Betrayal: The Centurions I

by Riches, Anthony

  Men were streaming onto the open surface from the adjoining camp, called by the braying of the trumpeters who were standing alongside each of the eight senior centurions who led the cohorts, organised chaos quickly resolving itself into the expected ordered ranks as centurions, optios and watch officers bellowed orders and hurried along latecomers, the slower soldiers and anyone they simply didn’t like with casual acts of physical encouragement. When every man was in his appointed place, with the cohorts paraded eight deep to pack their numbers into the available space, the man who ruled their world and led them into battle stepped forward and looked up and down the line of centuries. Scar’s hair riffled gently in the cold wind as his hard gaze swept across his command, the facial disfiguration that had earned him his nickname, a thick ropey line of scar tissue from his left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, visible even at fifty paces since the senior officer had eschewed the use of his helmet for the morning’s parade. Taking one last look along the line of his cohorts he spoke, his voice a harsh crack of the whip that unconsciously straightened men’s backs and stiffened their stances.

  ‘I trust you all enjoyed Saturnalia!’

  He started pacing down the line, looking at individual soldiers as he spoke.

  ‘Some men had a more hectic time of it than others! More than a few of you found your way to my disciplinary table and took the risk that I might have erected the whipping posts this morning! You are fortunate that I have decided to avoid ending the year in such an inauspicious manner, despite the temptation to demonstrate to our new intake of recruits the standards that we expect of you all, and what happens when you fail to meet them! Instead of inflicting the usual punishment, I have decided to replace the usual sentences for your various misdemeanours with two disciplinary measures! Firstly, I have kept a record of your names and crimes, and will apply the necessary punishment on top of any future sentence if you appear before me again at any point in the next year! And secondly, you have sentenced the cohorts to an additional session of battle practice! Doubtless your comrades will express their disappointment with this extra exercise in their usual robust manner!’

  A chorus of muttered imprecations rippled across the cohorts, and Scar’s face creased into a hard grin.

  ‘Yes, I thought that might please you all! Centurions, prepare for battle practice!’

  Alcaeus turned to face his men.

  ‘You know how it works! Those of you that are new, watch the men in front of you and learn fast! You leading men, help them along! No man fails in this century unless and until I decide he’s no use to me!’

  He walked to the front of Grimmaz’s tent party and then down the file until his eyes found Egilhard, tucking himself into the line of men behind the new recruit.

  ‘Let’s see what you have for me, Egilhard son of Lataz and brother-son of Frijaz. If those two old soldiers have done right by you then you might be halfway decent on the dance floor.’

  He raised his voice to be heard over the hubbub of centurions and watch officers readying their men for the drill.

  ‘The same as ever! On the command “advance with spears” we go forward, spear stabbing with your right leg and butt spiking with your left. Every man will keep contact with the man in front of him as you’ve been trained! It’s easy now, but wait until you’re doing this in the dust that twenty thousand men’s feet can raise in the summer and you’ll know why you need to grab your mate by the collar, because you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face! Ten paces forward, and the man at the front rolls out to the right, while the man behind him brings his shield in around him from the left and protects them both. Listen for the whistle! And I’ll say it again, you new men, watch the soldiers around you and try not to fuck it up! Ready!’

  The century barked their response as one, abruptly more than a collection of disparate individuals.

  ‘READY!’

  Taking a grip of the collar of Egilhard’s mail, the centurion pitched his voice just loud enough for his new recruit to hear.

  ‘Shield and spear in your left, then take a nice firm grip on the man in front with your right. Let him know you’ve got him.’

  He nodded with approval as Egilhard reached up to grasp the same spot on Lanzo’s armour, tensing himself for the command to advance.

  ‘Right leg first. Let’s not fuck up first time out, eh? We’ve had recruits shit themselves with nerves at this point in the past, so if you can avoid that, the rest’s easy.’

  Egilhard nodded grimly, clearly tensing himself for the drill to commence. Silence fell over the parade ground, as each cohort and century readied themselves for the order to advance. Scar looked up and down the line of his men with a grin.

  ‘And I think we’ll do this singing, shall we? Batavi! Advance! With! Spears!’

  As the leading men of every file stamped forward, stabbing out with their spears in the underhanded grip that exposed as little of their bodies to potential retaliation as possible, he bellowed the first line of their battle hymn.

  ‘Batavi! Swim the seas!’

  The spearmen stepped forward again, front rankers swinging their spears up to point at the sky, punching with their shields as they stepped forward with their left legs and then stabbing down with the spears’ butt spikes at the point where an opposing warrior’s feet would be in combat, the paean’s uncompromising roar of martial sentiment forcing a shiver though the recruit’s body that raised the hairs on his arms and legs, power abruptly seeming to fizz in his blood with the song’s collective purpose and energy.

  ‘Batavi! Swim the seas!

  Worship mighty Hercules!

  Swords and spears!

  Take your ears!

  Never showing mercy!’

  The advance continued, spears alternately stabbing out and butt spiking as the soldiers stepped forward one pace at a time. With a flurry of movement Grimmaz rolled to his right out of his place at the head of the tent party’s file, Levonhard smoothly swinging his shield around the leading man’s body as he did so, taking the leading man’s place with the seamless skill of long hours of practice and stepping into the stabbing stroke with easy grace.

  ‘Batavi! Break your shield!

  Gut you even if you yield!

  Slash and hack!

  Stab your back!

  Never showing mercy!’

  Levonhard stepped away to his right as Banon took his place, his crested helmet ducking and bobbing with the violence of his exertions, and the advance continued unabated as Scar walked backwards in front of them, casting critical glances at those men whose errors or hesitations disturbed the perfection of his men’s warcraft.

  ‘Batavi! German spears!

  Best and bravest many years!

  Nail your balls!

  To our walls!

  Never showing mercy!’

  Banon stepped aside and Lanzo took his place with the same deadly fluidity of movement, his assumption of the lead flowing into his first spear attack so smoothly that Egilhard almost neglected to match his forward step, so much was he in awe of the movement’s simple beauty, but Alcaeus’s firm grasp propelled him into the stride to the point where his training took him forward. Scar, less than ten paces from the tent party’s place in the line, smirked momentarily before bellowing the hymn’s first line again. As the soldiers roared out words intended to strike mortal fear into their enemies’ hearts the centurion counted Lanzo’s paces, readying himself for the moment when he would push the recruit forward into the front rank. Egilhard’s tent mate strode forward once more, his spear flickering out and back to open an imagined enemy’s throat, then again, punching with his shield to disrupt an attack, and throw his opponent back in disorder, stabbing down with the butt spike to impale a carelessly exposed foot. Again, the spear lower this time, aimed at the soft wall of a man’s gut. Again, lower still, aimed at the thigh where a well-aimed strike would leave an enemy bleeding out before his killer’s eyes, unable to do anything but fall to the ground be
neath a remorseless wave of stamping boots and punching spikes.

  ‘Ready …’

  Alcaeus’s soft growl was combined with a tightening of the grip on the recruit’s mail, ready to propel him forward even as Egilhard released his hold on the man in front of him and took his spear in the freed hand, and as Raginmund stabbed and spiked for the last time, the centurion pushed him smoothly forward into place, knowing only too well what Scar would do next and that he would be powerless to assist the young soldier to pass the test. The recruit looked down reflexively to check the positioning of his feet, and in the moment of his distraction the prefect stepped in close with his shield raised and spear held ready to strike, close enough to see the amusement in his eyes, his stare fixed on Lanzo as the soldier started his rotation to the right in readiness to fall back. Alcaeus barked a command, even as Egilhard responded to the challenge, his limbs seemingly no longer his own as conscious thought surrendered to the lightning-fast reactions of instinct and long conditioning.

  ‘Shield!’

  As the recruit swung his shield round Raginmund’s body, Alcaeus heard the thud of iron on wood as Scar struck with the blade of his spear, expertly tapping the wooden board hard enough to make his point before dancing backwards.

  ‘Strike!’

  Stepping forward at his centurion’s urging, Egilhard stabbed out with his own spear, twisting his wrist at the moment of maximum extension, the point where the blade would be slicing into an enemy’s body. The weapon’s point just barely reached Scar’s shield, but even as the recruit marvelled at the veteran officer’s nimble footwork, Alcaeus barked another command, pushing at his mail’s collar to drive him forward.

  ‘Shield! Punch!’

  Egilhard’s body was jarred by the fearsome impact as Scar stepped in to meet him with his own shield raised, sparks flying as the bosses met with a violent clang of iron colliding with iron. The centurion close behind him recognised the deeply ingrained reflexes gifted to the recruit by the long afternoons spent training with his father, conditioning which brought the spear upright without conscious thought. He pushed at the collar again, driving the younger man through the drill, his voice insistent in Egilhard’s ear.

  ‘Spike!’

  Stepping forward with his right foot, the young soldier hammered his spear’s butt spike down at the retreating prefect’s feet, its iron point finding only gravel as Scar stepped smartly backwards again. Nodding satisfaction, Scar turned away and walked off down the advancing line, leaving a dazed Egilhard acting on instinct and Alcaeus’s barked commands, his mind clearly still reeling from the shock of finding himself shield to shield with the man his father had described with such evident reverence.

  ‘Rotate!’

  Alcaeus tapped the recruit’s armoured right shoulder and then swung his shield smoothly round to cover his retreat, smiling to himself as, in the corner of his vision, he saw the boy’s tent mates reaching out to pull the dazed soldier back to his place at the rear of their file, each man patting the recruit’s back as he passed down the line of men and muttering unexpected praise. As the eighth man completed his ten attacks, Scar raised his voice to bellow another order over the din.

  ‘Halt!’

  They stood in sudden silence, breathing hard from their exertions, some men softly cursing at their own mistakes and missteps, others more vehemently pointing out those made by their comrades.

  ‘Take a moment to get your breath back! Talk to each other!’

  Banon nodded to Grimmaz, who looked at his tent mates with a grin.

  ‘That was rusty, boys, no other way to put it. Not bad, but not good either.’ Egilhard stiffened as the leading man winked at him. ‘Not so bad, Nosey, even if you did have a centurion at your back telling you what to do! Not everyone manages to keep their nerve when Scar comes knocking on their shield. At least one man I know practically shat himself, and ended up with a spear point at his throat. Didn’t he, Lanzo?’

  The soldier who had displayed such intensity and purpose a moment before nodded with raised eyebrows, taking his superior’s ribbing with the good humour that seemed to embody Grimmaz’s relationship with his men.

  ‘This is true. Although I’ve never actually tripped over my own feet and broken my nose on my shield’s rim, have I?’

  Grimmaz nodded his acceptance of the counter.

  ‘I think you’ll find I fell over somebody else’s feet, but that’s enough criticism for the time being. Get ready to do it again, because Scar’s got the look of a man who has a long morning planned.’ He turned to address Alcaeus, who had walked out of the line and was looking at his other tent parties for his next pupil. ‘And this time you can go and baby another recruit, Centurion sir, because ours seems to have his shit in a fairly tidy pile.’

  The Old Camp, Germania Inferior, December AD 68

  ‘Centurion sir.’

  Marius turned from his inspection of one of his men’s boots, having just drawn breath to launch into a tirade on the subject of wax and a brush, to find an unfamiliar legionary standing behind him wearing the sort of apologetic expression that a wise man would adopt when interrupting an officer.

  ‘First Spear Decimus’s regards, Centurion. He sent me to ask you to attend him in the principia, sir.’

  Marius nodded, and was in the act of turning back to his victim when the messenger continued.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Centurion, but he was most insistent that I should tell you that the summons is urgent.’

  The centurion smiled. Everything was always urgent to his superior, but he had no desire either to get the legionary into trouble or attract his superior’s ire by being seen not to respond with the appropriate degree of respect.

  ‘Very well, soldier, please run back and tell the First Spear that I’m on my way at once.’ He gestured for his optio to come forward, which the man did by pushing his way through the ranks of men in between them. ‘It seems my presence is required in the headquarters building as a matter of the greatest importance. Take over for me.’

  He glared at the offending footwear again for effect, then turned and walked swiftly away in the running soldier’s wake. Walking in through the guarded doorway of the principia, he was greeted by his unusually cheerful-looking superior, who returned his crisp salute with a swift nod before drawing him away into a corner to speak without being overheard by the legionaries on guard duty.

  ‘Good news, Marius! The legatus augusti has informed our legatus that he wants the traitor Civilis bringing to justice. The legatus has in turn ordered me to organise the man’s arrest, and I’ve decided to allow you the honour of being the man that brings him in.’

  Marius looked at him for a moment before replying.

  ‘I thought that he’d been pardoned by Galba?’

  ‘Don’t say that name too loudly around here, Centurion.’ Decimus’s face had darkened at the mention of the man who was increasingly viewed as a usurper by the legion’s officers. ‘As far as the German legions are concerned, that man has got away with the most blatant act of robbery in history, and this traitor Civilis stands accused and convicted of being his accomplice in the whole dirty affair. Legatus Augusti Capito’s interrogations of the prisoners we took after we’d crushed the Vindex revolt provided conclusive proof that Civilis and Vindex were to be rewarded with their own kingdoms, once Galba had power. When he was pardoned by the usurper, we put men on the road from Rome, hoping to quietly cut his throat and put him away for good, but he was bright enough to ride back in the company of the men of the German Bodyguard who’d been dismissed from the service, and our boys couldn’t get near him. So now you’re to go and get him, bring him back here to rot in a legion cell for a while and consider the error of his ways until the new legatus gets round to having him executed. Him and his men have been riding the high horse with us for long enough, and now it’s time for them to be put back in their place.’

  ‘But I thought they were—’

  Decimus laughed softly at his
puzzlement.

  ‘Our dearest allies? Once upon a time, perhaps, when they were happy to fight alongside us and understood their place in the empire. But they’ve come to see themselves as better than us. They swagger round the fortresses they’re posted to like they own them, full of piss and vinegar and spoiling for a fight half the time. The Fourteenth Legion got tired of them years ago, or why else would they have left the barbarian bastards behind in Britannia when they were posted east, eh? They think they’re better than us, and that the empire has no place ruling them, and this man Civilis is the pushiest of the lot of them. He fancies himself as their king and wants nothing more than to put a sword into our back and watch us bleed. A game of harpastum against an old friend and a few of his big lads is one thing, but having to tolerate their bullshit any longer is out of the question. It’s time they learned their place in the natural order of things.’

  He stared at Marius levelly.

  ‘I know you made some friends with their guardsmen on the pitch, but there are no scruples to be exercised when there’s treason involved. So you take your century, you march to that shithole collection of hovels they call their city, and you bring this man Civilis back with you, preferably alive so that he can sweat a while as he waits for Rome’s justice to stop his wind. But you bring him back dead, if necessary. As it happens, the new legatus augusti wants him alive, so if you bring him back breathing there’s probably a promotion in it for you. Bring him back dead and every officer in this camp will slap you on the back and buy you a drink. Either way you can’t lose.’

  ‘He’s planning to revolt?’

  Decimus nodded.

  ‘He must be, or why else would he have met with Vindex to plot their joint treason? It’s pretty much clear that he sees himself as the tribe’s king, loyal to nobody, and that’s not something we can tolerate. Even if he’s got as much chance of making it happen as I do of becoming emperor, a revolt would see a lot of good men dead, if he managed to get the Batavians fired up. Why else do you think their cohorts would have been left to guard the cities in Gaul that supported Vindex rather being brought home, but to keep them away from their homeland? Not that four legions couldn’t deal with them easily enough, but together they’re more or less the same size as a legion, and too much of a risk under the wrong commander. So, get your boys moving, march to that dung heap Batavodurum, and bring me back a Batavi prince, living or dead. Just don’t come back without him.’