Labeo spoke up crisply, his voice authoritative.
‘The last time I heard any news of our cohorts, they were camped at Andematunum, keeping a close eye on the Lingones, and close enough to Vesontio to make sure the Sequani don’t get any ideas about re-starting Vindex’s revolt. They’re not needed there, or course, but someone in Rome has clearly decided that a show of force should be made, so our men get to spend the winter in the middle of Gallia Lugdenensis while the legions all go home to their barracks on the Rhenus for the feast. We’ve so few men of military age on the Island that the traditional game of harpastum against the Fifth Alaudae at Vetera looks unlikely to be played this year.’
Hramn looked up sharply.
‘Harpastum?’
2
Civitas Lingonum, Gallia Lugdunensis, December AD 68
‘Look at them. Wide-eyed and innocent to a man … well, to a boy, I should have said.’
Alcaeus stood with his hands on his hips staring at the twenty new recruits for a moment before answering his friend’s wry observation. Lean and well-muscled, with black hair and brown eyes that hinted at Roman blood somewhere in his past, he was a good half-head taller than the speaker, whose sandy blond hair and beard and piercing blue eyes would have made him the model of a tribal warrior of the Batavi from before the Roman conquest of Germania, were it not for the fact that, like Alcaeus, his hair was cropped short and his tunic’s hem was held above his knees by a leather belt decorated with ornate silver plates, immediately identifying him as a man in the military service of Rome.
‘I remember a young man with eyes as wide as a cow’s standing on a parade ground just like this one in Britannia not all that long ago, with a dyed red plait just like they’ve all got, straight off the boat from the Island and determined to seem as tough and knowing as the best of us. He ended up having to be taken down a peg or two by his tent mates, as I recall? What was his name now …?’ His companion affected to ignore the question. ‘Ah yes, it was Banon, wasn’t it? Fresh from the Island, had never been any further from home than the forum at Batavodurum and then suddenly there he was, shipped across the sea and dumped on the Second Century without our having any say in the matter, as we had last pick that time round and he had a bit of a difficult look to him. A capable enough soldier, proved himself against the Britons well enough, but those first few weeks …’ He grinned at his comrade. ‘It was like having a new puppy in the house, pissing on the floor and having to be shown the right way to do everything.’
His chosen man pulled a sour face and gestured to the waiting recruits.
‘Alright, Centurion, you’ve made your point. Let’s go and have the choice of the litter, shall we?’
The two men strolled across to where the recruits were waiting under the watchful eye of a chosen man from the cohort’s first century, who clasped hands with Banon and acknowledged Alcaeus’s status as his colleague’s superior with a salute.
‘Here you go then, Centurion, you get first pick.’
Alcaeus looked up and down the line of young men, all of whom were standing to attention and staring at the wooden fortress wall with attempted expressions of composure, pointing with his vine stick to the men of his choice.
‘I need four men for the Second, so I’ll have that one with the muscles, the one with the red hair, him, the big lad, and …’ he looked up and down the line of men once more and then nodded to himself as he caught one of them looking at him rather than fixing his gaze to his front. ‘And you, the curious one. Yes, you, don’t look so surprised. Get fell out, the four of you and follow me.’
He walked away and ceded his place in front of the remaining recruits to the next centurion in turn, taking his new men twenty paces from the scene before holding up a hand to halt them.
‘Form a line here and look at me, so I know you’re listening.’ The recruits flashed him nervous glances, and the Batavi officer laughed softly at them. ‘It’s alright, forget what your daddy told you about not making eye contact with the officers and just look at me.’
He waited until he had the attention of all four of the recruits before speaking again.
‘My name is Alcaeus, and apart from my other role, I am your new centurion. This man …’ he gestured to Banon, ‘is my chosen man, my deputy. I command the Second Century of the First Batavi cohort, the best century in the best cohort in the army, which means that you’ve struck lucky in being chosen by me and not one of those other arseholes with crests and vine sticks. And now, given that this is a decent century, unlike some I could name, I’m going to teach you three quick lessons in how to survive in the army. Firstly, there are three men whose word is the law in the Second Century: me, Banon here, and my watch officer Hludovig. Banon’s called a chosen man because he’s been selected to be my deputy. In the legions his role would be to stand behind the century pushing men into place, but in the Batavi cohorts he doesn’t need to do that because for one thing every man already knows his place, and for another there’s not one of us that needs encouraging to do his duty. And Hludovig’s called a watch officer because he’s responsible for organising our men’s turns at whatever duties need to be carried out. When you know us better, when you’ve spilled blood for the cohort and won honour for the tribe, then you can call us by our names when we’re off duty, although I wouldn’t advise you to try it on with Hludovig, not unless you’re keen to wear some lumps for a day or two, he’s a bit old-fashioned in that way. In the event that Banon and I get killed in action, then Hludovig will be the man telling you what to do, and on that day you’ll have to hope that Hercules has mercy, because you can be sure that Hludovig won’t!’
‘As well as Banon, Hludovig and me, every tent party – which is a group of eight men who share a tent on campaign and a barrack when we’re pretending to be civilised – has a leading man. It’s an unofficial title, and it tends to be given to the man who combines the ability to batter the shit out of any two of his tent mates in a straight fight with the ability to read and write, and so help out the watch officer with his duties if required, and with discipline in their absence. They keep order, mostly by taking the piss out of their mates until the poor bastards get bored and beg for mercy, occasionally by taking them behind the tent for one-to-one tuition. Whichever tent party you join will have a man like that, charged with keeping order and making sure that the men are always properly equipped and ready to fight at all times. Do not, whatever you do, get on the wrong side of your leading man. Be respectful of his position, suffer his jibes and insults with a smile, and obey each and every command he gives you as quickly as if it was me telling you what to do. Because if you don’t, your first warning will be a slap and there probably won’t be a second warning. Have you all got that?’
He waited until the four new men had mumbled their agreement, shaking his head sadly.
‘Lesson number two. When I ask you if you understand something, then I want you to tell me that you do understand it, and I want you to tell me in a voice loud enough to be heard a mile away. When I ask you if you understand, you will respond, “Yes, Centurion!” loud enough to make a child’s ears bleed. Got that?’
‘Yes, Centurion!’
The response was a decent attempt at complying with his instructions, the curious recruit in particular roaring his reply, but Banon smirked knowingly as his superior looked at them in apparent disgust.
‘Do you think that was loud enough, Chosen Man?’
His answer was a roar loud enough to have been heard on the far side of the camp.
‘No, Centurion! I could barely hear them!’
Alcaeus nodded his agreement.
‘Lesson three – and let me make this simple for you – shit always flows downhill. So, let’s try that shouting thing again. Recruits, did you understand what I just told you?’
‘Yes, Centurion!’
‘Better. Keep working on that, because your leading men will expect us to have properly educated you as to the right ways to acknowled
ge orders, and if I hear you’re making the two of us look bad, I’ll be expecting Banon to have a word with you in private. Which should make my last lesson for you obvious. I know this is all very exciting, and rather a lot for you to take in, so I’m keeping it simple today. The last lesson is that when someone tells you to do something, as long as that person has more experience than you, then you will do it, quickly, without asking questions and as well as you can. If you fail to do so, and get a slap from a tent mate as a result, when your leading man finds out, he’s liable to give you a slap too, just to make sure the lesson’s sunk in. Every man in this cohort other than you four and the virgins you shipped in with is a better soldier than you; many of them have fought and killed for the tribe and therefore, coincidentally, for the Romans, and they all know what they’re doing a good deal better than you. And if Banon has to “have a quiet word” with you, then you can be sure that your leading man is going to want to show you how embarrassed he is at the chosen man having to get involved in your education, so you’ll get the same lesson twice. And if I have to give you a tap with this …’
He raised the vine stick again.
‘Then you can be sure that both Banon and your leading man will want to reinforce whatever small lesson it was that I was teaching you. Like I said, shit always flows downhill and until you’ve made your first kills and cut off those red plaits the men at the bottom of the hill will always be you. So watch yourselves, do what you’re told and stay out of trouble, and eventually you’ll be of some value to our century rather than just being the ration thieves that you so clearly are now. Got that?’
‘Yes, Centurion!’
‘Good lads. You …’ He pointed to the curious recruit. ‘You look like you’re about to shit yourself with the urge to ask me something. What’s your problem?’ He held up a hand to forestall a shouted response. ‘No need to shout it, just ask.’
The recruit took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders before speaking again.
‘You said that you have two roles, Centurion?’
Alcaeus shared an amused glance with his chosen man.
‘So I did. And would you care to guess what that other role is? Anyone?’
‘Are you also a Wolf Priest, Centurion?’
Alcaeus nodded, looking at the man with slightly narrowed eyes.
‘Yes, I am.’
He stepped closer to the recruit, sweeping a glance up and down him, taking in his perfect stance and obvious comfort with the heavy equipment that had been issued to the new men upon their arrival in the Batavi camp.
‘So, what’s your name and whose son are you?’
‘Egilhard, Chosen Man, son of Lataz.’
‘Which means that your uncle is Frijaz, right?’
‘Yes, Chosen Man.’
The older man looked at Egilhard for a moment, then pointed to the sword at his waist.
‘And if you’re Frijaz’s nephew then that must be Lightning, if I’m not mistaken. May I?’
He waited while the recruit drew the sword, inclining his head in respect as Egilhard offered him the weapon’s hilt. Hefting the weapon with an expert hand he held it up to look down the blade.
‘Beautiful. I always wondered how it was that a piss head like Frijaz ended up with something of such quality, given that he always spent everything he had on beer and women. He never told me, no matter how hard I badgered him. Won it in a game of knuckle bones in some tavern or other, that was my usual guess, but he just used to look at me and smile, the smug bastard.’
He stepped away from the recruit before making a series of practice cuts with the sword, nodding approval as he returned the weapon to its owner.
‘You’ve got something special there. Let’s hope you can take advantage of it when the time comes to spill blood for the tribe, eh? Although Lataz and his brother were both warriors in their own quiet way. If they’ve prepared you for service then you are indeed a lucky man. And yes, I am a Wolf Priest. In battle I wear a wolf’s head over my helmet rather than a crest, and I am expected to provide every man of my century with an example of service to Hercules, and to help any man who asks to devote themselves to his service, as do I. And after battle …’ He looked at the recruits for a moment in silence. ‘You’ll find that out in due course.’
Alcaeus looked at the curious recruit questioningly.
‘Do you have any more questions for us, Egilhard, son of Lataz and brother son of Frijaz?’
‘No, Centurion!’
‘Good. There are limits to even my patience. Very well then Banon, deliver them to the tent parties we discussed earlier, their leading men can take their pick as they see fit except for the curious one. I think he’d be best placed in Grimmaz’s tent party. He’s either inquisitive and keen to do his best for the tribe or an idiot who doesn’t know when to keep his eyes to himself. Or both. Either way Grimmaz can have the fun of finding out which it is, and either encourage the one until he’s a proper soldier or punish the latter until he’s a proper soldier. Or both. And until we know which it is, his tent party name will be Nosey, given his apparently insatiable curiosity. Off you go Nosey, go and meet your new best friends.’
‘Yes, Centurion!’
‘Good boy. See, Banon, they are capable of learning quickly when managed the right way.’
Banon marched the recruits across the Batavi cohorts’ camp, commentating as they passed row after row of wooden barrack blocks.
‘See this? This is the point of the Batavi spear, us and our allies. Eight full cohorts of men: four of our own, two from our strongest allies, the Frisavones and one each from the Cananefates and the Marsaci. Our full fighting strength is two and a half thousand soldiers and half as many cavalry, the best soldiers in the empire. We’ve been fighting for Rome for getting on for a hundred years, ever since they conquered Gaul, and in all those years we’ve never faced an enemy we couldn’t send home with their tails between their legs, which means that you have a lot to learn in a short time. Here we are then.’
He stopped in front of a long wooden building with a row of eight doors granting access to rooms with just enough space for eight men and their equipment, choosing a door and ushering the red-headed recruit through it.
‘This is your new home, carrot top. In you go.’
When the other three recruits had been handed over to their leading men, the Chosen Man paused for a moment, playing a serious stare over the last of them.
‘So did Lataz and Frijaz teach you to fight?’
‘Yes, Chosen Man!’
Banon raised a hand.
‘You can relax a little now. You still have to call me by my title, but you only have to shout your answers when you’re being given an order or asked if you understand. The rest of the time you can speak normally, with me at least. Just make sure you show the appropriate respect to anyone you don’t know. So, Soldier Egilhard, those two nasty old bastards raised you for the cohorts, right?’
‘Yes, Chosen Man.’
‘They trained to fight with a sword and shield?’
‘Yes, Chosen Man, they did their best to make me ready.’
‘Good. It’s always a lot easier when recruits have some idea of what’s happening. So you know that when I introduce you to your tent mates they’re going to want to have some fun with you? Just like the older men did with them in their time.’
‘Yes, Chosen Man.’
‘And what are you going to do when they find some new and novel means of making you look both uneducated and foolish?’
‘Smile, Chosen Man?’
Banon nodded.
‘Excellent. You’re clearly better prepared for your first few days in the army than I was. I ended up punching my leading man in the face, although that was the only punch I landed on him and in return he beat me halfway to death. Didn’t do me too much harm though, given I’m now his deputy. Some of us just have to learn the hard way. And what did your father say about intimidation?’
‘He told me that if any man
tried to steal from me or fuck me then I was to hit them, as hard as I could, and to keep hitting them until they stopped trying to do whatever it was that made me hit them.’
The chosen man nodded again.
‘Sound advice. But it won’t happen in my century, because my men all know that we don’t tolerate that sort of thing. So, here we are …’
He opened the barrack door, ushering Egilhard in through the opening and walking in behind him.
‘Tent party, stand to attention!’
The soldiers sprang to their feet and dropped from the bunk beds, coming to attention with commendable speed.
‘This is Egilhard, your new tent mate, fresh from the Island and clearly a curious young type, which is why we’re going to call him Nosey until a more appropriate name occurs to us. And these, Nosey, are your tent mates. Apart from Grimmaz, who goes by the title “Happy” due to the fact that he very rarely is, your other comrades are Andreios and Andronicus, who we call “the First One” and “the Other One” – they’re twin brothers if you haven’t already guessed – Levonhard, or “Ugly”, Lanzo, “Dancer” and that big beast at the back goes by the name of Wigbrand, although when you get to know him he may let you call him by his nickname. Which is “Tiny”. Welcome to your new family.’
He paused, looking at the expression on the recruit’s face.
‘What is it now? Come on, I know you have a question, you frown every time something occurs to you. Ah …’ Understanding twisted his face into a smile. ‘You’d like to know what my nickname is, wouldn’t you, but you don’t want to ask in case it’s something I don’t like. You really are a bright boy, aren’t you Nosey? What’s my name, Lanzo?’
The soldier spoke quickly, clearly ready for the question.
‘Kneecaps, Chosen Man!’
Banon turned back to face Egilhard with a grin.
‘There you are. My tent party name is “Kneecaps”. And now you’re wondering why, with that little frown back on your face. But you only get to find that out when you’ve fought for the tribe, so for the time being all that curiosity would be better employed in working out just how to avoid pissing any of these men off, wouldn’t it?’
Betrayal: The Centurions I Page 7
