text: Postumius Avitus Macrinus, legatus of the Imperial 20th Legion, stepped on to the blood-soaked slope with a grim face, the two centuries advancing up the hill ahead of him systematically butchering any of the wounded that had survived. A stroke of luck had brought a Petriana messenger to him as his own legion and the 2nd were marching less than five miles distant. His leading cohorts had been driven forward towards the distant smoke of the battle at a merciless run by their centurions, their exhaustion turning to cold purpose as they crested the final slope and saw thousands of the enemy below. The barbarian warband had scattered like chaff under their combined attack, put to flight in their tribal and family groups and pursued by a dozen cohorts with murder in their hearts and the guidance of questing cavalrymen, eager for heads.
  
  He'd met with Licinius briefly when the Petriana's prefect had found the oncoming legions, and had guided them in to attack from either side of the wood before taking the 6th's remaining cohorts down through the trees to reinforce the Tungrians. He'd been unsurprised to have his request for the prefect to take over the remnants of the 6th legion refused without hesitation.
  
  'Absolutely not, Legatus, I was brought up on horseback and this style of fighting doesn't suit me. Besides, you need the Petriana out in front of your legions, and I'm the best man to keep a foot firmly up their idle British arses. Go and talk to the man that made this possible.'
  
  He'd pointed up the hill behind them, at a cohort-sized group of warriors arrayed behind an impressive rampart of dead barbarians, and told the legate in swift, economical sentences the story of Titus Tigidius Perennis's betrayal of the 6th and the Tungrians' stand on the hillside. Both Perennis's treachery and his parentage had come as a shock to the veteran officer.
  
  'Jupiter! Sextus Tigidius Perennis's son did this? The son of the praetorian prefect lured an imperial legion into a barbarian ambush? Every time I think I've seen it all …'
  
  Nodding his understanding, and clapping the tired prefect on the shoulder, he'd called a senior centurion to his side, pointing up the hill.
  
  'I'm going up there. You might want to send a few men with me in case any of those dead barbarians is faking.'
  
  Behind him, mute testimony to the effectiveness of Perennis's betrayal, thousands of Roman bodies lay in untidy bloodstained heaps around a series of unseen diminishing circles, the successive defence perimeters of the hopelessly outnumbered and disarrayed 6th Legion cohorts taken in Calgus's trap. He had already seen Sollemnis's body for himself, needing to know that the man was really dead and not carried away as a hostage. The legatus's sword had been hidden under another man's body, concealment sufficient to foil the brief search of the fallen for valuables that had been all the ongoing battle had allowed the barbarians. The weapon now rested in its scabbard once more, carried by one of his staff. He would have the difficult honour of passing it on to the man's oldest son.
  
  He should have been at home himself, his age advancing towards a mature fifty more quickly than he cared to consider after a lifetime fighting Rome's enemies. The throne, however, or those behind it, trusted him too well to leave him in retirement. He'd been called from his fireside to command the 20th barely three months before, with instructions to look for signs that senior officers in the province were not to be trusted.
  
  'I won't be the imperial informer, Prefect Perennis,' he'd told the praetorian guard's commander flatly, pointing a thick finger at the emperor's right-hand man, with whom he'd served twenty years before in Syria. He'd been respectfully summoned to dine with the imperial favourite, a private dinner served by slaves who appeared deaf, so little was their interest in the proceedings.
  
  'And no one expects you to, Senator, least of all me. I don't care if some of the younger and impressionable idiots believe all they hear from Rome, and take it into their stupid heads that Commodus isn't fit for their respect. Every young emperor has to earn the regard of the army, and he will, given time. What I want from you is hard intelligence on the British situation, who's effective and who isn't. The rumours reaching us here are that the governor is playing a foolish game, not sending all of the gold intended to keep the northern tribal leaders happy to the right places, and we'd rather know the truth with enough time to act on it. Gods above us, the last thing we need is another bloody revolt on the edge of the world. On top of that, you'll provide us with a tested senior officer in place if anything does happen.'
  
  He'd nodded, able to accept the task he was bidden to take on. Perennis had smiled quietly and sipped his wine, then put the cup down.
  
  'One thing, though, you could keep an eye open for the late Senator Valerius Aquila's boy. There are rumours that he might have buried himself out of sight in the Wall army.'
  
  He'd given the other man a darker look, as unresolved as to his views on young Aquila then as he was now. He'd known the senator in happier days, and had viewed his death with a sickened resignation as one of the small dramas that play out across every change of power. If the lad was still at large, and not dead or enslaved, he was mindful not to take too close an interest. Ignoring the misdemeanours of the men that surrounded the young emperor was one thing, abetting them was quite another.
  
  Before him, in increasing numbers as he climbed the incline, slipping more than once on the treacherous footing, were arrayed barbarian dead, the leavings of the auxiliary cohort's defiant stand at the valley's head. At first they lay alone, wounded men killed as they had crawled away from the battle, then in twos and threes. The ground, previously scattered with the blood of the wounded, became slick with blood and faeces, the earth pounded into a greasy bog under thousands of feet, and the dead suddenly outnumbered the living. An eye-watering stench pervaded the air.
  
  Unable to avoid committing the indignity of stepping upon the fallen, the legatus climbed a wall of corpses three feet high, men hacked and torn by grievous wounds, dropped in their hundreds to form a rampart for the defenders to shelter behind. A soldier to his right spotted some minute movement among the mangled warriors, and stepped in to strike with his gladius. The legatus returned his gaze to the front, seeing auxiliary troops among the dead for the first time, their bodies neatly laid in rows by their fellow troops and covered with their capes. He winced at the number of their dead, looking to the remaining troops to gauge their fitness for further action.
  
  The cohort was standing to attention, neatly paraded across the hillside by century, a good sign in itself, as was the fact that they had already washed most of the inevitable blood spray of battle from their faces, if not their black-caked armour. The cohort's prefect stepped forward to meet him, the man's grasp shaking slightly. Shock or fatigue? He kept his demeanour brisk, hoping to help the man a little with his battle weariness.
  
  'Prefect Equitius? I'm Legatus Postumius Avitus Macrinus, Twentieth Imperial Legion and, with the death of our esteemed colleague Legatus Gaius Calidius Sollemnis, now general in command of this whole sorry mess.'
  
  He paused, looking out across the sea of corpses.
  
  'You, Prefect, seem to have gained us a victory. The Petriana's commander tells me that you held this place against many times your own number in order to keep Calgus busy until reinforcement could arrive. You paid a heavy price for that success, I see …'
  
  The other man nodded, his eyes far away.
  
  'You could consider this ground bought and paid for, Legatus.'
  
  A burly man passed them without recognition, his hollow eyes fixed on the body cradled in his arms.
  
  'Another casualty. As you say, bought and paid for.'
  
  The prefect watched Morban deposit the corpse alongside the cohort's other dead with gentle care.
  
  'His son, I fear.'
  
  'Ah … a difficult moment for any man.'
  
  The senior officer waited a moment, watching the other for signs of mental defeat, but saw none.
  
  'I'm sorry, but I'm new enough to this country not to know your unit by anything other than name. Forgive the question as simple ignorance of your men's resilience, but can they fight on?'
  
  The prefect nodded slowly.
  
  'We have an overall casualty figure of one hundred and fifty-eight dead and another one hundred and three seriously wounded, of whom at least half will die, plus a couple of hundred with minor wounds, cuts and bruises, who can be treated in the field. I am three officers short, one dead and two wounded, plus a First Spear with an arrow wound that he's determined to ignore, and I've lost half a dozen or so watch officers. So it isn't pretty, but yes, we can fight, given time to bury our dead and get some food into the troops.'
  
  'Good. And yourself?'
  
  The other man raised an eyebrow.
  
  'I'm in better condition than most of my men. They did the fighting here, not me.'
  
  'And yet your quick thinking, coupled with their prowess, made amends for what would otherwise have been a total disaster. With Calidius Sollemnis dead I'm the only general officer left in this command, which gives me the undisputed right to make battlefield promotions I feel are justified. I'm also a recent appointment from the imperial court. Even the governor wouldn't consider challenging my authority on a question of promotion. You're the man I need, Prefect, to take what's left of the Sixth legion and rebuild it.'
  
  'Legatus, with respect …'
  
  The senior officer silenced him with a raised hand.
  
  'No, Prefect, the respect comes from this side of our short relationship. Your auxiliaries fought like praetorians here. You know how to manage soldiers, and you come with a ready-made reputation. With Perennis dead, my only other option would be to promote a young man from my own staff, and there's none of them your equal. The Petriana's prefect told me not to bother asking him, and since they're our most potent weapon I'm happy to leave him in post. I can't guarantee you the position in the longer term, but you'll lead the Sixth for the rest of the summer, and you'll have the title and status that go with the responsibility. You'll be able to retire to a nice civil job even if you're not confirmed in position, and in the meanwhile your family will be quartered in the Yew Grove headquarters. So, don't tell me you won't accept my offer, because I'm not minded to let you refuse.'
  
  The prefect closed his eyes for a moment, wearily considering the options.
  
  'Who succeeds me here?'
  
  'I presume your First Spear's competent?'
  
  He nodded.
  
  'Then there's no urgent need to find a man of the equestrian class to replace you. Let that wait for calmer days. For the time being your men need a familiar face to look up to, not a new one they didn't see on this bloody hillside today.'
  
  'Very well, Legatus, I will accept your generous offer.'
  
  'Good. Take a few minutes to brief your people and then take command of the Sixth at once. You'll find them regrouping at the far end of valley if my order to halt their pursuit reached them. I'll let you have the Frisians and the Raetians as temporary reinforcement to bring your legion up over half-strength. Oh, and have the two Tungrian cohorts pull back to the Wall. I want some rear-area security on the road between here and Yew Grove, besides which it will give them a breather. We'll need them back in the campaign soon enough.'
  
  'Sir.'
  
  The new legatus turned to go, then turned back.
  
  'I presume that you've found Legatus Sollemnis's body?'
  
  'Yes, he died on his feet, it seems. He'd been beheaded, though. I hear these wretched people sometimes preserve the head of an enemy in the oil of the cedar. Perhaps when you recover his lost eagle you'll be able to bring him some peace too.'
  
  'Did you find his sword?'
  
  'Indeed, my First Spear has it. I'll return it to his family when I go back to Rome at the end of the year.'
  
  'I know Sollemnis's son better than most people. It would be my honour to return the weapon to him …'
  
  The legate called his senior centurion over, took an oilskin-wrapped package from him and presented it with obvious relief.
  
  'I'm happy to have the responsibility off my shoulders. I've never once enjoyed seeing the faces of the relatives when I pitch up with their loved ones' personal effects … Anyway, Legatus, away and get your new command pulled into shape. I'll see you at tonight's commanders' conference.'
  
  He turned away and picked his way gingerly down the hillside, watched by the remaining Tungrians. Frontinius hobbled over to the prefect, a question on his face.
  
  'I'm a legatus, Sextus, new commander of the Sixth, or what's left of them …'
  
  Frontinius congratulated him with genuine warmth, delighted for his friend.
  
  'You will always be able to count on our support, Legatus. Might I enquire as to your replacement?'
  
  'For the time being you're in command here. In the longer term I expect there'll be a queue of suitable candidates …'
  
  Frontinius nodded.
  
  'Then I'll make the most of my brief moment in the sun. Our orders?'
  
  'Get your dead underground with dignity and then move to join the legions. They'll be camping back on the hill we used last night, I believe. I suggest that you use the Sixth Legion's supplies since they're several thousand men down on their establishment. Tomorrow morning you'll be marching for the Rock as fast as you can alongside the Second Cohort, and will secure what's left of the fort …'
  
  Equitius's face creased into a frown.
  
  '… and no, it isn't a quiet option for you, or any sign that I consider your command as unfit for battle. There are probably several thousand barbarians still milling about to our rear in a variety of groupings, and while I expect them to take to the hills once news of this action gets out, some of them still might be tempted to try a run south instead. In truth we've little enough between here and Yew Grove that we can trust to get in their way. Securing the crossroads south of the Wall is my first priority, after enjoying the sight of Calgus's head on a pole and seeing the Sixth's eagle back in the hands of a bad-tempered standard-bearer. I'll ask for a century of cavalry from the Petriana to scout ahead of you, and to maintain contact with the main body of the army …'
  
  The new prefect nodded his understanding.
  
  '… and now I must leave. Before I go, I need one favour from you.'
  
  Frontinius nodded.
  
  'Legatus?'
  
  'I need a bodyguard, just a few tent parties. These men don't know me, and I don't know them. I'd feel safer with a few close friends between me and the blue-faces.'
  
  'Got anybody in mind?'
  
  Equitius looked out over the battlefield, still amazed at the slaughter committed across the valley's green slopes.
  
  'I thought I might ask you for the Ninth Century, or what's left of them. Young Corvus ought to be safe enough with Perennis out of the way … and at some point I need to give him this.'
  
  Frontinius peered inside the oilskin package as Equitius opened it to display the weapon inside, taking in the sword's fine workmanship.
  
  'Very pretty. Sollemnis?'
  
  'Yes. Tradition says it goes to his oldest son …'
  
  'And now might not be quite the right time for that story to be told.'
  
  'Exactly.'
  
  Frontinius nodded.
  
  'Very well, Legatus, the Ninth it is. Just remember we want them back.'
  
  For the 9th the next month passed as quickly as the previous week. Sixth Legion, reinforced by the addition of the two auxiliary cohorts, giving it an effective strength of six cohorts, marched into the north, while the 20th and the 2nd legions pulled back to hold the Wall and start the task of rebuilding its shattered forts. The legions' task, carried out day after unremitting day, was to sweep the open countryside for tribal bands on the run after what had quickly became known to both army and the unwilling populace through which they moved as the Battle of the Lost Eagle. After the first week, with the weather turning sour and wind-driven drizzle working its way into armour and equipment, bringing the scourge of rust without constant care, the experience soon began to pall.
  
  Waking before dawn, often in driving rain as a succession of cloud banks swept across the country, the legion was routinely on its feet until after dark, an eighteen-hour day at that time of the year and longer for men standing guard in the night. Moving into the increasingly mountainous country in search of the fleeing barbarians exposed them to likely ambush and inevitable pinprick attacks, knives in the dark and snatched bow shots from hidden archers who frequently escaped their clutches.
  
  Intelligence gathered by their native scouts told Equitius that the captured eagle, and with it Sollemnis's head, went before them, tantalisingly close to recapture, and for the sake of his dead friend he pushed its pursuit for longer than might have been judged prudent. Each village and farm they encountered greeted their passing with forced indifference, as if neither side knew that refugees from the battle were hidden close by. Even the petty revenges of searching the rough dwellings, stealing any valuables their inhabitants were stupid enough not to have hidden, and the confiscation and slaughter of the farm animals for food, did little to lift the spirits of men who knew their enemy was laughing at their failure to retake the legion's precious standard.
  
  Marcus's men held up well enough, helped by the distraction of keeping Morban from dwelling on his loss. The burly standard-bearer didn't sleep, lost weight and volunteered for guard duty at every opportunity, seeking activity to prevent opportunities to brood over his son's death in the battle's last minutes. Some of the century attempted to use humour to keep his spirits up. Marcus overheard two of his men attempting to lighten the standard-bearer's mood in camp late one evening.
  
  'Morban, how many legion road-builders does it take to light a lamp?'
  
  'No idea.'
  
  'Five – one to light it and four lazy bastards leaning on their shovels to watch!'
  
  The other soldier chipped in.
  
  'Morban, how many stores staff does it take to light a lamp?'
  
  'Go on.'
  
  'Ten – one to light it and nine to do the paperwork!'
  
  The first man started back in.
  
  'Morban, how many prostitutes does it take to light a lamp?'
  
  'Look, just …'
  
  'Looks like one, but she's only faking it!'
  
  Morban smiled sadly as he stood to leave.
  
  'Look, lads, I know you're just trying to cheer me up, and that last one wasn't too bad, but just give it a rest, eh?'
  
  Dubnus spoke darkly to Marcus on the subject, an unusual frown on his face.
  
  'The next action we see, he'll take his first chance to jump into the blue-faces and get killed. Which is bad enough, but I wouldn't trust some of the lads not to jump in behind him and try to save him …'
  
  They agreed to keep an eye on their friend, and in the event of impending battle to make sure he was kept away from the shield wall. Marcus knew it could only be a temporary solution.
  
  With the legionnaires visibly losing their edge under the constant strain, and without any indication that they might regain the legion's badge of honour any time soon, Equitius was forced to bow to the inevitable. Standing in camp late one evening, watching the troops labour over yet another turf wall in the orange light of the setting sun, he turned to Marcus and looked at the young centurion properly for the first time in over a week.
  
  'You look tired, Centurion, in need of a decent bath and a cup of a decent red …'
  
  Marcus straightened his back reflexively, opening eyes that had narrowed to slits in anticipation and need of sleep.
  
  'Relax, I wasn't finding fault. The gods know I could sweat a helmet full of dirt given the chance. And as for a decent drink … anyway, I've come to a decision. Tomorrow we'll have a rest day, give the cohorts a chance to get their tunics clean and polish the rust off their swords.'
  
  Marcus nodded gratefully.
  
  'And the day after?'
  
  'We turn south. Four or five days' march ought to see us back to the Wall.'
  
  'We're giving up the hunt?'
  
  'Yes. They're playing with us, you know, spreading rumours to lead us round the countryside like a bull being pulled round the farmyard by the ring in its nose. Soon enough Calgus will lure us into some nasty ambush or other, cost us more men we can't afford to lose, and I don't intend to give him the satisfaction. It's time to go home and wait for reinforcements from Gaul.'
  
  A shaft of orange sunlight lit the camp, and Equitius stretched luxuriously in the warm glow.
  
  'Share a beaker with me, Centurion?'
  
  They sat in Equitius's private tent, pitched alongside the massive command tent, and sipped their wine. For a while neither spoke. At last Equitius broke the silence.
  
  'I don't suppose the last year has been anything other than a waking nightmare for you. If it's any consolation, you've acquitted yourself better than I could have imagined when we took you in, back in the month of Mars. With hindsight, though, you were never going to fail this test. Not with your blood. I've been waiting for the right time to give you something, and now seems as good a time as any …'
  
  He pulled the oilskin package from under his camp bed, putting it in Marcus's hands with a smile.
  
  'It belonged to Legatus Sollemnis. He wanted you to have it …'
  
  Marcus unwrapped the sword, looking closely at the hilt's ornate decoration and inlay before pulling it from the scabbard and testing its fine balance.
  
  'It's a beautiful weapon …'
  
  'So it should be. I was with him when he bought it and it cost him more money than I would ever have spent on a sword. It served him with honour too, right across the empire in the service of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.'
  
  'I'm honoured. But why me?'
  
  'He spoke to me the night before the Battle of the Lost Eagle. Perhaps he had a premonition, I don't know, but he asked me to make sure that the sword went to you if he should be killed the next day. I'd say he wanted it to go to someone that will bring it further honour. Besides, you're about the right age to have been the son he always wanted …'
  
  He hovered close to breaking his promise to Frontinius at that moment, resisting the urge to tell Marcus the truth only with an effort of will.
  
  'And now, Centurion, you can get that lamp fuel down your neck and fetch the senior centurions to come and see me. The sooner that lot out there know they've got a day of rest tomorrow the happier we'll all be.'
  
  The depleted legion turned south the day after next as promised and, with thoughts of home in their hearts, made the journey back to the Wall in four days. At Noisy Valley, where buildings were being thrown up to replace those burned out to deny the warband their supplies, the other legions had set about building a temporary camp to house them until they could march south to their fortresses at the campaign's end. Equitius went looking for the 20th's legate to make his report, taking Marcus and a tent party of his men as close escort. They found the Northern Command's new general in his freshly erected wooden principia, a clutch of legion tribunes and senior centurions gathered around him as they planned the campaign's next moves. Dismissing his escort for the time being, Equitius approached Legatus Macrinus and made his salute before joining the group.
  
  Marcus took his men outside to wait for the legatus, sitting them down in the early afternoon's warmth with a quiet order to Dubnus to keep them busy polishing their helmets, and to call him when Equitius had completed his duties inside, then headed for the infirmary. The legionaries guarding the hospital confirmed that there were Tungrian wounded inside. He found a couple of dozen of them, including five of his own men, sporting bandages and, in a couple of cases, fracture splints. Their delight at the visit was obvious, and they sat him down on a bed and plied him with questions on the state of the campaign.
  
  It soon became clear that they knew more about what was going on than he did, and the consensus was that there was another advance to the north planned before the end of the summer. The Tungrians had been sent back to the Hill a few days before for a week's leave and to do whatever recruiting was possible locally to boost their strength, but were scheduled to return to the swiftly growing legionary fortress that Noisy Valley was becoming for further duty. Yes, they were all well enough, although several of their mates had died in the difficult days of the march south from the battlefield, too badly hurt to survive for the most part, but the care in the hospital had saved several others, particularly that from one doctor, the last said with much rolling of eyes and significant nods.
  
  Marcus, knowing exactly where the conversation was going, smiled weakly and took his leave, promising to remember them to their friends and, if time allowed, to send their mates in to see them. In truth he'd forced himself to forget her, assisted by the strains of the last month, and being reminded of her existence was like having an ice-cold dagger twisted in his soul. Turning away, he came face to face with Felicia, who had been standing watching him with his men with a small smile on her face. He froze with uncertainty, blushing uncontrollably.
  
  'Centurion. I trust you find your men in good condition?'
  
  Recovering his wits, he bowed formally.
  
  'Yes, ma'am, I'm told that almost everyone that made it here survived. The Tungrian cohort is in your debt.'
  
  She smiled, and Marcus's heart leapt in his chest.
  
  'That's probably no recommendation for our care. Anyone that survived that journey was probably going to live anyway …'
  
  The more vocal of the Tungrians butted in indignantly on her behalf, one of them volunteering to remove his bandages and show Marcus the truly horrible wound the doctor had cleaned with delicate care three times a day, picking out the dead flesh so carefully that he hadn't even felt her working, until Marcus's irritation overcame his embarrassment, and he shooed the men back to their beds. With order restored, he turned back to Felicia with fresh confidence.
  
  'If their exuberance is any guide, I'd say you've done a fine job on them, Doctor. Perhaps we could discuss their likely further treatment somewhere a little quieter, and I'll pass your diagnosis on to their prefect when I see him next.'
  
  She smiled a secret smile, beckoning him down the ward and into her tiny office. In the small room, lit by the sun's light through an open window, he noticed that her tunic was not dark blue, as he'd supposed in the less well-illuminated ward, but simple black. She followed his gaze and pursed her lips.
  
  'My husband was killed in that battle you fought against the barbarians.'
  
  Marcus frowned, confused.
  
  'He was alive the last time I saw him.'
  
  'It happened later in the day, apparently, during the pursuit. His cohort cornered a barbarian band which turned and fought them to the death. He was found dead after the fight. It was a spear apparently, although the circumstances seem to have been confused …'
  
  'I'm sorry. I mean … I read your tablet … and he told me that …'
  
  'I know. I hated the man for the last year of our marriage, and his death has freed me to do whatever I want, within reason, but I still feel guilty about what happened.'
  
  Marcus leaned back against the wall, looking closely at her face.
  
  'I'm … I …'
  
  'Yes, Centurion?'
  
  'I would prefer it if you would call me Marcus. And I'd like to think, given time, of course, that we might …'
  
  'Be together? Yes, I thought so too. I think I still do. But I do need time to let all this work itself out. Come and see me next time you're in camp. I won't be going anywhere in the meanwhile.'
  
  He nodded his understanding, turning for the door.
  
  'Centurion … Marcus?'
  
  'Ma'am?'
  
  'Firstly you could stop calling me "ma'am" as if I were some Roman matron. You know my forename …'
  
  He managed a smile in return.
  
  'Yes, Clodia Drusilla. But, if you'll forgive me, I won't use it until I know whether we're to be friends or something more. Call it superstition. And secondly, ma'am?'
  
  'You could hold me for a moment. Remind me what male affection feels like.'
  
  He took her in his arms, holding her slim body against his armour and stroking her hair with his right hand. After a long moment she pulled away, smiling again.
  
  'Next time we do that, I'll make a point of your not being dressed in twenty pounds of chain mail. We don't all have a compulsion for men in uniform. Now, off with you, I've got work to do.'
  
  Marcus ran the gauntlet of the wounded Tungrians, all of whom had stupid smiles on their faces and some of whom went so far as to wink and nod vigorously at him, pulling his helmet on as he walked out past the guards to cover up his own stupid smile. From the knowing looks and sideways glances he got from the men waiting for him outside the principia, he guessed that the wounded had found some way of passing the news to their colleagues. Thinking what he would have to put up with from Antenoch, he shook his head, only making his men smile more widely behind their hands.
  
  When Equitius emerged from the building half an hour later, the look on his face was neutral, neither happy nor troubled.
  
  'I'm in command for the rest of the summer, at least, and then we'll see what happens. There's still the small matter of a lost eagle to be dealt with, of course. Entire legions have been cashiered for losing their standards, broken up for reinforcements, so who knows what'll happen when the news reaches Rome …Twentieth and Second Legions are going to camp here for three weeks, since the barbarians will be too busy getting the harvest in to worry much about fighting us for the rest of the month. I'm taking the Sixth south to Yew Grove, to collect three cohorts of reinforcements that are expected there from Gaul within the week. So, you can head west to the Hill and rejoin the cohort. Give Uncle Sextus my thanks for the loan of your men, and tell him that I'll have a couple of centuries of replacements put to one side for him for when he brings his people back to Noisy Valley. That should get him back to full strength. There's a troop convoy expected into Arab Town soon with initial reinforcements, real Tungrians from northern Gaul, apparently.'
  
  One more surprise awaited Marcus before he turned his men west. Rounding a corner on his way to the stores, he bumped into a squat man in uniform, his hair cropped short in the military style.
  
  'Young Marcus!'
  
  'Quintus!'
  
  They embraced with delight, Rufius standing back to look his friend up and down.
  
  'A bit thinner, a bit more muscle … and a scar or two, I'd bet. Not to mention an attachment to a rather attractive and recently widowed lady doctor, from what I've heard.'
  
  Marcus shook his head in mock anger.
  
  'Isn't there anyone in this bloody camp that can mind their own business? But why are you here, and not at the Hill?'
  
  'I asked Sextus for some leave, and a chance to sort out some of my business affairs. It's amazing, you go missing for a month or two and suddenly you have to get the money people owe you at the point of a sword. Anyway, tell me what you've been up to in the hills since we turned south, you young puppy.'
  
  The older man backed away as Marcus prodded him playfully in the belly with his vine stick.
  
  'Not so much of the puppy, Centurion, I've done a good deal of growing up since we met on the road to Yew Grove.'
  
  Rufius inclined his head gravely.
  
  'Indeed you have. Do you have time for a drink and a natter?'
  
  They repaired to the officers' mess and drank local beer while Marcus related what had happened since their parting after the Battle of the Lost Eagle. At length Rufius sat back, nodding his head sagely.
  
  'You have been busy. At least all this excitement has taken everyone's mind off looking for a young man called Marcus Valerius Aquila for a while. Let's hope that bastard Perennis and his Asturian cronies were the only people that knew enough about you to be dangerous. You know that Annius died soon after the Battle of the Lost Eagle? Apparently he was found with an issue spear stuck right through him. Somebody strong must have taken a dislike to him … Anyway, you're safe now.'
  
  'That's to be seen. I hardly look like one of the locals, do I?'
  
  'True, but you're among friends. Anyway, I must go. I'm due back on the Hill by nightfall tomorrow, and there's still a nasty little shopkeeper that owes me three months' rent on his premises.'
  
  He stood to go, offering his hand to Marcus.
  
  'One question, Rufius.'
  
  'If I can answer it.'
  
  'You were Legatus Sollemnis's man. Why would he leave me this?'
  
  He tapped the sword's hilt, raising an eyebrow in question. Rufius looked at him with calculation.
  
  'Lad, the legatus was a good friend of your father. Think of the risk he took to look after you the way he did. Surely that's enough reason? Don't go looking for what isn't there to be found …'
  
  From the thoughtful look in Marcus's eye, he wasn't sure that his bluff had succeeded.
  
  The next day, eager to see the Hill again, the 9th took their leave of the legion and headed west along the road behind the Wall, a day's easy march bringing them to the fort. Marcus dismissed his men to their barracks and a well-earned rest, and went in search of Frontinius. He found the prefect enjoying a moment of quiet relaxation in the cohort's bathhouse, sitting quietly in the deserted steam room in the quiet of the evening. His wounded knee had healed well enough, although he was careful to hold it out straight in front of him, occasionally flexing the joint experimentally.
  
  'Well, Centurion, it's good to see you back from the wilds! How did the Sixth fare after we parted company? Sit down for a sweat and tell me your story. Are you back with us to stay?'
  
  'The Ninth Century is detached from service with the Sixth Legion, Prefect, with forty-nine effectives and five men still in the Noisy Valley base hospital. Legatus Equitius wants us all back at the Valley by the end of the month, for reinforcement and in case the barbarians decide to have another try. As to our story, there's nothing much to tell really. We marched round the mountains of the north chasing shadows and lies for a month, and hardly saw a man of fighting age.'
  
  'All hidden away from reprisals, no doubt. How are your men?'
  
  'Tired and homesick. Most of them just need a few days' rest: twelve hours' sleep a day and no parades …'
  
  'What about Morban?'
  
  'He's still in pieces. His son's death seems to have robbed him of the will to live.'
  
  'Hmmm. You might want to get yourself down into the vicus in that case. His son's woman died suddenly a few days ago, and I hear her mother's come to collect her grandchild. If Morban's been knocked sideways by his lad's death I'd imagine he'll be devastated when he finds he's about to lose his grandson as well …'
  
  Marcus took his leave, dressed hurriedly and headed down to the south gate, stopping a retired soldier in the vicus's street to ask for directions. At the door to the small house indicated he stopped, hearing voices from within.
  
  'No, Morban, the boy has to come with me. Who's going to look after him if he stays here? You won't be around most of the time, and what sort of example will you set to the boy. By all accounts you drink, you whore and I know for a fact that you swear all the time. He comes with me!'
  
  'But the lad …'
  
  'Will be well cared for. What's your alternative?'
  
  Marcus knocked respectfully at the door, standing back and taking off his helmet. It opened, an older woman, wiping at tear-filled eyes with the hem of her sleeve, standing in the opening.
  
  'Centurion?'
  
  'Ma'am. I'm Morban's officer and I heard he might be here. Could I come in for a moment?'
  
  She ushered him in, the four of them practically filling the room. Morban's grandson crouched in a corner, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head buried between them. Marcus squatted down to his level, putting out a hand to touch the boy's face, lifting it with one finger under his chin. Guessing the boy's age to be nine or ten, he looked into his wet eyes and felt the loss and loneliness he was suffering. Memories of another little boy of the same age flooded over him, reminding him of a past happiness he hadn't given thought to for many days. He stood up again, turning to the woman with a small bow.
  
  'Ma'am, so that you can understand my position regarding this unhappy situation, my parents were both killed earlier this year, as were my older sisters and younger brother. If anyone in this room has an understanding of what that boy's going through, it would be me.'
  
  The woman's face softened a little with the words.
  
  'You both think you've got a claim on the boy, one through blood, the other through an ability to provide the upbringing he needs. Now, I could simply enforce the law and tell you that the cohort has first claim on the lad, simple as that. And, ma'am, there would be nothing you could do to stop me. However …'
  
  He put a hand up to quell the rising concern he saw in her face, shaking his head at Morban as his mouth started to open.
  
  'However … from my unique perspective, I happen to believe that there's only one person in this room that can make the decision as to what should be done with him. I also think you should both stop to consider the effect your argument is having on that person.'
  
  Morban turned his head to look at the wall, a single tear running down his face. Marcus squatted down again.
  
  'What's your name, young man?'
  
  The boy lifted his tear-streaked face, his voice quavering.
  
  'My mother called me Corban. Dad used to call me Lupus for a nickname …'
  
  'Very well, little wolf, you have a choice to make. It isn't an easy one, but nobody else can make it for you, no matter how good their intentions might be. You grandmother wants you to go home with her, and live in her village. There'll be other boys of your age to play with, and you'll be able to learn a trade of some kind as you get older. Your grandfather wants you to stay here on the Hill, and grow up to be a soldier like him and your father, but you can't join until you've seen fourteen summers, which is still a long time away, and you can't stay here without anyone to look after you. Before you choose, I'll give you a third choice. I'll take you on as my servant, which will mean that you have to keep my clothes clean and polish my boots and armour every day. I'll have you taught to read and write and, when you're old enough, you'll be able to choose whether you want to become a soldier or not. Also, I'll make sure that you go and see your grandmother twice a year. So, which do you choose?'
  
  The boy thought for a moment.
  
  'I want to be a soldier like my dad.'
  
  'Well, you can't, not yet. You're too young for one thing, and I don't think we have any armour in your size. You can either take my offer or go back to your grandmother's village. Either way you can volunteer for service when you're old enough.'
  
  'I'll work for you.'
  
  'Centurion.'
  
  'I'll work for you, Centurion.'
  
  Marcus stood up, turning to face Morban and the old woman.
  
  'He's made his decision. You, Morban, will be responsible for his good behaviour, and for ensuring that he isn't corrupted by bad language and poor behaviour. You will also be responsible for making sure that he spends time with his grandmother as promised, when the cohort isn't on campaign. And you, ma'am, should be aware that he's now effectively on imperial service, albeit as a civilian. I guarantee that he'll be educated by the time he's old enough to volunteer for the military, and that he'll have the best possible start in life we can give him. I've got at least one man in the century that has more learning than I do, and we'll make sure he pays attention.'
  
  Morban turned to face her, putting a hand out to hold hers.
  
  'He'll have fifty parents in the Ninth. I swear he'll come to no harm.'
  
  She thought for a long moment, and then nodded with resignation.
  
  Marcus looked her in the eyes, feeling tears of his own distorting his vision.
  
  'If there's one thing I understand, ma'am, it's how that youngster's feeling right now. I'll be his big brother for as long as he needs me. After what these people have done for me, it's my chance to repay some of my debt.'
  
  He bent to the boy, putting a hand out while the other wiped his eyes dry.
  
  'Come on, then, wolf cub, let's be about our business. We've got a century to get into shape.'
  
  The pair walked out of the door hand in hand, turning up the street towards the main gate, drawing surprised glances from a pair of passing soldiers. They turned to make a ribald comment from the security of the shadows, saw the look on Morban's face as he emerged behind them, and immediately thought better of it. The standard-bearer watched his officer and his grandson from the doorway as they progressed up the hill, losing sight of them as they passed the soldiers on guard. He turned to follow them up the road, muttering quietly under his breath to himself with a determination he hadn't felt for many days.
  
  'Don't you worry, Centurion, my lads are going to follow you any fucking place you command. Or I'll know the reason why.'