text: Februarius, AD 182
  
  One of the front rank spotted them first, a good three dozen men silhouetted against the afternoon's bright skyline where the road rose to surmount a ridge that crossed their path in its long descent from the Pennines' eastern shoulder. He shouted a warning in a voice made hoarse by urgency. The small detachment's commander, a veteran watch officer with a face seamed by experience, stopped in mid-stride and followed the man's pointing arm, taking a moment to measure the depth of their predicament. When the road had risen to its previous vantage points he'd seen no other troops in front or behind them, just the plodding mule cart they'd passed an hour ago, now far behind them. That many barbarians would make short work of his sixteen men, and the legionaries' heavy armour ruled out any chance that they could outpace their ambushers back down the road to the south. Dropping his pack on to the verge, he drew his sword and pointed with it towards the distant enemy. Unless he kicked his dithering troops into activity quickly the tiny unit would shatter before the barbarians got within spear-throw.
  
  'Piss buckets and shields! Form a line!'
  
  He kicked one of the nearest men in the backside to reinforce his point. Hard.
  
  'Fucking move!'
  
  The legionaries shed their pack yokes at the roadside and fumbled to free shields slung across their backs with fingers turned numb by fear, quickly forming a thin line across the road. Helmets, previously hanging round their necks, were slid over their heads, the cheek-pieces adding a much-needed martial brutality to faces suddenly pale with terror. The watch officer stalked out in front of them, sword still drawn.
  
  'Eyes on me! On me!'
  
  The legionaries unwillingly dragged their gaze away from the advancing barbarians, now streaming down the shallow slope a few hundred paces away.
  
  'Don't worry, you lot are so pretty compared to the local girls, this bunch are probably looking for a shag rather than a fight.'
  
  One or two of them smiled wanly, which was better than nothing.
  
  'And they fucked up by giving us time to get dressed up for the party. So, when I give the order, throw your spears, air your blades and get ready for them to hit your shields. Use your shields to throw them back! Don't leave the line. They want you to fight alone, outnumbered three to one, or to run so's they can spear you in the dog blossom. Your best chance …'
  
  He slapped a man whose eyes had wandered back to the advancing Britons.
  
  'On me! Your only chance is to stay in the line, and keep parrying and thrusting like you've done a thousand times in drills. They will give it up once they know we won't be a pushover. I will be behind you, and I will step in for the first man that falls! Spears … ready!'
  
  Stalking round to the line's rear, he looked at the ground, gauging from the number of spreading dark patches in the road's dust how many of his men had already lost control of their bladders. There was enough piss steaming in the winter's chill air that their ability even to wait in line for the barbarian charge was hanging in the balance. They would all be dead inside of five minutes, he realised, mentally shrugging his shoulders and getting ready to give a decent account of himself. The men that the detachment was escorting had dismounted from their horses, the stocky veteran and his younger, taller companion something of a mismatched pair. Bloody civilians. At least they had a means of escape.
  
  'If you're going to ride for help, this would be a good time!'
  
  The older man, a legion veteran if the watch officer was guessing correctly, simply smiled back, green eyes twinkling out of a weatherbeaten face still ruddy despite the prospect of imminent death. He was evidently in his late forties, and from the quality of his clothing comfortably well off, cloak pulled across his chest and draped across one shoulder in the military style. While the younger civilian had accompanied the detachment since leaving the fortress at Dark Pool, three days' march to the south, the older man had ridden into the small fort that had sheltered them the previous night, arriving well after the sun's setting. His apparent lack of concern at the danger of meeting robbers on the road had caused more than a few raised eyebrows among the more experienced troops, despite the chain-mail vest beneath his cloak, the short infantry-pattern sword hanging at his waist and the purposeful way in which he conducted himself.
  
  'I'm Rufius, formerly an officer with the imperial Sixth Legion. I never ran away from a fight in twenty-five years of service, and I won't break that habit now … Besides, we'll see this lot off easy enough.'
  
  The watch officer nodded slowly.
  
  'Fair enough. What about you?'
  
  The younger man shook his head grimly, too tense for humour, drawing a long-bladed cavalry sword with a glimmer of polished iron. The watch officer wondered just how much use that was going to be, given that its owner seemed to be barely out of his teens. His voice when he spoke was strong enough, though, without any hint of the quaver that might have been expected given the circumstances.
  
  'Marcus … Marcus Valerius Aquila. I won't be running away either.'
  
  The veteran soldier alongside him nodded approvingly, unsheathing his sword, and gestured to the legionaries' line.
  
  'Shall we?'
  
  The watch officer shrugged, turning back to face the oncoming warband.
  
  'It's your funeral. Stay with me, you're now my reserve. When a man goes down, you go into the line in his place. Right, detachment, spears ready to throw … wait for it!'
  
  The barbarians' trot had become a run now, closing the remaining distance between them quickly. Half a dozen of them were carrying axes, great tree-cutting blades that would cleave a man down to his waist or lop off a limb, armour or no armour. They were close enough for details to stand out now, lime-washed hair standing stiff from their heads, blue patterns swirling across their faces and jewellery flashing brightly in the afternoon's pale sun, close enough for their harsh battle cries to raise his neck hairs. This was no chance encounter, but a tribal warband dressed and tooled up for a fight, probably fired up by the local beer too, eyes wide and teeth bared in snarls of eager anticipation. The detachment's line shivered, more than one man starting to shrink backwards at the prospect of imminent brutal death. Before their collective breaking point was reached the veteran stepped up to their rear, dimpling the skin of the rearmost man's neck with the point of his sword. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, loudly enough for the detachment to hear him above the growing din of the approaching barbarians.
  
  'Back in line, sonny, or those blue-nosed bastards won't get the chance to do you.'
  
  More than one man looked round at him wide eyed, while the legionary in question inched forward again. One or two of the older salts, the men that already knew, and with grim resignation accepted, that their lives were about to become short and interesting whether they fought or ran, smiled in quiet recognition and raised their shields slightly in unconscious reaction to the voice of command. The watch officer nodded his head with respect, keeping his eyes on the charging barbarians and raising his voice to be heard above their harsh cries.
  
  'Wait for it … Spears …'
  
  As the watch officer opened his mouth to order the spears thrown, in the last seconds before the Britons would career into the flimsy shield wall, a sudden flurry of movement at the forest edge fifty paces to their left caught his eye. He snapped his attention back to the more urgent events happening less than twenty paces from his men's shields.
  
  'Throw! Throw!'
  
  The legionaries hurled their spears into the oncoming mass of men, dropping two of them in screaming heaps and dragging down the shields of half a dozen others, then drew their swords and braced to receive the charge. With a clash of metal on steel the barbarians' rush collided with his men's defence. Sheer weight of numbers forced the line back half a dozen steps before the desperate legionaries managed to absorb the momentum. Only the slight slope favouring their defence had saved them from being overwhelmed by the impact, the watch officer estimated. He stepped back behind them to keep his position, watching with amazement as armoured men started to emerge from the trees behind their attackers. The initial screaming and shouting of the charge and contact had died away, and both sides fought in almost total silence, broken only by the rasp of laboured breathing and the occasional grunt of exertion or scream of pain.
  
  To his front a man staggered dying out of the line, a two-stepper if ever he'd seen one, his throat ripped out in a fountain of hot blood whose coppery stink filled his nostrils. The men to either side of the sudden gap in the line inched together, unable to properly fill the dying man's empty place. As the casualty sprawled full length on the road's cobbled surface, twitching out his life in a quickly spreading pool of his own blood, Rufius shouldered his younger companion aside, grabbed the fallen shield and stepped into his place. Battering aside a vicious axe blow with the shield, he stepped forward with a speed and grace that belied his grey hair to gut its owner with a swift twisting stab of his short sword as the tribesman struggled to regain his balance. Clutching at his steaming entrails, the barbarian fell to his knees, staring with horror at the horrific wound with a rising wail of distress.
  
  Another of the small detachment went down, an axe buried deep in his shoulder while its blue-painted owner wrestled frantically with the handle, trying to prise the blade free. In a second Marcus Valerius Aquila was in the gap, stooping to grab the fallen man's infantry sword with his left hand even as he slid the cavalry sword up beneath the axeman's ribs in a perfect killing thrust, getting a face full of blood as the price for his successful attack. Chopping away a spear-thrust from his left with the borrowed weapon, he swiftly kicked the dying barbarian off his sword, using the freed blade to hack off the spearman's hand at the wrist before turning his wrist over to swing the long sword backhanded, and neatly sever the head of another attacker on his right. Stepping back into the line to regain his balance, the borrowed infantry sword held forward in his left hand, the longer sword held farther back to level the points of the two weapons, he paused for a moment, breathing hard with the sudden effort, his eyes wide with the shock of combat but still seeking new targets. The barbarians closest to him edged cautiously back from the fight, almost comically wary of the sudden threat from the twin blades.
  
  From the rear of the warband a guttural voice shouted harshly in broken British over the clash of steel, a sword pointing at the retired officer's place in the line.
  
  'Kill officer! Kill him!'
  
  Distracted from his open-mouthed appraisal of Marcus's swordplay by movement in the periphery of his vision, the watch officer found his attention dragged back to the detachment's left, where the newcomers from the forest were advancing quickly to combat the barbarian flank and rear. The ten men ran quickly to within a dozen paces, threw their spears into the unsuspecting enemy's rear, then drew their swords, and, screaming bloodlust, went to work on their unprotected backs. Seizing his fleeting chance with both hands, as the tribesmen closer to his men started looking back over their shoulders in bewilderment at the screams from their dying comrades, the watch officer gave the only command possible.
  
  'Counter-attack! Boards and swords, punch and thrust! Get into them, you dozy bastards!'
  
  The response was almost uncomprehending, the product of a thousand mindless practice drills. The legionaries punched hard with the bosses of their shields at the Britons' faces, then stepped forward a pace with a collective thrust of their short swords. Two of the distracted tribesmen went down screaming, while several others edged back, allowing the line time and room to repeat the attack. The warband's leader turned to face their new assailants, spearing one of them with a powerful throw, drew his sword and roared defiance as he advanced into their line. A massive soldier with a crested helmet stepped out to meet him, slapping the sword-thrust aside with an almost casual flick of his shield before lunging his own weapon deep into the barbarian's chest in one swift flowing movement, twisting it to free the blade as he brutally stamped the dying man off its length. A lone tribesman turned and ran at the sight, joined a second later by another. Like the gradual collapse of an overloaded dyke, another two ran after them, then five, at which point the remainder simply turned and fled. They left a dozen dead and dying men on the ground.
  
  The surviving Romans, half of the legionaries sporting a wound of some kind or other, leant breathless on their shields and watched them run, happy enough to let their enemy escape unhindered when a minute before they had been facing impending death. The watch officer walked across to the newcomers, followed at a discreet distance by Rufius, while Marcus dropped the infantry sword beside its dead owner and wiped the drying blood from his own weapon, suddenly exhausted. The other detachment's leader, a dark-bearded athlete of a man with the horsehair crest of a chosen man on his helmet, was staring after the retreating warband with a look that seemed to combine disgust and regret.
  
  'Whoever you lads are, you have the thanks of the Sixth Legion. If you hadn't come out of the trees we were dead meat. You must have balls the size of apples to do what you just did with …'
  
  The watch officer's flow of gratitude dried up as he realised that the other man wasn't paying him any attention, but was still watching the retreating Britons. After a moment the chosen man spoke, flicking indifferent eyes over the legionaries.
  
  'You'd better tell your officers to stop sending anything smaller than a full century up the road to Yew Grove. Next time you won't be so lucky.'
  
  He turned to his own men.
  
  'Take heads, then get ready to leave. We'll march to the fortress in company with this lot. You two, you didn't kill anyone that I saw so you can make a sling to carry Hadrun up to the fort. We'll put him underground somewhere he can't be dug up again.'
  
  Rufius caught his arm, stepping back with open palms as the heavy-framed man swung back to face him with an angry look.
  
  'No offence, Chosen, but we're only trying to thank you for what you did. Most men in your position would have given serious thought to letting us get on with things on our own …'
  
  Marcus overcame his momentary exhaustion to raise his head and study the other detachment's leader and his troops carefully in the moment's silence that followed, intrigued by his first sight of native troops in the field. They wore chain mail, unlike the plate armour protecting the legionaries, and their weapons and clothing seemed of a lower quality. He noted, nevertheless, the same hard-edged efficiency in their movements, the same lean wiriness. Like their legion colleagues, these were men that had learnt the hard way not to waste energy on non-essentials. The chosen man's eyes narrowed, his face expressionless.
  
  'We're Tungrians, Grandfather, and we were doing our duty, nothing more, nothing less. We were moving quietly through the forest, and found that lot waiting by the road before they saw us. After that it was only a matter of pulling back and waiting for someone to come along. When we saw the size of your party it was obvious that we would have to help you out … although I doubt it was worth the loss of one of my men.'
  
  Rufius smiled crookedly at the bald statement.
  
  'I understand better than you might imagine. And nevertheless, from one fighting man to another, you have my respect.'
  
  He turned away, clapping an arm round the watch officer's shoulder.
  
  'And as for you, my friend, I'd call that a nice little action. I'll be sure to mention your name to my friends in the camp, see if we can't get you a brush for the top of your piss bucket. For now we'd better get the wounded sorted out and then push on to the Grove, don't you think?'
  
  Sorting the wounded out was easy enough, despite the only bandage carrier in the party having lost three fingers of his right hand to a barbarian sword, which made him of use only in directing treatment rather than providing it. Two men were dead, the two-stepper and the axe victim, the latter with the huge blade still embedded deep in his upper chest. They were stripped of their weapons, armour and boots and hidden from casual view in the trees to await collection by cart the next day. The Tungrians, meanwhile, with pointed remarks about leaving no man behind on a battlefield, ostentatiously rigged a sling with which to carry their own casualty away with them. Of the remaining troops three were incapable of walking, but by putting the lighter two on one of the civilians' horses, and one with a nasty-looking axe wound on the other, they were able to resume their march. The barbarian wounded were finished off without ceremony by the watch officer, his swift economical sword-thrusts removing any chance of their survival. At length Marcus and Rufius fell in behind their legionary protectors for the remaining march, while the Tungrians, several with freshly decapitated heads dangling jauntily from pack yokes by their knotted hair, in turn fell in behind them.
  
  Marcus coughed politely and turned his face to Rufius's after a moment's march. He was tall, overtopping the veteran by a full head, slightly stringy in build but with the sinewy promise of muscle to come.
  
  'Yes, my friend?'
  
  'I'd be grateful to better understand a thing or two. If you'd be willing to talk?'
  
  Something in the younger man's voice made Rufius look at him properly, the taut line of the young man's jaw muscles betraying the fact that he was still dealing with the aftermath of the skirmish.
  
  'Mars forgive me but I'm an unfeeling old bastard. This was your first proper fight?'
  
  The younger man nodded tautly.
  
  'Gods below, how quickly the habits of command leave a man … I always made a point of grabbing the first-timers after a fight, to humour or slap them out of their shock at tasting another man's blood on their lips for the first time, and to congratulate them for surviving with the right number of arms and legs. Although I am forced to point out that for a first-timer you did better than just survive. You made a mess of more than one of our attackers without even the benefit of a shield for protection. Those skills won't have come easily …'
  
  Above his smile, he raised an interrogatory eyebrow, noting that the younger man's jaw relaxed a fraction.
  
  'You can tell me more about your prowess with two swords later. I believe you had a question?'
  
  'I was wondering why these other soldiers didn't take all of the barbarian heads, if that's the local custom?'
  
  The veteran glanced back at the auxiliary troops behind them.
  
  'The Tungrians? When you know more about the local troops you'll understand better. Legions get moved around. They stay in one place for a year, or even ten, but they always move on again. There's always a campaign that needs another legion, a frontier to be shored up, or just some idiot with a purple stripe on his tunic who wants to be emperor. That means that the legions never stay anywhere long enough to settle into the local traditions, so it's Judaea one year, Germania the next. Besides, serving in a legion is like being a priest for a particularly jealous god – complicated rites, special sacrifices and offerings, your own way of doing things. In a legion the senior officers, the camp prefect and the senior centurions, they make sure that their way of doing things always comes first.
  
  'Auxiliaries, though, they stay put where they've been based for the most part, unless there's a major campaign on, and even then they'll usually come back home again. They put down roots, soak up the local lore, start worshipping local gods. Basically they go native. Now those lads, they were originally recruited in Tungria, across the sea, but they've been here on the Wall since it was built sixty years ago, more or less, so now there's no real Tungrians, just a lot of their grandsons mixed in with the local lads. They take heads because that's local tradition too, but they also have a code of honour that would shame a six-badge centurion, and they don't, ever, take the head of a man they haven't fought and killed face to face.
  
  'Anyway, enough about the Tungrians, I'm sure you'll learn all about them in due course. Tell me, what brings you to the forsaken northern wastes of this cold, wet pisspot of a country …'
  
  He looked calculatingly at the younger man, as if assessing him properly for the first time, despite the fact that they had ridden side by side for half the day, albeit mostly in silence.
  
  'Brown eyes, black hair, a nice suntan … I'd say you were Roman born and bred, and yet here you are in Britannia getting cold, wet and bloody with the rest of us. Your name again?'
  
  'Marcus Valerius Aquila. And yours?'
  
  'Quintus Tiberius Rufius, once a soldier, now simply a supplier of fine food and superior-quality equipment to the Northern Command. Soon enough you'll be chewing on an especially nasty piece of salted pork and thinking to yourself, "Jupiter, I wish I had a jar of Rufius's spicy fish pickle in front of me right now." Anyway, now we're introduced …?'
  
  He raised a questioning eyebrow. The younger man shrugged in apparent self-deprecation.
  
  'There's not much to tell in all truth. I'm travelling to Yew Grove to join the Sixth Legion for my period of military service.'
  
  Rufius smiled wryly.
  
  'Exciting stuff for a man of your age, I'd imagine. Cut free from the tedium of your life at home to travel across the empire to the edge of civilisation, and the chance to serve with the best legion in the army to boot? You'll look back on these as the best days of your life, I can promise you that much.'
  
  'I'm sure you're right. What I know for a fact right now is how much I'm looking forward to my first proper bath since we left Dark Pool. This country has altogether too much rain for my liking, and the wind chills the bones no matter how a man wraps his cloak.'
  
  Rufius nodded.
  
  'No one knows that better than I. Twenty-five years I humped up and down this damp armpit of a country in the service of the emperor, getting wet and freezing cold, living in draughty barracks and kicking disgruntled native recruits into shape for the legion. I should mention that I served with the Sixth, second cohort, first century.'
  
  The younger man inclined his head respectfully.
  
  'First century. You were the cohort's First Spear?'
  
  'I was. They were the happiest four years of my life, all things considered. I had six hundred spears under my command, and absolutely no one to stop me turning them into the best troops in the whole of this miserable country. I was master of my chosen trade, and no one got in my way. No tribune or quartermaster had the balls to disagree with me, that's the truth.'
  
  He tapped the younger man on the shoulder to reinforce his point.
  
  'But let me warn you, this country grows on a man like fungus on a tree, slowly, stealthily, until suddenly you can't imagine life anywhere else. I had the chance to head back home when my term was up, but I just couldn't see the point of having to adapt to a place without a perpetual covering of cloud and a population of blue-painted savages. This place has become my home, and if you're here long enough it'll be the same with you. Perhaps your family has a history of service hereabouts?'
  
  'My father has …'
  
  Rufius raised an eyebrow, smiling.
  
  'Connections?'
  
  '… history in this part of the world. My grandfather commanded the legion for three years before he came back to Rome, and my father was a broad stripe tribune on the Sixth's staff. Military service runs in the family, all the way back to the Republic. Although my father wasn't really a military man, even by his own admission, and much to my grandfather's disappointment. He's a man of words, not action. Mind you, I've heard that he can reduce a man to silence without even raising his voice when he speaks on the floor of the Senate. I wish I had the same eloquence.'
  
  Rufius nodded sagely.
  
  'Two senior officers in the family, and both of them served with the best legion in the empire. You're a young man of even greater privilege than was at first apparent. Which reminds me …'
  
  'Yes?'
  
  'I caught a glimpse or two of you back there, in between fighting off pissed-up barbarians who were convinced I was still under the eagle. I'm still curious as to where you learned to throw your blade around like that?'
  
  Marcus blushed slightly.
  
  'When it was decided that I would serve with the Sixth, almost before I can remember, my father decided to make sure I wouldn't make a fool of myself with a sword in my hand. He paid a freed gladiator to teach me a few things …'
  
  Rufius gave him a sardonic look.
  
  'A few things, eh? Well, new friend, if we get any time to spare in Yew Grove, you can teach me one or two of your "few things" …'
  
  Just over an hour later they marched through the fortress's town, across the river bridge, and stopped in front of the massive main gate. Standing to one side to allow the wounded to be lifted groaning from their horses, Tiberius Rufius exchanged a few words with the gate guard, then took Marcus firmly by the arm.
  
  'You can't report to the legatus yet, he's out on manoeuvres with part of the legion. Why don't we sort the horses out, then visit the bathhouse, get a decent meal and see how much the local food has improved since I was last here? On me, as celebration of our survival this afternoon. We'll stay in an inn owned by an old friend of mine, like me discharged and unable to leave the place after so many years. He joined all the other poor bastards that have taken root here for want of anywhere better to be, and now he runs the best guest house in the Yew Grove vicus.'
  
  He smiled easily with the memory.
  
  'Petronius Ennius was standard-bearer of the second cohort when I was First Spear, built like a fortress latrine, just like most statue-wavers. We made a fine pair when we could work a leave pass at the same time, had the women squirming in their seats when we passed by! I get the time to stay in his inn all too rarely these days. Come on, let's go and get the blood washed off these chariot-pullers and see they're fed and watered, I feel the sudden need for a bath and a drink.'
  
  The innkeeper greeted Rufius warmly, clapping him on the back with a hand the size of a dinner plate.
  
  'Back already, Tiberius Rufius? Only a few days ago you were telling me that the quality of my wine was only fit for removing rust from armour, now you can't stay away from the place. Although I can see from the state of your tunic that someone's upset you recently. Well then, what's the story?'
  
  He listened intently to Rufius's retelling of the ambush, laughing quietly when his friend recounted having to threaten the Sixth's legionaries to keep them in line.
  
  'Nothing changes, does it? I remember you having to do much the same thing to keep one or two of our weaker-kneed sisters in their places when the blue-noses had their last little revolt.'
  
  At the end of the story he pursed his lips, whistling to show his appreciation of their escape.
  
  'You were lucky, old friend, very lucky. If that tent party of auxiliaries hadn't chanced on you …'
  
  Rufius nodded sagely, a dark look in his eye.
  
  'I know. We were carrion. Mind you, if that was good fortune I still wonder just what chance put those tribesmen in our path.'
  
  'Yes … Well, enough of your boasting, you haven't introduced me to your bloodstained young friend …'
  
  'This is Marcus Valerius Aquila. A fellow traveller from the south, and soon to be a brother in the service of Mars, all the way from Rome itself. And, despite the slightly travel-worn appearance of his clothes, not to mention the fine pattern of dried blood across his face, a man of influence, promised a position on the Sixth's staff.'
  
  The innkeeper turned back to Marcus with a gravely inclined head.
  
  'My apologies, a young gentleman. So, will you both be staying, sirs?'
  
  Rufius pulled a mock grimace.
  
  'Despite the hideous expense of your lodging, the mediocre quality of your board and the watery nature of your wine, yes, we both need lodging for the night.'
  
  'Excellent. My man Justus will see to your horses and take the baggage to your rooms. You take a couple of hours to sweat out that blood, and I'll have two of my very best roasted duck waiting for you, cooked in their own fat and served with a sauce of wild honey, red wine and herbs. And for you, Rufius, because I know your needs of old, I'll crack open my last amphora of a rather special Iberian red. How does that sound?'
  
  As the pair made their way through the town towards the fortress baths, clean tunics under their arms, the familiar sound of hobnailed boots clattering against the road's surface swelled behind them, echoing through the narrow streets until the sound and its reverberations merged into a constant roar. The windows of the buildings to either side of the road, shutters closed against the cold, were quickly opened to allow the curious to look into the street. Several of the female onlookers obviously shared a keen professional interest in the arrival of a body of soldiers at the fortress to judge from the way that hair was hastily let down and, in at least one case, breasts placed on open display. The standard-bearer and leading century of a legion cohort swept around the corner behind them at the march, heading for the fortress gates in the dying light of dusk. Rufius pulled Marcus into a doorway and off the street as the leading troops poured past, rank after rank of soldiers pounding up the street with their heads back to suck air into their bursting lungs, belting out a bawdy marching song.
  
  …my brother keeps a restaurant with bedrooms up the stairs, but none of them will talk to me 'cause I'm a legionnaire!
  
  Rufius smiled with fond memories, his lips moving to the song as the legionaries kept coming in a seemingly unending column. Centurions and chosen men stalked alongside their centuries, shouting commands at their men to carry their fucking spears straighter and stop eyeing the bloody prostitutes, while century after century pounded past. As had been the case with the troops who had escorted him up the road from Dark Pool, Marcus found their appearance disappointing after the spit and polish he'd got used to in the Guard. Shields were clean, but not shining, armour and weapons lacked the finely detailed workmanship to which he was accustomed, and their clothing was utilitarian – rough leather boots, heavy woollen tunics and coarse woven leggings all spattered with mud from the road.
  
  His eye was caught by a group of horsemen, however, whose equipment looked every bit as fine as that he was used to, their polished cuirasses tied together with clean ribbon. Tiberius Rufius pointed at them and put his mouth close to Marcus's ear to shout over the din, coughing at the dust kicked up by the units' passing.
  
  'It must be at least half of the Sixth, out for fitness training. That's the legatus and his staff, with an escort from the legion's cavalry. They're drafted in from an Asturian cohort from up north on the Wall, but most of them are German. Funny how the roughest barbarians always look the smartest once they're given uniforms …'
  
  Marcus nodded distractedly, watching the legion's commander ride past in the midst of his staff tribunes, grim-faced cavalrymen to their front and rear. The man's head turned as his horse passed the doorway, and he nodded recognition at Tiberius Rufius as he passed out of sight. Marcus looked at the older man, his eyebrows raised.
  
  'You know the legatus?'
  
  'I've sold the Sixth locally bred cattle, and given him a little information about the border region. What else can an old soldier do but help out his former mates?'
  
  They stood in silence as the rest of the column ground past, waiting until the last century had passed over the bridge and into the fortress before leaving their doorway and stepping out into the near-dark street and continuing on their way. The garrison's bathhouse was as large as was necessary to cope with the cleansing and leisure needs of several thousand legionary infantry, the imposing halls lit with hundreds of large torches.
  
  Changed out of their battle-stained clothes, the two men oiled their naked bodies and slipped on wooden-soled bath shoes to protect their feet from the hot floors. They went through the chilly frigidarium and into the steam room, finding seats among the dozens of soldiers who sat perspiring in the clammy heat. Tiberius Rufius pointed to a floor mosaic depicting Mars in full armour, and brandishing an infantry sword.
  
  'That's your first god for the next few years! Who were you brought up to respect the most?'
  
  'The household shrine is dedicated to Mercury, so that's who I always prayed to first.'
  
  'A good choice in a merchant's house. Mercury won't begrudge Mars your attention while you're in the service, though. Always be sure to seek his blessings before you embark on any course that may end in battle. Jupiter, it's hot. I can feel the dirt being forced out of me. Scraper! Over here, boy!'
  
  They endured the clammy heat for another fifteen minutes, luxuriating in the pleasure of a good sweat, and the chance to get the last of the barbarian blood out of their skins. Climbing into the hot bath for a moment to remove any residue, they went through to the hot room and settled down again. Tiberius Rufius bought them a small flask of wine and a small cake apiece, 'just to get our appetites up', and they sat in companionable silence, watching off-duty soldiers, some lifting weights in one corner of the room, others content just to play dice and drink wine, each man loudly invoking Fortuna's divine help before tossing the bone cubes. Almost dozing in the oppressive heat, Marcus opened an eye lazily as a magnificently muscled black-bearded man walked across the room, settling on to the bench opposite their resting place. He nudged Rufius with his elbow.
  
  'Isn't that …?'
  
  'Yes, our saviour from this afternoon. Dubnus, wasn't it?'
  
  'He looks like an ugly piece of work.'
  
  Rufius frowned.
  
  'I suspect there's more to the man than you'd guess from his outward appearance. You might find a chat with him educational. Perhaps he'll join us for a cup.'
  
  He beckoned the other man to come across and join them. The Briton rose, padded across the floor and settled on his haunches facing the two, his thick black eyebrows raised in question above hard grey eyes. Marcus estimated his age to be about twenty-five years. The Briton nodded to Rufius, acknowledging his presence, but gave no sign of greeting to the younger man. Rufius returned the compliment, gesturing to the wine flask alongside him on the bench.
  
  'Chosen, we were wondering if you would be willing to join us in a cup of wine, as recognition of your actions of this afternoon?'
  
  The Briton regarded the pair with a level gaze before replying.
  
  'I will not drink with a Roman.'
  
  To Marcus's surprise, Tiberius Rufius's face muscles did not move as much as a twitch.
  
  'You disappoint me, but it is your choice. Tell me, what is it that you have against my friend's illustrious city?'
  
  The Briton's face twisted at the question.
  
  'Your question surprises me. You've been here a while, to judge by your appearance. Surely you can see what they've done to this country – taken our lands, killed our forefathers and fucked our women.'
  
  'So why do you serve in our army?'
  
  The words were out of Marcus's mouth before he could control his reaction. The Briton swivelled his head to face him.
  
  'I serve in the First Tungrian Cohort, not in your army. I defend my people from attack by the northern tribes. My people have no defence against them without the presence of the auxiliary cohorts.'
  
  'No defence? With three legions within a few days' march?'
  
  The man facing him smiled without mirth.
  
  'Your legions defend Rome's interests – your mines, your farms, everything which makes your people rich. My people have grown soft in the time since you conquered us, and become used to living on the scraps from your table. Without men like me on the Wall, the northern tribes would raid our settlements many times in each year. Your legions wouldn't lift a sword until Roman interests were in danger. My thanks, Tiberius Rufius, but I will not drink with you today.'
  
  Rising smoothly from his squatting position, the Briton walked back to his former seat, settled on to the bench and closed his eyes. Tiberius Rufius watched him for a long moment, cocking an eyebrow at Marcus's pale, angry face.
  
  'Hmmm. That is an interesting man, and I think we can now officially discount any possibility that he's stupid. Come on, let's drown that irritation in another cup of wine …'
  
  Their bath complete, the two men dressed in their clean tunics and walked back to the inn for dinner. The duck promised by Ennius was brought to their table roasted to perfection and coated with a delicious sauce, and the red wine he poured for them was of the quality Marcus had become used to drinking at his father's table. Rufius poured cup after cup for him until, with a belated realisation that his face was suddenly feeling numb, and that he was losing the power to string together a coherent sentence, the younger man decided it was time he was in bed. As he staggered unsteadily up to his room, half carried by his new friend, he recalled, with the needle-sharp random insight of the truly drunk, a comment his companion had made hours before.
  
  'Rufius … you said that Mercury was a good hous'hold god for a merchan'. I didn't tell you Father was a merchan' …'
  
  The fact that he got no answer seemed to be of little importance at the time.
  
  After putting the drunken Marcus to bed, Rufius, having deliberately rationed his wine intake to keep his wits intact, slipped back down the stairs. He handed Ennius a coin and left, strapping on his sword and taking up his pack. He walked through the torchlit streets to the river bridge and across, to the fortress's main gate. Challenged by the gate guards, he stood his ground confidently in the teeth of their levelled spears.
  
  'You'd better fetch the duty centurion, boys, and look lively about it. I've got an appointment inside, and it doesn't pay to keep Calidius Sollemnis waiting.'
  
  The duty officer marched up, took a look at the veteran and waved him through the gate, raising a sardonic eyebrow to his deputy. At the entrance to the headquarters building he was brought up short at the main entrance by a tall blond man dressed in mud-spattered armour coming out past the sentries, his plumed helmet dangling by its chinstrap. Rufius stepped back, inclining his head with careful respect.
  
  'Tribune Perennis, salutations. You've had a full day on the road, it appears.'
  
  The other man dropped his hands to his hips in a confident stance.
  
  'Tiberius Rufius. Well, don't you always manage to turn up when things get interesting? Doubtless merely coincidence, just as always seems to be the case. And yet we never see you out in the countryside, no matter how carefully we look.'
  
  Rufius smiled gently, keeping his face neutral.
  
  'Yes, Tribune, well, I like to move around with a degree of caution. You can never be sure just who's waiting to jump out on you in these troubled times. Only today I heard a man with a surprisingly German accent exhorting a bunch of drunken Brits to carve out my liver.'
  
  The officer laughed quietly, with a faint smile that failed to touch his eyes.
  
  'German, eh? How very interesting. Well, never fear, senior centurion, my Asturians will take care to look out for you on the road. Our paths will cross one day soon, of that I'm quite certain. Goodnight.'
  
  Rufius watched him walk away with hard bright eyes, muttering so quietly under his breath that even the sentries' straining ears were frustrated.
  
  'Not if I see you coming first, you cocky young bastard.'