A long silence ensued, until the centurion spoke again.
‘And your third reason, Prefect?’
Equitius paused for a moment, his lips pursed in thought.
‘I just wonder if there isn’t more to the man than we might suppose. You’re the judge of men – you decide.’
‘And if I still decide against?’
‘Then Tribulus Corvus will have to work out his preferred means of taking his own life.’
*
Marcus and Rufius jumped to their feet at the sudden opening of the prefect’s office door. The senior centurion stepped through the frame, stopping in front of the younger man and looking him up and down with slow care. He saw, through the shadows of exhaustion, a hard face with a determined set, its hawkish aspect enough to make a stranger approach with care.
‘Are you tired, candidate?’
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘“Sir”’ will be enough for the time being.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do your feet hurt?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Could you march another ten miles if your life depended upon it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, we’ll march.’
The officer accepted his cloak, sword and helmet from a soldier who had run to fetch them, handing over his vine stick while he buckled the weapon to his body. He looked inside the helmet to check the position of the woollen cap that nestled inside the bronze dome, catching Marcus’s sideways glance.
‘My one concession to advancing years. The old pot can be painful to wear in the absence of hair, even with the issue liner, and we don’t wrap rags round our heads under the helmet in this cohort.’
He secured the helmet by its chinstrap, taking his vine stick back from the waiting man.
‘Dismissed, soldier. I believe your century have drawn duty cleaning the bathhouse.’
They walked up the fort’s slope, past barrack buildings and staring soldiers, to the Wall itself, towering twelve feet above the fort’s stone roads. First Spear Frontinius led the way up the ladder of one of the two gate towers, bringing Marcus out on the rampart. The sentries looked on in surprise while he gestured for the Roman to look out over the scene beyond the Wall. A hundred-foot drop, almost sheer, fell away from the Wall’s base to the plain below, a mighty natural defence that must have made the military engineers salivate with its potential when the rampart’s line was first planned.
The escarpment ran in both directions as far as the eye could follow its sinuous path, the whitewashed wall that topped its line clearly visible for miles. Below the Wall the ground was more or less flat, until it swelled into shallow hills a mile or so distant, their slopes heavily forested.
‘We cleared away the trees from the land in front of the Wall.’
Marcus nodded his understanding. Such open ground would make any covert approach to the fort almost impossible. A fair-sized lake fed the Fort’s bathhouse, the water flowing down from its location on the higher part of the plain. A notch had been cut in the escarpment by the stream over the ages, and here, a hundred yards past the eastern wall of the fort, and behind the Wall, he could see the high-domed roof of the bathhouse. Frontinius tapped him on the shoulder, recapturing his attention.
‘This view shows our place and role here more clearly than any speech I might make. On this side of the Wall, there is order. Order, discipline, cleanliness, the right way of things. On the other side there is nothing better than barbarism, surly tribesmen with an appetite for Roman goods but little desire to enter our society. The tribes to our immediate front, the Selgovae, Votadini and Dumnonii, number at least a hundred thousand. The tribes from beyond Antoninus’s Wall, farther north, Maeatae and Caledonii, barbarous tattooed animals all of them, as many again. Even the people to our rear, Carvetii and Brigantes, would cheerfully put a dagger between our shoulder blades given half a chance, for all their veneer of civilisation. We on the Wall are ten thousand men in a sea of hostile spears – even the northern legions are several days’ march distant. If the natives decide to fight, which currently seems inevitable given that their leader Calgus has spent most of the last year whipping them up for it, we’ll have to face down several times our own number until the legions can get forward. And they won’t get here at all if the tribes in their own operational areas decide to join the fun. Life here is as dull as it gets most of the time, but it could quickly become a lot more exciting than any of us would wish.’
He led Marcus back down through the fort, out of the massive southern gate and through its small collection of houses and shops. Women and children in the street stood respectfully as the officer passed, even a couple of hard-faced prostitutes favouring him with smiles.
‘They depend on us for their livelihood. If the prefect decided that the Hill would be more secure without the hangers-on, they would be destitute. Mind you, there are so many men with women and children in the town now that I suspect they form no risk to our security.’
They marched over a bridge spanning the massive ditch that separated the civilian and military zones, Marcus readjusting to the renewed pain in his feet. The road fell away steeply towards the parade ground’s expanse, across which several groups of men were training with swords and shields. The older man marched briskly past them, barking directions to individuals whose performance caught his eye.
‘You, yes, you, with the red hair, lift your shield higher! You’re supposed to be stopping blue-nose spears, not protecting your bloody ankles! Chosen Man, show him what I mean, he clearly can’t understand ... Well done, that man, excellent sword work!’
They passed the final group and left the parade ground behind before he spoke to Marcus again, talking at the air in front of him rather than turning to face the younger man.
‘Recruits. In two months we’ll have knocked them into rough shape, and toughened them up enough to give them a good chance of surviving a battle, and in six they’ll be every bit as good as any legionary. We’ve got men serving with ten and twenty years with the cohort, some who fought in the last uprising. What I’m being asked to do is put you in command of eighty of those men, all of whom, since they grew up playing at soldiers in the woods and fields of this area, have more idea of real soldiering than you do. The very idea of it makes me feel sick. This is my cohort, my fort and my parade ground. I was passed the leadership of them all, every man that serves here, by my predecessor, and when I retire I’ll bring the best centurion in the cohort down to that parade ground. I’ll make him promise me, and the shrines of Cocidius, Jupiter, Mars and Victory, to maintain the traditions we live and die by. I’m responsible for those traditions now, and for making sure that my decisions are made in the best interests of the unit. My cohort.’
He turned his head to look at Marcus’s face for a moment, checking for any reaction. The road ran arrow straight up to the next fold in the land, making Marcus open his mouth to increase his air intake, but he kept his eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘The prefect knows very well what his role here is, and so do I. He’s here for two or three years, to represent Rome, and make decisions as to the course of action the cohort should follow in Rome’s service. I’ve been here for my entire adult life, and I’ll stay here until I retire, or die in combat. My word as to the ways in which those decisions are carried out is final, although since we respect each other’s judgement he will usually issue orders upon which we’ve agreed jointly. I also make all decisions as to who is allowed to enter service, based on what centurions tell me and on what I see with my own eyes. And from what I see and hear, you represent a good deal of trouble to both the prefect and this unit. If it were a simple “yes” or “no” on those grounds I wouldn’t even be taking this trouble to understand you better.’
He fell silent for a moment as they marched on side by side, and then spoke again.
‘The prefect, however, sees some
thing in you that he encourages me to consider before making that decision. Your threat of suicide found a chink in his armour you may not have appreciated. His uncle fell on his own sword after losing most of a cohort just like this one in the German forests twenty years ago, but not before writing to tell his nephew why he was doing it. Prefect Equitius still has the tablet. Consequently, his sense of honour is his prime motivation when he considers your case. Would you do the same?’
Marcus blinked for a second at the unexpected question.
‘Yes, sir. I would have no other remaining choice.’
‘Very well.’
Frontinius stopped walking under the shadow of a lone tree growing by the roadside and drew his gladius with a swift movement, holding it towards Marcus with the hilt foremost. The sun eased one corner of its disc out from behind the cloud that had obscured it for much of the day, caressing the landscape with a slender strand of light.
‘Take the sword.’
Marcus did so with a sudden feeling of utter detachment, hefting the weapon with one hand, judging the weapon’s fine balance and razor-sharp blade.
‘It goes with the responsibilities I bear, passed from each First Spear to his successor. It’s an old weapon, forged in the Year of the Four Emperors over a hundred years ago, and it belonged to a prefect who rewarded an act of bravery in battle which saved his life with the gift of his personal weapon. The courage you’ve shown to get this far entitles you to fall on a blade whose honour is indisputable.’
He stood in silence on the empty road, watching Marcus intently, his body taut in its readiness for action, with one hand resting lightly on his dagger’s ornately decorated handle. Marcus looked at the weapon’s blade for a long moment before speaking. His senses sharpened perceptibly, the tiny sounds of bird calls and the breeze’s ruffling of his hair suddenly catching his attention, although the colours of grass and sky seemed to fade to dusty, washed-out shades.
‘Thank you, First Spear, for at least providing me with a dignified exit. I must now look to find revenge for these wrongs in the next life.’
Clamping his mouth firmly shut, he steeled himself for the act, placing the sword’s point firmly against his sternum, and taking a last deep breath before throwing himself forward. A strong arm whipped out and grabbed his rough shirt as he fell towards the ground, turning him in midair. He hit the road’s surface hard on his back, losing his hold on the sword’s hilt and letting it fall. Frontinius looked down at him, holding his hand out, with a new respect in his eyes.
‘You meant it. That’s something.’
Marcus reached up and took the hand offered by the officer, climbing back on to his feet. The officer’s sword was already back in its scabbard.
‘I’m sorry, that was deliberately cruel, but I had to know if you had the stomach for what you threatened.’
Frontinius was intrigued by the look he received in return for his apology, the dark eyes seeming to skewer his soul. Perhaps, if the man were trained to use that ability ...
‘What would you have done if I had failed to use the sword, or turned it upon you?’
A laugh cracked Frontinius’s face, despite the gravity of the situation.
‘I’d have cut your throat with this.’
He pulled the dagger, cocked his wrist and threw the short blade, putting it cleanly into the centre of a truncated branch that projected a foot out from the tree’s trunk at head height, lopped off by a work gang when it had grown to obstruct the road. He reached to retrieve the knife, speaking over his shoulder.
‘They’re not made for throwing, but when you practise enough anything’s possible. As you may discover. Now march!’
They walked on along the road’s arrow-straight path, passing an eight-man detachment patrolling back towards the Hill.
‘Keep marching.’
The older man turned back for a hundred yards, marching alongside the detachment and studying each man’s uniform in turn before turning once more, calling over his shoulder to the tent party’s leader.
‘A very good turn out, young man, we’ll make a chosen man of you yet!’
‘Thank you, First Spear!’
He jogged back along the road to catch Marcus, barely breathing hard with the effort. Slowing to a brisk walk, he resumed the conversation.
‘My cohort, less than a thousand men, is expected to keep the peace along this sector of the line, out to a range of fifty or so miles either side of the Wall. We are the only law this country has, both in front of and behind the rampart. We control two tribal gathering points, the only place those peoples are permitted to come together, and then only under the supervision of an officer of this unit. They hate us with a passion, more so since we are their own people turned to the empire’s purpose, and within our area of control there are fifty of them for every soldier within our walls. Our strength, the thing that counterbalances that disadvantage in numbers, is our discipline, the strength of our resolve. We dominate the ground, we know its secrets, and we own every fold and seam. They know that, know that we’ll die to keep it ours, but that many more of them will have to die to take it from us. Yes, there are legions within a few days’ march, but we’ll have to meet any attempt to dislodge us alone, most likely us and the other ten thousand or so men like us along the frontier.
‘Men join this unit at an average age of fourteen summers, serve most of their adult lives in the ranks, most of that time doing boring or dirty jobs unless they get the chance to become an immune, with a few hours of death and terror thrown in every few years. Some of them, the better soldiers, rise to command tent parties, or if they’re really effective, to the position of watch officer, and even fewer to chosen man, deputy to their centurion, responsible for keeping the century aligned and pointing the right way in battle. The best of them, the boldest and the bravest, ten men in eight hundred, reach the position of centurion, with their own rooms, high rates of pay, but most of all with the privilege of leading their century into battle in the proud traditions of the Tungrians. What makes you think you can live up to their ideal?’
Marcus took a moment before replying, weighing his words carefully to avoid his earnestness being mistaken for desperation.
‘I can’t promise you that I will. But I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to make it so ...’
The older man stopped, trying hard to suppress a smile as he cocked a sardonic eyebrow.
‘So we’ll do for you for now, will we, until the issue of your legal status is forgotten? What then, I wonder?’
Marcus’s nostrils flared with his anger and he turned swiftly, making the other man tense involuntarily and extend a stealthy hand towards his sword’s hilt as a dirty, broken-nailed finger tapped his armoured chest.
‘Enough! I’ve been hunted across this country, questioned by you and your prefect as if I were a criminal, instead of an innocent man whose entire family has been slaughtered, and had my honour and my ability doubted one time too many. I’ve put up with it all because I’ve been in no position to argue with the men judging me, and perhaps that’s still the case, but for now I’ve tolerated just as much as I can. So, make your mind up, First Spear, either give me the chance I crave or cut my bloody throat, but you will stop playing with me, one way or another!’
Folding his arms, he glared back at the officer, clearly at the end of his patience. Frontinius nodded slowly, walking around him in a slow deliberate circle until he once again faced the younger man.
‘So there is anger in there, it just needed a spark to light the tinder. Just as well too, you’d be no good to me if you didn’t have fire in your guts, although you’ll be sorry if you ever speak to me that way in front of any other man. Very well, I’m decided. I’ll go against tradition, break the rules and offer you a bargain. I’ll give you a position as centurion, probationary, mind you, and with the decision as to your suitability entirely mine, on the condition that I get something I need. Something my cohort needs more than anything else,
right now.’
‘You’ve accepted him?’
Equitius’s eyes widened with genuine surprise.
‘Yes. He’s being issued with his equipment now.’
The prefect smiled quietly.
‘Thank you. You’ve allowed me to discharge a debt to Sollemnis.’
The senior centurion grimaced.
‘We’ll see. All I’ve agreed to is to give him a chance. One I fully expect him to fail to grasp. In return I get two centurions for the price of one. Or, more likely, one very good centurion and a corpse for quiet burial ...’
Equitius stared at him questioningly. His First Spear smiled grimly in return.
‘Well, you didn’t think I was going to let a fully trained legion centurion slip through my fingers, did you? I had a quiet chat with Tiberius Rufius earlier today and he made me an interesting proposition, given our current dearth of trained centurions. It’s a deal I resolved to accept only if there was a hint of talent in young Corvus – which, to be fair, there is. Your friend the legatus gets a hiding place for his son, and in return I get the use of his man Rufius until the first snowfall of next winter. Sounds like fair barter to me.’
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.
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 9
