‘Agreed. And yet they have to learn their trade somewhere. Why not let me set them in defence of the bridge on this side? In the unlikely event that you have to fall back from the bandit camp we’ll hold the crossing and stop you getting cut off. It’s nice simple duty for my lads but still a useful role, if you take a minute to think it through.’
He stared at Frontinius, and something in his expression swayed the Tungrian.
‘Done. I’ll make sure my tribune and yours play nicely with the idea. It’s about time we all started acting like adults.’
Sergius nodded and turned away, his helmet’s crest riffling with the wind’s intermittent but powerful gusts, and Frontinius turned back to his centurions.
‘Right, get on with it. I want the leading centuries across the river and setting up a perimeter, so get your boys moving!’
The 9th Century crossed the river, moving across the submerged bridge with exaggerated caution at first, groping forward with their bare feet ankle-deep in the Mosa’s cold, swift-flowing water. With every man that crossed successfully, however, their confidence grew visibly, and by the time the century was almost fully across the river the last men were moving with easy confidence, their feet gripping the roughened stone slabs that had been laid across piers of blocks piled onto the river’s bed to make the bridge’s submerged surface. Marcus and Dubnus huddled in the cover of a large bush, waiting as the soldiers crouched close to the ground and pulled their socks and boots back on, rewinding the heavy woollen leg wrappings around their damp ankles.
‘They must have built it in the middle of the summer last year, when the river was lower.’
Marcus nodded at Dubnus’s words absently, looking back across the Mosa and then turning to peer into the trees that reached almost to the water’s edge.
‘It’s simple enough when you think about it. Obduro’s found a shallow point in the river, still too deep to be a foot crossing like the one beside the bridge at Mosa Ford, but shallow enough for his purposes, and he’s used local stone to make the bridge. There’s no way anyone can sail up the Mosa this far, not with the shallows and the bridge blocking the way at Mosa Ford, so there was never much risk of anyone finding this crossing point. If you hadn’t overheard his men talking about it we’d never have been any the wiser. Uncle Sextus wants us to push the perimeter out, and allow some room for the rest of the cohort, and I need to know what might be waiting for us in the trees
He signalled to Qadir, and the Hamian made his made down the century’s line, bent almost double to avoid any chance of his being seen.
‘Centurion?’
‘Push the century forward, but slowly and quietly, and only for another hundred paces. I’m going to take Scarface and his tent party forward to do a little scouting.’
The Hamian saluted, looking up as the wind whistling through the trees above them gusted enough to drop a light shower of twigs across the waiting century.
‘Yes, Centurion. And if we come under attack?’
‘If you come under attack you blow your whistles and we’ll pull back to the rest of the cohort. I’ll not lose another century the way the Sixth got cut to pieces at the battle of the Barbarian Camp, and I haven’t got enough trained centurions to throw away two good officers and my best chosen man.’
They turned to find First Spear Frontinius lacing up his boots at the river’s edge, one eyebrow lifted in mock exasperation as he lifted a hand to wave Marcus and Dubnus away. ‘Well, don’t just stand there staring at me, get on with your scouting. And don’t worry, there’ll be three centuries in line behind you as soon as I can get them across, and two full cohorts queuing up behind them. I’ll keep an eye on the Ninth for you.’
Marcus and Qadir shared a quick glance, the Hamian bowing his head slightly to indicate his understanding of his orders. The Roman beckoned to Scarface, who was, as usual, lurking close to his officer.
‘Soldier, gather your tent party and follow me.’
The veteran looked to Qadir, whose brisk nod was part command and part warning, then turned and whispered hoarsely at his comrades.
‘Come on, lads.’
The soldiers picked up their shields and waited for Marcus to lead them off into the trees, taking position to either side of their officer in a tight formation. Dubnus and Arminius exchanged wry smiles at the men’s familiar protective behaviour towards ‘their young gentleman’, falling in behind the small group with their swords drawn. Groping forward quietly into the forest’s bulk, Marcus was struck by how quickly the light filtering down through the trees changed to a washed-out green. He squinted into the forest, frowning with the realisation that it was impossible to look into the wind-rippled foliage for any distance without everything seeming to blend into a blurred green wall that rendered even his sharp eyesight close to useless. As the men beside him paced slowly into the trees, the Tungrians taking their lead from the two experienced Hamian hunters among their number, he turned back to speak with Dubnus. His friend raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and Marcus leaned close to whisper in his ear.
‘How do you manage to see anything in this?’
Dubnus nodded, muttering his reply in a tone so soft that it was almost lost in the wind’s steadily increasing moan through the tree tops.
‘Don’t try to focus on any part of the forest, just look at the whole thing.’ Marcus frowned at the advice, and Arminius leaned in to speak with an amused look.
‘It takes a hunter years to perfect this, my friend, and here you are trying to master it in the space of a two-hundred-pace stroll. Trust your Hamians; they are masters at seeing the slightest movement in places like this.’
The Roman shrugged and turned back to his section of the line feeling none the wiser, sensing his friends’ gazes following him. The tent party edged forward pace by pace, heads lifting with increasing frequency to look up at the wind-lashed trees, until one of the men to his right sank into cover with a hand raised. As the soldiers to either side followed his example in a ripple of hissed warnings Marcus went forward quickly, a hand on the hilt of his spatha, and knelt alongside the Hamian.
‘What did you see?’
‘It is their camp, Centurion.’
Raising his head a fraction, the Roman looked over the bushes and found himself staring into an encampment constructed in a large circular clearing fully a hundred paces across. A curved row of crudely constructed wooden huts stretched around the clearing, and thin lines of smoke were rising from several recently extinguished fires. Frowning, he turned his head slowly in a futile attempt to find any trace of the bandits’ presence.
‘Nothing?’
Marcus turned his head slightly, keeping his eyes fixed on the clearing
‘Nothing. But they were here recently, or the fire wouldn’t be burning. I-’
He stopped in mid-sentence as a single fat snowflake danced past his face, watching as it fell onto the forest’s floor and disappeared in an instant, melting away as if it had never existed. Looking up, the two men watched as a curtain of snow descended from the treetops high above them, its sudden onslaught all the more shocking for the bitterness of the wave of freezing air that washed over them at the same moment. Scarface turned a bemused gaze upwards, shaking his head.
‘Here it fucking comes.’ He raised an eyebrow at Marcus, tugging his cloak tighter about him. ‘What now, Centurion?’
The Roman stared up into the descending snow, momentarily uncertain as to the right thing to do. He turned back to Dubnus, seeing his own uncertainty written across his friend’s face.
‘We could retreat to the bridge.’ He paused and shook his head, imagining the first spear’s reaction to a retreat in the face of a snow shower. ‘No, we’ll go forward, slowly and carefully, and for the time being we’ll ignore the snow. It may be no more than a temporary inconvenience.’