Sigilis nodded, his voice taking on a note of urgency.
‘And in your place I expect that I would feel the same uncertainties. But before I left Rome I was party to several discussions between my father and like-minded men of influence, men with the money required to buy the best investigator to be found in the city. He came to our house just once, sliding in through the servants’ entrance with one hand on the handle of his knife, a grey man who seemed happiest merging into the shadows. He told us what he had discovered of your father’s murder, details which, if I were you, would fill me with both despair and hope, and fuel my desire for revenge. And if I die tomorrow with these facts unshared, then your chance to hear what he had to say will be gone for ever.’
Marcus shook his head, looking away into the darkness.
‘I cannot listen to this now.’ He waved an arm at the fires burning along the hill’s slope. ‘You call me Centurion, and in all truth this is my family now. Every one of these men is my responsibility, and if I allow thoughts of murder and revenge to cloud my thinking I will lose my concentration at the time when I need it the most. I appreciate your wanting to help me, but it must wait until a time when I can afford the distraction. And now, Tribune, I suggest we find my brother officer Otho, and find out how many black eyes he’s handed out to his men today.’
The Tungrians and their Thracian archers took up their positions across the slope in the dawn’s grey light, centurions pacing out their sections of the defensive line and adjusting their men’s places until the infantrymen’s frontage was a single unbroken line of soldiery. Fifty paces behind the line the defence was anchored at either end, as the ground rose to meet the mountains on each side, by impenetrable barriers formed of trees expertly felled by the pioneers of the cohort’s Tenth Century to present their branches to any attacker. Martos and his two hundred or so warriors lurked behind the barriers on either side of the Tungrian line, the Votadini prince having insisted on leading his men up the slope behind the soldiers the previous evening, ignoring the nervous looks cast at them by the Thracian archers. Martos had shared a swift breakfast with the officers before rejoining his men, exchanging crude banter with Arminius while Sigilis had listened with a face white with tension. He’d clasped arms with Marcus, raising a scarred clenched fist, and grinning savagely at the thought of impending battle.
‘When your men are getting tired, you just shout for the Votadini. We’ll show you the meaning of war.’ He leaned closer to the Roman, muttering in his ear. ‘And watch out for the boy there, a pale face before battle is the sign of a fighter, as well you know. He’ll be in the line and trying to carve up the enemy before you know it, if you let him.’
Marcus gathered his brother officers on the slope behind the line, sipping at a beaker of water and watching as their soldiers stood in line waiting for the Sarmatae to make their appearance. The Tungrians were for the most part talking with each other as matter-of-factly as men discussing their favourite gladiator or chariot racer, although he could see a few small huddles of men as veteran front rankers prepared their comrades for the terror of what was to come with hard words and rallying cries.
‘It occurs to me that we’ve been here before, brothers, or somewhere very much like it.’ The other four centurions nodded sagely, their minds going back to a similar hillside on which the cohort had fought for its life the previous year. ‘Only this time we’ve had long enough with this ground to make any army that comes at us up that slope deeply regret the idea. I saw the Sarmatae force that’s pitted against us up here this morning while I was scouting yesterday, and I’d say there were barely fifteen hundred of them. And that, brothers, is clearly not enough men to assault experienced heavy infantry in a position like this, especially given the fact that I expect our archers to neutralise theirs.’
He looked around at his comrades, the pugnacious Otho, Caelius with his usual deceptive look of innocence, Qadir’s customary imperturbability and Titus’s glowering scowl, and felt his spirits rise at the sight.
‘No tribal warband of that size can threaten us, brothers, not while we retain our discipline. So we’ll stay safe behind our defences and let them come to us, as we discussed last night. And at the right moment. .’
‘We go for the knock out, eh young ’un?’
The Roman grinned at his colleague.
‘Very apt, Otho. Yes, at the right moment we’ll go forward and land the killer punch. Wait for my signal, and when I give it back me up with everything you have left to throw at them.’
A horn blared from down the slope, swiftly followed by another, and the officers turned to see their Hamian scouts breaking from the treeline three hundred paces distant and running up the hill toward the safety of the waiting soldiers. As the Tungrians watched, the first enemy warriors came out of the trees behind them, some putting arrows to their bows. Qadir, seeing the danger to his men, raised his voice to bellow a command.
‘Dodge!’
The fleeing scouts angled their runs from side to side, changing direction every few strides to put the barbarian archers off their aim, running hard to get beyond the Sarmatae bowmen’s maximum range, but one unfortunate was hit squarely between the shoulders and dropped to his knees, writhing in agony from the arrowhead’s deep intrusion. Half a dozen barbarians ran forward with their swords and knives drawn, clearly eager to take their first trophy. Qadir looked grimly at Marcus and then strode across to his century, taking a bow and a handful of arrows from one of his men and nocking the first missile to the weapon’s bowstring as he pushed his way through the Tungrian line.
‘Surely the distance is too great for any accuracy?’
Otho snorted through his battered nose, shaking his head at Sigilis with no regard for the younger man’s rank.
‘Just you watch and learn, young sir.’
Sigilis raised his eyebrows and turned back to the scene just in time to see Qadir’s first arrow hit his stricken comrade squarely in the chest, dropping him to the ground to lie unmoving.
‘That’s astound-’
Otho snorted again.
‘He ain’t done yet.’
While the Sarmatae warriors who had been advancing on the wounded scout were still digesting the stricken Hamian’s merciful death, a second arrow punched into the closest man’s body and toppled him into the long grass. Another warrior staggered to his knees with a fletched shaft protruding from his side as he turned to run, and Qadir shot the last of his arrows at the rearmost man as the rest of them sprinted back down the hill, missing by a hand’s breadth as his target dodged to one side. He turned with a look of disgust at the miss and walked back up the hill, handing the bow back to its owner as he passed.
‘That will keep their archers from getting too pushy until they’ve got some numbers gathered.’
Marcus nodded at the blunt statement, turning back to the other centurions.
‘Return to your centuries, brothers.’
He strode out in front of his men, ignoring the Sarmatae warriors mustering at the edge of the forest three hundred paces down the slope, stalking along the Tungrian line with his eyes fixed on the soldiers of the five centuries under his command. Some of them returned the stare with faces set hard against the coming violence, others looked straight through him as they retreated into private places to protect themselves from the coming horror. Stopping before them he drew his spatha, holding the long patterned blade above his head until he had their attention and shouting his challenge across the hillside.