The Eagle's Vengeance (26 page)

The raiding party pushed on into the swamp, the soft mossy ground beneath their feet becoming increasingly liquid with every step until Marcus’s boots were sinking up to his ankles in the gelatinous mud. They had barely covered another quarter mile when the sound of shouting tribesmen reached them across the swamp, and the Roman tapped his tracker on the shoulder, whispering in the Tungrian’s ear.

‘That sounds as if the hunters have reached the river and realised that we were never heading in that direction. Push on Arabus, we’ve no option but to reach the river or else we’ll be trapped here under their spears when the sun rises.’

The party struggled on into the swamp, muffled curses and imprecations marking the spots where boots came loose from feet and had to be dragged from the mud and moss’s sticky grip, and all the time the sounds of pursuit gradually moved from the right to their rear. Having barely moved five hundred paces from their last halt, Arabus turned back to face Marcus with a look of dismay.

‘I’ve lost the path, it seems. The legion engineers must have changed direction to get around this morass, and there’s probably no safe way through to the river by going forward. We’ll have to backtrack …’

The Roman cocked his head to listen, then shook it decisively.

‘There’s no time!’ The excited baying of the hunting dogs was drawing closer. ‘They have our scent, which isn’t surprising given the amount of blood we’ve shed in the last hour. Besides, we’ll never reach the river before dawn at this pace …’ He mused for a moment on something Verus had told the centurions in the Lazy Hill headquarters before coming to a decision that he’d been pondering since the party had blundered into the swamp. ‘No, the answer’s not to look for a way back, but to go forward, deeper into the swamp.’

Drest stepped forward, his whisper full of urgency.

‘Are you sure, Centurion? It looks like a death trap to me. Even if we don’t sink into one of these mud pits we’ll surely be seen in no time once it’s light.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘It’s what Verus did to evade pursuit when he was running from these same hunters. We’ll have to go as far into the marsh as we dare, and then bury ourselves in the mud as deeply as we can. Hopefully the Venicones won’t be able to see us, and their dogs won’t be able to fasten onto our scent for the stink of rotting vegetation. It’s either that or we make a stand here against whatever it is that’s hunting us down. And besides, we have one other edge on them. They know this path intimately, whereas we blundered off it and into this desert of mud and water at the first opportunity.’

Drest frowned wearily at him.

‘Eh? Exactly how is that an
advantage
?’

Another shrill cry rang out across the marsh, and an otherworldly note in the hunter’s scream raised the hair on the back of their necks.

‘There’s no time, I’ll tell you when we’re safe in the mud.
Come on!
’

‘More of the same today is it, sir?’

Tribune Scaurus nodded equably and stared out across the grey dawn landscape, too busy chewing a stale piece of bread to answer Julius until he’d managed to swallow the tough mouthful and swill his mouth out with a cupful of water.

‘Quite so, First Spear, more of the same indeed. My intention is to sidestep the Venicones as you would a charging bull. Since they already know roughly where we are from their ambush of our cavalrymen, I think it best if we march south the way we came, up through that convenient little defile in the hills and back into the Frying Pan. And then, and this is the bit I really like, once we’re back inside the Frying Pan I think we’ll turn west and march back towards them.’

‘
Towards
them?’

He grinned at Julius’s incredulity.

‘You heard me. Only we’ll be on the southern side of the hills and they’ll be marching towards our last known position and therefore on the northern side. We’ll head west across the Frying Pan and out over the hills on the far side, and once we’re on the far side of the western rim we can head for any one of a dozen forts and get on the protected side of the wall. With a tiny bit of luck they’ll never know which way we went until we’re safe on the other side.’

His first spear scratched his head and thought for a moment before replying, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a note of evident unhappiness.

‘It’s not the most devious of ruses, Tribune. What if they work out what’s going on and decide not to take the bait? What if we meet the war band coming the other way somewhere in that bloody forest?’

Scaurus nodded, acknowledging the point.

‘I think it’s time to send Silus and his horsemen forward to scout the route. If the Venicones decide to come back this way down the path they trod yesterday that ought to give us ample warning.’

Julius saluted and went off to gather his centurions, brooding on the potential for disaster entailed in his tribune’s plan of action.

‘He don’t look happy.’

Sanga snorted at the opinion of one of his tent mates, his hands busy packing his kit into his blanket, fashioning a bundle small enough to rest in the crook of his carrying pole.

‘Neither would you mate, not if you was responsible for a cohort with a tribune who’s determined to dance around in hostile country shouting,
“Come and get me!”
to the bull that wants to stick its horns right up our arse. An’ every day we do this little dance we have to get lucky enough to avoid the bluenoses, whereas they only has to get lucky enough to catch us just the once. It’ll be another day of double-time marching from the looks of it, so you’d best make sure you’ve got some bread handy for eating on the move.’

He looked up from his packing to find a pair of eyes locked on him from the next tent party, naked hatred smouldering in a face so badly bruised as to be almost unrecognisable. Horta stared at him for a moment longer before turning away to mutter something to his mate, who turned and regarded Sanga equally coldly, his nose livid with bruises and deep bite marks. The soldier got to his feet and shrugged on his baldric and belt, adjusting the hang of his sword until the weapon’s pommel was directly beneath his right armpit. Pulling the dagger from its place on his left hip he examined the blade’s edge for a moment before pushing it back into the polished scabbard’s tight leather lips, then looked back at the two men to find them still regarding him with jaundiced eyes. Shaking his head in disgust he strode the few paces required to bring them face-to-face, raising a finger in warning.

‘You two want a fight, you come and find me once this excitement’s done with and I’ll put you both under the doctor’s care for a month. Try to take me unawares and it’ll be the last trick you ever try to pull. You both been warned, right?’

He turned away with a contemptuous sneer, seeing Quintus strolling down the century’s line alongside Morban, his eyes roaming his command’s ranks in search of anything with which he might take exception.

‘Now then lads! Get yourselves on parade before the chosen man has to start shouting! You make me look bad and I’ll have to send whatever shit he drops on me down the hill to where it belongs!’

His words were loud enough to carry to Quintus, who smiled wryly at Sanga’s blunt way with the men of his tent party even as he drew breath to bellow his first command of the day.

‘Right then you apes! Let’s have you in nice straight lines and ready to march! The last man in position with all his kit gets a tickle from my little friend here!’ He raised the shining brass-bound iron ball on the end of his staff and grinned mirthlessly across the ranks of his century. ‘It may not be a vine stick, but I think you’ll find I can swing it just as quickly!
Move!
’

The Venicones were making ready to break camp when it happened, men still fighting weariness in the cold of the early morning’s thin light, huddling around rekindled fires and chewing on whatever was left of the previous night’s food. Brem was briefing the clan leaders as to the day’s plan, deliberately kept as simple as possible by Calgus to ensure that there was little to go wrong. The Selgovae had left Brem to perform the briefing alone, knowing that any idea from his mouth would be regarded by the king’s men with deep distrust.

‘Half our strength will head north-east, around the northern side of the hills, and scout for the Roman camp. When you find it –’ Brem nodded to the man to whom he had given command of this half of the advance ‘– then you must simply follow them at a pace that will reel them in but also leave your men fit to fight. I expect that they will head south, over the hills and into the forest. The other half, which I will command, will march directly east, and set up an ambush in the forest. I expect that this Roman will attempt to bluff us once more, and will march his men west, in the direction we would least expect, and if he does, I will be waiting for him. In the event that his track takes him west, as I expect it will, follow him at your best pace and act as the hammer which will crush these Tungrians flat against our anvil, if we’ve left any alive for you.’

‘And if he turns east, my lord King?’

‘Then send messengers to find me, and chase him down before he reaches their wall. This is our chance to put this man’s head on my roof beams, and I will not miss the opportunity that our scouts’ discovery of yesterday has given me. So, my brothers, go and—’

A man burst into the circle, prostrating himself in apology for his interruption.

‘My lord King, the Roman wall!’

Brem frowned down at him.

‘What of it, idiot?’

‘The wall forts, my lord King. They’re—’

‘On fire, my lord Brem.’ Calgus limped into the circle of men, any concern with his likely reception from the gathered Venicone nobles removed at a stroke by what he had seen on the southern horizon. ‘The sentries have spotted three of the wall forts alight, and if three of them have been torched then you can be assured that every one of their stinking little wooden enclosures from the Clut to the estuary of the Dirty River will be aflame. The Romans, my lord King, are retreating from your lands, just as I told you they inevitably would.’

Brem clenched a fist, bellowing his joy at the news.

‘Come then, my brothers! Let us go and find this Roman and teach him the meaning of Venicone revenge!’

And then, to the amazement of the men gathered about the king, Calgus stepped forward, putting up a hand to silence him and speaking quietly in the sudden hush.

‘My lord king, I suggest that—’

No man among them would ever bring himself to contradict the king, and yet here was the still hated deposed ruler of the Selgovae daring to speak to their leader in just such a way. Half a dozen of them started forward, but to their dismay Brem held up his own hand to forestall them.

‘Let him speak.’

Calgus smiled about him with the same knowing expression he had shown them on the day that Naradoc and his younger brother had been murdered at his suggestion, then turned back to face Brem and bowed deeply.

‘All I was going to say, my lord King, is that this is a fortuitous turn of fate that no one could have predicted. A turning point in our struggle against these invaders of which many people, including that Roman we’re hunting, will still be unaware …’ He paused, smiling beatifically at Brem in his flush of new-found confidence as the situation played smoothly into his hands in a way he could not have dared to dream. ‘Quite simply, my lord King, this changes
everything
.’

Dawn came slowly to the swamp, its weak light struggling to penetrate the thick fog which wreathed the Dirty River’s valley. The raiding party had taken shelter from view in the cover of the swamp’s thin vegetation, pressing their bodies into the sodden moss as the sounds of the hunt around them began to resolve themselves into a clearer pattern. Keeping flat to the waterlogged ground and raising his head with slow, deliberate care, Marcus stared out into the grey murk for any sign of movement, his body liberally coated with the thick, clinging mire that surrounded them on all sides and his head heavy with the layer of camouflaging mud which Arabus had insisted the raiders should all smear into their hair and across their faces. The heavy mist clung to the sodden ground, reducing visibility to no better than a dozen paces and protecting them from the sharp eyes of the hunters whose voices they could hear over to their right. Another one of their stalkers called out in a high-pitched tone edged with frustration, and the Roman fought the urge to shake his head in amazement that the grassy river plain was indeed patrolled by women, while warning himself that they were in no less danger than if the warriors tracking them were male. Having seen the dull glint of razor-sharp iron in the mist a moment before, he was clear that their pursuers were both close at hand and sufficiently well armed to deal with a few tired intruders.

‘You see?’ Putting his mouth close to Drest’s head he muttered in the Thracian’s ear. ‘We don’t know these paths anywhere near as well as they do, so we ended up off track and deep in the swamp. Whereas they do know where the firm ground is, and followed the path around us. And it sounds like their dogs can’t smell us either …’

Whether the senses of their hunting dogs were being frustrated by the vapour in the air or simply by the rank stink of the mud daubed on the raiders’ bodies was beyond his understanding, but it was clear from the querulous tones of the dogs’ occasional barks that their quarry seemed to have vanished into thin air. One voice raised itself above the indignant complaints of the searching women, strong and masculine in tone as it issued what sounded like a string of instructions. The volume of the unseen man’s commands seemed to strengthen and weaken by the moment, sometimes sounding close and then suddenly distant, a combination of the mist and the fitful breeze blowing across the marsh, Marcus guessed.

Lifting his head slowly and carefully to look through a straggling bush, the Roman managed to catch sight of an indistinct figure advancing slowly across the moss’s surface with a spear held ready to strike. The hunter was close enough that, were she to catch sight of him through the mist, her thrown spear would easily have the reach to put iron in his chest. She was stalking across the mossy swamp with slow, careful steps, her left arm held forward for balance and ready to pull sharply back for added power in the event of her finding a target at which to launch the spear, and Marcus nodded minutely in recognition of her apparent skill. The woman looked young, no more than fifteen, but the Roman knew that the danger she posed to the fugitives lay not simply in her fighting abilities but rather in the risk that were she to spot them and raise the alarm the raiders would quickly be mobbed by more spears than they would ever be able to fight off. As he watched, she stopped and lifted her head to stare out across the swamp, her youthful eyes sharp beneath the thick layer of mud with which, like their quarry, the hunting party had daubed themselves as a means of disguising their outlines.