‘There they are!’ the dispatch rider announced.
We came over the lip of the ridge. There was a century of the cohort here; sentries had been posted as the other men rested on the ground, their faces haggard from almost a week of crossing such terrain. ‘The fight’s over?’ I asked, knowing that the men would be kitted up and prepared to move as a reserve if it wasn’t.
‘Yeah,’ one of the sentries answered me. ‘Was over pretty quick. You going up there?’
‘I am.’
‘We haven’t had word on the casualties, yet. Do you mind sending word back? We’ve all got mates up there.’
I promised that I would; then I rode onwards. I passed another century. Then another. Neither was the unit of my friend. Two centuries had made the attack, I was told. Marcus must be among them.
The fortified village loomed ahead. It sat on a summit, man-made walls of stone filling the spaces where nature had provided bastions of rock. It would have been formidable to bandits and brigands, but to Roman soldiers it had fallen quickly, and now three of the six buildings inside were ablaze.
My heart stuck in my throat. Before the wall, I saw that seven bodies had been lined up beside each other. Roman soldiers. The butcher’s bill.
Balius was exhausted, but I pushed him on. In my haste to get from the saddle I half fell, and then I was over to the bodies, scanning them, moving from face to face. Some were young. Some were old.
None were Marcus.
‘Oi,’ a comrade of the dead accosted me. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ There was a spade in his hand. Part of the burial party. I had no doubt he’d use the tool on me if I gave the wrong answer.
‘I’m looking for my friend.’
He softened. ‘Name?’
‘Marcus. He’s an optio.’
‘Not dead,’ the man confirmed, and I felt a weight rise from my shoulders. ‘This is everyone.’
I looked at the fallen. Most had wounds to their faces, necks and shoulders. Killed as they had stormed the wall. ‘A hard fight?’
The soldier scraped his spade along the dirt, and looked at the dead. ‘Hard enough.’
I went in search of Marcus.
I found my friend. His arms were red with blood.
‘Corvus?’ There was no surprise in his tone. He was numb. Numb from combat. I had experienced it myself, and now I bore witness to it in my brother.
‘I came as soon as I heard. I’m sorry, Marcus. I wanted to fight with you.’
He smiled, then. ‘I finally got blooded. It was a long wait.’
‘You killed?’
‘Two, I think.’
I looked around me. The enemy dead lay out in the dirt. Two dozen of them. Maybe more.
They weren’t all men.
‘Any survivors?’
‘Of theirs?’ Marcus shook his head. ‘A couple. We told them what would happen if they tried to stand. Did they think they could hold back a cohort?’
I wondered at that. What would have happened if they had surrendered? Likely they would have been accused of supporting the rebels. Maybe the men would have been killed, and their women and children enslaved, or worse.
I heard evidence of that now. Screams from one of the huts that was not ablaze. A woman’s screams. Then a second voice. She sounded younger.
Marcus saw me looking. ‘This is war, I suppose. The men are entitled to the spoils.’
I nodded. What Marcus said was a law as old as time. Still, the screams scratched at the inside of my skull. I was glad of the distraction when a centurion walked over to us, his face almost totally swathed in bandage. ‘I’ve got to go back to the rear and get this fucking thing sewn up,’ he swore. ‘I’m taking the walking wounded with me, and two sections as stretcher-bearers and escort. The rest of the century is yours until I get back, Marcus. All right?’
Marcus delivered a salute as though he was talking to the Emperor himself. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Look after my men,’ the centurion said, and I could see that it pained him to be leaving. ‘Who’s this?’ he then asked.
‘My brother from Iader, sir. Corvus.’
‘Corvus?’ His one visible eye opened wider. ‘The man who saved the eagle? It’s an honour to meet you, standard-bearer.’
He put out his hand. I took it. I saw him look about me, and realized that he was seeking the legion’s standard.
‘Under the guard of the Tenth, in camp,’ I explained.
‘Ah, well, a hero of the legion like yourself is welcome in my century anytime. Especially if he’s a friend to Marcus.’
‘He’s my brother, sir,’ Marcus corrected with a smile.
It was a proud moment for him, and I loved my friend for it. I almost smiled myself, but then another scream of a raped woman cut through the mountain air.
The centurion shook his head. ‘I told the lads to gag her.’
He took his leave then. I shadowed Marcus as he took control of his men. He was a natural leader. There were work parties to be organized. Roman dead needed to be buried. The enemy were rolled down the steep mountainside. The stone of their wall followed them. The position would not be left for the rebels to reoccupy.
I heard the sound of hoofbeats, and turned. The man in the saddle was squat and stern: cohort commander of the Sixth. ‘Marcus. You’re commanding the century now?’
‘Yes, sir!’
The officer surveyed the industry of my friend, and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Scouts say there’s another village a few miles ahead. We need to keep the pressure up, so I’m moving the cohort out now while we still have daylight. Finish your work, stay here for the night, then at first light, move out to meet us. We’re going straight along the ridgeback, but I’ll send you runners at dawn. They’ll meet you on the trail.’
‘Yes, sir!’
The cohort commander returned the salute. ‘Good job today, Marcus.’
When the old soldier was out of sight I crossed the two steps to my friend and embraced him. I knew how much this meant to him. ‘I’m so proud of you, brother.’ His first action. His first kills. I yearned for the days when we had been children, and innocent of life’s cruelty, but Marcus had dreamed of this day since he had come marching out of the womb. ‘I’m so fucking proud of you.’
He was my brother.
31
The night did not pass quietly.
There were four women. I learned that from their screams. Each had their own melody of pain. Each had their own words that begged for mercy. I doubted the Italians raping them understood any of it.
I did.
‘Please!’
‘Stop!’
‘Not her. Not my daughter…’
I stood a lonely vigil. Marcus and his men had been slogging hard through the mountains. Most chose sleep over rape. Sentries were rotated. A double guard was standard practice at night, but I stood alone, with only the screams for company. I did not enjoy the sound of such misery, but…
But they were far easier to bear than the death of Marcus would be. The women had been on the wrong side yesterday – the losing side – and this was war. It was as simple as that.
Wasn’t it?
I tried to clear such questions from my head, but where to take my mind? Should I think about Priscus with a spear through his chest? Should I think about Brutus, decaying if not already dead? By his own admission, his life had run its course once he could no longer serve in war. Perhaps I should think about the death that had sent me running to become an instrument of such violence in the first place? A party to rape.
Another scream. It was shrill.
A child’s.