The Empire Collection Volume II

by Anthony Riches

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

The EMPIRE sequence continues with books IV-VI in Anthony Riches' bestselling series, available in a page-turning collection, including The Leopard Sword, The Wolf's Gold and The Eagle's Vengeanc e. The Leopard Sword The Roman agents who nearly captured Marcus Aquila have been defeated by his friends. But to protect those friends from the wrath of the emperor, he must leave the province which has given him shelter. As centurion of the second Tungrians, he leads his men from Hadrian's Wall to the Tungrians' original home. There he finds a different world from the turbulent British frontier - but one with its own dangers. A bandit chieftain is robbing with impunity. And now he threatens to destabilize the whole northern frontier of the empire. The Wolf's Gold Marcus Aquila and the Tungrians have been sent to Dacia with the mission to safeguard a major source of imperial power. The mines contain enough gold to pave the road to Rome. They would make a mighty prize for the Sarmatae tribesmen who threaten the province, and the outnumbered auxiliaries are entrusted with their safety in the face of an invasion. The Tungrians will have to fight to the death to save the honour of the empire - and themselves. The Eagle's Vengeance The Tungrians return to Hadrian's Wall to find chaos, with the legions overstretched, struggling to man the northern frontier. The Tungrians are sent into the northern wastes, where a lost symbol of imperial power of the Sixth Legion awaits them. Protected by an impassable swamp, the eagle of the Sixth legion must be recovered if the legion is to survive. Marcus and his men must penetrate the heart of the enemy's strength, if they are to rescue the legion's venerated standard. If successful their escape will be twice as perilous...

Release date: January 5, 2017

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 1248

Sample

The writing of The Leopard Sword was at one point proving to be something of a challenge, with the book half-written but stubbornly refusing to progress beyond a knot in the plot from which I couldn’t tear myself free. At the low point of this increasingly panicked situation an old friend, on hearing of my plight on a rugby pitch touchline one Thursday night, uttered the words that were to reinvigorate my writing life: ‘Just come down to my office and write.’ So I did. No internet (critical that, nothing with which to fluff about in endless prevarication), just cups of tea and the occasional chat, that and a blazing eight or nine hundred words an hour. It was like going from dial-up to super-broadband in one step. Lesson learned, I now rent a converted henhouse on a local farm – no internet there either – and when I’m not doing ‘real’ work I commute a few miles to write in blissful peace and without any opportunity to do anything but write. So to you, Eddie Hickey, go the biggest thanks of all this time round. Let’s hope my new-found regime will see me turning out two books a year with perfect equanimity.

Apart from that I have to offer all the usual but heartfelt thanks. To Helen for encouragement and occasional strong direction (and tolerating the last touches being put to the script in the south of France); to the kids for putting up with it all; and when the pressure notched up a bit the dogs for providing the alternative perspective of lives bounded by the need to get walked and fed. My agent Robin was his usual urbane self, and Carolyn the editor sat on her hands pretending to be calm while I struggled over the line.

On the subject of Hodder & Stoughton it’s worth mentioning that my publisher remains a delight to work with, so thanks to Francine, Nick, Laure, Jaime, James, Ben and everyone else whose name I’m too scatterbrained to have remembered. Clare Parkinson did an amazing job on the copyedit and rescued me from several embarrassing errors, taking all that gore and unpleasantness in her stride. Well done. John Prigent also read the original manuscript, and made more than one telling comment, as ever!

Lastly, and as ever, thanks to everyone else that’s helped me this time round but not been mentioned. To use that old cliché it’s not you, it’s me. Those people that work alongside me will tell you how poor my memory can be, so if I’ve forgotten you then here’s a blanket apology. Where the history is right it’s because I’ve had some great help, and where it’s not it’s all my own work.

Thank you.

The Raven was the lowest grade, and would have served as doorman of the temple. St Augustine tells us that at the ritual feast he wore a raven head-mask and wings, and in the Santa Prisca murals he also wears a dark red tunic. His symbols were a caduceus and a cup, and he was under the protection of Mercury.

The Bridegroom was the second grade. He was the initiate vowed to the cult. A damaged Ostian fresco shows a bridegroom wearing a short yellow tunic with red bands and carrying a red cloth in his hands. The Santa Prisca Bridegroom, also damaged, wears a yellow veil and carries a lamp in his veiled hands. The grade was under the protection of the goddess Venus and its symbols were a lamp and a veil.

The third grade was the Soldier of Mithras, and we know a little of his initiation. The initiate had to kneel, naked and blindfolded, and was offered a crown on the point of a sword. He was crowned, but was immediately ordered to remove the object and place it on his shoulder, saying that Mithras was his divine crown. By this act he became a Soldier of Mithras and in memory of his vow he could never again receive coronation. His symbols were a quiver of arrows and a kit-bag, and he was under the protection of Mars.

These three grades comprised the lower orders of the cult.

The Lion was the first of the senior grades. Initiates are described as growling like Lions, and the Konjic relief shows one wearing a leonine head-dress. The Lion had his hands washed and his tongue anointed with honey and after this (in Mithraic ritual at least) he could not touch water, for he had entered the grade which symbolised the element of fire. The grade was under the protection of Jupiter and at least one of its duties was to attend the sacred altar-flame. Its symbols were a thunderbolt, a fire-shovel and a sistrum, or Egyptian metal rattle much used in the Mystery cults.

The fifth grade was that of the Persian, who was also purified with honey. The symbols of the grade were ears of corn and a sickle, and it was under the protection of the Moon.

The second highest grade was that of Runner of the Sun. The initiates of this grade imitated the Sun at the ritual banquet, sitting next to Mithras himself (the Father). The patron god of the grade was the Sun.

The highest grade of all was that of Father (Pater). He was Mithras’ earthly counterpart and responsible for the teaching, discipline and ordering of the congregation which he led. His symbols were a Persian cap, a patera or libation dish, a sickle-like sword and his staff of office. He was under the protection of Saturn.

If you want to know more about Mithraism I would recommend Mithras and his Temples on the Wall by Charles Daniels, one of the books I consulted in the process of researching Mithraism, and perhaps the most accessible.

‘It might be your homeland, Julius, but I think it’s a shithole.’ The heavily built young centurion pulled his thick woollen cloak tighter about him, grimacing at the cold mist surrounding them on all sides. The fog, which muffled his voice and reduced visibility to barely fifty paces, gave the impression that the small party was being enveloped by thick grey walls. ‘The weather’s no better than in Britannia, the food’s worse than in Britannia, and the beer’s just piss.’

One of the other two officers marching alongside him flicked water out of his heavy black beard and snorted, wincing as the movement allowed a trickle of water to run down his back.

‘The last time I saw this place, Dubnus, was when I was fifteen. My memories of Tungrorum are so bloody dim that I doubt I’ll even recognise it when we get there. If we ever find it in this bloody murk.’

One of the three barbarians walking behind them snorted his own particular disgust.

‘Some fool told me that we were headed for Germania. All the time I was puking my guts up crossing the sea, and then when we were shivering in those freezing, louse-infested barracks through the winter, I consoled myself that I would soon be close to the land of my people, the land of the Quadi. A land of forests and rivers, teeming with game and watched over by my father’s gods. Instead of which –’ he lifted his hands to encompass the gently rolling land to either side of the road’s arrow-straight course – ‘I find myself trudging across interminable farmland populated only by gangs of listless slaves and wreathed in vapour. This is not Germania; this bloody province is just one big field.’

The centurion marching on Dubnus’s left turned round to face the barbarian and walked backwards, an amused smile on his angular, hawkish face.

‘As it happens, Arminius, you’ve hit the nail squarely on the head. This part of Germania Inferior is just like Gallia Belgica to the south; it’s almost entirely turned over to farming for corn. Good soil, or so my old tutor told me. If it wasn’t for this province, and the farmland to the south, there’d be no legions based on the River Rhenus to keep the German tribes in check, because there’d be no corn to feed them with.’

The barbarian shook his head in disbelief.

‘Only you, Marcus Valerius Aquila, only you could take a complaint and turn it into a lesson on the workings of the empire.’

Julius kept marching, but his tone when he spoke was peremptory.

‘Just stick to the name he’s using now, Arminius, that or call him “Two Knives” like the soldiers do. Let his past sleep where it lies, because if you prod it hard enough it’ll only wake up in a bad temper and give us all more grief. Our brother in arms is Marcus Tribulus Corvus, and we’ll use that name whether we might be overheard or not. You know as well as I do what the penalty would be, were we found to be harbouring an imperial fugitive, in Britannia, in Germany or in any other part of the empire you’d like to mention.’

Another of the barbarian trio chuckled darkly, his one good eye winking at the subject of their discussion. With the wound that had ruined the other eye now healed he had dispensed with any attempt to hide the fresh, angry pink scar that cut the heavy brow into two separate parts. The eye socket itself was empty, a permanent reminder of a blood-fuelled night of revenge on his tribe’s oppressors.

‘Aye, especially a fugitive with such aristocratic blood.’

‘And so says the only member of royalty actually present, eh, Prince Martos?’

The one-eyed man shook his head briskly at Dubnus’s jibe.

‘I forfeited my tribal rank when I turned away from the Dinpaladyr and marched south with you, just as you did when you turned away from your people to become part of the civilised world. Besides, my tribe has no need of my presence, not with a Roman garrison posted to watch the Fortress of Spears until such time as my nephew is ready to rule without their assistance. I’m better employed helping you keep this one –’ he tipped his head at Marcus – ‘out of the public eye.’ Clenching one big fist and watching with a grin as the heavy muscle of his arm rippled in response, he shot the equally muscular Roman a lopsided smile. ‘As if anyone’s going to spare him a second glance when a one-eyed warrior built like one of your legion bathhouses is anywhere nearby.’

The third barbarian, taller than the other two by a full head, and with a heavy iron-beaked war hammer resting across one slab-like shoulder, gave a snigger of amusement so quiet that it might have passed unnoticed. The prince turned his head to focus his one good eye on the bigger man, a fierce scowl creasing his face as he snapped out a question in the language their two tribes shared.

‘What’s your problem, Lugos?’

Martos had yet to fully accept the giant as a member of the cohort’s unofficial scout century, formed by the remnant of his Votadini warriors after their defeat by the Romans the previous year. Their capture had been a consequence of betrayal by the hulking tribesman’s king, the leader of the Selgovae tribe, and Martos’s view of the big man remained unmistakably jaundiced, but Lugos was clever enough to bide his time with the Votadini leader.

‘There is no problem, Prince Martos. I simply listen, and in doing so I learn.’

Martos gave him a hard stare, but the giant’s innocent look dampened his temper before it had the chance to boil over. Waiting until the prince had given up his fierce scrutiny, Lugos shot Marcus a swift wink. The Roman raised an eyebrow in return and turned back to face the direction of their march, catching a conspiratorial glance from Dubnus as his friend resumed his attempts to goad Julius.

‘How far to the city now, Julius, do you think?’

The older man gave him a sideways look of disbelief.

‘Five minutes less than the last time you asked, I’d say. Why, do you need to empty your bladder, or is that spear wound playing you up again? You should have gone before we . . .’ He stopped, and put a hand on the hilt of his sword, pointing at the ground dimly visible to the right of the road’s path. ‘Do you see that?’

Out in the mist, at the point where distance made the movement nearly impossible to discern, something had risen from the mud surrounding them. As they watched, another figure rose from the ground close to the first, a human figure daubed liberally with mud. Dubnus shook his head, staring hard at the apparitions, then pointed into the fog on the other side of the road.

‘More of them!’

While the Romans stood and stared, a dozen and more of the unidentifiable figures rose to their feet around them, seeming to climb, wraithlike, straight out of the ground into the mist’s murk. Lugos broke the spell, stepping forward with his hammer gripped in two white-knuckled hands, barking out a single eager, angry word.

‘Bandits!’

The Romans looked at each other and drew their swords, Marcus pulling a long cavalry sword from the scabbard on his right hip to join the shorter gladius already held in his right hand. The gladius’s gold and silver eagle-head pommel gleamed dimly in the fog’s pale light. Dubnus pulled a throwing axe from his belt, tossing the weapon into the air and catching it by the handle’s base, ready to let it fly. They watched in silence as the figures moved closer, gradually taking on solid shapes as they closed their circle around the bemused group. Looking about him, Marcus saw that they were indeed men; their garments were worn and filthy, but each of them carried a sword or spear whose blades appeared well cared for.

‘Close enough, unless you want to find out what the point of my sword feels like as I slide it between your ribs!’

Their gradual advance stopped at Julius’s challenge, a single man stepping forward from their encircling line. What Marcus had taken for features set in stony resolution resolved themselves into the dull iron lines of a cavalry helmet, and when the man spoke his voice was distorted by the close-fitting face mask.

‘We are three times your strength. Lay down your arms and surrender your coin, and nobody gets hurt. Try to fight us and we’ll slaughter you like cattle.’

Julius stepped forward, sliding his gladius back into its scabbard and reaching into a pouch on his belt.

‘You’re right; there is a better way of settling this.’

Marcus and Dubnus exchanged knowing glances, and behind them Lugos growled softly, barely restraining himself from wading into the bandits single-handed. The centurion raised his hands, a flash of silver glinting in the swirling mist, and the masked bandit relaxed slightly, holding up an open hand to keep back his fellow robbers.

Julius’s face hardened into a predatory smile as he moved closer. ‘No, really, there’s no need for any of us to get hurt. You, on the other hand, should run. Now.’ He lifted a hand to his face, putting a shining whistle to his lips while the bandit leader scowled and raised his sword to fight. ‘No? I warned you . . .’

After blowing a single piercing note he dropped the whistle and ripped his dagger from its sheath, stepping in to attack the masked bandit with the weapon held low. His assailant swung his sword in a clumsy diagonal cut, aiming for the junction of the Roman’s head and neck, but Julius spun to his right and ducked under the blow, pushing his weight off his right foot and springing onto the bandit, bearing him to the ground and breaking his grip on the sword’s hilt. He rammed the dagger’s foot-long blade up into the bandit’s exposed left armpit and then, as the other man screamed with the agony of his wound, snapped his head down to deliver a crunching butt with his helmet’s brow guard, smashing a deep dent into the cavalry helmet’s iron face mask. Pushing himself off the bandit’s inert body he jumped back to his feet and swept his gladius from its scabbard again, turning to the nearest of the bandits with a broad smile.

Unable to contain himself any longer Lugos had already stepped off the road to confront two of the robbers, raising the hammer as if to bring it down on the nearest man’s head, but then changing the attack at the last minute and sweeping the weapon’s heavy iron beak into their legs. One of the pair dropped to the ground in crippled agony, forcing the other to jump back sharply. Pushed off balance by the sudden move the robber tripped and fell headlong backwards, his arms splayed out to either side. The huge barbarian hoisted the hammer over his head, swinging its vicious hooked blade down in a whistling arc to bury it deep in the fallen man’s chest with a sickening crunch of splintering bones. As Martos and Arminius advanced to either side of him, the German swiftly finishing off the bandit felled by his first swing, the giant Briton put a foot on the dying man’s stomach and tore the hammer’s blade loose in a scatter of rib fragments, his eyes searching the mist for his next victim.

Marcus and Dubnus moved quickly to join Julius as he advanced into the throng of bandits, Dubnus hurling his axe in a spinning arc that ended with a wet, crunching thump of iron into flesh and bone before dodging a spear thrust from another man. He gripped the weapon’s extended shaft to drag his assailant off balance, then, drawing his gladius, he thrust the blade deep into the spearman’s thigh. Wrenching the weapon loose in a spray of blood he tore the spear from his victim’s faltering grip, spun it a half turn over his head to present the blade and then stamped forward, slinging the spear to transfix another of the bandits edging towards them. Marcus took on a pair of swordsmen, feinting towards the first to back him up before spinning to attack the other head on. He steered the robber’s sword aside with the gladius, then hacked the longer spatha in his other hand deep into the defenceless bandit’s side. His opponent convulsed in agony as the cold iron sliced into his body, slumping to the ground as the Roman swung back to face the other man, the bloody spatha pointing at the robber’s chest as he backed slowly away. The bandits were looking at each other in silent amazement now, not yet willing to run from their intended prey but afraid to take the fight to them, given that so many of their own number were either dead or wounded.

For a moment silence ruled the open field, aside from a distant, rhythmic sound so faint as to be at the limit of audibility but rapidly gaining in volume, a metallic ripple that pulsed through the fog like the gnashing of a million tiny iron teeth. Julius smiled even wider, spreading his hands and turning on the spot to encompass them all as he spoke.

‘You hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of your death rushing towards you! I’d say you’ve twenty heartbeats left, thirty at best, before a huge armoured monster comes out of this fog and tears you all to pieces. Either run now or make your peace with your gods.’

He paused, theatrically putting a cupped hand to his ear. The sound was swelling now, hardening, its distinct rhythm starting to disintegrate into one long clattering rattle. Marcus stared at the filthy, exhausted bandits around him, seeing every man’s face reflect the same urge to run that they were all feeling. With a visible start one of the robbers realised what was happening; he turned to flee just as the first soldiers came out of the mist at the forced-march pace, their heads back to suck in the damp air. Marcus recognised the centurion running alongside the four-man-wide column as Clodius, at the exact moment that his colleague raised his drawn sword and bellowed an order at his men.

‘Third Century, take them down!’

The bandits scattered in all directions, and the centurions watched in bemusement as the column’s ordered ranks broke into organised chaos in the space of an instant, individual soldiers choosing their victims and going after them like hunting dogs. Each of the desperate men suddenly found himself pursued by half a dozen soldiers eager for blood, and the mist filled with the shouts and screams of hunter and hunted. One zealous soldier ran at the three barbarian scouts with his spear raised, mistaking them for robbers in the heat of battle. A moment later he was staggering backwards, clutching his face, as Arminius, his face dark with anger, stepped forward to stop him dead with a swift jab of his massive fist. The unfortunate Tungrian fell onto his backside with blood streaming down his face.

‘You’ve broken by dose!’

The German shook his head contemptuously, gesturing back at his companions.

‘And whose fault is that? Just count yourself fortunate it was me and neither of these two that put you right. The prince would have gutted you like a fish, and the big lad would have taken off your head with the same punch. Now go and bleed somewhere else.’

Clodius walked across to his brother officers with a raised eyebrow, pulling off both his helmet and its padded linen liner, allowing the cold air to get to his grey-streaked hair. He watched as his men dragged the corpses of their victims back across the muddy fields.

‘I should have known you three would find some kind of trouble.’

Dubnus wiped his sword clean on the greasy fabric of a dead man’s tunic and sheathed the blade before replying.

‘It found us.’

Clodius grunted morosely.

‘Nothing new there. How’s your wound, young Dubnus? Still giving you problems when you get down on your knees for a . . .’ Catching a movement in the corner of his eye he half turned and then snapped out an order. ‘Third Century, stand at attention!’

Tribune Scaurus strolled into the knot of centurions with First Spear Sextus Frontinius in close attendance, returning their salutes while his deceptively soft grey eyes took in the scene about them.

‘I know we’re here to kill bandits, gentlemen, but given that we haven’t even reached Tungrorum yet this all seems a little keen, even by your standards.’ He looked around him at the litter of scattered corpses and the few groaning survivors of the swift fight. ‘And that, I have to say, seems to be that. Normally I’d be of the opinion that since we killed them we’d best burn or bury them, but under the circumstances . . .’ He turned to Frontinius with a questioning look. ‘What do you say, First Spear?’

The senior centurion limped across to the fallen body of the robbers’ leader, pulling the cavalry helmet from the corpse’s head to reveal the dead man’s smashed face; the blood that had streamed from his broken nose was stark against the pale grey of his skin.

‘I’d say he didn’t find this helmet at the side of the road. I’d say he’s probably killed enough good men that his death will please our gods. And I’d say that we leave him here to rot with the rest of his gang.’

Scaurus pursed his lips and nodded.

‘Agreed. Strip them of their weapons and anything else of value, and load the survivors onto the supply carts. I’d imagine the authorities in Tungrorum will be happy enough to receive a few captured bandits for some public punishment.’ He half turned away, then swung back to Frontinius with a swift nod. ‘And that’ll be enough of these gentlemen walking out in front of the cohort for one day. I don’t mind losing officers in battle as long as they have the good grace to die expensively, but given we’re already short of good centurions I won’t risk making our problems any worse by tempting fate like that.’ The 1st spear nodded, giving the three officers a significant stare. ‘And what happened to him?’

A bandage carrier was fussing over the soldier whose nose had been broken by Arminius. The German stepped forward, nodding to Scaurus.

‘He seemed set on putting his spear through me, so I changed his mind for him.’

The tribune raised an eyebrow at his bodyguard.

‘You seem to have done rather too good a job of it, from what I can see.’ He tapped the hapless medic on the shoulder, eliciting a flustered, bloody-fingered salute from the man. ‘Either you get that back in place now or you can deal with it at the end of the day. We’ve no time to be standing round in the mist while you work it out.’

The bandage carrier spread his wet and bloodied hands in apology.

‘Sorry, Tribune, I just can’t get a grip on the bone.’

Arminius pushed him aside without ceremony, putting a hand on the terrified soldier’s shoulder to prevent him from rising.

‘Stay put, you. This won’t take a minute.’ He grasped the soldier’s nose, rubbing it briskly between finger and thumb to gauge the break’s location. While the soldier was still squawking in pain at this rough treatment, the German took a handful of hair to hold his head in place and quickly manipulated the bone back into place. With a shrill scream of agony the soldier passed out, his weight suspended from the German’s grip on his scalp. Shaking his head, Arminius pushed him into the bandage carrier’s arms. ‘It’s done. He’ll have a pair of black eyes for a week or so. It might teach him to pick his targets with a little more care.’

First Spear Frontinius nodded to his tribune, a wry smile touching his lips.

‘It seems that your man has a way with mending broken bones, Tribune. Perhaps Centurion Corvus’s wife might do well to recruit him for her clinic?’

Scaurus shook his head, watching the German walk away.

‘I think not. He’s more than a little lacking in the delicate approach required of a medical man. He’s been that way ever since I saved him from the sword back in the war with the Quadi, and I can’t see him changing now.’ He turned to look at the road ahead, still wreathed in drifting curtains of mist. ‘Well, then, shall we get these cohorts back on the road? I’d estimate there’s still another ten miles to the city, and there’ll be no respite from this cursed drizzle until we get there.’

As the leading centuries formed back into their marching column Marcus noted that Julius was scanning the ground around the corpse of the bandit group’s leader.

‘Lost something?’

His friend nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.

‘My whistle. It was a nice one too.’

Glancing about him, Marcus caught Dubnus’s eye, and saw that he was pointing ostentatiously at his own belt pouch and grinning smugly. Giving up the search, Julius turned back to his colleagues to find Dubnus apparently searching the ground at his feet with exaggerated interest.

‘I could do with a nice whistle; mine sounds like a castrated cat.’

The older man shook his head in disgust as the 3rd Century, set to lead the long two-cohort-strong column of march, started to move again at Clodius’s bellow of command.

‘Very funny, Dubnus. I suppose that’s the price I have to pay for being first into the fight. As per fucking usual.’

He stamped away to join his own 5th Century, leaving the two friends to wait for their men to march past.

‘How long will you hold onto it?’

Dubnus shrugged at Marcus’s question.

‘Until he’s bought a new one? I’ll sneak it back into his pouch once he’s laid out some coin for a replacement.’ He frowned at his friend’s sudden solemnity. ‘What? It’s not like I’ve lifted his purse!’

Marcus shook his head.

‘No, it’s me. I was just thinking how funny Rufius was going to find this.’

Dubnus put a spade-like hand on his friend’s mailed shoulder.

‘I know. I miss the old bastard almost as much as you do, but life, as Morban keeps telling anyone that will listen, is for those left around to profit from it. And here come your boys now. Go and cheer up Qadir with the story of our colleague’s whistle. You know he always turns grumpy when it’s too wet for his lads to play with their bows.’

After another four hours of marching, all of it through an afternoon made into premature twilight by the swirling mist, even Marcus was ready for the day’s journey to end. Marching alongside his chosen man, Qadir, at his century’s rear, he noted that the usually imperturbable Hamian’s demeanour became grimmer as the day progressed.

‘I’m going up to the front to make sure Morban’s not bullying the trumpeter too badly.’

The Hamian grunted in reply, his eyes locked on the gloomy landscape fitfully revealed by the mist’s drifting grey curtains.

Marching up to the century’s head, the Roman found his standard bearer, a twenty-five-year veteran famed for both his acerbic wit and his prodigious appetites for gambling, drinking and whoring, in reflective mood on the subject of their colleague’s unhappiness.

‘I tried to cheer him up at the lunch stop with a few jokes, but he wasn’t having any of it. Perhaps he’s starting to realise what him and his mates tossed away when they decided not to stay with the Hamian cohort back on the Wall. Carting around half their weight in iron can’t be much fun when they’re more used to prancing round the forest wearing next to nothing and shooting the occasion animal for the pot.’ Oblivious to his centurion’s icy stare, he ploughed on. ‘And now here he is, freezing cold, water dripping from the end of his nose and his bow hidden away for days on end for fear of the glue rotting. No wonder the poor bastard’s feeling miserable. Not like us, we’re used to this.’ Marcus stared out into the mist, shaking his head slightly at the realisation that Morban’s view of what might be affecting Qadir’s mood could just as easily be applied to his own situation. ‘Anyway, we’ll be tucked up in this new place’s barracks soon enough, with a few logs in the stove and all this nastiness behind us. And if dear old Qadir can’t take a joke then perhaps he shouldn’t have—’

The standard bearer’s sentiment was interrupted by a shout from further up the column, which promptly came to a halt in a succession of shouted commands from each centurion down the cohort’s column. Hearing the century in front of his own being told to halt Marcus shouted the same command to his men, then barked a terse order to Qadir to watch the ranks and walked forward to see what was happening. He passed the back of the leading century and the reason for the unsched