text: Julius lengthened his stride, eager to reach his chosen ambush site. Alongside him, moving with an easy grace that belied his age, Sextus Frontinius matched him step for step. The centurion would have avoided taking the First Spear out on the ambush march if he could have found a way, but his superior was all too well aware of the potential for the event he had staged-managed to get out of control. He had made a point of politely requesting his permission to accompany the 5th Century, a courtesy Julius had no choice but to return through gritted teeth.
  
  'So you've decided to attack them at the Saddle, eh, Julius?'
  
  Julius, tempted to ignore the question but with enough sense to avoid the pitfall of failing to acknowledge the innocent enquiry, nevertheless waited a full five seconds, taking his response to the margins of insolence, before answering.
  
  'Yes, First Spear.'
  
  Sextus Frontinius smiled inwardly, keeping his face a mask of indifference.
  
  'A little early in the march, isn't it? His men will still be relatively fresh. I'm surprised you're not going to wait for them farther into the route. What's wrong with the usual places?'
  
  Stung by the implied criticism, Julius wiped sweat from his eyebrows, shaking his head in irritation at the unusual warmth.
  
  'I'm not allowing any rest stops until we get there, so we'll get there first. The Ninth will never suspect a thing until we're down the slope and on top of them.'
  
  'If I didn't know you better I'd have to say you're taking all this a bit too personally.'
  
  The centurion spat into the roadside dust to clear his throat.
  
  'And, First Spear, if I didn't know you better I'd have to say that you've rolled over for this Roman with the rest of them.'
  
  Frontinius glared at the soldier marching alongside him, who redoubled his efforts to be seen not listening.
  
  'March out front with me, Centurion, let's show these nosy bastards of yours how to cover ground.'
  
  He waited until they were ten yards clear of the marching century before speaking again.
  
  'I think it's time we discussed this properly. Our rules, not First Spear and centurion. Just Sextus and Julius.'
  
  The other man glanced over at him.
  
  'And if I don't want to discuss it?'
  
  'But you do, Julius, you've been quacking away about it ever since he got here. Come on, man, let it out!'
  
  'Our rules?'
  
  'Absolutely. The same as the day we joined.'
  
  'Don't say you haven't asked for it. He's a traitor. An enemy of the man who rules the world, and of the empire you swore to serve. And yet you've gone out of your way to make him welcome.'
  
  The First Spear shrugged unconcernedly.
  
  'I'm not convinced by all this "traitor" talk. You've heard the same stories I have, Julius, you know how this new emperor's behaving and who pulls his strings. As far as I'm concerned our man's guilt isn't proven.'
  
  'Not your call, Sextus. If the empire says he's a traitor, then he's a traitor.'
  
  'And if it was you, old mate. What if you were unjustly accused?'
  
  'Then I'd run a thousand miles to avoid hurting my friends, and …'
  
  'And end up somewhere like here, dependent on strangers for justice. Not negotiable, Julius, I won't hand over an innocent man to that kind of evil.'
  
  'And if they come for him? If they nail you and the prefect up and decimate the rest of us for hiding him?'
  
  'It won't come to that. Besides, we'll be at war in a few days. We could all be dead in a week, so some unlikely discovery by the empire doesn't worry me overly right now. Next?'
  
  'He's a snotnose. He's never commanded so much as a tent party in action, and he'll fall to bits the first time he sees a blue-nose warband.'
  
  Frontinius snorted.
  
  'Rubbish. He killed on the road to Yew Grove, he fought again on the road here, he faced down that headcase Antenoch with his bare hands, and he seems to have faced you down well enough since then.'
  
  Julius turned furiously, still walking.
  
  'That was Dubnus!'
  
  Frontinius pursed his lips and shook his head.
  
  'Sorry, but that's not how I heard it. The version that reached me was that he got right in your face and practically offered you the dance floor.'
  
  'I was half awake and unprepared …'
  
  'Rubbish, man. I've never known you not ready to fight, day or night. Admit it, there's something in the young man's eye that would make any of us step back and take guard. And I don't mean the sword skills either. He's lost something in the last few months, some carefully instilled self-control, an edge of civilisation that his father probably worked on all his life. What I see in him is a dangerous animal that's been given every reason to want the taste of blood, and now those early disciplines have been stripped away there's only cold calculation keeping that rage in check. The pair of us could take him on two on one with swords and boards and I'd have money on his opening us both up from chin to balls in under a minute.'
  
  Julius lifted exasperated hands to the sky.
  
  'So he's dangerous. Enraged. He's a goat-fuck waiting to happen. Put him in combat and he'll go berserk and take his century with him.'
  
  Again the First Spear shook his head.
  
  'No he won't. He's the model of self-control. Think back to Antenoch, that first morning? Came at him with a knife and ended up with it tickling his own ear? Did you see a single drop of blood on the fool? Because I was there in seconds and I didn't. No, Centurion Corvus will have iron control right up to the second where he chooses to let it go. Just don't be on the wrong end of his sword when that happens.'
  
  He took a deep breath as they marched on side by side.
  
  'You know as well as I do that you're not competing for the honour of carrying the standard along the Wall to the games this year. What you're looking for is the opportunity to fight off every blue-faced bastard between here and the River Tava who thinks it would look nice on the wall of his mud hut. Every century in this cohort is going to need strong leadership, and the Ninth isn't any different from any of the other centuries in that respect.'
  
  'So give them to the Prince. He'll give them strong leadership all right.'
  
  'You know my thoughts on that individual. He's no more proven than young Corvus as far as I'm concerned.'
  
  He took a deep breath.
  
  'I'll tell you what, I'm just simply bored with pondering the whole thing, so I'm going to delegate the decision.'
  
  'Delegate it to …?'
  
  'You. But …'
  
  He raised a hand to silence the astonished centurion.
  
  'Yes, I know, you already know the answer, except I'm really not sure either of us have actually seen what's in Centurion Corvus's heart yet. So, you can make the decision, but only when this day's events are fully played out.'
  
  Julius grunted his satisfaction.
  
  'My opinion won't change, you can be sure of that.'
  
  Sextus stared fixedly ahead as they marched on.
  
  'Perhaps it won't. You feel betrayed and undermined by your old friend, the man you joined up with all those years ago. I've allowed an inexperienced outsider into our close circle of brothers, an action that might spell disaster for us all. On the other hand, oldest friend, Corvus might just have a pair of stones larger than either of us appreciates. So let's wait and see, eh?'
  
  The 5th made good time, taking their water on the march rather than stopping, and reached a position with a clear view of the Saddle by the middle of the day. Julius called a halt, sending a scout past the feature to make sure that the 9th were not about to hove into view just as he deployed his men into their positions for the ambush. The man ran back a few minutes later to confirm that the road was clear to the grassy horizon, provoking the first smile the 5th had seen grace their commander's creased face all day.
  
  'Excellent! Even-numbered tent parties to the right-hand hill with the chosen man and into cover, odd numbers with me to the left. And remember, any man that shows himself before I give the signal loses a month's pay!'
  
  The century split quickly into two disciplined groups, hurrying down the slope from their vantage point and starting the climb up to the twin hills. Their equipment rattled and clattered noisily, while the soldiers talked among themselves about the afternoon's entertainment, planning individual acts of revenge for real or imagined slights upon their century's good name by members of the 9th. Thus it was, with nobody looking too carefully at the greenery that crowned their objectives, that it took a bellow of challenge from Dubnus to draw their attention to the previously well-hidden troops who had risen like forest spirits out of the undergrowth of the right-hand hill's heavily wooded crown.
  
  The 5th's soldiers hesitated for a moment, caught between their orders and the shock of finding the Saddle already occupied, the short pause enough to cause a chorus of abuse to shower down upon them from the hills. The 9th had taken their objective first, and showed every sign of being in the mood to defend their ground. Julius stepped out in front of his men, drawing his sword and sweeping it over his head, ready to slash it down to point at the twin hills and issue the command to attack, ready to start a full-scale battle if it was the only way to restore his face. As the sword started to move in the downward arc, Sextus Frontinius stepped out of the century with his arms in the air.
  
  'Hold!'
  
  Ignoring Julius's red-faced fury, he turned to the Saddle's hills, his voice bellowing out across the landscape.
  
  'Ninth Century, form ranks for parade here.'
  
  The 9th's troopers came out of the trees and streamed obediently down the hill, while Frontinius paced back a dozen steps, pushing soldiers aside without ceremony, and pointed to the ground again.
  
  'Fifth Century, form ranks for parade here.'
  
  The 5th's grumbling men pulled back, still reeling from the shock of their centurion being so comprehensively out-thought. Julius, restraining himself by an act of supreme willpower, stamped back down the hill to the designated place, bellowing at his subordinates to get the fucking century on parade. The two units lined up opposite each other, scowls and sneers along both opposing lines of men, while the First Spear paced equably between them and watched the clouds scudding along in a clean blue sky, enjoying the breeze's cooling caress. When both centuries were lined up, and the harsh shouts of the chosen men and watch officers had died away to silence, he turned slowly to look at both centuries, taking in Julius's set scowl and Marcus's white face, ready to fight, his lips thin with determination over a tight-set jaw.
  
  'In all my days I swear I never saw two sets of men who wanted so badly to kick the balls off each other. If I were to let you dogs loose now I'd end up with a dozen or more broken limbs, and as many men with the wits knocked out of them. Well, you mindless apes, let me remind you that there's a great hairy-arsed tribal chief by the name of Calgus mustering a warband the size of five legions to the north. Whether it's sunk into your thick skulls yet or not, we will most likely be at war within a few days. You need to learn to work together, side by side in the line, either century ready to perform whatever manoeuvre is needed to support the other. Even if it'll cost lives. And the time that you need to learn to do this is now …'
  
  He turned away from them and stared for a moment across the rolling countryside, taking a moment to enjoy the sunshine's gentle touch on his bare scalp.
  
  'We do need a winner from this competition, if we're to have a century to guard the cohort standard, but without spilt blood. The answer is single combat, with, before anyone jumps forward, combatants chosen by the person here best qualified to make that judgement. Which would be me.'
  
  The silence became profound as he paused again, every man straining to hear his decision.
  
  'And I choose Centurions Julius and Corvus. Prepare for combat, exercise swords and shields.'
  
  Marcus passed his vine stick to Dubnus, leaving the sword at his waist in its scabbard and taking the heavy wooden practice sword from his other hip. The Briton fussed at his helmet fastenings for a moment, leaning in close to look at the offending buckle, murmuring into Marcus's ear.
  
  'He's weaker on his left side, shield dependent. Don't go in too close until he tires, though, or he'll try to smother you with his strength. Stand off and use your skill, you can cut him to pieces easily enough …'
  
  Frontinius walked over to face him, dismissing Dubnus with a pointed nod to the 5th's ranks. The senior centurion stared away into the distance, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone.
  
  'I'm awarding your century three points for ambushing the Fifth, which puts you level with Julius before the result of this event. If you win, you'll take first place, and carry the standard through the campaigning season. If you draw, and finish level on points, I'll award the prize to the Fifth as the previous champions …'
  
  He paused significantly, shooting Marcus a sudden glance.
  
  'I'll give you no guidance, young man. This is an opportunity for you to exercise some judgement. I'll simply remind of what I said to you this morning.'
  
  Marcus nodded, moving his shield into a comfortable position on his arm before stepping out into the space between the two units. Julius stepped out to meet him, glowering from between the cheek-pieces of his helmet, its red crest riffling slightly in the breeze. Frontinius held them apart for a moment, speaking softly into the silence that had descended upon the hillside, as the opposing centuries waited for the spectacle to commence.
  
  'I want you both in fighting condition when this is finished. I'll deal with the man that injures the other personally …'
  
  They stepped apart, saluted formally with their practice swords before moving together again, each eyeing the other over the edges of their shields. Julius crabbed around to his left, searching for a weakness in the younger man's defence, striking without warning in a powerful lunge, his sword hammering on Marcus's shield as his opponent stepped away from the strike, his studded groin apron whipping about with the movement. The Roman moved in low, swinging his weapon in an arc that whipped past Julius's forward leg with a fingernail's width to spare, and then drew back as quickly, looking for another opportunity to strike. The fight lasted the length of a five-minute sandglass, each man alternately attacking and defending, seeking to land one disabling strike on the other. The soldiers watching made Marcus the better of the two but unable to land the killing blow, several times just a split second too late to press his advantage on an overextended and tiring Julius. At length Frontinius raised his hand, stopping the bout and declaring a tie. The two men stepped apart, both breathing hard from their exertions. Frontinius ushered them back to the ranks of their centuries, waiting for them to take their places before speaking again.
  
  Antenoch, in his customary place next to the centurion, spoke from the corner of his mouth.
  
  'Well, Centurion, I had no idea you were a politician.'
  
  Marcus ignored him as the senior centurion started to speak again.
  
  'We started the day with the Fifth Century leading the Ninth by three points. I have decided to award the Ninth three points for a successful ambush on the Fifth, which places both units level. These scores will be officially confirmed, and awards made, on formal parade, but since I'm the final judge of the competition, you can take this pronouncement as final. Since both units finish level, last year's champion century, the Fifth …'
  
  Julius's century erupted into cheers and roars of delight, men punching the air with the joy of their victory. Only their centurion seemed subdued, standing in front of his unit to a rigid attention.
  
  'Silence!'
  
  The harsh command, combined with Frontinius's furious body language, was enough to promptly silence the Fifth's celebration.
  
  '… will retain their position as cohort standard-holders, unless of course there's any repeat of that undisciplined outburst.'
  
  He paused to allow time for the threat to sink in before continuing.
  
  'In recognition of their achievement in tying the contest, and their improvement on what was until recently a very poor standard of performance, I also award the Ninth Century the task of lead century for the season. The standard will be carried in its wartime position in the column's centre this season, rather than at the front, which means that I need a good century to lead the cohort. Let us hope that none of you have cause to regret winning these positions of merit, which will leave you all holding the bloody end of the spear if we go to war with the tribes this summer …'
  
  They marched back to the fort at a steady pace, Frontinius keeping their minds busy by ordering both centuries to belt out their lewdest marching songs in unison until they tramped over the final hill and drew up on the parade ground. The senior centurion walked down their ranks, taking the measure of his tired but erect men before calling them to attention.
  
  'Soldiers, you represent the cream of this cohort's fighting skills. I've nothing better in my armoury than the one-hundred-and-sixty-odd warriors mustered on this parade ground. You are trained and disciplined fighting men, every one of you ready to stand in line and shed blood for the cohort. Now I suspect that there are a few scores waiting to be settled in these ranks, things that have been said and done that can hardly wait to be avenged. It'll start with fists and boots, some fool will pull a knife, and I'll have my two best assets at war with each other …'
  
  He paused significantly.
  
  'And that is not going to happen. I will not allow it to happen. So here are the rules for these two centuries. Any man brought in front of me for fighting a member of the other century will suffer the maximum penalty I can apply under the circumstances. Up to and including dishonourable dismissal without citizenship. No excuses, no leniency, and no exceptions. So you choose.'
  
  He strolled away across the parade ground for a few paces before turning back with a sly look on his face.
  
  'Of course, the situation might be different to that I imagined. You might march back into the fort as the two best damned centuries in the cohort, both so good I can't separate you. You might take pride in your shared excellence. You might even take the attitude that it's the others that take second place to you, not either of you to the other. Whatever you decide, collectively you are my best weapon. And I make a point of keeping my weapons razor sharp. Don't test me. Centurions, take your units back to barracks. Dismissed.'
  
  Marcus marched his men back into the fort, left Dubnus to chivvy them down to the bathhouse, and went to wash the dust from his feet, musing on the day. Antenoch had vanished, and for once the centurion was happy to be spared his presence, knowing that his clerk had already guessed the truth behind the result of his contest with Julius. The sound of his quarter's door opening made him turn swiftly, as Julius came in without waiting for an invitation. He looked to the bed, where his belt gear and sword lay discarded, wondering whether he could reach the weapon if the older officer intended him harm. In the enclosed space of the quarter he doubted that he could resist a determined attack by the larger man without being forced to try to disable or even kill him. Julius held up his hands, seeing the swift glance.
  
  'No, I'm not here for a rematch. But we do need to talk …'
  
  Marcus nodded, reaching for a flask of wine and two cups. Julius stayed silent while the wine was poured, tipping half the offered cup down his throat with a sigh of satisfaction.
  
  'Thanks. I should thank you for this afternoon's performance as well. You could have put me down half a dozen times this morning. I knew it, I could tell that you were holding back from connecting with your attacks. You're faster, and better trained than I am, and that's all there is to it. You're the better swordsman, although time will tell if you're the better warrior when the shit really starts flying. You should have taken first place, and we both know it …'
  
  He stared at Marcus until the younger man nodded slowly, letting out a sigh of release from his internal pressure.
  
  'Why? You earned that victory, built up your men to taking it from under my nose. Why didn't you take it?'
  
  Marcus frowned, starting to speak and closing his mouth again. After a moment he tried again.
  
  'You'll laugh at me … I did it for the cohort. Uncle Sextus told me to think about what would be the best result for the cohort, and when I did, it was obvious that you had to win. If I'd beaten you, you'd be sitting in your quarter now, plotting revenge on me. As it is, you're just puzzled. The cohort gets undivided leadership, Frontinius doesn't have to deal with a series of running battles between our centuries … everyone wins.'
  
  Julius looked at him for a moment without speaking.
  
  'Except you.'
  
  'Perhaps.'
  
  The older man shook his head, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
  
  'Except you. Frontinius gave me something this morning, something I've wanted since the day you arrived. He gave me the responsibility to decide your fate. Said he was tired of pondering whether you have what it takes or not. And if I say you're gone, boy, just a fading stain on this cohort's proud history, what then? If I tell you that where you go is of no concern to me, and that all that matters to me is that you leave, and don't come back? What do you say to that, eh?'
  
  Marcus gazed back at him for a long moment, then nodded his head, half turning away to speak woodenly at the room's wall.
  
  'I'm not surprised. I've known deep down that you and your brothers wouldn't be able to accept me. This cohort can't operate with a rejected officer at its heart, and I've developed too much affection for this place to risk that rejection turning into casualties. As to where I go, don't worry yourself. I'll be in another place before dawn, and that's all you'll be wanting from me. I'd be grateful if you could find a way to overlook the last few months, and recommend Dubnus to command the Ninth?'
  
  He gestured to the door.
  
  'And perhaps now you could leave me in peace. Let me get on with what I have to do.'
  
  The burly officer stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head wryly.
  
  'I'll have to apologise to Sextus. I told him I was going to come here and say those words to you, and he told me you'd bite on the leather the way you did.'
  
  Marcus turned back to face him, his face hardening, his eyes flicking again to the sword lying on the bed alongside him.
  
  'If you think that I'm going to let you stand here and calmly discuss my personality traits now that you've had your way you'd better look to your blade, Centurion, because in about ten seconds you're going to be getting a very close look at mine.'
  
  Julius opened his hands again, backing away slightly and talking quickly.
  
  'Hold! It was your last test, to see if you cared enough for the cohort to accept the hardest decision. You'll do for Sextus, and, while it's hard to admit, you'll do for me too. Quite how we're going to keep a swarthy bugger like you any kind of secret when we march to war is beyond me, but Sextus gave me the decision and I've made it. You stay.'
  
  Marcus's eyes narrowed, and Julius realised with a shiver that his temper was fully alight.
  
  'And if I don't accept your gracious offer after this last little test? If I take that sword and fillet you like an old bull, then spill my own blood?'
  
  The other man smiled, holding his ground and keeping his sword hand rock steady six inches from the hilt of his weapon.
  
  'I don't doubt that you could spill my guts, although we'd have some fun finding out within these four walls, without much space for fancy sword work. I probably deserve it too, the way I've been hounding you and your men. But you won't. The other thing Sextus has you nailed for is iron self-control. And, given that you're now the centurion of the cohort's lead century, likely to be first into the shit and last out of it, you're going to need it. Get some sleep, young Two Knives, you've a hard month in front of you. But before you do, fill me up with a little more of that dog-rough piss you're drinking, I can't drink a cup to your success if my cup's empty.'
  
  He passed his cup back for refilling. A hammering at the door made them both jump, Antenoch thrusting his head through the opening, breathlessly ignoring the frown on Marcus's face. Clearly Julius's presence was no surprise to him, and Marcus suspected he had been lurking close by, ready to come to his assistance if necessary.
  
  'Centurion Julius, you've an order to join the First Spear at the north gate. Something to do with a bonfire.'
  
  Julius downed the wine in a swift gulp and turned to the door.
  
  'I'll see you later … Centurion.'
  
  In a woodland clearing well to the north of the Wall, beyond the reach of the units nervously manning the forts along the North Road, the leaders of Britannia's remaining free tribes were gathered in their first war council. Seated around a crackling fire in the cool light of dusk, the half-dozen tribal chieftains eyed each other soberly as they waited for the arrival of their leader. Each of them was very well aware that they were about to step hard on the tail of a very dangerous animal. When Calgus, tribal leader of the Selgovae, made his entrance, it was without fanfare. He shrugged off a cloak of wolfskin and walked to the fire to warm his hands. He spoke without turning away from the heat, his voice a deep rumble.
  
  'Leaders of the northern tribes, our men are poised to attack down what our oppressors call the North Road, straining for release into battle like a hunting arrow bent and ready to fly. The Romans' scouts have been put to flight by our horsemen, and there is nothing more substantial between here and their Wall than a few pitiful forts. One word from each of us, and our men will fall on Three Mountains and put it to the flame …'
  
  He turned away from the fire, opening his arms to encompass the gathering.
  
  'It simply remains for us to make the decision to attack. But before we do so I want you all to be very clear about exactly what we're committing ourselves to. You all know very well that I was educated in "Isurium Brigantium", as the Romans have named that great tribe's historic home, now trapped behind their Wall and made slave to their empire. You know that I speak Latin, and that I spent my childhood absorbing their history and culture, and I know for a fact that many of you still mistrust me as a result of that education. In truth you should thank Cocidius for my father's insistence on that education, since it woke me to the danger to our tribes that has brought us all to this point of decision.
  
  'I was sent south by my father when I was in my eighth year, and I stayed in the south until my fifteenth summer, learning their language and their ways. I hated every waking moment, brothers, with a passion that grew stronger with every year, with every fresh lesson that taught me how they have spread their rule across the world in a restless search for new peoples to enslave. And with each year my eyes opened wider to the state of the Brigantian nation, once proud rulers from the mountains to the sea for a hundred miles to the north and south of "Isurium", now castrated lapdogs to their rulers. So helpless that even their ancient capital has a Roman name. At fifteen I returned home for the summer and told my father that I wouldn't go back and live among slaves for a single day more. I expected harsh words or a beating, but he simply smiled at me and told me that in that case my education had served its purpose. He'd sent me south in order to open my eyes to the Romans, and their lust for expansion. He'd sent me south to harden my heart against their insidious persuasion. He'd dedicated my childhood to opening my eyes to Roman deception, making me a fit successor to his rule.
  
  'So, brothers, let me outline our alternatives. We face a stark and simple choice: either we try to live in peace alongside their rule, and suffer eventual defeat and enslavement, or we fight now and push them off our lands. We can still gain a lasting peace on our own terms, but the Romans will only ever respect strength. Offer them weakness and we will all be in chains inside five summers.'
  
  He fell silent, watching the faces in front of him. After a moment the chief of the Votadini, an elderly man whose eldest son stood behind him to steady his arm, spoke out softly.
  
  'You give us convincing words, Calgus. We all know of the Romans' desire to take our lands, we all lost sons and brothers the last time they tried to pen us up like cattle. We all wish to avoid this, and we would be willing to fight in response to your summons even were we not bound to follow you into battle. But still I fear their legions. Three generations before us have failed to defeat them in open battle, even with the advantage of superior numbers. Our victory in forcing them from the northern wall was the result of many attacks on small detachments of their soldiers, a war of striking and hiding and having the strength to ignore their reprisals. It was a victory, but it was not won on any field of battle. How will our warriors deal with their way of fighting if we take the field against them now?'
  
  Calgus inclined his head with respect for the wisdom of the question.
  
  'By dealing with their strength one unit at a time, Brennus. First we'll smash their forts along the North Road, and bring the Wall cohorts to battle by attacking the wall itself.'
  
  The old man tilted his head.
  
  'And if they decline to fight us? If they choose to keep us at arm's length, and wait for their reinforcements?'
  
  Calgus laughed sharply.
  
  'Exactly what we must expect them to do. Only a fool would throw a single legion and their auxiliary rabble into battle against our great forest of spears. Which is why I have formed a plan to ensure that they have no choice but to engage us, and most likely in groups of less than their full strength. A plan, my brothers, of the utmost simplicity. Yes, a swift strike down the North Road by our eastern warband, burning out their forts all the way down to Noisy Valley. By destroying Noisy Valley we deprive them of supplies, we keep them on the back foot, and we strengthen our arms with whatever we can take. While they dither as to our next move, we'll split the warband to left and right, burn out the forts to east and west, then pull back into the north, taking what plunder we can carry. We can trust in our unexpected retreat to drag them along behind us, hot for vengeance. At the same time our second warband, and our main strength in horsemen, will strike at their undefended forts in the west. They will burn out Fort Cocidius and cross the Wall to destroy the Hill and Fair Meadow. This threat in their rear will fix the auxiliaries and prevent them joining with the legion. Brothers, we must put them off balance and keep them that way, continually rushing their forces to the newest point of danger. And when the opportunities present themselves, as they will, we will strike hard and destroy their cohorts piecemeal.'
  
  Another of the tribal kings spoke out, stepping into the firelight.
  
  'We agree, Calgus, although I still say that this is a strange kind of war to fight …'
  
  'I understand. In past days we would have gone straight for their throats, dashed ourselves against their shield wall as we have a dozen times before, and lost warriors by the thousand in futile battles that could only end one way. We know their legions are meat grinders, made to fight in one way and only one way, in a battle line where they slaughter our warbands from behind their shields. They will never choose to fight man to man, because man to man they know they can only lose.
  
  'This way we avoid confronting their legions face to face until the moment is right, when we've bled them a dozen times, razed their forts to the ground and made them charge round the land in search of us. We strike where they are weak and we avoid their strength until we're ready to deal with them, when they march into a trap of our patient making. Then, my friends, we will take so many heads that we'll make mountains of their skulls. After that there will be no choice for them but to negotiate a settlement. Their southern legions will be needed in their own areas soon enough, or the entire country will go up in flames. Victory, and peace on our terms – I trust that would meet with your approval?'
  
  The Dumnonii chief nodded reluctantly.
  
  'Where you lead I will follow, Calgus. Just don't wait too long to bring my tribe some glory, or all the promises of future slaughter I can make to them won't keep them in hand.'
  
  Calgus laughed, putting a hand on the other man's shoulder.
  
  'Caradog, you need wait no longer. I've put you and your tribe at the tip of the spear tonight. You'll be beheading Romans before the sun rises again, even if it's only the pitiful few that haven't already run off down the road to the Wall.'
  
  Brennus snorted.
  
  'And their Sixth Legion will sit idly by and let all this happen?'
  
  Calgus's smile broadened.
  
  'Ah yes, the infamous Sixth Legion. I have something special planned for Legatus Sollemnis and his men.'
  
  One of his retinue approached respectfully, whispered into the tribal leader's ear and withdrew. Calgus pulled an amused face, raising his hands in apology.
  
  'I must ask you to excuse me. I have a visitor.'
  
  He left the circle, his bodyguard of picked Votadini warriors clustering around him as he made the short walk back to his tent. At the door he was met by one of his advisers, an elder of proven wisdom who had stood alongside his father in his day.
  
  'It's a Roman. He rode up to the scouts and asked to be taken to you, said that you would be expecting him. I have him under guard inside, two spears at his throat. If he twitches in the wrong way our men will kill him immediately … I asked him what he wanted, but he refuses to talk to anyone but you. Shall I have his throat slit?'
  
  Calgus shook his head quickly.
  
  'Not this one, Aed. This one's the key to our victory. I knew that he would come to me at this time – in fact I've been depending on it all these weeks. So pass the word, the man that so much as looks at him the wrong way will be joining his ancestors after a long session under my knife. This one gets safe passage, and no questions.'
  
  Nodding his thanks, he entered the tent. The newcomer was standing at the far end, the two warriors tasked with his control watching him down the shafts of unwavering spears. Crossing his arms, Calgus looked the newcomer up and down, taking in his air of complete relaxation.
  
  'I've been expecting a visit from a Roman these last few days, but if you're that man you'll know I have no way to be sure you're the same person.'
  
  The Roman tossed a small object to him. Catching it, Calgus recognised the gold shield brooch that had been taken from him after their first meeting in the forest months before.
  
  'Proof enough. I have to salute your courage. Not only putting yourself in my hands when I might well still be smarting for vengeance for the murder of my companions, but riding into this camp, at this time … ? Brigantia herself must be smiling on you for you to have got this far without losing your head.'
  
  The other man smiled confidently.
  
  'Fortuna smiles on the man who knows when to take the right risk. I've taken that risk to offer you a bargain we can both profit from. Your gain, you will recall, will be two things you'll value over any other prize. A legion's eagle standard, and the head of a Roman general. If you kill me now you'll never see either, or hear the information I've brought to convince you of my sincerity. If you're still interested.'
  
  The Briton stared back impassively.
  
  'Interested? If there's a way that I can be guaranteed you're not just the high-risk end of a plot to mislead me at this critical time, yes, I'm still interested. But to gain my trust, Roman, you'll need to give me two things. Firstly, I want some proof that you can deliver me the prizes you offer so blithely. Secondly, and much more importantly, I want to know why. Start talking.'
  
  The Roman shrugged.
  
  'Proof that I can deliver you what I've promised? Where shall we start? Why not with who I am. My name is Titus Tigidius Perennis, and I am a tribune with the Sixth Imperial Legion's staff. You want proof? I can tell you that the supply depot at Noisy Valley is being emptied out even as we speak. By the time you get there the place will be a collection of bare cupboards, with nothing of value to sustain your army in the field. I can tell you that the other two legions, The Second and Twentieth, have been on the road north for over two weeks, and will be here long before you're expecting. You see? I can tell you that your options are becoming more and more limited with every day, and you haven't even made your first move yet. I'm your best hope for victory, probably your only hope.'
  
  Calgus nodded slowly, raising a sceptical eyebrow.
  
  'I see. And as to my second question?'
  
  'Yes, why would I be doing this? That's simple. There is a cancer at the heart of the Sixth Legion, a seed of disloyalty to the emperor and his closest advisers, and I intend removing it in any way I can. The ends will more than justify the means.'
  
  Later that evening, well after dark, with the 9th either settled for the night or, in the case of a few lucky men with dependants in the vicus, on a one-night pass out of the fort, Marcus went for a walk up to the Wall. He'd looked for Rufius, hoping to benefit from some measure of the older man's imperturbability by discussing the situation with him. The veteran officer was nowhere to be found, however, and his chosen man had simply shrugged apologetically at the question. Standing above the north gate, with the wind tugging at his tunic, he drank in the hour's quiet peace. Away to his right he could just make out the lake by the faint ripples kicked up by the wind's touch, while the forest wall made a darker line against the landscape. The distant flickers of torches inside the treeline betrayed the presence of some part of the garrison, clearly camping down for the night in barbarian territory. Most likely one of the night familiarisation exercises that Frontinius ran from time to time, he decided without interest, leaning against the parapet to enjoy the moment. The guards below were talking, their words drifting up to him, sometimes audible, other times too low to be discernible.
  
  He listened for a few minutes, hearing hopes and fears expressed more in the voices themselves than by the words used, taking strength from an uncertainty that seemed to match his own. On the verge of turning to walk back down into the fort, he heard his voice being called from below.
  
  Leaning over the inner parapet, he saw Caelius standing below.
  
  'There you are! Message from the First Spear, you're to join him at the treeline as soon as possible.'
  
  Marcus frowned down at his colleague.
  
  'Why? I was about to go and get some sleep.'
  
  'How the bloody hell would I know? Look, I'm not tired yet, I'll walk out with you. Come on, you don't want to keep Uncle Sextus waiting any longer than you have to.'
  
  They strode down the steep north face of the escarpment, leaving the gate guards nodding knowingly at each other once they had passed, and made their way across the flat plain below the fort's walls. Away from the fort's reassuring bulk the darkness seemed deeper, pregnant with uncertain futures. Caelius's presence at his side was more reassuring than he'd expected.
  
  'War's coming, Two Knives. Are you ready?'
  
  Marcus paused for a second.
  
  'We're ready. They're fit, good with their swords …'
  
  'No. Are you ready?'
  
  The pause was longer than before.
  
  'I think so. I know I can fight, I can take my century where I want it to go, fight the way I want it to fight. Yes, I'm ready.'
  
  'Ready to kill? To drop a man's guts out of his belly and see the life fade from his eyes?'
  
  Marcus stopped in the darkness, looking up at the brilliant blaze of stars.
  
  'I fought on the road to Yew Grove, you know, and killed more than one man. All I haven't done is face a full warband in a battle line. Everyone gives that so much weight. I've caught the other officers looking at me, weighing up how I'll perform when it comes to a real fight. Even Dubnus seems reserved now, part of another world. And all they've ever done that I haven't is fought in a full-scale battle. What's so difficult about that?'
  
  Caelius walked back to face him, starlight dimly illuminating the harsh lines of his helmet, its shadows reducing his face to a death mask between the cheek-pieces.
  
  'That depends on the man. I've known some who've called the odds in barracks but shat themselves at the sight of a half-dozen angry farmers. Others, the sleepy-eyed men that you wouldn't trust to chase cattle out of a cornfield, go wild in battle and paint themselves black with enemy blood … You need to be ready for it, you, not just your men. You don't get a second chance in a real fight – you hesitate for a second and some big blue-nosed bastard with a tenth of your skill will have your guts steaming in the dirt. When we meet the enemy, you remember what I told you, eh? And offer a prayer to Cocidius for me when you come out alive?'
  
  He swept his hand past Marcus's face, as if catching a delicate butterfly from out of the air, holding the closed fist up in front of him.
  
  'That's life, grabbed from nowhere, easily lost. Don't throw yours away.'
  
  Marcus put up his own fist, tapping Caelius's gently in the gesture of respect common between the cohort's soldiers. They walked on in silence, drawing closer to the torches moving in the trees, until Marcus saw that they were held by soldiers standing facing into the forest, as if on guard duty. A figure materialised out of the darkness, with a walk that was familiar even in the near-darkness, pure arrogant power in the strides.
  
  'Julius?'
  
  'Two Knives.'
  
  'What …?'
  
  'There's no time. Come. And whatever Sextus asks of you, you just say "Yes, First Spear".'
  
  Both men took an arm, propelling the mystified Marcus towards a darker shape that loomed large in the gloom, until its unseen bulk blocked all view of the lights in the trees. Julius abruptly put a hand on Marcus's chest to stop him, giving a soft whistle to signal his presence. Another voice spoke out of the darkness.
  
  'It is time. Light the fire.'
  
  For a moment nothing seemed to be happening, although Marcus sensed the presence of men around him, one or two darker spots against the darkness. Then, the flames creeping round the sides of the massive pile of brushwood and branches, fire applied on its far side took hold, gradually illuminating the scene. Almost a dozen men stood around him, all of the cohort's centurions, all with faces set in solemnity, although Rufius did manage a crafty wink of greeting. Frontinius stepped forward, speaking clearly so that all could hear him above the fire's growing crackle.
  
  'Welcome, Centurion. Until today you were probationary, under the assessment of these men, your brothers-to-be. For all our initial doubts, it is our belief that you will make an excellent addition to our number, and provide leadership for your century that will be sorely needed in the coming days. This is your moment to renounce your past and join your brother officers in our chosen duty …'
  
  He paused significantly, giving Marcus an interrogatory stare.
  
  'Do you wish to become a part of the cohort's brotherhood, in spite of the heavy weight of responsibility that the position brings, renouncing all that has gone before in your life?'
  
  Julius nudged his arm.
  
  '… Yes, First Spear.'
  
  'Do you swear to uphold the traditions of the cohort, even at cost of your life?'
  
  'Yes, First Spear.'
  
  'Will you give faithful service to the cohort until death or the end of your service?'
  
  'Yes, First Spear.'
  
  'Will you fight and die as commanded by your superiors?'
  
  'Yes, First Spear.'
  
  'Will you demand the same of your men if required?'
  
  'Yes, First Spear.'
  
  'And will you pay appropriate respect to the cohort's chosen god, mighty Cocidius the warrior?'
  
  'Yes, First Spear.'
  
  'Very well, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, I formally and irrevocably appoint you a centurion of the First Tungrian Cohort. Your previous life ends in this place, purged in the fire. Your new life begins here, forged in the fire. Remember your vows well, youngest brother, for the time for you to fulfil them will come when you least expect it. Be true to your words.'
  
  He walked forward, offering Marcus his hand, and the other officers crowded round with congratulations and slaps on his back.
  
  'Now, brothers, there is one last matter with our new brother officer before we give thanks to Cocidius for his meeting our high standards. Within a week we'll be camping alongside the other Wall units, some of them cohorts of doubtful honour and with many sharp ears besides. If it becomes obvious that we have a Roman officer serving with the cohort, that information might reach the wrong people. The men who destroyed our brother's family and made him outlaw for no good reason would come for him, and that would most likely bring death and dishonour on all of us, and our families, and upon the prefect for that matter. Understand me clearly, we have taken a calculated risk in accepting this man into our family. From this moment he is to be referred to only as "Centurion" or by the unofficial title that his century has seen fit to give him. Make sure that your deputies are all aware of the rule, and their soldiers. From now, this man is to be known only by the name of Two Knives.'