‘First-Born.’ Marius’ voice was a croak, and he tried again, finding strength. ‘First-Born. There is no dishonour. We were not betrayed but attacked by Sulla’s own men left behind. Now, if you love me, if you have ever loved me, kill them all and burn Rome!’
He ignored the agony of the dagger as it tore into him, standing strong before his men for one long moment as they roared in fierce joy. Then his body collapsed.
‘Fires of hell!’ Sulla roared as the First-Born surged forward. ‘Form fours. Mêlée formation and engage. Sixth company to me. Attack!’ He drew his sword as the closest company clustered round to protect him. Already, he could smell blood and smoke on the air and dawn was still hours away.
Marcus looked over the parapet, straining his eyes at the distant campfires of the enemy. It was a beautiful land, but there was nothing soft in it. The winters killed the old and weak and even the scrub bushes had a wilted, defeated look as they clung to the steep crags of the mountain passes. After more than a year as a hill scout, his skin was a dark brown and his body was corded with wiry muscle. He had begun to develop what the older soldiers called the ‘itch’, the ability to smell out an ambush, to spot a tracker and move unseen over rocks in the dark. All the experienced trackers had the itch and those who hadn’t acquired it after a year never would – and would never be first-rate, they claimed.
Marcus had first been promoted to command eight men after he successfully spotted an ambush by blueskin tribesmen, directing his scouts around and behind the waiting enemy. His men had cut them to pieces and only afterwards did anyone remark that they had followed his lead without argument. It had been the first time he had seen the wild nomads up close and the sight of their blue-dyed faces still slid into his dreams after bad food or cheap wine.
The policy of the legion was to control and pacify the area, which in practice meant a blanket permission to kill as many of the savages as they could. Atrocities were common. Roman guards were lost and found staked out, their entrails exposed to the brutal sun. Mercy and kindness were quickly burned away in the heat, dust and flies. Most of the actions were minor – there could be none of the set-piece battles so beloved of the Roman legionaries on such broken and hostile terrain. The patrols went out and came back with a couple of heads or a few men short. It seemed to be a stalemate, with neither side having the strength for extermination.
After twelve months of this, the raids on the supply caravans suddenly became more frequent and more brutal. Along with a number of other units, Marcus’ men had been added to the supply guards, to make sure the water barrels and salted provisions reached their most isolated outposts.
It had always been clear that these buildings were barbs under the skin of the tribespeople and attacks on the small stone forts in the hills were common. The legion rotated the men stationed there at regular intervals and many came back to the permanent camp with grisly stories of heads thrown over the parapets, or words of blood found on the walls when the sun rose.
At first the duties of caravan guard had not been onerous for Marcus. Five of his eight men were experienced, cool hands and completed their duties without fuss or complaint. Of the other three, Japek complained constantly, seeming not to care that he was disliked by the others, Rupis was close to retirement and had been broken back to the ranks after some failure of command and the third was Peppis. Each presented different problems and Renius had only shaken his head when asked for advice.
‘They’re your men, you sort it out,’ had been his only word on the subject.
Marcus had made Rupis his second, in charge of four of the men, in the hope that this would restore a little of his pride. Instead, he seemed to take some obscure insult from this and practically sneered whenever Marcus gave him an order. After a little thought, Marcus had ordered Japek to write down every one of his complaints as they occurred to him, forming a catalogue that he would allow Japek to present to their centurion back at the permanent camp. The man was famous for not suffering fools and Marcus was glad to note that not a single complaint had gone down on the parchment he had provided from the legion stores. A small triumph, perhaps, but Marcus was struggling to learn the skills of dealing with people or, as Renius put it, making them do what you want without being so annoyed they do it badly. When he thought about it, it made Marcus smile that the only teacher he’d ever had for diplomacy was Renius.
Peppis was the kind of problem that couldn’t be resolved with a few words or a blow. He had made a promising start at the permanent barracks, growing quickly in size and bulk with good food and exercise. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to steal from the stores, often bringing the items to Marcus, which had caused him a great deal of embarrassment. Even being forced to return everything he took and a brief but solid lashing had failed to cure Peppis of the habit and eventually the Bronze Fist centurion, Leonides, had sent the boy to Marcus with a note that read: ‘Your responsibility. Your back.’
The guard duty had started well, with the kind of efficiency Marcus had begun to take for granted but which he guessed was not the standard all over the empire. They had set off one hour before dawn, trailing along the paths into the dark granite hills. Four flat ox carts had been loaded with tightly lashed barrels and thirty-two soldiers detailed for guard duty. They were under the command of an old scout named Peritas, who had twenty years of experience under his belt and was no one’s fool. Altogether, they were a formidable force to be trundling through the winding hill paths and although Marcus had felt hidden eyes on them almost from the beginning, that was a feeling you quickly became used to. His unit had been given the task of scouting ahead and Marcus was leading two of his men up a steep bank of loose stone and dried moss when they came face to face with about fifty painted, blue-skinned figures, fully armed for war.
For a few seconds, both groups merely gaped at each other and then Marcus had turned and scrambled back down the slope, his two companions only slightly slower. Behind them a great yell went up, making unnecessary the need to call any warning to the caravan. The blueskins poured over the lip of the hidden ledge and fell on the caravan guards with their long swords held high and wild screams rending the mountain air.
The legionaries had not paused to gape. As the blueskins charged, arrows were fitted to bowstrings and a humming wave of death passed over the heads of Marcus and his men, giving them time to reach the path and turn to face the enemy. Marcus remembered having drawn his gladius and killing a warrior who had screamed at him right up to the moment when Marcus chopped his blade into the creature’s throat.
For a moment, the legionaries were overwhelmed. Their strength was in units, but on the ragged path it was every man for himself and little chance to link shields with anyone else. Nonetheless, Marcus saw that each of the Romans was standing and cutting, their faces grim and unyielding before the blue horror of the tribe. More men fell on both sides and Marcus found himself with his back to a cart, ducking under a sword cut to bury his shorter blade in a heaving blue stomach and ripping it out to the side. The intestines seemed bright yellow against the blue dye, some part of him noted as he defended against two more. He took one hand off at the wrist and sliced another warrior in the groin as he tried to leap onto the cart. The snarling tribesman fell back into the choking dust and Marcus stamped down on him blindly while slicing the bicep of the next. It seemed to last a long time and, when they finally broke and raced away up the banks into cover, Marcus was surprised to see the sun where it had been when they attacked. Only a few minutes had passed at most. He looked round for his unit and was relieved to see faces he knew well, panting and splashed with blood, but alive.
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