‘It is Tribune Scaurus’s opinion that the time has come for us to deal with the bandits who hide in the Arduenna forest. And that is his decision, not the centurion’s, not mine and most certainly not yours. Very shortly now you will be inspected and briefed in more detail by Centurion Corvus, and then we will march to join the other cohorts outside the city walls. Given our orders to be ready for battle, soldier, you would be better questioning yourself as to whether your sword is sharp and your arm strong, since you may have need of both before the day is ended.’
‘Cheeky Hamian b-’
Scarface bit off the last word of his muttered imprecation as Qadir’s pole swung out from his shoulder with surprising speed, and he winced as the brass knob struck his helmet’s iron plate with a heavy clang. The pole was more usually employed to push a century’s rearmost men into action should they prove reluctant to advance, but Qadir was as handy with its secondary use, as a forceful instrument of his authority, as any other chosen man in the cohort. He paced down the row of men with his face set in a neutral expression, although the abashed Scarface, despite the fact that he was concentrating on the barrack in front of him with as much force as he could muster, knew only too well that the Hamian’s eyes would be burning with barely suppressed anger.
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, since you’re a senior man. The next time you challenge me to ignore a casual insult made within the range of my excellent hearing, you and I will be enjoying a swift but ugly discussion behind the barracks.’ Scarface redoubled his close attention to the wall in front of him and kept his mouth firmly shut. For all his own prowess in the dirty art of barrack-block squabbles, usually settled in the first few seconds with instinctive brutality, Qadir was known to be both fast with his fists and boots and, when sufficiently roused, utterly without scruple in using them to make his point to the rare recalcitrant that chose to ignore his deceptively gentle admonishment. That the veteran soldier would give the big Hamian a decent fight was without doubt, but that he would end up on the losing end of the matter was also fairly obvious. The chosen man gazed levelly at him for a moment before continuing. ‘Good. Order is restored. Since the soldier here feels the need for a better understanding of the plan for today’s activity, I will elucidate, which, for those among you whose education has primarily been centred on stabbing barbarians, means that I will explain.’
The Hamian stared out across the ranks of blank-faced soldiers, his face set hard.
‘In terms that you men will understand, we are marching to attack the bandits who hide in the big forest. They are currently living in a camp close to the far bank of the river, and we will be seeking to trap them there, and prevent them from escaping to their fortress deeper in the forest. If they escape into the forest it will be a bad thing, and much unhappiness will result. And unhappiness, as we all know, flows in only one direction. So I suggest that you all do what you’re told, when you’re told to do it! And one last thought, gentlemen. We’re going to be fighting a hardened enemy, on his own ground and after several months of doing little but guard duty. And if I add up all the money that your weapons and equipment have cost, and then throw in the small brass coin each of you is worth into the bargain, it’s clear that Tribune Scaurus will want to lose as few of you as possible. So keep your guards up and be ready to fight! And here, to spare us any further debate, is the centurion. Air your iron, soldiers, and let’s see what sort of job you’ve done in readying yourselves. Present your swords!’
The twin Tungrian cohorts marched out of the city’s south-west gate in a compact column, fourteen hundred hard-faced and battle-tested men whose equipment bore the scars of their previous battles like badges of honour. Whilst their shield’s brass edging and bosses shone in the chilly morning’s sunshine like gold, most of them were roughly scored by swords and axe blows, the laurel wreathes and crescent moons that decorated their linen-covered wooden surfaces sometimes almost completely erased by battle damage and the effects of the harsh frontier weather. Their iron helmets, whilst rust free, were frequently dented and scored by sharp iron, their brow guards deeply notched by enemy blades. In every century there were several men whose faces, while they were protected on either side by their cheek guards, were riven by crude scars that had left thick white lines through eyebrows and lips, or deep gouges in noses and cheek bones. The soldiers marched past the 1st Minervia’s Cohort with parade-ground precision, their hobnailed boots rapping on the road’s cobbles in perfect unison, and more than one flicked a contemptuous sideways glance at the raw legionaries waiting for them, their breath puffing out in silver plumes.
Behind the 1st Tungrian Cohort came the barbarian warriors of Martos’s Votadini, their long hair and thick, brightly coloured woollen clothing at odds with the soldiers’ uniform appearance. Some of the warriors were swathed in fur for warmth and all were carrying whichever weapon they favoured, swords, spears and axes as they saw fit. Where the 1st Cohort’s men had confined their expressions of disregard to the odd casual glance, these ragged, scarred fighters simply stared at the legionaries in open disgust. A few of the band were carrying war hammers, including the hulking Selgovae warrior Lugos, who loomed over even the tallest of them, his weapon’s heavy beak counterweighted by a massive half-moon blade with wicked points at either end with which to snag a fleeing enemy, its vicious edge rough-sharpened to inflict a grievous wound in combat.
Behind the Votadini, and in a position deliberately intended to demonstrate his utter trust in men who had been his enemies only months before, walked Tribune Scaurus, his only escort his German bodyguard, Arminius. Behind them came the 2nd Tungrian Cohort, every bit as crisply turned out and battle-scarred as their brothers in the 1st, and at their rear came the thirty horsemen of the detachment’s mounted unit. Each of the animals was led out by its rider, each man marching alongside his mount and keeping a tight hold on its bridle as a precaution against any skittishness from the beasts who clearly sensed that a chance for exercise was to hand. Once the 2nd Cohort’s last century had cleared the legion’s line, First Spear Frontinius stepped out in front of his men and bellowed an order down the line, pointing to his left.
‘Halt! Right turn! Forward march!’ The order was echoed instantly by each century’s centurion, and the men of both cohorts pivoted on the spot, marching the ten paces that put their formation alongside that of the legion cohort’s. ‘Halt! About turn! Stand at… ease!’
Frontinius looked down the road to the spot where Tribune Scaurus had stopped to wait in the wake of the marching centuries, then saluted smartly before marching to his place at the point where his two cohorts joined. Scaurus, Tribune Belletor at his side, looked up and down the line of silent soldiers before speaking.
‘Men of the First Minervia and the Tungrian Cohorts! This is the day when we move onto an offensive footing against the bandit leader Obduro! Today we march to a position close to their forest encampment, and the day after that we will attack. You must stay alert to anything unusual, for these are not ordinary opponents in any sense of the word. They may only be a few hundred strong, but they have local knowledge, and many of them have military skills. I expect that they will fight like animals to avoid capture and execution, and you may find that you must attack with equal ferocity to best them even though we ought to have superiority in numbers. That is all. First Spears?’
Frontinius walked forward again, exchanging nods with Sergius, who stepped out in front of the legionaries.
‘Forward… march!’ Their combined bellow of command set the three cohorts into movement, and as the long line of men reached the road they shouted another command. ‘Halt! Right… turn!’ Within seconds the three cohorts were lined up along the road, while Scaurus, who had stepped back off the road’s surface to avoid being caught in their mass movement, turned a sardonic grin on his colleague.