Scaurus stood, frowning, and walked round the desk. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low to avoid any risk of his words reaching the men guarding his office.
‘Tungrorum? How could they dare to strike here, when they know we have over three times their strength? Would Obduro be that foolish?’
The prefect shrugged, his face impassive.
‘My own thoughts exactly, Tribune. But consider the facts. You have sent the majority of your men to patrol the road to the west in such strength that any attempt he makes to take the grain convoy would result in disaster. And as you say, Obduro is no fool.’ He moved a step closer, his voice so low that Scaurus had to strain his ears to hear it. ‘We face a dilemma. On the one hand, perhaps Obduro is marching to attack the city, seeking to pull off a huge victory by raiding the grain warehouse for its contents. In that case, our logical reaction must surely be to concentrate our forces here to defeat him. On the other hand, if we make such a step on the basis of a ruse, he would then be free to snap up the grain convoy, then be back across the river and into Arduenna’s safety before we realise that we’ve been deceived.’
Scaurus nodded thoughtfully, and paused for a moment, staring intently at the map.
‘If he crosses the Mosa as you expect, then the key moment is when he reaches the junction of the roads from the east and west once he’s across. If he turns left, then he’s clearly going after the convoy, whereas if he turns right, he’ll be pointing his dagger squarely at the city. It’s ten miles from where we crossed the river to the junction, so if he marched his men out at dawn he should have them across the Mosa and ready to turn east or west by midday. They could be knocking on our gates here by dusk, and leave us having to face him in the dark, with barely the same number of Tungrians and a cohort of undertrained boys to fight men who, despite their treachery, clearly know how to fight in the darkness. And whether or not my veterans would be likely to win such a battle, losing the contents of that grain store to him would be a disaster for the empire.’
He pondered for a moment longer.
‘Very well. I’ll send out a party of cavalrymen to observe the junction, and tell us which way he turns. They can also find my cohorts and get them turned around and heading back this way, so that whatever he does we’ll have him in a vice. He’ll have to give battle against overwhelming force attacking him from both sides, either that or have his men dump their equipment and swim the Mosa, those of them that can swim and whatever happens that’ll be the end of his threat.’
Caninus nodded eagerly.
‘I can go one better than that, Tribune. By all means send the cavalrymen to find your detachments and bring them back east, but allow me the honour of taking my horsemen to watch the road junction. I’ll send riders back to you once it’s clear what he’s doing, and you can sally behind me with the legion cohort and your own remaining centuries to stiffen their line. My man Arabus has given us the chance to outmanoeuvre Obduro, to bottle him up and tear his band of killers limb from limb, if we get this right.’
Having remounted, Marcus rode on at a fast trot, reaching the fort at Mosa Ford just as the legionaries on guard duty were taking their midday meal. The duty centurion studied him for a moment with deep suspicion, frowning as he took in the bandage wrapped around his face, and reading the pass which the tribune had written for him with infuriating slowness. But eventually he ordered the gates to be opened and allowed Marcus to pass. Following the same path along the forest’s edge that the scouting expedition had taken, all the time calculating the progress required for his plan to succeed, he spurred Bonehead back to the trot once they were moving along the hunters’ track, trusting his luck that the horse would be sure-footed enough to avoid pitching him off into the undergrowth. By the time another two hours had passed he had found the clearing where they had spent their first night, and where he had been so sure he had heard the sound of something or someone moving through the forest around them. Hobbling the horse, and leaving it to enjoy the grass that carpeted the forest floor after the long trot, he quickly gathered wood and kindling, and built a fire big enough to burn for several hours. Glancing up at the sun, now starting its slide down towards the horizon, he made a quick calculation and decided that the time was right.
Working briefly with flint and iron he got the fire lit and burning well, piling on plenty of green wood among the good dry material until the blaze was sending a column of thick smoke into the air. Picking up his new spear, he discarded the leather cover that protected its head and went to ground, flattening himself behind a tree on the uphill side of the clearing. For the best part of an hour the scene remained peaceful, the fire’s initial fierce crackle dying away to a gentle background mutter of flames slowly devouring wood. Lying absolutely still, Marcus watched as Bonehead contentedly cropped at the grass, a cloud of small insects buzzing around its head. The horse’s ears suddenly pricked up, and it raised its head warily, looking across the clearing at something hidden from Marcus by the tree’s trunk. Holding his breath, the Roman waited for whatever it was that had attracted the horse’s attention, the faintest of noises confirming that something or someone was moving slowly and stealthily across the clearing. An arrowhead came into view from behind the tree’s trunk, followed by the bow to which the missile was nocked. Held ready to shoot, with the arrow pulled almost as far back as the weapon’s tension would allow, the barbed head swept in an arc across the clearing as the archer stopped where he stood and searched the trees around the clearing for any sign of his intended victim. Hardly daring to breathe, never mind move, Marcus watched in sick horror as the arrowhead swung back towards him, knowing that at any moment the bowman would step forward and spot him, prostrate on the ground and unable to react fast enough to evade the arrow’s lethal impact at such short range.
The horse snorted, pawing at the ground, and for one precious moment the hidden archer was distracted, wondering if the horse was reacting to a familiar presence. The arrow’s cruel head swept away from Marcus’s hiding place, and, silently thanking Mithras as he moved, the Roman pushed himself to his feet and raised the spear to throw. The archer, still hidden behind the tree’s trunk, must have heard the faint sounds, for as Marcus drew back his throwing arm the bow swung back towards him, reducing both men’s survival to a simple, deadly race to be the first to loose his missile. Stamping forward with sudden, blinding speed, Marcus slung his spear into the other man’s body, flinching aside as the arrow, released a fraction of a second too soon in the archer’s desperation, whistled past his ear. The spear smashed into the wrong-footed hunter’s side with a heavy thump, and he fell to the ground clutching his ribs with a grunting, agonised groan. Marcus drew his sword and advanced cautiously down the slope, searching the forest about him for any sign that the man he had felled had been accompanied and then, seeing nothing, he put his foot on the hunter’s chest and rolled him over, shaking his head as the prostrate man gasped in pain. Reaching down, he picked up the spear, nodding in satisfaction as he contemplated the padded leather cap that covered its blunt, rounded iron head, designed to stun or smash the wind out of its target rather than skewer deep into a man’s body. The two men stared into each other’s eyes for a moment before the Roman reached up and untied the bandage around his face, allowing it to fall to the ground. When he spoke his voice rasped from its long period of silence, but the words were clear enough.