II

The temporary camp of Legio VIIII Hispana,
Fifty-five miles east of Cyrrhus

Fifteen days before the Kalends of March

‘I SHOULD ORDER your immediate arrest and execution! Hercules’ balls, I would be within my rights and no one would question it.’ Marcus Atilius Crispinus, legatus legionis of VIIII Hispana, was angry, and not making a very good job of controlling himself. ‘You have already been convicted and imprisoned, making you an escaped fugitive. Orders are orders, and no one could prove that the second letter had arrived in time to save you.’ He slammed his heavy cane against the top of the folding table.

The legatus’ rage had bubbled up steadily during the earlier meeting, as he listened to his officers’ explanations. The idea had been simple. Crispinus had ordered the whole camp to keep a close eye on him, because he and his staff were going to slip away. When the legatus sneaked off, it was up to the rest to set out after him and track him down. The divine Julius had been fond of the game, and he was one of the best trainers of soldiers in history. People said that he was fond of turning everyone out like this at night, or when they were happily celebrating a festival. They also said that the soldiers liked the challenge.

Crispinus had just taken over a legion that was not in the best of shape. That meant he needed to get them all into good order as quickly as possible, a task made all the more urgent because the Lord Trajan was on his way from Antioch to inspect them at the end of the month. Trajan was very keen on discipline and training, and rewarded imaginative approaches as long as they worked, and that was the problem. No one had found the legatus. Most had lost the trail by the time darkness fell, all as night brought the heaviest rage of the storm. They had also lost each other, with barely any detachment managing to keep all its men together until the dawn.

There were plenty of excuses, and as Crispinus had listened to them he had kept turning the cane in his hands. The weather had been against them and that was bad luck. You got winter storms, of course, but the day had looked clear and given no warning that such a savage one was on the way. No one in the legion had done much training at night, which was fair enough, without excusing the fact that it had taken them three hours to notice that the legatus was gone and that half of them then managed to get lost before sunset. On top of that, one legionary had been struck by a lightning bolt and left a scorched wreck, his cuirass melted and sword twisted out of shape. A dozen men and twice as many horses had managed to break legs or ankles. One of the lixae had fallen into a stream and drowned, while eight men were still missing, whether dead, deserted, or just plain lost.