest of the valley’s eastern slope. The 2nd Cohort centurion had been shooting him surreptitious glances ever since the first spear had declared his intention to join them in fording the river and exploring the ground on the other side. The river’s fast-flowing water had been delightfully cold, cooling and refreshing the troops of Tertius’s century and breathing fresh vigour into their tired bodies as they waded across the calf-deep stream.
‘Amazing what a bit of running water will do for a man, eh, Tertius? Ten minutes ago this lot were puffing and groaning at the thought of more marching, and now they’re off up the hill like fourteen-year-olds on a promise.’
Tertius answered with a non-committal grunt, continuing his climb up the valley’s side. The first spear smiled to himself. This was a game he played with loaded dice.
‘So tell me, Centurion, since we’ve not met before, how long have you served with the Second Tungrians?’
The other man took a long moment to answer, his tone cautious.
‘Thirteen years, First Spear. I joined a year after the cohort moved to Fair Meadow.’
‘Local boy?’
Tertius’s reserve was still evident in the guarded tones of his reply.
‘Not really. My father was a centurion with the Twentieth Legion, he retired to Veteran’s Hill with my mother before I was born.’
Another officer that had settled down with a girl from a fortress vicus, Frontinius mused, a marriage of convenience for both parties. An older man with money and influence, but lacking a companion with whom to share his retirement, and a woman past her youth and staring into the abyss of approaching middle age, with soldiers’ money getting harder to come by as her looks started to fade. She would have provided him with company and comfort in return for respectability and security. A new start in one of the veterans’ colony towns was the usual way to provide suitable anonymity to such a union.
‘A soldier’s son, then. He must have told you a good number of tales about his time following the eagle. The Twentieth was heavily involved in putting down the last bit of local stupidity, back in the sixties.’
Tertius smiled.
‘That he did. I grew up with the old man’s stories, that and his mates forever showing up to sit round and relive their glory days…’
‘And so you ended up on the wall, eager to make him proud.’
‘He died five years ago, before I made centurion. It was his last ambition to see me with a vine stick in my hands, but making it to officer rank takes the time it takes… for most of us.’
The last comment was added in a tone so quiet that Frontinius half wondered whether he had imagined it. He pushed on, as the men in front of them turned up the slope towards the saddle, the lower ridge between two hills.
‘You have a good first spear, one of the best. And how’s that new tribune shaping up… Furius, isn’t it?’
Tertius grimaced slightly, although it could have been the effort they were now having to put into climbing the valley’s side.
‘Tribune Furius is a strong man, First Spear. He does what he thinks is right, and allows the consequences to fall out as they will.’
Frontinius snorted.
‘Don’t I know it! I’ve a double century of archers to prove that. I hear he’s a man with a taste for the crucifix as well.’
Tertius looked startled, his mouth working without anything coming out, the sudden reminder of his brother turning the words to dust in his mouth. Frontinius ploughed on in a gentler tone, recognising the emotion washing over the centurion.