‘Our spies tell us that Purta is gathering a warband of thirty thousand men beyond the mountains to the north-west of the fortress at Porolissum. Our auxiliary forts along the border make an obvious initial target for them, after which we expect he’ll be aiming to march down the road to the south-east and knock over the legions one at a time. The governor has given orders that our two Dacian legions are under no circumstances to be separated for fear of losing them individually, and it seems he’s happy enough to give up ground in order to keep his force intact.’
‘And the mine? Will he surrender that too?’
Cattanius shook his head with an apologetic glance at Scaurus.
‘If he has an opinion on the subject then Legatus Albinus hasn’t seen fit to share it with me, Tribune. What he did tell me was that the force moving on this valley and led by Boraz is believed to be relatively weak by comparison with that being fielded by Purta. It is expected that you’ll be able to hold off the barbarians without too much trouble, given the favourable nature of the terrain.’ He shot a look at Scaurus. ‘However, he also told me that if this proves not to be the case, he believes that Albinus Major can be recaptured easily enough once the main force under Purta is defeated. His exact words were “it’s not as if the Sarmatae can take the mountains with them, is it?”.’
Scaurus shot a wry smile at Belletor.
‘So there’s no pressure then, eh Tribune? We should be able to win easily enough, and if not the legions can clean up later with nothing much more lost than our reputations. That and our lives, of course.’
‘Gods below, but I can see why the boys from the Thirteenth would have been keen to have it away from here on their toes given half a chance.’
Marcus looked back down the slope at his toiling standard bearer, grinning at the man’s red face and puffed-out cheeks. The rest of the century were strung out down the slope below him, climbing easily enough in Morban’s wake as he led them in their journey towards the morning’s objective. To their right the mountain that the miners called ‘The Rotunda’ loomed over them, while to the left the valley’s side was formed by a long, steep-sided and easily defendable ridge, but to their front was a flat expanse between the mountain and the ridgeline some three hundred paces wide which had been dubbed ‘The Saddle’, through which an attacking force would be able to enter the valley with much greater ease. The Fifth Century had been tasked with investigating the observation post that had been built to watch the gap, and to provide early warning of any such approach from the north.
‘A good breakfast followed by a gentle walk in the hills? Could a man want for anything more, Standard Bearer?’
Morban looked up at him with an expression of disbelief.
‘Where would you like me to start, Centurion? Staying in my bed past the first sparrow’s fart would have been good. Eating something better for breakfast than a piece of stale bread and a slice of last night’s pork with water to wash it down would have been even nicer. After that. .’ He paused to suck in a breath before resuming his climb, legs stamping at the grassy slope for grip. ‘After that my ideal morning would include an energetic spell in the company of some expensive professional ladies, followed by a relaxing hour or two in a private bath house in the company of those same ladies. Put all those things together and it would be more or less perfect. Instead of which, I find myself climbing a mountain in the company of quite the ugliest collection of soldiers it’s been my misfortune to fall in with for many a year, and with not one but three centurions, all of whom are apparently intent on draining what little enjoyment there is to be had from the situation.’
Qadir shrugged, a faint smile touching his otherwise inscrutable face.
‘I only pointed out to your colleagues, Standard Bearer, that I saw you deep in conversation with Beneficiarius Cattanius shortly before you started offering odds on how long it would take us to reach the lookout post.’
Morban snorted and stuck out his bottom lip, ignoring the Hamian centurion’s comment and concentrating on the climb. Dubnus raised an eyebrow at his friend, his voice lowered conspiratorially.
‘Morban? Lost for words? I really must pray to Cocidius a little more often if he’s going to answer me in such a spectacular fashion.’
The standard bearer kept climbing, sending an embittered rejoinder over his shoulder.
‘I heard that. You’re a cruel man Dubnus, given that we once served alongside each other.’
The big Briton barked out a sardonic laugh.
‘Hah! Not really, given the regularity with which you used to fleece my purse with all manner of wagers. You even ran a book on how long it would take me to get off my back after I stopped a barbarian spear last year.’
Morban raised a disgusted eyebrow.
‘Yes, a book on which I lost money due to your rude state of health and your urge to get your hands on a century again. .’
Marcus put his whistle to his lips and blew a quick blast.
‘Fifth Century, form line! We’ll make the rest of this climb ready to receive an attack.’ The soldiers quickly formed up into a two-deep line and the front rankers stepped forward with hard stares at the hill’s summit, pulling on their helmets and unstrapping shields from carrying positions across their backs. In the space of a dozen heartbeats the century was transformed from a line of individual soldiers into an impersonal engine of murder bristling with razor-edged spear blades and faced with iron and layered wood. They were the century’s older and more experienced men for the most part, their arms and faces bearing the scars of a succession of bloody battles in Britannia the previous year. These, Marcus knew from experience, were the men who would stand and fight without calculating the odds against them, in the knowledge that to run would be a worse option than any danger they might face. Marcus walked out in front of them and pointed up the slope’s last two hundred paces at the wooden watchtower waiting for them, its roof intermittently wreathed in wisps of grey, scudding cloud.
‘At the walk. . advance!’
The Fifth Century followed their centurion up the hill’s last slope, the first time that any of them bar Morban had faced the potential for a fight under Marcus’s leadership, each man with a spear held ready to stab or throw as ordered by the young officer leading them forward to the summit’s uncertainty. As they approached the hill’s crest they found the watch post unoccupied, its timbers creaking softly under the wind’s intermittent caress. The building was built snugly into a half-hollow just below the summit, the bulk of it shielded from both the worst of the wind and observation from the other slope, while a wooden tower jutted up fifteen feet to provide the occupants with a view over the country beyond the ridge’s peak.
‘Halt! Kneeling defence!’
The soldiers dropped onto one knee at Marcus’s command, bracing their shields on their forward legs and lowering their heads so that their only remaining point of vulnerability was a thin vision-slit between shield and brow guard. Quintus frowned from his place behind the century, and the soldiers exchanged puzzled glances at being dropped into a defensive stance a good fifty paces short of the building.
‘Chosen Man!’ Quintus stepped forward through the century’s ranks with a salute to his centurion. ‘You are to keep the Fifth in defensive line and await my orders. In the event that you hear or see anything to indicate that I have been engaged by enemy forces, you are to use your own judgement as to whether an attack or a fighting retreat is the better option, but you must ensure that the news of whatever happens here reaches the tribune. Do you understand?’
The chosen man nodded.
‘Are you going in there alone, Centurion?’
Marcus shook his head with a smile.
‘Not quite. Gentlemen, shall we?’ Dubnus and Qadir stepped forward, both men drawing their swords. ‘I very much doubt there’s anyone within a hundred miles of here, but the post has been abandoned for long enough that I’ll not simply blunder in to see what might be waiting for us. Arabus!’