‘A fine weapon.’
Marcus handed the sword to Varus, who had joined him in the fight’s aftermath, smiling as the younger man made a single hesitant cut with the weapon under its owner’s disapproving eye before returning it to the scabbard. Marcus took the sword back, placing it beside the unconscious king.
‘It will be kept safe until the time comes for your release, as will the crown your king was wearing.’
A sudden bray of trumpets pulled their attention back to the legion. The legionaries were hurrying for their positions, and three men looked down the hill over their heads while the Tungrian line reformed in front of them, centurions and chosen men pushing the exhausted soldiers back into their places with shouts and swift, urgent strikes with their sticks.
‘An infantry attack. Perhaps your leaders would have done well to combine your foot soldiers with the cavalry, but to throw them in separately seems … unwise?’
The Parthian followed his captor’s gaze.
‘It is not the finest day for the empire, I’ll grant you that.’
Marcus bowed.
‘I’ll leave you here with a few men to keep you safe from interference. My duty lies down there …’
He turned to find Dubnus striding up the hill with a forbidding look on his face.
‘Orders from the legatus. He said to tell you that this fight’s going to be no place for a man with one arm, and he’s right. It’ll be swords and shields that win this one, and you’ll be no use to anyone face down in six inches of piss-foamed mud. Your orders, Tribune, are to stay here and make sure nobody takes a dagger to the king there while we’re busy. Tribune Varus is ordered to take your place.’
Varus’s face went pale as he absorbed the order. After a moment he looked at Marcus with an almost questioning expression, and the tribune nodded reluctantly, wearily waving his friends away.
‘Go and do your duty. I’ll watch over our guest. And you, Vibius Varus …’
His colleague turned back to look up at Marcus.
‘No stupidity, Tribune. If you’re going to sacrifice yourself then at least go to meet your ancestors with some style, not fighting a mob of half-trained peasants.’
The younger man nodded and was away down the slope, leaving Marcus staring at Dubnus with a raised eyebrow.
‘Will you watch him for me?’
The big man nodded, his lips twisting in a mocking smile.
‘Cocidius knows I’ve had enough practice.’
He winked at his friend and turned away down the slope to his men, shouting orders and spitting bombast as he strode back into their midst.
‘Now there’s a man who could give me a fight …’
The tribune turned to find the big Parthian at his shoulder, staring after Dubnus with a wistful look in his eye and unconsciously stroking his pointed beard.
‘I could have taken you with one good arm.’
His prisoner guffawed at the suggestion.
‘I would have bested you in a dozen heartbeats if you had three arms, but you had already earned your hunar by the time I faced you.’
He turned a level gaze on Marcus.
‘The warrior, my friend, is the only member of society willing to sacrifice himself for the good of those men who sit at ease among their wives and children, and thus he learns to respect the hunar displayed by his brothers and those against whom he fights. And no true warrior could have shamed himself by taking his iron to a man who stopped fighting to preserve the life of a fallen king.’
‘Hunar?’
The noble laughed curtly.
‘You Romans may have heard of it, although your ways of fighting show little evidence of such a familiarity. Hunar is a man’s most noble ornament, not simply his skill at arms but his willingness to use it, to risk a fitting death. His manliness, his-’
‘Virtus. What you call “hunar”, we call virtus.’
‘Vir-toos.’
The big man rolled the word in his mouth.
‘Well you, Roman, have vir-toos. I saw you challenge my king to single combat, and I saw you put him down as easily as if you were simply sparring on the training ground. And your men fight like uncaged beasts in your presence, each of them seeking to outdo your prowess.’
Marcus laughed.
‘The Tungrians? That’s just how they are. Experience has taught them that they are more likely to stay intact going forward than if they were to show an enemy their backs.’
The other man nodded sagely.
‘Your words have the power to wound, given my men’s defeat.’
He held out a hand.
‘I am Gurgen, my king’s bidaxs, first among his nobles, the fastest sword, the best saddle and the man with more vir-toos than any other knight of my king’s court.’
Marcus made the clasp with him.
‘And I am Marcus, a tribune of the Third Legion. Shall we watch the battle together and see which of our armies has the better of it?’
Sanga and Saratos obeyed the order to stand to with little more enthusiasm than their comrades, taking their places in the Ninth Century’s front line beside each other and staring down the slope at the enemy infantry as they manoeuvred from column to line, spreading along the legion’s frontage. The Dacian nudged Sanga, inclining his head to indicate the young tribune who had been keeping company with Marcus. Shorn of his friend, Varus was standing out before the cohort and watching the oncoming enemy infantry, one hand unconsciously fretting at the hilt of his sword.
‘He looking for a fight to jump into, eh?’
Sanga shrugged, muttering a reply under his breath.
‘Better him than me. And since that’s the one who stood and watched the goat fuckers slaughter his cohort I won’t be in any hurry to pull his nuts out of the fire …’
They watched the Parthian infantry for a moment, grinning at the distant shouts and screams of the enemy officers as they pushed and kicked their men into line. Sanga shook his head, his practised eye having already spotted a weakness in the formation facing them.
‘Whoever ordered that lot to attack must be fucking insane. They’re going to have open flanks on both sides.’
Saratos nodded at the observation. There were probably as many men facing the Third Legion as there were in the Roman line, but the spear men were arrayed four men deep.
‘Why the fuck they have so short a line?’
Sanga shrugged, but the young tribune in front of them answered the question without turning.
‘I saw them fight, on the day I stood and watched the goat fuckers slaughter my cohort…’
Sanga’s ears reddened with embarrassment.
‘They present four spearheads to every man facing them, the front ranker stabbing at any target in front of him. The men behind him use their spear in support, attacking any man who looks like presenting him with a threat.’
‘Present with threat, Tribune?’
Varus turned to look at Saratos with a half-smile.
‘If you look dangerous, Soldier, they will point their spears at you to keep their comrade safe. Wait until we’re face-to-face with them, and then see if you fancy going in with your sword against that many long spears. It should be interesting.’
He turned back to his consideration of the Parthian line which, now more or less formed, had lurched into action to the sound of horns.
‘Although I don’t think they have any idea the size of the hornet’s nest they’re about to stick their spears into.’
Marcus and Gurgen watched in silence as the spear men advanced in near silence towards the legion waiting for them.
‘Your men are battle hardened?’
The Roman shook his head.
‘Not for the most part. My Tungrians though …’
The Parthian nodded.
‘They are clearly used to the horror. The way they attacked us was magnificent. But those spears coming for your men have all seen battle.’
Marcus frowned.
‘Who have they fought against? Not Rome. Surely you can’t believe that rolling over a single weakened cohort doesn’t count for much experience?’