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Authors: Manda Scott
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else on the bridge with it.”
Corvus had seen it. Ursus should have done. The only grace was that it had been obvious from the moment the prefect spoke and Ursus had already thought through what to do. “I have engineers,” he said. “We can abandon this bridge and build a new one. It will take less than half a day.”
“I know. Thank you. Sadly we don’t have half a day. The governor needs us with all speed for his assault on Mona and we have no remit to repair bridges that have been sabotaged by the enemy.”
Corvus was a compact man, slim and fine-skinned with no spare flesh or hanging jowls and only a salting of white at his temples and along the parting of his hair to show that he had aged since the first years of the occupation. There was an air of difference about him so that even now, under the mud and the stains of travel, with his officer’s cloak hanging wet about his armour and his greaves polished to blind the sun, he did not look fully Roman. His nose was more Greek, or perhaps Alexandrian, and his eyes were wider and could hold the world. For nearly two decades, Ursus had felt himself drown in them daily and, daily, had levered himself out again, cursing.
Ursus was broad and tall and his hair was a very un-Roman pale brown, a legacy from a maternal great-grandfather who had been Batavian and had earned his citizenship fighting under the deified Caesar. He had survived a brief revolt by the Eceni in the east soon after the invasion and twenty years of savage resistance by the tribes of the west and was as good a field commander as any man of his rank. He could take anything the enemy warriors chose to throw at him; it was his prefect’s opinion that made or broke his days.
“What then?” he asked, too shortly.
Corvus smiled and raised a brow. “The next bridge is four miles downstream. It’s intact; my troop and their legionaries are crossing now. Bring your men down and follow us. Keep to the rear; the snake will need teeth in its tail.”
It was an offering, of a sort. Corvus led all his own patrols in person, but he put his second most competent officer at the rear, so that the snake of his line, if cut, might yet strike fast and hard at any enemy coming from behind. It was a place of implicit trust, and assumed the good initiative of the officer placed there, who might well have to act alone.
Once, Valerius had been there. It was Valerius who had destroyed whatever little of the prefect’s good humour had survived the winter in Camulodunum. Ursus hated him for both of these, but not enough to reject the gift that was offered.
“Thank you.” He bowed, as if in the governor’s presence. Ahead of him, a horse shifted, restlessly. When he raised his head again, Corvus had already gone.
“Why did he do it?”
The shame of the mule was a passing shadow, almost forgotten in the routines of a night-time camp. Ursus lay on his back and asked the question of the tent roof above his head. Rain fell steadily, so that the words slipped into the drumming of the goat hide and were lost.
To his left, Flavius, his standard-bearer, shifted a little, making his camp bed creak. He laughed, sourly. “Who, Corvus? Because you’d have lost two days building a bridge fit for the emperor himself and the governor would have flogged you afterwards for bringing his much-needed reserves late to war.”
From the dark, an older, wise voice said, “He’s not asking about that. He’s asking about what happened a half-month back that has left his favourite prefect in a foul temper. He’sasking about Valerius and the procurator. About why we lost half a day on private business that will see us all crucified if the governor ever gets to hear of it. He’s asking why Corvus stopped the emperor’s tax collector from collecting the emperor’s taxes. Actually, if any one of us is honest, he’s asking why did he commit treason?”
Sabinius, the third of the party, was nearly two decades older than his
Corvus had seen it. Ursus should have done. The only grace was that it had been obvious from the moment the prefect spoke and Ursus had already thought through what to do. “I have engineers,” he said. “We can abandon this bridge and build a new one. It will take less than half a day.”
“I know. Thank you. Sadly we don’t have half a day. The governor needs us with all speed for his assault on Mona and we have no remit to repair bridges that have been sabotaged by the enemy.”
Corvus was a compact man, slim and fine-skinned with no spare flesh or hanging jowls and only a salting of white at his temples and along the parting of his hair to show that he had aged since the first years of the occupation. There was an air of difference about him so that even now, under the mud and the stains of travel, with his officer’s cloak hanging wet about his armour and his greaves polished to blind the sun, he did not look fully Roman. His nose was more Greek, or perhaps Alexandrian, and his eyes were wider and could hold the world. For nearly two decades, Ursus had felt himself drown in them daily and, daily, had levered himself out again, cursing.
Ursus was broad and tall and his hair was a very un-Roman pale brown, a legacy from a maternal great-grandfather who had been Batavian and had earned his citizenship fighting under the deified Caesar. He had survived a brief revolt by the Eceni in the east soon after the invasion and twenty years of savage resistance by the tribes of the west and was as good a field commander as any man of his rank. He could take anything the enemy warriors chose to throw at him; it was his prefect’s opinion that made or broke his days.
“What then?” he asked, too shortly.
Corvus smiled and raised a brow. “The next bridge is four miles downstream. It’s intact; my troop and their legionaries are crossing now. Bring your men down and follow us. Keep to the rear; the snake will need teeth in its tail.”
It was an offering, of a sort. Corvus led all his own patrols in person, but he put his second most competent officer at the rear, so that the snake of his line, if cut, might yet strike fast and hard at any enemy coming from behind. It was a place of implicit trust, and assumed the good initiative of the officer placed there, who might well have to act alone.
Once, Valerius had been there. It was Valerius who had destroyed whatever little of the prefect’s good humour had survived the winter in Camulodunum. Ursus hated him for both of these, but not enough to reject the gift that was offered.
“Thank you.” He bowed, as if in the governor’s presence. Ahead of him, a horse shifted, restlessly. When he raised his head again, Corvus had already gone.
“Why did he do it?”
The shame of the mule was a passing shadow, almost forgotten in the routines of a night-time camp. Ursus lay on his back and asked the question of the tent roof above his head. Rain fell steadily, so that the words slipped into the drumming of the goat hide and were lost.
To his left, Flavius, his standard-bearer, shifted a little, making his camp bed creak. He laughed, sourly. “Who, Corvus? Because you’d have lost two days building a bridge fit for the emperor himself and the governor would have flogged you afterwards for bringing his much-needed reserves late to war.”
From the dark, an older, wise voice said, “He’s not asking about that. He’s asking about what happened a half-month back that has left his favourite prefect in a foul temper. He’sasking about Valerius and the procurator. About why we lost half a day on private business that will see us all crucified if the governor ever gets to hear of it. He’s asking why Corvus stopped the emperor’s tax collector from collecting the emperor’s taxes. Actually, if any one of us is honest, he’s asking why did he commit treason?”
Sabinius, the third of the party, was nearly two decades older than his
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