Wounds of Honour

4

Marcus didn’t realise how his place with the Tungrians had been secured until the soldier ordered to take him to the fort’s stores for equipping pointed him through the door into their twilight world. Quintus Tiberius Rufius stood waiting for him beside the long wooden counter, a pile of equipment and clothing stacked next to him. Marcus paused in the doorway for a moment, adjusting to both the gloom and his own surprise.

‘Quintus, what are you…’

The older man grinned sheepishly, clearly torn between his pleasure at being back in uniform and what his presence said for the provenance of his friend’s recruitment.

‘I’ve taken the salt again, lad, accepted the offer of a centurion’s berth for a year, or more if it works out well.’

Marcus made the connection, and his face creased with sudden anger.

‘So I get a chance to make a new start at the cost of your service? Well, it isn’t going to…’

He stopped speaking, brought to a halt by Rufius’s raised hand.

‘Just a moment, lad. You! Come here!’

The store’s clerk detached himself from the rack of spears behind which he’d been lurking, and unwillingly presented himself at the counter’s far side. Rufius shot out an arm, grasping him firmly by one ear and dragging his head across the broad expanse of age-polished wood.

‘Interesting, was it, our conversation?’

The head shook vigorously, or as much as possible with one ear pinned to the counter. Rufius drew his dagger, and slid the point under the pinned ear’s flesh, allowing the steel to caress its curve.

‘Good. Let’s be clear, if I hear anything about the last minute of my private conversation with my friend here repeated I’ll have this ear off your head within the hour. You might be an immune, but it won’t protect you from my blade. Got it?’

The head nodded frantically.

‘Good. Now go and hide in the back of this shed, and don’t come back out until I tell you to.’

The clerk vanished into the gloom without a backward glance. Rufius turned back to his friend with a wry smile.

‘One thing you learn early on, everything you say in a cohort’s stores is public property, just as sure as the stores officer is the richest man in the fort if he has an ounce of wit about him. Now, you were in the middle of telling me how you weren’t going to tolerate such treatment, my being blackmailed to serve with the cohort in return for your safety?’

‘I…’

Rufius raised his hands again, silencing the other man.

‘One moment. Before you say any more, I think I should make my position clear. When Sollemnis asked me to bring you here, he warned me that Prefect Equitius is desperately short of experienced officers. He cautioned me that Equitius, or more likely his First Spear, might try to induce me to serve here. And do you know, when he told me that my heart fairly leapt in my chest. You think I’m being blackmailed, and yes, Frontinius thinks that he’s extorted a bargain from me that serves him well, but the real winner here is me.’

Marcus frowned his lack of understanding.

‘But why? Surely you’ve earned an easier time after twenty-five years of service?’

Rufius reached into the pile of his new kit, pulling from it his vine stick, the twisted wood shiny from years of use.

‘See this? A simple piece of wood with no more value than kindling for a fire, until I pick it up. In my hands, however, it becomes the symbol of my authority. For fifteen years I carried another, very much like this, all over this country, until it was like part of my body. It was the first thing I reached for in the morning, and the last thing I put down at night, and let me tell you, I loved that life. And do you want to know the worst day of my twenty-five years under the eagle?’

Marcus nodded, his anger fading to a sad resignation. Rufius gave a faraway look, his eyes seeing something other than the storehouse walls.

‘My worst day… it wasn’t the first one, at the recruiting camp in Gaul where I joined up, where they cut off all my hair and my new centurion chased us round the parade ground until we puked our guts up. It wasn’t the day when my century was ambushed in the Tava valley, and seventy-seven men became fifty-three and a collection of dying men and corpses in less than ten minutes. Brigantia forgive me, it wasn’t even the day that my wife died before her time, taken from me by the cold and the damp, although it’s a close-run race…’

He took a deep breath.

‘No, my very worst day in all that time was the very last one, when I had to hand my vine stick back to my legatus. It was a misty day, and the entire legion was on parade, centuries stretching away into the grey until they were invisible. All I had to do was march up the line of my cohort, take their salute, march to the legatus, hand him my vine stick, salute, about-face and watch the legion parade off. It seemed to take for ever, and yet it was over in the blink of an eye. I stood there beside him as the legion stamped off the parade ground, watching my cohort under the command of another man, a friend that I’d been grooming for the job for years, chosen from among my centurions. It was like watching your wife on another man’s arm…’

He turned from the memory, fixing Marcus with a serious stare.

‘So, Centurion, when Sextus Frontinius smiles at you, and you know full well that he’s thinking that he’s got an experienced officer at the expense of your troubling him for just as long as it takes to find a reason to declare you a failure, here’s what you say to yourself — Quintus Tiberius Rufius is as happy as a pig in the deepest shit he can find. And you, my lad, are not going to fail. Not with me here to keep you straight. Got that?’

Marcus nodded, blowing out a pent-up breath.

‘Got it.’

‘Good. Now, have they told you who your chosen man’s going to be? I only ask because Frontinius made a special point of telling me on the way down here. He seemed to think it was quite funny.’

Marcus nodded again, his lips pursed with foreboding.

‘So would I, if I didn’t think it was going to be so damned difficult…’ To the Roman’s huge surprise Dubnus took the news of Marcus’s appointment as centurion to the cohort’s 9th Century, with himself as the new chosen man, with perfect equanimity. He waited until they were alone in his centurion’s quarters before tackling the subject head on. Dubnus looked at him without any obvious emotion, shrugging his shoulders.

‘You’re worried that I’m angry about this, but you don’t need to be. I’m not angry, and I don’t want to talk about it. Now get into uniform and let’s go and look at what we’ve got here.’

Marcus persisted, not willing to believe it could be that simple from the big Briton’s perspective.

‘We need to talk, Dubnus, and it won’t wait. I…’

‘You’re a centurion. I’m a chosen man. I’ll do as you command. This is not a problem.’

‘But you’re a warrior, a true soldier. I walk into your fort, already owing you a life, and get promoted to centurion just like that? You should want to put your fist through my face! How can you take this so easily?’

‘Perhaps you’ll be a real centurion. I content myself with being the best chosen man in the cohort instead, better than half of the officers, and they know it. But I’ll never be a centurion, I’ve already been told as much.’

Marcus realised in a flash what was holding the man back, stunned both by the insight and the way the other man had been held from his potential.

‘You’ve been told that you won’t be an officer so many times, you’ve stopped even trying. What my father used to call a “self-fulfilling prophecy”. Look, the First Spear told me all about your father, and how he was deposed from his throne when you were still a boy, how he sent you here when he was dying. He told me that he doesn’t believe you’ll fight your own people when the time comes, that he believes you’re the best soldier in the cohort to satisfy your wounded pride, not because you want to serve. He doubts your commitment, Dubnus, not your abilities…’

The other man just shrugged. Marcus smiled, giddy with relief at making the mental leap to see through the bluff soldier’s reserve.

‘And he’s told you you’ll never make it to centurion so many times that you’ve started to believe it. I can change that. You can be a centurion — if you want to…’

Dubnus stared into his eyes for a long moment, testing the sincerity of the words.

‘You’ll help me to become a centurion? Why?’

Marcus took a deep breath.

‘Dubnus, you’ve said it a dozen times in the last week. I was a praetorian officer, but I never saw action, so it was just a ceremonial job… looking good in uniform, knowing what to say to whom… I’m going to need you to help me be a real officer, a warrior leader. What else can I give you in return?’

‘I make you a warrior, you’ll make me a centurion?’

‘Not a warrior. I may yet surprise you in that respect. A warrior leader. It’s what I’ll have to achieve if I’m to survive here. Or die trying.’

‘Perhaps.’

Marcus noted that the Briton wasn’t smiling. The century’s barrack block was primitive in comparison with the facilities his men had enjoyed in Rome, but Marcus ignored the condition of his quarters as he got into his new uniform. The red tunic was savagely rough in comparison to the fine white cloth he’d worn as a Guard officer. Thick woollen leggings tickled his legs and made him sweat in the building’s shelter, although he guessed that their warmth would seem little enough on a cold winter morning. He bent to examine his armour and weapons, laid out across his bed, noting with dismay the patina of rust that dusted the mail coat’s rings. His helmet was slightly dented on one side. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, he peered closely at the blade.

‘Blunt.’

Dubnus nodded unhappily.

‘Annius keeps his best equipment for those willing to pay. You get second best.’

It was true. The clothing he’d been issued was, on closer inspection, well worn.

‘I see. First things first. Inspection.’

They marched into the first of the eight-man rooms, troops scattering with surprise from their game of dice.

‘Attention!’

The soldiers froze into ramrod-straight poses at Dubnus’s bellowed command, shuffling to make room for Marcus to walk into the cramped room. He looked slowly around, taking in the dirty straw scattered haphazardly across the barrack floor and the poorly stacked weapons and shields in the outer room. Noticing the squad’s food ration for the day, waiting next to the small oven in and on which all cooking was done for the eight men, he turned to shout through the open door.

‘Chosen!’

‘Sir!’

Dubnus stepped into the room, looking at the food to which Marcus was pointing with his vine stick. A couple of the men cast him sidelong glances of amazement. Nobody had warned them that they had new officers, never mind that one of them was the man they called ‘the Prince’ when they were sure he wasn’t listening.

‘Is that quality of food normal for this cohort?’

The salted fish looked green in parts, the fresh vegetables riddled with holes from the attentions of parasites. Only the bread, fresh from the fort’s oven, invited closer attention.

‘No, sir.’

‘I see. Chosen, what’s the normal size of tent party in this cohort?’

‘Eight.’

‘So why are there nine men in this barrack?’

Dubnus growled a question at the nearest soldier in his own language.

‘He says that one soldier has taken a whole room for himself. They’re all scared to fight him… including the acting centurion.’

Marcus stiffened with anger, as much at the acquiescence of so-called fighting men with this act of bullying as with the offence itself.

‘So a man has to sleep on the floor? Take me to that barrack.’

They marched down the line of doors, the frightened soldier pointing to the offending door. Dubnus put his long chosen man’s pole down on the floor, flexing his powerful hands and clenching them into fists. He spoke to Marcus without taking his eyes off the barrack’s door.

‘I’ll do this.’

It was a statement rather than a request, a baldly stated invitation for Marcus to step back from the physical side of his role, and it tempted him more than he had expected. It would be so easy to let the Briton pull this miscreant from his room and discipline him…

Shaking his head in refusal, Marcus pushed him gently but firmly aside, rapping on the door with his vine stick.

‘Inspection! Open this door!’

A clatter sounded from inside, the door bursting open to reveal a half-clad man wielding a wooden stave. Long hair hung lank across his shoulders, pale blue eyes staring insolently from a hatchet face.

‘You tosser, Trajan, I’ll… what?’

Surprised by the appearance of an unfamiliar officer at his door, he hesitated the crucial second that Marcus needed. Taking a quick step forward, he jabbed the stick’s blunt end forcefully into the Briton’s sternum, dropping him to the ground in writhing agony. Dubnus stepped forward, collecting the stave with a sideways glance of surprise at his new centurion before effortlessly lifting the soldier to his unsteady feet. Marcus tucked his stick under one arm, forcing himself to give off waves of confidence. With an audience of a dozen or so of his new command’s rank and file, he couldn’t afford to get this wrong.

‘Name?’

The soldier, his initial shock starting to wear off, glared at him from beneath heavy black eyebrows. Dubnus, still holding him up by one arm, flexed his fingers and squeezed the bicep hard, communicating without words.

‘Antenoch… ah! Centurion.’

‘Chosen, do you know this man?’

‘A good warrior, a poor soldier. He lacks discipline.’

The soldier sneered at his face, disregarding the pain in his gut.

‘What I lack, Dubnus, is any vestige of respect for your authority. And even more so his…’

He nodded in Marcus’s direction. The Roman raised a hand to Dubnus, preventing the explosion of rage he saw building on the big man’s face, keeping his voice dead level.

‘Like it or not, I’m your new centurion, soldier, so you’ll follow my instructions to the letter. Which begin with my telling you to return that barrack to the men you evicted to take possession, and return to your given tent party. If you don’t like taking orders from me, you can try to take it out on me on the practice field tomorrow morning, but until then, move your gear. Now.’

The other man locked eyes with him momentarily, found steel in their gaze, and shook his arm free, slouching off into the empty barrack.

‘Chosen, which of this disorganised rabble was responsible for discipline until our arrival?’

The Briton turned, pointing to one of the men gathered in silent amazement at the turn of events, his face blank with the shock.

‘Chosen Man Trajan. In temporary command of the century while there’s no officer available.’

Marcus swivelled to regard the man with a glare of contempt.

‘Trajan, step forward.’

‘Centurion.’

The man stepped white faced from the throng, coming to attention and pushing out his chest.

‘This century is a disgrace to the cohort. You are hereby reduced to the rank of soldier. Chosen, find this soldier a tent party. You might also want to discuss the matter of the quality of the century’s rations at some length, along with the possibility of a donation to the funeral club. Perhaps you could take him over the Wall for a short patrol in the forest… later. Now I want a full parade of the century, here.’

‘Centurion.’

Dubnus strode away, beating at each door in turn and shouting ‘Parade’ at the top of his voice. Men flew from each barrack, pulling at hastily donned items of clothing as they fell in to the rapidly swelling unit. Within a moment the parade was complete, the demoted Trajan pushed carelessly into the line to more astonished glances while Marcus stood in front of the wide-eyed soldiers, biding his time. Several window shutters on the quarters facing the 9th’s barrack quietly opened just enough for their occupants to peer through the gaps but remain out of view, hidden from Dubnus’s searching eyes.

Once Dubnus had commanded the gathering to ‘shut your fucking mouths’ Marcus gave a cursory inspection, noting the poor repair of almost every man’s tunics and boots, and the generally unkempt and undernourished look that predominated. Returning to his place in front of the parade, he called to Dubnus.

‘Translate for me, Chosen, let’s make sure everyone understands.’

‘Centurion.’

‘Soldiers of the Ninth Century, I am your new centurion, Marcus Tribulus Corvus. From this moment I formally assume command of this century, and become responsible for every aspect of your well-being, discipline, training and readiness for war.’

He paused, looking to Dubnus, who drew a large breath and spat a stream of his native language at the troops.

‘One fucking smile, cough or fart from any one of you cock jockeys, and I’ll put my pole so far up that man’s shithole that it won’t even scrape on the floor. This is your new centurion and you will treat him with the appropriate degree of respect if you don’t want to lead short and very fucking interesting lives.’

He turned to Marcus and nodded, indicating that the Roman should continue.

‘I can see from the state of your uniforms that you’ve been neglected, a state of affairs that I intend to address very shortly. I have yet to see your readiness for battle, but I can assure you that you will be combat ready in the shortest possible time. I do not intend to command a century that I would imagine is regarded as the laughing stock of its unit for any longer than I have to…’

Dubnus cast a pitying sneer over the faces in front of him before speaking again, watching their faces lengthen with the understanding of his methods, passed by whispered word of mouth from his previous century.

‘You’re not soldiers, you’re a fucking waste of rations, a disgrace to the Tungrians! You look like shit, you smell like shit and you’re probably about as hard as shit! That will change! I will kick your lazy fucking arses up and down every hill in the country if I have to, but you will be real soldiers. I will make you ready to kill and die for the honour of this century, with spear or sword or your fucking teeth and nails if need be!’

Marcus cast a questioning look at him, half guessing that the chosen man was deviating from his script, but chose not to challenge his subordinate.

‘You’ll have better food, uniforms and equipment, and soon. Your retraining starts tomorrow morning, so prepare yourselves! Life in this century changes now!’

Dubnus smiled broadly, showing his teeth with pleasure.

‘Your hairy white arses are mine from this second. Get ready to grab your ankles.’

Marcus turned to Dubnus.

‘Once you’ve had a conversation with Soldier Trajan, you are to ensure that all barracks are cleaned out, fresh flooring is distributed, and that all men have practice equipment ready for morning exercises. I’ll see you on parade in the morning. Dismissed.’

‘Sir.’

Dubnus turned on his troops, spitting a stream of orders in all directions. Marcus walked away towards his quarter, only a tremor at the corner of one eye evidencing the exhaustion washing through his body. Sweeping the equipment off his bed, he collapsed gratefully on to the lumpy mattress, closed his eyes, and slept. Later that night, as Equitius settled into bed alongside his wife, he replayed the day’s events in his mind. A rueful shake of his head caught her attention.

‘Well then, you’ve been in a world of your own all evening. What is it?’

‘Eh? Oh… nothing. I received a replacement officer this morning… well, two, although one of them is a nineteen-year-old aristocrat fresh from the Grove. A gift from our good friend Gaius Calidius Sollemnis.’

‘Really? Did they bring news of the legatus and his family?’

Paccia was a close friend of the legatus’s wife and missed her visits to Yew Grove, recently made impractical by the growing enmity of the local Brigantians. Equitius was already wondering whether he shouldn’t pack her off down the North Road to the fortress and its relative safety from the border area’s uncertainties.

‘Again, of a sort… look, these new arrivals aren’t good news, not for Sollemnis and not for us. He sent them to us as a means of hiding a fugitive from the emperor.’

His wife propped herself up on one elbow, her forehead furrowed.

‘But why!? That’s treason, Septimus!’

‘Exactly. The lad’s his son, and that’s a pretty good reason for Sollemnis not to want him delivered for justice, plus he’s the adopted son of a Roman senator who was unjustly accused and executed by Commodus’s cronies as a means of appropriating his land and wealth.’

‘And therefore the son of a declared traitor. And you’ve agreed to harbour him inside this fort?’

‘I’ve made him a centurion, actually…’

Paccia sat up in bed, her eyes wide with fear and anger. He raised a hand to forestall her outburst.

‘Listen to me, Paccia, and listen well. I’ve served the empire in a succession of commands in places that neither of us really wanted. Do you remember Syria? That heat? The sand that got absolutely everywhere? The rain in Germania, and the cold? No man can accuse me of ever stinting in my loyalty to the throne, even when I could just have walked away to relax as a civilian. The boy is an innocent victim of imperial greed, and the gods know that should be enough for us. He is also the son of a man to whom I have a sworn debt of honour. He’s also a trained officer, praetorian in fact, and he brought an experienced legionary centurion here with him as well. That could be invaluable in the next few months.’

‘Septimus, I…’

‘No, Paccia, and I’ve never done this to you before, but no. The decision is made. When men in authority turn a blind eye to the iniquities of a misguided ruler all hope will be lost for the empire. He stays.’

He turned away on his side, setting his face obdurately against any further protest. And prayed to his gods that this was not a decision for which he would pay with both their lives. In the non-commissioned officers’ mess, Dubnus was sitting in a dark corner, nursing a leather cup less than a quarter full of the thick, sweet local beer. Morban, the 9th Century’s standard-bearer and in both age and rank his superior, came through the door, his squat frame filling the frame for a moment while he searched out his friend. Finding his man, he raised an arm in salute, grasping the passing mess steward by his arm, propelling him towards the serving counter with a command for ‘two beers, and make them full to the brim this time’, before waddling across the room to plump himself into the chair facing Dubnus.

Together they represented the 9th’s heart and soul. Morban, as the century’s standard-bearer, was also the treasurer of the funeral club that ensured each man a decent burial, whether serving or retired. Squat and muscular, ugly, balding and approaching the ripe age of forty, with twenty-two years in the cohort, Morban was at the same time the 9th’s greatest cynic and the fiercest protector of its currently flimsy reputation among the other centuries. More than one soldier had found his head locked under Morban’s thick arm while the big man went to work at a brief but effective facial rearrangement.

‘Dubnus, you great oaf, good to see you back. Not so good, however, after a long day locked away in an audit of the funeral club records, to find that spotty little oik of a trumpeter waiting as I came off duty. What’s so urgent that I didn’t even have the time to nip over and see my lad on guard duty? Not that I mind the chance to put a beaker or two away…’

The steward ambled up with full beakers, managing to spill a good splash down Morban’s tunic in the process of handing them over. The standard-bearer gripped him by the front of his own tunic, pulling him down to face level, almost bent double.

‘Very fucking funny. These just became free beers, or you can clean my tunic with your tongue.’

The retired soldier scuttled away, cursing under his breath. Morban scowled after him to reinforce the point, tipping his beaker back for long enough to put half its contents down his throat.

‘Right, lad, what’s your problem?’

Dubnus drank from his own measure, setting the beaker down and staring at his friend for a moment before he spoke in his own language.

‘You’ve not heard, then?’

‘Heard what? I told you, I’ve been knee deep in records scrolls all day.’

Dubnus took a drink, drawing the moment out.

‘You’ve got new officers, Morban, a chosen man and a centurion.’

‘Chosen man and centurion? Who’s the chosen?’

‘I am.’

The burly standard-bearer’s face lit up with pleasure as he leaned over the table and slapped Dubnus’s shoulder in congratulation.

‘Excellent, best news I’ve had all day. Be good to have a real soldier stood behind the Ninth for a change…’

His face became sly, sudden realisation dawning.

‘And I presume this means that halfwit Trajan got his marching orders?’

Dubnus smiled evilly, dropping a bag of coins on to the table.

‘Soldier Trajan has declared his eagerness to make a donation to the funeral club, as atonement for all the money he fleeced from the Ninth’s rations budget in league with that greasy storeman Annius. Our new centurion actually ordered me to take him over the Wall on patrol and give him the choice, cough up the cash or take the consequences, at which point he coughed up quickly enough. A pity really, I would’ve enjoyed cracking his nuts…’

Morban drained his beaker, waving imperiously to the sulking steward for a refill.

‘Well, Dubnus, lad, you as our chosen, Trajan back in a tent party… which one, by the way?’

‘Second.’

‘The Second! Perfect! I imagine he’s biting on the leather strap even as we speak! Now, make my day complete, Chosen, and tell me who our new centurion might be, eh?’

Dubnus drank deeply again, eyeing the other man speculatively over the rim of his beaker, then put the drink down and took a deep breath.

‘That, Morban, is the bit I need your help with…’ Marcus woke at Dubnus’s rousing before dawn the next morning, blinking into the light of a small lamp placed next to his bed.

‘You report to the First Spear at dawn with all the other centurions. I’ve got your report here for you.’

The Briton watched while he washed in a bowl of cold water in the lamp’s tiny bubble of light, dragging a sharp knife across his stubble to reduce the growth to a tolerable shadow.

‘You don’t have to fight Antenoch. I’ll talk to him, tell him it wouldn’t be… wise. He’ll see reason soon enough…’

Marcus paused in his shave, cocking an eyebrow at his friend.

‘And when none of them respect me, seeing me hide behind your strength? What then? I have to do this, and I have to win if I’m to command here. All of the other centurions rose from the ranks, took their beatings and gave them back with interest, Frontinius made that perfectly clear to me yesterday. I have to prove that I can control my men by my own efforts, not simply through yours. But thank you…’

Dubnus shrugged, slapping a writing tablet into Marcus’s hand.

‘Your choice. Now, get dressed, tunic, armour and weapons, and go to the principia. Make your report. I’ll wake the century.’

Outside the cold dawn air was freckled with drizzle, a swirling curtain of wind-blown moisture soothing the heat in his recently shaved face. The headquarters building was quiet, a pair of soldiers standing guard at the entrance beneath the usual reliefs of Mars and Victory. Inside, at the far end of the basilica, stood another pair keeping the eternal vigil over the cohort’s inner sanctum, the Chapel of the Standards. Behind their swords lay not only the cohort’s battle standards, its very soul, but the unit’s pay and savings chests, heavy with the accumulated coin of the soldiers’ spending money and burial funds. Following the sound of voices, Marcus found the space outside the prefect’s office crowded with uniformed officers, bearded faces turning briefly to regard him with combinations of indifference and hostility, probably noting the threadbare nature of his tunic and the poor condition of his mail coat, before turning pointedly to ignore his presence.

Rufius emerged from the group, clearly already at ease among men whom he would naturally consider his equals, and walked across to Marcus’s side.

‘Morning, lad. Ready with your report?’

Marcus showed him the tablet.

‘Good. Speak up nice and loud, don’t let this lot put you off. You can’t expect them to accept you overnight… Now, I hear that you’re intending to demonstrate some of those “few things” again this morning?’

Marcus nodded, glum faced, making the veteran officer smile despite himself.

‘Don’t look so worried. All you’ve got to do is imagine that he’s a blue-nose looking at you down three feet of iron and I’m sure that the rest will come to you easily enough. Just remember, keep it simple. No fancy stuff, mind you, just put your toy sword into his ribs nice and hard and teach the stupid Brit some respect.’

He smiled encouragement before sidling back towards the group of centurions, nodding at some comment Marcus was unable to make out. One man, his hair and beard equally bristly in appearance, favoured him with a tight smile, and seemed about to open his mouth to speak when Sextus Frontinius stepped out of his office and called the gathering to attention.

‘Unit reports, gentlemen! First Century?’

One of the throng considered his writing tablet, solemnly intoning his report.

‘First Spear! First Century reports seventy-seven spears, three men on annual leave, nine men detached for duties beyond the Wall, two men sick and sixty-three men ready for duty.’

‘Second Century?’

‘First Spear! Second Century reports seventy-nine spears, five men on annual leave, one man sick and seventy-three men ready for duty.’

With the exception of the 6th Century, which had a detachment of fifty men escorting a delivery of weapons in from the main depot at Noisy Valley on the North Road, fifteen miles to the east, the reports were much the same. Marcus managed to stammer out his report when the time came, attracting more hostile glares from the other officers, then waited with burning cheeks for the session to end and allow him to escape. When it did the centurions milled about in idle conversation in the few minutes before the morning parade, leaving him to stand awkwardly to one side like the proverbial spare guest at a wedding for a moment before walking quietly away from the gathering. Whatever he’d expected, a friendly welcome did not seem to be on the agenda, and Rufius had clearly decided that he must find his way into the group without any obvious help.

‘Centurion Corvus!’

He stopped and turned back, coming to attention as he recognised the First Spear’s booming voice.

‘First Spear.’

The other man walked up to him, ignoring the curious stares of the other officers, standing almost toe to toe in order to speak in quiet but fierce tones.

‘I hear that you’ve invited an enlisted man to try his luck this morning?’

Marcus swallowed, more afraid of the other man than of the morning’s coming events.

‘Yes, sir, a troublemaker called Antenoch. He’ll get his chance to see what his new officer’s made of.’

Frontinius stared at him without expression, gauging his new centurion’s composure.

‘As will we all… It was bound to happen, of course, since they’ve no way to measure you against their own standards. I wasn’t expecting it quite so soon, though…’

He turned away, leaving Marcus uncertain as to whether he should wait or walk away. Frontinius turned back, nodding his head slightly.

‘At least you had the sense to call his bluff. One piece of advice, though, Centurion…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Win.’ Half an hour later the cohort’s centuries marched out into the dawn’s growing light, down through the tight little township that clung to the fort’s skirts. Dressed in their training rig of tunics, leggings and boots, they carried shields and wooden swords in readiness for the morning’s training exercises. A few windows opened to allow curious children to peer out at the marching men, searching for the men their mothers had pointed out to them on other occasions. The drizzle was still falling, whipped into misty curtains of tiny silver droplets by the eddying wind, making the air both cold and damp. Rufius strolled alongside his century, conversing with his standard-bearer with a carefully calculated indifference.

‘I hear that there’s a score being settled on parade this morning?’

The muscular standard-bearer nodded quickly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly to his front.

‘So we all hear, Centurion. Apparently the other new officer has decided to let one of his men try to take him down with sword and shield.’

Rufius stole a sideways glance at the other man.

‘Really? And who is this soldier that’s so keen to test my colleague?’

A snorted laugh gave him a clue as to the man’s likely loyalties.

‘Test? Antenoch will break his ribs and send the boy packing back to Mummy in under a minute. The man’s a lunatic, except he doesn’t need the full moon to release his madness half the time. Your young friend had better know what he’s getting into!’

Rufius lifted an eyebrow.

‘My young friend? All I did was arrive here at the same time he did. Besides, if he can’t look after himself…’

The standard-bearer nodded approvingly at the sentiment, and Rufius pressed on with his gambit.

‘I also hear that a man can place a wager with you and expect the bet to be honoured?’

The other man looked at him warily, taking his eyes of the road for the first time.

‘No, man, I’m not about to interfere with your business, far from it. I just wondered what odds you’re offering this morning?’

The standard-bearer frowned at him, almost tripping over a loose cobble in the road.

‘Odds? You want to place a bet on another officer getting a beating?’

Rufius grinned at him in reply.

‘I think you’ll find, Standard-bearer, that I’m a little more financially aware than the average officer. Now, odds! Unless you want to find your opportunities to fleece your fellow soldiers somewhat more restricted than they are now…’

The standard-bearer’s eyes narrowed.

‘I’m offering five to four on the lunatic, five to one the centurion.’

‘And how’s the betting so far?’

‘Heavy on Antenoch, which is no surprise, and not a single coin on the boy.’

Rufius nodded.

‘No surprise at all. I think I ought to have a small sum on my colleague, show my solidarity… shall we say a nice discreet twenty-five denarii on the officer…?’

The standard-bearer’s eyes widened, and Rufius stared back at him levelly.

‘And, before you blurt out anything we might both regret, the deal is this. You don’t tell anyone I wagered with you, to avoid spoiling my reputation, while I keep my bet strictly between us, to avoid spoiling your odds. You still make a nice profit, you keep your business intact, and I might just make some money. It might be an idea to ease the centurion’s odds in a little, though, just in case he should actually be quicker with a sword than you’ve given him credit for… And smile, man. If I’m right I’ll be the only person you pay out to today.’

Marcus’s 9th Century was at the rear of the column, under the watchful eye of the First Spear, who marched this morning alongside Dubnus, in the chosen man’s place at the century’s rear. Marcus winced inwardly as the Briton cursed his way down the hill, sufficiently enraged by the poor standard of marching discipline to dive into the ranks and pull one offender out to walk alongside him, slapping the miscreant with every misplaced step.

Reaching the parade ground, spread across the floor of the valley below the steep approach to the fort, the cohort broke into century-sized groups, as the centurions and their senior soldiers marshalled the troops into their parade positions. Marcus stepped out in front of his century, suddenly calm in the moment of decision. Turning, he found Dubnus’s face looming over the century in his accustomed place to the rear of the ranks of soldiers, his long brass-knotted chosen man’s pole shining dimly in the early morning’s pale light, and took strength from its stolid set.

A shouted command floated down the ranks of men, ordering the unit to commence the set routine of warm-up exercises that would prepare them for their morning training session. Grateful for the distraction, Marcus watched the centurions to either side carefully, copying each new bend and stretch, taking pleasure in the physical exercise. His new command, he noticed, were less enthusiastic. After fifteen minutes the order to commence training was passed down the line. Marcus braced himself and stepped forward, closing to within a few paces of his front rank, meeting the suspicious and hostile gazes of those of his men that he could see with a careful mask of indifference.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. Normally we’ll start the morning by rotating the tent parties between sword, spear and shield training. Today, however, since I’m new to most of you, we’ll start with a demonstration of the kind of swordsmanship I’m going to expect from you. Do I have a volunteer to help me demonstrate?’

Antenoch shouldered his way to the front rank, his long plaited hair matted by the falling drizzle. He stepped out in front of Marcus, his mouth set in an implacable white-lipped slash.

‘I volunteer for that privilege.’

Marcus ignored the sneering note in the other man’s voice, taking his wooden practice sword from its place at his waist, then called for another, hefting the practice weapons as if testing their relative weights. His lips were suddenly cold in the chill air, and his fingers slightly numb, as they’d been that afternoon on the road to Yew Grove. And then, in the instant of settling the swords into their accustomed positions at his sides, ready to lift into the long-practised fighting stance, having the handle of a weapon in each hand was suddenly, mercifully, the most natural thing in the world. He felt an almost blissful return to the simple disciplines drummed into him during the thousands of sunny afternoons of his childhood, and a moment of simplicity in the heart of his personal confusion. I can do this, he suddenly thought to himself, and the spark of belief lit a cold fire that ignited in his belly, something deeper than anger, calmer than rage. Cold, rational, calculating purpose filled the place where doubt and confusion had circled each other, events slowing to a more relaxed pace as his brain adjusted to its unexpected confidence. I can do this, he told himself with surprise. I grew up doing this.

Antenoch took his weapon and shield, wristing the sword in blurring arcs clearly calculated to impress the watching troops, dropping into a brief leg stretch before jumping back to his feet. Looking to his right, Marcus could see that half of the neighbouring century was watching with poorly disguised excitement. Antenoch threw him a mock gladiatorial salute, pulling his shield and sword into position.

‘Ready? You’d better find a shield, Centurion, or this will be even quicker than we’re all expecting.’

Marcus stepped into sword reach, unconsciously adjusting the swords’ positions until the points of the practice weapons were aligned, rock steady, less than a foot from the Briton’s shield. The soldiers watching stirred at the sight, their first intimation that all was not quite as they had expected, and a ripple of whispered comments like wind through tall grass spread through their ranks. Marcus’s eyes, stone-like in their concentration, locked on to Antenoch’s the way he’d been taught, watching the eyes, not the weapon, for the first signs of an attack.

‘I’ll stick with the swords if it’s all the same to you. We don’t use body protection for sparring, I see?’

Antenoch smiled sourly from behind his shield, half turning his head to share his ridicule with the ranks of silent soldiers.

‘No, sir, this isn’t Rome. This is a real fighting unit.’

Marcus shrugged without visible emotion.

‘Oh, I’m not concerned for myself, I just don’t want to injure you too badly. Guard your chest…’

‘What?!’

The enraged Briton sprang in to the attack, swinging his sword in a brutal overhand chopping blow down on to Marcus’s quickly raised left-hand sword, the defending weapon’s edge splintering slightly at the blow. Marcus allowed the sword to give downwards with the blow, absorbing its force, and stepped back to further soften the impact, encouraging Antenoch to strike again rather than punching with the shield. Again the sword chopped down at Marcus’s raised defence, and again he retreated, lowering the sword slightly more this time, and once again Antenoch lifted his weapon to strike, sensing the Roman’s apparently feeble defence beginning to fail under his sword blows. As the sword reached the zenith of its attacking arc Marcus dropped his rear leg a little farther back, turning the foot to gain maximum purchase on the parade ground’s hard-packed surface, while the other sword stirred stealthily in his right hand, easing back into position for attack.

Antenoch chopped down again, exerting his full strength in a blow intended to smash the left arm down and open Marcus’s defences. The Roman met the descending sword with a suddenly rigid defence, braced off his extended back leg to stop the blow dead. Simultaneously, he threw the other sword in backhanded, smashing aside Antenoch’s almost disregarded shield and opening the soldier’s body to attack. The momentary gap in his adversary’s defence was enough for Marcus to strike again with his right-hand weapon, chopping mercilessly at the other man’s right wrist and sending his weapon tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers on to the wet ground before hammering the left hand sword into the Briton’s ribs. The counter-attack left Antenoch clutching at bruised ribs while Marcus stepped back, keeping the twin swords raised. He watched Antenoch trying to both cradle his wrist and rub his stomach for a moment, calling softly to the Briton.

‘I told you to guard your chest. Enough?’

The other man glared back at him, hefting his weapons back into their positions.

‘Fight!’

Taking the initiative, Marcus stepped back into his opponent’s sword reach and went to work with clinical skill and speed, his swords a sudden whirl of blurring arcs as he attacked with pace and technique for which the Briton had no answer. Half a dozen swift strikes put the other man off balance, allowing Marcus to smash at his shield with each sword in turn until the third blow, delivered with his left-hand sword, wrenched the shield from Antenoch’s hand and left him unable to defend himself as the other wooden blade smacked across his back, dropping him to his knees with sudden agony in his kidneys. Marcus stepped away from the writhing figure and turned to address his troops, noting that more than a few were watching the squirming Briton with the slack-jawed look of men who were finding it hard to believe what they saw. Dubnus stared over their heads, one eyebrow raised in silent comment. Farther down the line he could see Rufius out in front of his 6th Century, his fist held clenched below a smile of congratulation.

‘Disappointing, gentlemen, if that’s the best we have. You evidently need a great deal of training. Speed and technique will disarm the strongest and bravest of opponents. You will have noted that the use of the shield in attack is as important as the sword. You will learn to fight this way, as well as in the standard formations and drills. You will be the best century in this cohort with your personal weapons, or I and my chosen man will want to know why.’ He dropped the practice weapons to the ground, reaching to collect his vine stick.

‘Bastarrrrrd!’

Marcus swung quickly to face the shout, taking in a split-second image of Antenoch, his face distorted by rage, charging at him with a flat dagger held out towards him, held ready to strike. Holding his ground, he waited until the last possible second before sidestepping the blade, pivoting on his left foot to swing his body away from the thrust. At the same time, he lifted his left arm, bent double, to point the elbow at Antenoch, gripping his left fist in his right hand as he leant back to avoid the knife’s point. As the blow went past his neck he stepped smartly back in, jabbing his elbow into his onrushing assailant’s face and stopping his charge dead, following up with a viciously powerful side-fisted hammer blow that spun the reeling Briton on to his back, his eyes glazed. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the First Spear moving from his position at the far end of the line of centuries at a dead run, his clerk trailing in his wake. He crouched close to the other man’s head, bending over to whisper urgently into his dazed face.

‘Stupid, with the First Spear watching. Now, decide, do you want to live?’

‘Eh…?’

The Briton’s eyes struggled to focus, and for a second Marcus was afraid he’d done too good a job of stopping the attack, and left Antenoch without the ability to save his own life.

‘Everyone dies. You have the opportunity to cross the river this morning, or stay a while longer. Decide which you want, now.’

He prised the dagger from Antenoch’s unresisting hand and stood up to meet the First Spear as he arrived on the scene, allowing the weapon to dangle casually at his side. Frontinius looked livid, his eyes wide with shock and anger.

‘I was watching from the review stand, Centurion, and I clearly saw this man attempt to strike you while you were disarmed.’

He pointed down at the prostrate Antenoch, whose wits were returning as the threat he was under became clear.

‘Sir…’

‘Shut your mouth! I’ll have your head on a pole above the main gate for this, you scum! Attempting to strike a superior officer carries the death penalty, which I…’

‘First Spear, with respect?’

Frontinius turned on Marcus, his eyes narrowed with premonition.

‘Centurion?’

‘Sir, I asked Soldier Antenoch to attempt a surprise attack upon myself, to show the rest of my men the standard of ability and speed I’ll be expecting from them.’

‘And why did he call you a bastard at the top of his voice while doing so?’

‘Enthusiasm, I’d expect, sir.’

‘Enthusiasm. Very likely, Centurion, he felt enthusiastic about the idea of putting a knife between your ribs. An illegal weapon too, I’d say, not our standard issue, although no doubt you lent it to him. You’re defending this man from a charge of assault upon you?’

The watching soldiers tensed visibly, waiting for the answer.

‘Yes, sir. I believe that Soldier Antenoch is a valuable member of the century. He’s agreed only this morning to act as my orderly and clerk, and to provide advice as to the best way of getting things done in this cohort. Isn’t that right, Antenoch…?’

The Briton started up open mouthed at his officer, realising with sudden resignation that he’d been backed into a corner that had only two exits, acceptance or death.

‘Yes… Centurion…’

Frontinius smiled then, without mirth, his eyes locking with Antenoch’s.

‘Good. Very good. I shall look forward to hearing reports on your progress, Soldier Antenoch. Let us hope that you demonstrate your abilities sufficiently well that I forget all about this interesting episode. In the meantime, I’ll keep a pole sharpened above the gate…’

He turned to return to his place, brushing close to Marcus in the process and hissing a whispered comment at him.

‘Don’t push your luck, Centurion…’

Marcus turned back to his men, squaring his shoulders and glaring across the lines of suddenly fixed faces.

‘Very well, Antenoch, back into rank. We can discuss your new duties after morning exercise. Now, let’s examine what happened there. There are a couple of basic techniques for close combat that I want us to practise this morning…’

Morban smirked up at the lanky soldier standing next to him, enjoying the sick look on his face.

‘I believe that’s fifty you owe me, sonny. Did I forget to mention that our new centurion was a member of the imperial bodyguard before he asked the emperor if he could come and see the blue-noses at first hand? Never mind, since you’d only have spent it on whores at least it’ll end up in the same purse. Even if they’ll have a harder time earning it!’

Off parade, Dubnus drew Antenoch into Marcus’s quarters with irresistible force, pushing the defeated soldier into the room in front of him. Marcus, waiting in his chair with his sword unsheathed across his knee, nodded to the chosen man, who pushed the soldier into the middle of the room. With the shutters closed against the rain and cold, and the room only dimly lit by a pair of oil lamps, the young centurion’s face looked brooding, lit with menace. Antenoch turned and glared at him, putting his hands on his hips in carefully calculated insult. The big chosen man bared his teeth in a half-snarl, half-sneer, pulling the dagger from his belt.

‘I’ll go and sharpen the stake over the main gate. It’ll be waiting for you.’

He looked over at Marcus as he turned to leave, shaking his head.

‘Do not trust him. Keep your sword ready.’

When the door was closed, Marcus reached into his tunic, holding out the other man’s knife. Antenoch took it from his outstretched hand, looking closely at the blade for a long moment, staring past it at Marcus.

‘Wondering if it’d be worth another try at planting that thing between my ribs?’

The Briton said nothing for another moment, pursing his lips as he slipped the weapon back into its familiar resting place.

‘No.’

‘Because I spared you even after you tried to kill me?’

‘No.’

‘Then why?’

‘Because I don’t think I’d get close enough… They’ve got a nickname for you, those cattle out there, they always do with officers. It was going to be Wetnose, until this morning. Now it’s Two Knives!’

He spat the words out. Marcus smiled levelly.

‘Two Knives? Like the gladiator? It could be worse, for a man in my situation.’

Antenoch’s eyes narrowed.

‘The rumours are that you’re the son of a rich man, just stupid enough to want to slum it with us for a while.’

‘Rumours you’ll encourage if you want to be my clerk…’

The Briton bristled at the suggestion.

‘Want to be your clerk? Fuck you!’

Marcus sat back, laughing gently at the incensed soldier, tapping the hilt of his sword.

‘Sit down, Antenoch, and think for a moment.’

He waited until the other man had slumped gloomily on to his bed before continuing.

‘You’re obviously an educated man, well spoken in a language which is not your native tongue. You should be an administrator to some local official, or a trader, not a common soldier on the Wall, miles from anywhere with decent food and women you don’t have to pay for. What happened?’

‘Mind your own fucking business!’

‘Come on, man, what can it hurt to tell me? I won’t be sharing the story with anyone else.’

‘You’ll tell Dubnus, and he’ll tell Morban, and he’ll…’

‘You have my word. I’ve little else of value, so it should be of some note.’

The quiet response silenced Antenoch far more effectively than a bellowed command might have. Strangely, his face softened as if with repressed memories.

‘I was adopted by a merchant in the wool trade when I was young, after my mother died, and raised as his son, alongside his own boy. I never knew my father, although I often wondered if I was actually the merchant’s bastard child. Taught to read and write, and to speak well. I imagined that I would find some place in his business, until my “brother” took it into his head that I was supplanting him in his father’s affections. He poisoned the old man against me, slowly but surely, and I ended up on the street with a handful of coins and their “best wishes”. So… I decided to earn the one thing they never could buy, for all their money, and become a Roman citizen. I planned to go back to them after my twenty-five, as an officer, of course, and snap my fingers at them as second-class citizens in their own country. Cocidius help me, I was so stupid!’

‘And now you’re stuck here.’

Antenoch looked up, his eyes red.

‘And you’re so clever? The only difference between us seems to be one of rank, Centurion, since you apparently have nowhere better to go than the arse-end of your own empire!’

Again Marcus’s response was instinctively gentle, defusing the Briton’s anger.

‘And that should make us more likely allies than enemies. Will you work with me or against me? You’d make a first-class centurion’s clerk, and with a little polish you could be one of the best swordsmen in the cohort. Besides, I could do with someone to watch my back…’

He tailed off, his persuasive skills exhausted, and wisely waited in the unnerving silence rather than spout nonsense to fill the silence. Antenoch levelled his stare, his face set hard.

‘And if I won’t, you’ll set that bastard Frontinius on me. What choice do I have?’

Marcus shook his head emphatically.

‘No, the choice has to be yours. Besides, nobody does my dirty work for me any more. Look, I need a man I can trust behind me in a knife fight, not one waiting for the chance to carve my shoulder blades apart. What do you need?’

The response was slow and measured, the Briton thinking through his position aloud.

‘I need a chance to be something other than the wild man those fools have labelled me… I’d like to learn some of those fancy tricks you pulled on me this morning. I want that bastard Dubnus to speak to me with a little respect, rather than looking at me as if I were something he scraped off the bottom of his boot.’

He looked up at Marcus, calculation written across his face.

‘What’s the pay?’

‘Standard pay, but I’ll make you an immune. You’ll never have to shovel shit away from the latrines again, just as long as you’re my man.’

Antenoch pulled a face and nodded.

‘Very well, we have a deal… but you should beware one small fact, Centurion Two Knives.’

Marcus grimaced in his turn.

‘And that is…?’

‘I promise always to be honest with you. Always to speak my mind, whatever my opinion. Whatever the likely effect. You may find my views hard to accept, but I won’t spare you them.’

‘And your view as of this moment?’

‘You look too young for credibility with men who don’t happen to be looking down the length of your sword. Put into Frontinius for permission to grow a beard. You can grow a beard?’