Overhearing the question from one of his brighter soldiers, Marcus answered it despite Quintus’s look of disapproval.
‘What stops them from doing that, soldier, is the fact that the Britons have had weeks to prepare the ground. Their pioneers have felled enough trees up the hillsides and planted enough sharpened stakes in their branches to make an impenetrable barrier, which means that the only way to get to the fort’s other side is to go that way. .’ He pointed at a side valley to their right. ‘But that means taking a long detour around to the north, the best part of a day’s march. Titus and his boys in the Tenth Century were looking quite jealous when they saw all those fallen trees yesterday.’
The Tungrians crossed the frozen river to reach the left bank, their hobnailed boots slipping and sliding on the smooth surface, while the First Minervia’s cohort drove on down the right bank with their native cavalry in close attendance.
‘If only I’d known, I could have offered odds on my being able to walk on water. I would have made a right killing,’ said Morban.
‘Ah yes, but you have taken a bet on the very same subject, if you recall?’
Marcus smiled at the momentary look of fear that crossed his standard bearer’s face as Morban recalled the moment when he had been provoked into offering his centurion a bet of heroic proportions during the march north. Marcus turned his attention back to his men, some of whom were already clearly troubled by their numb toes, despite the fur linings in their boots.
‘They’ll live, as long as they keep moving. I had a good look at their feet before we marched this morning, and there’s not one of them with a serious problem. Those poor bastards have it worse, I’d say.’ Quintus pointed across the river’s thirty-foot width at the labouring legionaries on its far side. ‘Some of them look like they’re already struggling. .’
As they watched, a mounted patrol of Belletor’s Sarmatae went forward at the trot, the riders apparently impervious to the cold in their thick furs, quickly vanishing from view around a bend in the river. As the two forces made their way down the river’s course, the valley widened, broadening from barely a hundred paces on either side of the frozen stream to three times as much in the space of a mile. Cresting a slight rise, Marcus found himself staring down the valley’s length for the best part of two miles, squinting into the light of the winter sun as it reflected off the broad, icy expanse of a lake a mile or so distant. A soldier ran down the cohort’s line and saluted him.
‘Centurion, sir! First Spear says we’ll march as far as that lake and then we’ll take a rest stop.’
Marcus nodded and waved the man on down the line before turning to call out an order to his chosen man.
‘Quintus! They’re all yours, I’m going back for a chat with Qadir and Dubnus!’
Waiting until the Eighth Century reached the place where he had stopped, flexing his toes experimentally and finding them disquietingly numb, he fell in alongside Dubnus with a grimace of shared discomfort. The Briton laughed at him.
‘I’d forgotten you’ve yet to experience the joys of campaigning in a proper winter. How are you finding it, apart from the blueness of your toes?’
The Roman shrugged.
‘It seems I’m doomed to always either be too hot or too cold, so I suppose it’s best just to ignore the weather and think more about the job at hand. Anyway, there’s something I wanted to test out when we get to that lake, to see if the histories are true in what they tell us? I’ve just reminded Morban of the wager he made with me on the subject while we were marching up from Apulum, and he looked decidedly sick when I raised the matter.’
When they reached the lake the soldiers milled about, unwilling to subject themselves to more discomfort by sitting on the freezing ground, while Marcus and Dubnus, joined by an inquisitive Qadir and a nervous Morban, trailed by a few inquisitive soldiers, made their way onto the ice. Across the lake’s expanse they could see the First Minervia’s legionaries shuffling about disconsolately, First Spear Sergius clearly having decided to rest his men to keep the two advances aligned. The remaining Sarmatae horsemen had dismounted, but as usual showed no sign of mixing with the soldiers.
‘Buggered if I know what we’re doing out here on the bloody ice!’
Sanga turned to the soldier Scarface with an irritated expression.
‘What we’re doing out here, you idiot, is following Two Knives around like a pair of three-year-olds hanging off their mummy’s skirts as per usual. As to what he’s doing out here, did you not hear about the bet?’
He raised his eyebrows in amazement at his mate’s uncomprehending expression.
‘You really do go around with your head up your own arse, don’t you? The bet?’ Scarface shook his head and shrugged, and Sanga waved a hand at the lake’s frozen surface. ‘Seems the tribune was telling some of the lads about a battle that was fought on a frozen river round here a few years ago. He said that some of our lads were attacked by Sarmatae horsemen like those pricks over there, but they stood their ground and ended up winning the fight. I don’t know how that would work, but the officer seemed very sure about it. Anyway, seems Morban quacked on about what a load of bullshit it was and how he’d give ten to one that it was all bollocks, so your centurion slapped down a gold aurei and took him up on it.’
Scarface looked about him with new interest, peering hard at the nervous-looking standard bearer before raising his voice in an amused chortle.
‘Well he’s not looking quite so fuckin’ brave about it now, is he? Ten in gold, eh Morban? That’s the best part of six months’ takings for you, I wouldn’t wonder.’
‘Well that’s one part of the story proven.’ Marcus stood on the frozen surface with his arms open wide. ‘It’s perfectly possible to stand on this stuff, as long as you dig the hobnails in hard enough. It would be murder on the feet without these skins wrapped around my feet though. Now, pass me that shield please.’ One of the soldiers surrendered his board, and Marcus experimentally rested it on the frozen surface. ‘Hmmm. I can’t see how that’s going to be sufficiently stable to put a boot on.’
‘Here, I’ve an idea how it might work.’ Dubnus took it from him, drawing his sword and swiftly chopping a rough circular hole the depth and width of the shield’s heavy brass boss into the thick ice before dropping the board face down onto the ice, guiding the hemispherical protrusion into the hole he’d created, much to the disgust of the soldier in question. ‘And you can stop pulling faces, it’s a piece of fighting equipment, not a piece of the family silver. There. .’
He gestured to the shield, then put a booted foot onto its wooden surface.
‘See, you can stand on this ice a lot easier with one foot on the wood. Give me that spear.’
He clicked his fingers, and the now resigned soldier, whose shield was held firm to the ice by Dubnus’s foot, handed over his spear. The big centurion adjusted his footing, then posed for Marcus with one foot on the shield while he essayed a series of swift stabbing blows with the spear.
‘Very warlike. You might even pass muster as a soldier, if we didn’t know you better.’
Dubnus turned to face the approaching Julius. Scaurus was walking a few paces behind him, and both men were gazing at the spectacle with open curiosity. Dubnus took his foot off the shield, gesturing for his man to pick it up.
‘Centurion Corvus entered a considerable wager with the obvious person as to whether the battle on the ice could really have happened. And as you can see, your story was clearly well founded, Tribune.’
Marcus stroked his chin in amusement, looking at Morban.
‘Well now, Standard Bearer, it can be done. How much is it that you owe me?’
The older man raised a pitying eyebrow.
‘You should know better than that, Centurion. The bet I took was that you couldn’t prove it was possible to fight off a screaming horde of Sarmatae horsemen like that, not that you could persuade Dubnus to stand on a shield and wave a spear about. I thought you’d have realised by now sir, it’s all about how the bet is stated.’ Growing in confidence that he would once again be on the winning side of the wager, he winked at the big Briton. ‘And very fetching you look too, if I might make so bold, Dubnus.’