‘This is worse than I expected. We’ve thrown a stone into a wasp’s nest, and we have only a matter of minutes before the swarm is upon us.’
Dubnus nodded, drawing his sword and hacking off the dead man’s head, picking it up by the mane of greasy hair and turning back to Scarface.
‘Did you actually see any more of them?’
The veteran shook his head, but his expression spoke volumes.
‘No, but as I was stalking this boy I could smell wood smoke, and plenty of it. Could be a dozen of them, could be the entire bloody valley full for all I know.’
‘Cocidius help us. Given that the warband’s supposed to be five miles farther east, and given that…’ The young centurion pointed to the severed head staring slackly back at them. ‘… I’d say we’re in deeper shit than what you’ve had sprayed on your boots.’ He pointed to one of the younger soldiers. ‘You, boy, you fancy yourself a runner, so you take this and you leg it back to the first spear as fast as you can go…’ He pushed the barbarian’s severed head into the soldier’s hands. ‘… and you tell the first spear there’s a camp over the hill, cooking fires lit, strength unknown, and make sure he gets to see that. He’ll know what to do.’
He turned to his men as the runner bounded away.
‘Right, one man runs to each tent party and tells them to get back here, quiet over quick, mind you, and save their wind. I reckon we’ve got a long run ahead of us.’
9
By chance, it was Rufius’s century that the runner reached first, and the veteran took one wide-eyed look at his grisly trophy before grabbing it from him and running back up the cohort’s column with a speed that belied his years. Finding the senior officers watching the 9th Century’s stealthy but hasty retreat with professional concern, he held out the dead barbarian’s head to his first spear, too breathless to speak. To his surprise, Scaurus was the first to speak.
‘Gods below, he’s a Venico!’
Furius wrinkled his brow.
‘He’s another dead barbarian, that’s what he is. Why so…’
Frontinius, having stared for a long, silent moment at the dead man’s head, at the face decorated with swirling blue tattoos, spoke over him as if not even aware that a superior officer was speaking.
‘How far is it back to last night’s campsite would you say, Centurion Rufius?’
‘Ten miles, give or take, First Spear.’
He nodded, and then turned to Scaurus.
‘You’re right, of course, that is indeed a barbarian of quite another tribe to those we thought we were facing. If Calgus has managed to achieve what this looks like, then we’re on very dangerous ground indeed.’
‘And you recommend…?’
‘That we get both cohorts turned around and running for their lives. In very short order this man’s mates are going to miss him, look for him and fail to find him, at which point they’ll come over that hill. The second they realise we’re here we’ll have a full warband at our heels. I’d get the message riders away to the legions too, tell them that we’ll be holding the line of the Red River at the waterfall ford.’
Prefect Furius’s frown deepened.
‘Not so fast, First Spear. We find a single barbarian several miles from our objective and we’re going to take to our heels for fear of the rest of the warband coming to find him? This is probably just a stray hunter, or…’
Rufius spoke out, having regained his wind from his run up the hill.
‘With respect, Prefect, that’s no stray. I’ve fought these bastards in the hills to the north of the River Tava, and those tattoos tell me he’s a warrior. And the scout century reported wood smoke, cooking fires most likely.’
Scaurus nodded decisively.
‘Enough chat.’ He raised a hand to silence his open-mouthed colleague. ‘No, Gracilus Furius, one moment. First Spear Frontinius, get the First Cohort turned round and headed for the ford. I’d recommend the double march, but that’s for your discretion. I’ll have a quiet word with my colleague while you get them moving.’
Frontinius saluted and turned away, then stopped and half turned back.
‘One problem, Prefect. The Eighth Century won’t sustain the double for more than a couple of miles, and I can’t risk three other officers to chivvy them along under these circumstances.’
‘I know. Tell Centurion Corvus that he’s on his own, free to make his way back to the ford by any route he sees fit, but we can’t wait for him. Now, my colleague…’
He led a protesting Furius away, ignoring the curious glances the message riders were giving the two of them as they waited for their instructions.
‘Come over here and listen to what I have to say. No, just for once, just this once, listen to another man’s opinion before shouting your own from the rooftops.’ The other man’s spluttering protests ran dry under his level stare, replaced by a thin-lipped glare as Scaurus spoke quickly, and with a hard edge in his voice that his colleague had not heard before.
‘That dead man belonged to a tribe we call the Venicones. In their own language they call themselves the “Hunting Hounds”. And if we think we’ve had a rough war this far, then I can tell you it’s about to get worse. Much worse. They live beyond the Antonine Wall and their men are tattooed, wearing their warpaint all the time and not just when the mood takes them. There are thousands of them, and they live to raid, and burn, and most of all to kill their enemies in cruel and barbarous ways. They have an utter disregard for danger, and a burning desire to see us dead. All of us.’
Furius had quickly lost any hint of his previous bluster, his eyes flicking nervously to the 1st Cohort which had now turned around and was heading back across the hill’s empty expanse at the double march. Scaurus continued to speak as he tightened his helmet strap ready for the march.
‘You want to know how I know this? You’ve doubtless heard about the Antonine Wall, and how we decided to abandon it, purely to shorten lines of supply back to Yew Grove and Fortress Deva. All of which was a carefully concocted fiction. There were nineteen forts on the northern wall, more than we have on the current border, yet guarding a frontier less than half the length. It was perfect, less than forty miles to defend, easy to build a concentration of troops that would intimidate the locals into peace.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve read the governor’s report scrolls from the period, and they were genuinely terrifying. Those inked-up bastards burned out more than half of the forts at one time or another, killing thousands of men before we decided to cut our losses and leave them well alone. So, colleague Furius, when whoever’s camped over that hill comes looking and finds our tracks beaten into the grass, I want to be as far along the march back to the Red River as possible. You can stay if you like, but I guarantee that the last few minutes of your life will be more exciting than you would have wished.’
He turned to go and Furius recovered his wits, putting a hand on his sleeve and blurting out a question. His voice quavered slightly, and his gaze flicked to left and right, like that of a man seeking a means of escape.
‘Surely the governor would want us to hold our ground? Shouldn’t we…’
Scaurus turned back to his brother officer, a softer look on his face than the hard-eyed stare he’d fixed on the other man a moment before.
‘It’s all right, Furius, I was there at Thunderbolt Gorge, remember? I know what you’re going through, because I was there the last time it happened to you. And no, there’s nothing to be gained from making a stand here except a quick and unpleasant death. The governor put us out here to make sure that nobody gets to swing a hook into the legions’ left flank when they go in to dig Calgus out from his hidey-hole, agreed? Which, you might have guessed, is exactly the reason that these barbarian maniacs are lurking out here. They won’t have come south looking for a fight in anything less than full strength, so unless we manage to alert Ulpius Marcellus to their presence, he’ll find that even two over-strength legions are not really any match for thirty thousand or more angry barbarians driving in hard from two or three different directions. Unless we manage to warn him what’s waiting out here we’ll end up with Calgus in possession of every bloody eagle in Britannia, the country aflame and probably lost for good. I suggest that you get your men moving, Prefect.’