“A moment, then,” the second man, the centurion, agreed reluctantly. “But boots stay on and no wine.”
There was a general grumbling and the sound of soldiers collapsing to the floor. I looked over at Belis and stretched out both hands, indicating about ten Romans. She shook her head and flashed one hand three times. Fifteen. Far more than anyone could handle in a fight. I leaned my head down, trying to catch the conversation.
There was a fair amount of grousing from the soldiers: sore feet, bad rations, unattractive local women. I managed to glean that the troop had followed us from the Iceni battlefield but seemed to have had trouble keeping up with us over the Chalk. There was much complaining about haunted British uplands and general agreement that any people who lived up there were barbarians.
“Boots stay on!” The centurion’s voice cut like a whip through the hubbub.
“Sir, I just need to bind a blister,” a soldier whined.
“I said boots stay on, soldier. Any more backtalk and you’ll be lashed for insubordination and I’ll have you digging latrine trenches when we get back.”
There was silence for a while and then the general chatter started again.
“Bloody Croser,” came the voice of the complaining soldier. “There’s a blister on my toe the size of a sestertius. You can bet he’s got fancy shoes that don’t rub.”
“It’s your own fault for talking back,” cut in another man. “Never give a centurion any lip, they take it worse than anyone. Higher-ups ignore it and the Decani will just box your ear. Centurions have the authority to make your life hell and the spite to do it. Especially when we’re out here with just two contuberniums’ worth of men, you can’t blend in like you would in a century.”
I glanced over at Belis. I wondered if she understood themeaning of the ranks; it made no sense to me. I shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable on the branch.
“I still don’t understand why we’re out here in the sticks anyway,” grumbled the man with the blister.
“We’re chasing that Icey bitch,” said his friend.
“Iceni!” corrected the deep-voiced man who’d called for a halt. “Don’t you know anything?”
“What does it matter, Terrasidius? They’re all uncultured brutes, barely good for slaving. Let her scurry off to some cave somewhere to rot. What do I care?”
“Tell that to the pile of ashes we used to call Londinium,” said Terrasidius. “Tell that to the boys of the Ninth, rotting outside Camulodunum. Better yet, try telling that to Centurion Croser.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
Terrasidius lowered his tone, and I had to strain my ears to hear him. “He brought his family over last year. Mother, wife, three kids. Thought the province was settled enough that they’d be safe in Londinium.”
“No!” whispered the blistered soldier. “Did they…”
“All of them died during the sack. His whole line wiped out overnight. The sound he made when he found out.” Terrasidius gave a low whistle. “Never heard a man make that sound before. At least, not one who wasn’t being cut up by the torturers’ regiment.”
“Is that why he volunteered to hunt the wench down?”
“The governor thought he’d be sufficiently motivated,” Terrasidius said, “then he sent the rest of us along to stop Croser killing her on sight. Got to do these things properly. Rebel leaders go back to Rome, to be properly humiliated and cowed. Can’t have them running around the provinces stirring up more trouble. The Firebrand’s rebellion almost succeeded. If it had, the repercussions back home would have been immense. You’d have had tribes rising up in Gaul, Iberia, Dacia. There’d be trouble along the Rhine again and the Parthians would be grabbing at our eastern borders. The empire’s a mighty thing but it’s fragile in its way.”
He launched into a complicated explanation of the tribes alongthe Rhine, clearly an expert on the topic. I tuned his voice out, attempting to stretch my leg which was beginning to cramp. I very much did not want to fall from the tree. Belis waved at me, trying to get me to stay still. I noticed the conversation below us had paused and wondered if I had accidentally made some noise. I froze, trying not to breathe.
“So after Teutoburg Wald,” continued Terrasidius’s voice, “we stayed west of the river.”
“But why—” A loud whistle ended the conversation.
“On your feet, soldiers,” the centurion barked. More clattering rose up to us as the Romans stood and formed ranks, fresh waves of complaints floating through the branches.
“Ready to move out, sir?” Terrasidius asked. The centurion must have nodded because the soldiers began to march. Within a moment the woods were quiet again, the clattering of armour fading into the distance.
I waved at Belis and she sat up on her branch. She mouthed something at me and I realised she was counting under her breath. I guessed she was planning to count to a hundred before letting us climb back to the ground. A little dramatic but I understood her nervousness. I was not eager to introduce myself to a troop of Roman legionaries in this form.
Belis made me wait to the count of two hundred before she jumped down from the tree. I half climbed, half slid down, fully falling from the last branch. I hit the ground on my back, driving all the air out of my body. I groaned and closed my eyes. There was a new set of bruises I could expect tomorrow.
“Get up,” said Belis, her voice vibrating with nerves. I stayed where I was, still catching my breath from the fall.
“Why? They set off to the north. They won’t stop for hours yet. That centurion seems even more of a tyrant than you.”
