Wounds of Honour

6

The cohort’s long stay in winter quarters began to draw to a close a fortnight after their arrival. The onset of warmer weather heralded the opening of spring’s campaign to revitalise the land. The change was much to the relief of officers at their wits’ end with containing the fallout of boredom and indiscipline that the winter’s long inactivity had bred in their troops. Marcus had already had one case to deal with from within the 9th, a tall, darkly surly, one-eyed soldier who went under the official name of Augustus and the unofficial title of ‘Cyclops’. It seemed that the name had as much to do with his poor temper as any more obvious reason.

Called out in the early hours by the duty officer, he found the man slumped, bruised and still bleeding from his nostrils, in a headquarters holding cell. The duty centurion, with some good fortune Caelius, who, Rufius excepted, was still his only real friend among the officers, shook his head more in sorrow than anger.

‘He’s known for it, I’m afraid. All it takes is for someone to find the right lever to tug at, the right jibe to set him off, and he goes off like a siege catapult. He’s been warned, fined, beaten, put on punishment details for weeks… nothing works. If this goes to Uncle Sextus he’ll get another beating, a really bad one this time, perhaps dishonourable dismissal too…’

Marcus looked in through the thick bars, weighing up the man slumped before him. While he’d learned a few names, and the characters behind them, the man was no more than an imperfectly remembered face in the cohort’s second rank on parade.

‘And what was the lever this time?’

‘We don’t know. He won’t say, and the men that beat the snot out of him are sticking to a story that he jumped them in the street outside the tavern they’d been drinking in, without warning or reason. Which is probably at least half true. You might not be surprised to learn that they’re both Latrine’s men.’

‘Hmmm. Open the door and leave me with him.’

Caelius shot him a surprised look.

‘Are you sure? He broke a man’s arm the last time he was in this state.’

‘And you think I couldn’t handle him?’

A sheepish grin spread over the other man’s face. He took a lead-weighted rod from his belt, tapping the heavy head significantly against his palm.

‘No, well, when you put it that way… Just shout if he gets naughty, and I’ll come and reintroduce him to the night officer’s best friend.’

He opened the door, drawing no reaction from the prisoner. Marcus leant against the door frame, waiting until Caelius was out of earshot in his tiny cubicle. In the guardroom next to the office a dozen men were dozing, sitting up on their bench, packed in tight like peas in a pod. The building was quiet, eerily so when it was usually so vibrant with activity during the day.

‘Soldier Augustus?’

The words met with no reaction.

‘Cyclops!’

The soldier started at the name, looking up at his officer. He stared for a moment and snorted before putting his head down again.

‘How many times is this, soldier? Three? Four?’

‘Six.’

‘Six, Centurion. What punishments have you suffered as a consequence?’

The recitation was mechanical, the question often answered.

‘Ten strokes, twenty strokes, twenty-five strokes and two weeks’ pay, thirty strokes and two weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, fifty strokes and three weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, a month’s pay and a month’s free time… Centurion.’

His head came up while he recited the litany of punishment, his one eye, previously dulled by pain, seeming to regain some of its spark.

‘None of which has stopped you from fighting… So, then, Cyclops, why do you fight?’

The other man shrugged without expression, almost seeming not to comprehend the question.

‘I take no shit from no one.’

‘From what I’ve heard, you take “shit” from almost anyone. You let them get under your skin and goad you to the point of starting a fight, at which point you usually get both a beating and a place at the punishment table for starting the fight.’

Marcus shook his head in exasperation.

‘So what was it this time?’

Augustus’s eye clouded with pain again, and for a moment Marcus thought he was going to cry.

‘Phyllida.’

‘A woman?’

‘My woman. She left me, went to a soldier from the Fifth. Him and his mates took the piss out of me…’

‘Mainly because it gives them an excuse to batter you, I’d say. Did you give some back?’

‘I hit them a few times.’

‘Want to hurt them some more?’

Cyclops looked up at him again, suspicion in his good eye.

‘How?’

‘Simple. Just tell me who else witnessed these men baiting you.’

‘I won’t speak against them.’

‘I guessed that already. I’ll deal with this my way, unofficially, but I need a name to start with.’

Cyclops paused for thought, as much to consider the request as to recall any detail. At length he spoke.

‘Manius, of the Fourth, he was in the tavern. He’s from my village.’

Marcus went to wake up Dubnus, waiting until the man had splashed cold water on his face before detailing the problem. The Briton’s response was simple.

‘Leave him to rot. Let Uncle Sextus deal with him. The man’s a liability, bad for discipline.’

Marcus leant back against the small room’s wall, rubbing his stubble wearily.

‘No. Leaving him to the First Spear’s discipline says we have no ideas of our own. That we don’t look after our own. How well do you know this man “Cyclops”?’

‘Well enough. His heart is poisoned, full of anger.’

‘Is he a warrior?’

‘He’s fierce enough in a fight, but he lacks… self-control.’

‘So if we could make him behave, he’d make a good soldier?’

‘Ye-es.’

Marcus ignored the grudging tone of agreement.

‘Good. In that case I need your help. Let’s give him a real chance to change his ways this time.’

The Briton looked at him with a calculating expression.

‘You want to wake up Grandfather for this?’

Marcus shook his head.

‘No, although I’d dearly love to have his advice. He has to be neutral in this, and if he knew about it he’d find it hard not to get involved in some way. This is a Ninth Century problem, and the Ninth will handle it. Our way.’

‘Which is?’

‘First we have to talk to a man in the Fourth. It’s a good thing Caelius is captain of the guard tonight, saves us waking him up too.’ Julius was woken from sleep by a hammering at his door, climbing bleary eyed from his bed to answer the insistent banging. His bad-tempered scowl became a snarl of distaste when he saw Marcus in the doorway, just recognisable in the night’s bright moonlight.

‘What do you want, puppy?’

Marcus gestured to an unseen person to his right and then stepped aside. Dubnus stepped into view, a semi-conscious soldier grasped firmly under each arm, his biceps bulging with the effort. One of his eyes was slightly closed, but otherwise he appeared undamaged. He dropped the men on the ground between them, making the centurion step back as they crumpled at his feet, and spoke for the first time.

‘I must be getting slow. A year ago neither of them would have laid a finger on me.’

Julius spluttered with fury, stepping out into the cold air without noticing its icy grip on his skin and squaring up to Dubnus.

‘What the fuck have you done?’

Marcus stepped in alongside his chosen man, his eyes narrowed with anger.

‘What he did, brother officer, was exact a very precise retribution on the men that beat up one of my troops earlier this evening. I have a witness who has sworn to me that Augustus was provoked, just as they knew he could be from happy experience. All we’ve done is even the account. If you attempt to take any further action on this matter he’s promised to come forward and tell his story.’

‘You’re bluffing! No man in this cohort would inform on another.’

‘Your choice. The only way to know is to try me. It can stop here, Julius, this quiet war on my century and your attempts to make them turn against me. From now, everything you start comes back to you twofold, no matter what it is. However many of my men suffer, twice as many of yours will receive the same punishment…’

The younger man stepped in closer, putting his face into Julius’s, the set of his jaw and flare of his nostrils rooting the older man to the spot.

‘… and if you want to make it a little more personal, I’ll see you on the practice ground for a little exercise, with or without weapons. If you have a problem with me, you can take it up with me!’

He turned and stalked away. Dubnus raised an eyebrow in silent comment and turned to follow, leaving the 5th’s centurion for once lost for words. The next morning, after early parade, Prefect Equitius and the First Spear sat to judge Cyclops’s case, running through the facts with the offender standing to attention in front of them. With the bare facts of the case established, Frontinius asked Cyclops whether he wanted to make any comment before sentence was passed. The soldier’s response was mumbled at the floor, but no less of a surprise to officers used to the man’s customary stony silence at the punishment table.

‘Sir, I ask my centurion to speak for me.’

Prefect and First Spear exchanged glances.

‘Very well, Soldier Augustus. Centurion?’

Marcus stepped forward, helmet held under his arm, and snapped to attention.

‘Prefect. First Spear. My submission on this man’s behalf is simple. He claims provocation to fight, but that is beside the point. He has a worse record of indiscipline than any other man in the Ninth, and I’ve already told him that I won’t tolerate it. I believe that he can make an effective soldier, but only if he can learn to control himself. My recommendation therefore is this: no beating, no loss of training time, in fact nothing that will keep him out of training. Instead, take away as much of his pay as you see fit and as much of his free time as appropriate. If he offends again, dismiss him from the cohort — he’ll be no use to me or any other officer if he can’t control his temper.’

Frontinius mused for a moment before turning to the tribune.

‘I agree. I’ve seen enough of this man at this table for one lifetime. Soldier Augustus, you are hereby fined one month’s pay, deprived of one month’s free time with bathhouse duties as further punishment, and restricted to the fortress for three months unless on duty with your century. One more appearance here, for any reason, and I will accept your centurion’s recommendation without hesitation. Do you understand?’

Cyclops nodded curtly.

‘Very well. Dismissed.’

Outside the headquarters Dubnus collared Cyclops, poking a long finger into his chest for emphasis, lapsing into their shared native tongue to be sure he was understood.

‘That was the officers’ version. Here’s mine. The centurion put his balls on the table for you in there, made his prestige with the First Spear a matter of your behaving yourself in future. You make one more mistake, you won’t just embarrass my centurion, you might be the reason he gets kicked out of the cohort. So, if you do fail to change your ways it won’t just be you out of the service. If that happens I’ll boot your punchbag so fucking hard your balls will never come down again. Do. You. Understand. Me?’

The one-eyed soldier stared back at him with an expression Dubnus found hard to decipher.

‘I’ll be a good boy from now, but not for you, Dubnus, I’m not scared of you. I’ll do it for the young gentleman.’

He turned and walked away towards the baths to start the first day of his punishment work routine, leaving Dubnus standing, hands on hips, watching him with a thoughtful expression. With the beginning of the gradual change from winter into spring the cohort accelerated its training programme. Sextus Frontinius, listening to the reports of a slow flame of resentment burning steadily brighter in the northern tribes, was keen to get his men into the field and training towards peak fitness, ready for the campaign he made no secret of believing they would fight that year. Twenty-mile marches became a thrice-weekly event, rather than the freezing misery inflicted on the cohort once a fortnight.

Marcus’s and Rufius’s centuries, the former properly re-equipped and both suddenly the envy of the cohort, eating the best of rations and appropriately vigorous, responded to their commanders’ different styles of leadership well. Whether it was Marcus’s blend of humanity and purpose, or Rufius’s legion training methods, quietly imparted to Marcus in conversations long into the night when their duties allowed, both centuries grew quickly in fighting ability and self-confidence. The 9th were driven relentlessly by Dubnus and his two new watch officers, hand-picked older men who understood what would be required of the century if it did come to war. With the open backing of the influential Morban the 9th quickly coalesced from a collection of indifferent individuals into a tightly knit body of men, and set about rediscovering the pleasure of testing themselves alongside men they were coming to regard as brothers. Rufius had put the idea to his friend in the officer’s mess one evening after their day’s duties.

Otho and Brutus were playing a noisy game of Robbers in another corner of the room, on a black-and-white chequered board painted on to their table. ‘Lucky’ was failing to live up to his title, as the boxer chased his few remaining counters around the board. He was picking them off one by one and laughing hugely with each capture. Rufius tipped his head towards the two men, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

‘And let that be a warning to you. Our brother officer might be called Knuckles, but don’t ever think he might be punch drunk. That’s the fourth game in a row he’s taken off Brutus, and there’s no sign of the streak being broken. A good game for the military mind is Robbers, teaches you to think ahead all the time. The only mistake dear old Lucky’s making is to worry about where his counters will go next, not where he wants them in three moves’ time. He plays aggressively, pushes for the straddle, while Knuckles, he knows the art of steady play, how to gently ease the opponent’s counters into position for the attack. There are lessons for life in the simplest game, but some lessons are harder won…’

He took a mouthful of wine, savouring the taste for a moment with a sideways glance at his friend.

‘Which leads me to a subject I’ve been pondering the last few weeks, watching you and Dubnus turn your lads from a rabble to something more like infantrymen. I don’t doubt for a second that you’ll teach your boys enough about sword and board work to make each one of them an effective fighter, but I can tell you from grim experience that isn’t the key to fielding a century that will grind up anything thrown at them and come back for more.

‘Let me tell you what happens when we fight the blue-noses. Before the battle, when our men are trying to keep from soiling themselves with fear, the barbarians stop just outside spear-throw and start shouting the odds like vicus drunks, how they’re going to carve off our dicks and wave them at our women before they fuck them to death, how we’ll soon be staring at our own guts as they lie steaming on the turf, all that rubbish. However, take note of a man that’s been there — it works. There’s a natural reaction I’ve seen in many a century and cohort when the barbarians are baying for blood, and that’s for each man to sidle to his right just a little, looking to get just a little more protection from his mate’s shield. Before you know it the line’s half a mile farther to the right than the legatus wants it, and the fight’s half over before it begins, just from sheer fear…’

He drank again, signalling to the steward for a refill.

‘The secret to winning battles, my friend, isn’t fancy sword work, or how well your boys can sling a spear, important though those skills are. It’s actually much simpler than that, but harder to achieve. All you have to do is to make the lads love each other.’

He sat back, cocking a wry eyebrow at the Roman.

‘And no, before you laugh at me, I don’t mean all that arse-poking in Greek pornography, I mean the love a man has for his brother.’

He paused again, judging the moment.

‘There’s only one way to explain this to you, and I apologise for the necessity. You had a brother in Rome, right?’

Marcus nodded soberly, finding the memory painful, but less so than before.

‘Well, what you would have done had you been in a position to fight his killers?’

The younger man’s nostrils flared with remembered anger.

‘I would probably have died with a bloody sword in my hand, and a carpet of dead and dying men around me.’

‘Exactly. And that, friend Marcus, is the love we need to get into the hearts of our lads. When one of your tent parties is in trouble, whether it’s a punch-up in a vicus beer shop or a desperate fight against hordes of blue-nosed bastards, their mates to either side have a choice, to look to their front and ignore their mates’ peril, or to dive in to the rescue. Orders don’t make that happen, and you can’t teach it on the parade ground, but if you get them to love each other, they do the rest for you, without even thinking about it. When you get it right a man will use his shield to protect the man next to him when he falls, and ignore the risk he runs in doing so, knowing with complete certainty that his mate would do the same for him without a second’s thought.’

He smiled conspiratorially at his friend.

‘And, to be honest, when me and my lads are knee deep in guts and shit, with the spears all thrown and our shields splintering under blue-nose axes, I want your boys to be straining at their collars, to be looking to you for the command to take their iron to our enemy, just for the love of my lads. If we can achieve that, we’ll both have a better chance of seeing next winter…’

The 9th’s tent parties exercised and practised against each other, each time striving to win for some inconsequential reward or other, their bonds growing stronger with each victory or defeat, vowing to do better in the next contest, the weaker helped and cajoled by the stronger. The trick was repeated with multiples of tent parties, the groupings changed each time and soldiers judiciously exchanged to equalise their relative strengths, until each octuple was used to fighting alongside every other, and knew their abilities. In the evening, watching their men down in the vicus, Dubnus and Morban reported back a new spirit, the other centuries quickly coming to recognise that taking on a single man from the 9th was offering a fist to every one of them, no matter what the odds. The respect in which they were held rapidly increased, to the point where it was rare for fights involving the 9th’s men to be anything other than between themselves, combat quickly over and insult swiftly forgotten as they closed ranks.

Marcus and Rufius, who had played exactly the same game he had preached with his own men, repeated the trick with their centuries, again exchanging soldiers, ostensibly to add strength or skills where they were needed, but in truth to build the same spirit of comradeship between the two units. At length, one night in early May, a tent party from Rufius’s 6th waded into an unfair fight on behalf of a pair of beleaguered 9th Century soldiers. It was the first sign for the two friends that they had achieved the breakthrough they were looking for. Prefect Equitius returned to the Hill from a senior officer’s conference in Cauldron Pool that same evening. He called for the First Spear to join him in his office shortly thereafter.

‘It’s war, Sextus, there’s no longer any doubt. Sollemnis’s spies tell us that the call has gone out for the tribes to mass north of the Wall, probably within a short march of Three Mountains Fort. From there it’s only about two days’ march to the Wall, and the blue-noses can knock over two more single cohort forts on the way just to get their spirits up. He’s not interested in defending the outlying forts against a force of between twenty and thirty thousand men, since that’s clearly what Calgus will be hoping for. Our defence will focus on holding the Wall while the legions from Fortress Deva and the far south slog their way up the country to join us.’

Frontinius nodded reflectively.

‘So the outlier cohorts march back behind the Wall in good order rather than being slaughtered to no purpose. At least our leader seems to be taking a practical approach to the situation. Does that mean we get the Dacians from Fort Cocidius joining us?’

‘Not this time, despite the fact it seemed to work well enough in last summer’s exercises. No, the Dacians will make a temporary camp down at Fair Meadow and form a two-cohort force with the Second Tungrians, ready to reinforce any of the western Wall forts that get into trouble.’

‘Perhaps some of their professionalism will rub off on the Second. And how long does the legate reckon it will take for the Second and Twentieth Legions to reach us?’

‘That depends who’s asking. To anyone else in this cohort, up to and including the officers, the answer’s fifteen to twenty days. For your information only, I happen to know that Sollemnis called them north nearly two weeks ago, and asked his brother officers not to spare the boot leather, so they ought to show up within a week. With any luck that will give Calgus a nasty shock and put Fortuna on our side rather sooner than he might have expected. Sixth Legion is already deployed, of course, although he was pretty tight lipped as to exactly where they are. Whether it’s accurate or not, the rumour in Cauldron Pool is that he’s got them camped fifty miles back at Waterfall Fort to give him the flexibility to move to the north or west as the situation develops.’

The First Spear shook his head in exasperation.

‘West? Calgus isn’t going to make a push for Fortress Deva. The legion should already be in position to defend our supplies at Noisy Valley. Mind you, rather them than us, if there really are thirty thousand men massing under Calgus.’

Equitius nodded silently, reaching for his cup.

‘We’ll be moving inside the week, I’d guess. There’s no point leaving the Wall units all divided up into cohorts when we can form a legion-sized battle group with two or three days’ marching. So, First Spear, are we ready?’

Frontinius nodded.

‘Ready enough. There’s still the question of completing the assessments, but I think we’ll have time enough for that if I pull the schedule forward.’

‘And our new centurions?’

Frontinius stretched out his legs, pursing his lips in consideration.

‘A timely question. Rufius is everything I expected, tough, professional, more than up to his task. A gift from Cocidius. As for the Corvus boy…’

The prefect took another sip of wine, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yes?’

‘To be honest, he’s surprised me in the last few weeks. He seems to have an excellent grip on his century, Prince Dubnus is backing him to the hilt, he’s converted more than one complete waste of good rations into an effective soldier, and his reputation in the cohort seems to be stronger than I could ever have imagined. He’s a cunning young bastard too.’

‘Cunning? Not quite what I’d expected.’

‘Nor I, but I can’t find any other way to describe a man who hides his men’s abilities from his brother officers. His men run faster than any other century in the cohort, certainly faster than I can keep up with. He hides this, however, with overlong rest breaks to hold down their average speed, or else he takes them on detours to make their performance look slower than it is. I find that very interesting.’

‘And so do I. I wonder what else he has hidden away from view?’

The First Spear reached for his helmet.

‘Exactly. I think it’s time to give him a chance to show us.’

Ordering the guard centurion to assemble the officers, Frontinius installed himself in the principia to wait their arrival, mulling over his thoughts on the subject of his youngest officer while the two men standing guard over the cohort’s treasury stared uneasily at the wall above his head. He was still brooding when the officers started to enter the praetorium in ones and twos, the first arrivals dragging him back to the moment at hand. Rufius arrived in the company of Caelius and Clodius while Marcus and Julius made predictably solitary entrances. When all nine men were gathered in front of him, Frontinius roused himself to their briefing, sending the duty guards out to stand watch at the door.

‘If we wanted to pilfer the pay chests we’d have done it a long time ago. Nobody, with the exception of the prefect, enters without my permission. This briefing is for officers’ ears only.’

He waited theatrically until the doors were closed.

‘Brother officers, the prefect came back in from Cauldron Pool an hour ago, as I’m sure you’ve all heard by now. The message from the boys in the purple-edged tunics is simple enough — prepare for war. There’s a Brit called Calgus mustering thirty thousand painted maniacs somewhere not much more than two days’ march from here, and very soon now they’ll come south with fire and iron, looking for a fight…’

He paused, catching more than one eye riveted to his gaze.

‘A fight they’ll get — eventually.’

‘Eventually, First Spear?’ Rufius’s eyes narrowed with professional interest.

‘Eventually, Centurion. Calgus will muster more spears than the Wall cohorts and Sixth Legion could cope with, even banded together to our full strength, unless he was stupid enough to throw them at us piecemeal. And on the subject of our enemy’s wits I have intelligence of my own for you. Calgus isn’t that stupid, in fact he isn’t stupid at all. I met him five years ago at a gathering of the tribal leaders north of the Wall. I was the supervising officer, with half the cohort behind me to keep the peace between them and make sure it didn’t get out of hand, and it was still, I can assure you, a bloody uncomfortable experience. Not only were the tribesmen a fairly ugly bunch, but Calgus could dispute with Minerva and not come away ashamed.

‘He was recently crowned at the time, and still finding his feet as king of the Selgovae, but where his father was a sly old sod, a master of the knife in the back, the son was clearly a man of a different nature. He’s a clever brute, a barrel-chested, red-haired bear of a man, born to swing a battleaxe but blessed with his father’s silver tongue for all that. He would insist on seeking me out for arguments about the justification for Roman rule of the land south of the Wall. Of course, in the end I had little option but to end the discussion on the grounds that since we’re the ones with our boots on the ground there was little point to it. I expected that to be the end of the argument, and to a degree it was. However…’

He lowered his voice slightly, reliving the moment.

‘… Calgus just stood there and looked at me for a moment, then reached out a hand and tapped me on the chest with one finger. My escort had their iron aired and ready to go in a flash, growling like shithouse dogs, and I reckoned we were a hair’s breadth away from a bloodbath, but Calgus never faltered. He just tapped me gently on the chest again and said, “Just as long as you can fill those boots, Centurion.” Not enough to give me a pretext to have him for inciting rebellion, of course, and half the North Country’s tribal elders were hanging on his words, as dry as tinder if I were stupid enough to provide the spark. Enough to make his point, though, and while I didn’t like him I had to admire the size of his swingers. I’ve been waiting for his name to reach this far south ever since, and now that it has I can assure you all that we have a very worthy opponent. So the word, Centurion Rufius, is most definitely “eventually”. I’ll show you what I think will happen.’

He turned to their sand table and sketched in a few swift lines with his vine stick.

‘Here, east to west, coast to coast, is the Wall. Calgus can’t go round it. He has to go through it if he’s going to make any impact other than burning a few outlying forts that we can rebuild before next winter. Here, north to south, is the road from Yew Grove to the northern forts, crossing the Wall at the Rock. There are the outlying forts north of the Wall up the north road, Fort Habitus, Roaring River, Red River, Yew Tree Fort and the tip of the spear, Three Mountains. They’ll be evacuated by the time Calgus can get his warband limbered up, and their cohorts will retreat back to the Wall in good order, leaving the forts to the blue-noses. They’ll steal everything that’s left behind and torch the buildings, but they won’t have the time to destroy the walls and so, to be frank, who cares? Those three cohorts will muster at the Rock, most likely, making a force of about three thousand men when combined with the local half horse cohort.’

Knuckles raised a hand.

‘What about our Dacian mates at Fort Cocidius?’

Frontinius dotted the sand twice with the tip of his vine stick.

‘Good question, Otho, you clearly haven’t had all of your wits beaten out of you. Here’s us at the Hill, on the Wall, and here’s Fort Cocidius five miles to our north-east. The Dacians will also pull back behind the Wall, bringing with them, before you ask, all of their altars to Mars Cocidius. They’re going to squat with the Second Cohort down at Fair Meadow, and we can only hope that they don’t pick up too many bad habits while they’re there. That’s another two thousand men ready to move wherever they’re needed, another reserve force like the one at the Rock. Add to that the ten thousand or so lining the Wall’s length and we’ve half the number of spears we expect Calgus to muster. The difference is that we have to stay spread out for the time being while he can concentrate his power in one place, which means that the trick will be for us to avoid actually fighting the warband until the legions come into play…’

He paused for effect.

‘All I can tell you about the heavy boys is that the Sixth are already somewhere close to hand, and the Second and Twentieth are footslogging up from their fortresses in the south, which means we won’t see them for the best part of a month. The general isn’t going to want to engage in pitched battle without at least two full legions in the line. That way he can face off the tribes and still have a nice big reserve to manoeuvre into their flank or rear if he plays it smartly enough.’

Rufius nodded agreement.

‘So we can expect a month or so of marching round the country avoiding a fight?’

‘Yes, that’s about the size of it. Although it might be closer to the truth to say “avoiding a fight if we’re lucky”. Calgus will be desperate to bring us to battle early, to set his dogs on us before the legions get themselves cranked up ready to fight. If he can destroy the Wall garrison, or better still take Sixth Legion out of the campaign early enough, the southern legions would be severely handicapped, fighting at a numerical disadvantage against fired-up tribesmen on ground they don’t know. Calgus knows that, and he’ll do whatever he can to force an early battle. If we can stay on our toes and avoid a fight for the next month we’ll have done very well, in my opinion. Very well indeed. You’d best be generous making your offerings to Mars Cocidius tonight, we’re going to need all the luck he sees fit to grant us. Now, the cohort assessments…’

He paused to allow the initial muttering to die down.

‘… will still be held, but just to a different timetable. We still need to know who’s going to guard the cohort standard this summer. Given that time is of the essence we’ll dispense with the usual parade-ground tests, I’ve been scoring your men on their sword and spear work over the last few weeks, just in case, but we can’t ignore the main test. So, all units on parade tomorrow morning at first light, last five centuries for the speed march, first five for the ambush force. Dismissed!’ The next morning dawned just as fine, with a warm and dry day in prospect. The First Spear paraded his cohort an hour after dawn, taking pleasure in the cool morning air, and announced the pairings of marching and attacking centuries with a slight smile, delighting Julius by tasking his 5th Century with ambushing Marcus’s 9th Century during their speed march. The veteran centurion strolled across the parade ground to watch the 9th’s departure, standing to one side with his arms folded and his face set impassively, drumming impatiently with his fingers against the iron rings of his mailed shoulder. While some of Marcus’s men cast anxious sidelong glances at the officer, Morban stared back impassively beneath the century’s standard, muttering to the nearest soldiers without taking his eyes off the scowling officer.

‘Rumour says our old friend Julius and the glorious Fifth Century are going to give us a right kicking today, put young Two Knives in his place and take the standard for another year. In fact rumour had us paired with the Fifth long before Uncle Sextus announced it. I had a drink with their silly bastard of a standard-bearer in the vicus last night, and I had twenty denarii with him that we’d come out on top today, so you turd burglars had better wake your ideas up.’

Both Marcus and Dubnus ignored Julius for the most part, by prior agreement as to their tactics for the day. Dubnus, unable to resist the temptation, caught his eye, looked down to his thigh and extended his middle finger down the muscle. If Frontinius spotted the gesture as he strode up to Marcus he gave no sign.

‘Are your men ready, Centurion?’

Marcus saluted, snapping to attention.

‘Ninth Century ready, First Spear.’

The senior officer nodded, beckoning the younger man by eye as he walked slowly away from the century, out of earshot.

‘Well, Centurion Corvus, your time of judgement is nearly upon us. This cohort goes to war tomorrow, and it must have officers that I can trust to lead their men to the gates of Hades if that’s where fate takes us. Every day since your arrival I have asked myself whether you’re that sort of officer, despite your age, despite your alleged treason, and in all those days I’ve never yet found an answer I can trust. You’re quicker with a sword than any man I know, your century seem to love you well enough, and yet…’

Marcus met his eye levelly.

‘And yet, First Spear…?’

‘And yet I am still not convinced that you will be capable of giving this cohort what it needs in time of battle. So this is your day, Centurion, the last day in which that question can be answered. When you take your men out of those gates take one thought with you, and keep it in your mind all the way back here, no matter what happens.’

‘Sir?’

‘The good of the cohort, Centurion, simply that. Dismissed. Go and show your brother officers what you’ve been hiding from them these last two months.’

Marcus frowned at the last comment but had no time to reflect on it. With the trumpeter blowing the command to commence the exercise, and the first hourglass turned, the 9th were out of the fort at the double march. Away to the west they marched, along the military road behind the wall, their iron-studded boots stirring the dust into tiny clouds. The road ran along the northern lip of the vallum, the massive ditch that divided military and civilian ground, and its elevation allowed a cooling breeze to dry the sweat from the marching men’s bodies as they pounded away from the fort in the early morning sunshine. A mile from their starting point a track branched south over a bridging point across the vallum, in the protective shadow of a mile fort, before starting a shallow climb into the hills to the south. It was the route by which they were to cover most of their march. Once he was certain that the century was out of sight of any watcher, Marcus trotted out in front of his men, turning to walk backwards for a moment to be sure that they were no longer observed, before signalling to Dubnus in his usual position at the century’s rear. The big man’s voice boomed across the marching ranks, making heads rise and backs straighten in anticipation of the coming order.

‘Ninth Century, prepare to change pace! At the run… Run!’

The soldiers lengthened their stride together, long accustomed to hauling their bodies and equipment across the undulating countryside at a fast jog. They went south at a fast pace for another two miles before dropping back to rest at a fast march for a mile, then stepped up the pace again. The troops were sweating heavily now with the effort of running in armour with full campaign kit, each man humping his armour, sword, shield, two spears and his pack, with only the pointed wooden stakes made to be lashed together into obstacle defences missing from their loads. They were working to a timetable known only to Marcus and his triumvirate of advisers, Dubnus, Morban and Antenoch, who had planned the day over a jug of wine the previous evening. While Dubnus still lacked any trust in Antenoch, he remained polite enough to the other man’s face, and had tolerated Marcus’s insistence on his being involved in their preparation.

The wind dropped, allowing the day’s heat to get to work on bodies that were tiring and starting to dry out, but still they ground on, Dubnus relentlessly driving them on with shouts of encouragement and threats of a faster pace if any man flagged. Five miles out from the Hill, Marcus pointed to the roadside.

‘Ten-minute rest and briefing. Get your water bottles and drink, but do it quietly if you want to know what we’re about to do!’

Breathing hard, his men forwent the usual playful push and shove of the rest stop, drinking eagerly from their bottles while their centurion explained what they were about to attempt. His command of the British language had progressed a long way in the time available, but he spoke in Latin now, pausing for Dubnus’s translation, to ensure complete understanding.

‘The usual way of things in this event is for the marching century to concentrate on getting around the course as quickly as possible, to win points for ground covered before the ambush. When they are ambushed, as they always are, a practice battle results. A few minutes’ fighting, one of the two centuries is declared the winner, and then they finish the march together, all good friends again…’

A few heads nodded knowingly. This was the speed march they had come to expect.

‘Not this time. Not this century.’

They stared back at him, eyes widening at the heresy.

‘How many of you would knowingly walk into an ambush, or even the risk of one? We’ve trained to march fast because we’ll use that speed in the field to avoid ambushes, or to put ourselves into the best positions before an enemy can reach them.’

He paused, allowing Dubnus to translate, although he could see from their faces that the majority had understood his words.

‘This one’s real as far as I’m concerned. What about you, Chosen?’

Dubnus nodded grimly, staring dispassionately at his men, daring anyone to disagree. Marcus continued.

‘Julius wants to teach me a lesson, take me down a peg, and he wants to do this at the expense of your pride. That, and your reputation as soldiers. You might not have noticed it…’ He knew they knew all too well, were basking in the glory of their meteoric rise. ‘… but we’re second in the standings. The century everyone wrote off as useless. You want to keep that reputation? Be second best?’

A few heads shook slowly. Morban roared at them, his challenge lifting the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck as he shook the standard indignantly at them.

‘I’m not taking second place to any bastard without a fight! You’re either in this or you can turn round and fuck off back to the Hill and apply for a new century. One that takes losers.’

Marcus watched their reaction carefully, gauging their sudden enthusiasm as men turned to their neighbours to see the excitement reflected in their eyes. The standard-bearer grinned proudly at Marcus, tipping his head in salute to hand the century back to his centurion.

‘So shut the fuck up and let the centurion tell you how we’re going to pull Latrine’s beard for him.’