Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  Dubnus smiled broadly, showing his teeth with pleasure.

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

  Marcus turned to Dubnus.

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

  ‘Sir.’

  Dubnus turned on his troops, spitting a stream of orders in all directions. Marcus walked away towards his quarter, only a tremor at the corner of one eye evidencing the exhaustion washing through his body. Sweeping the equipment off his bed, he collapsed gratefully on to the lumpy mattress, closed his eyes, and slept.

  Later that night, as Equitius settled into bed alongside his wife, he replayed the day’s events in his mind. A rueful shake of his head caught her attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘But why!? That’s treason, Septimus!’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Septimus, I ...’

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

  He turned away on his side, setting his face obdurately against any further protest. And prayed to his gods that this was not a decision for which he would pay with both their lives.

  In the non-commissioned officers’ mess, Dubnus was sitting in a dark corner, nursing a leather cup less than a quarter full of the thick, sweet local beer. Morban, the 9th Century’s standard-bearer and in both age and rank his superior, came through the door, his squat frame filling the frame for a moment while he searched out his friend. Finding his man, he raised an arm in salute, grasping the passing mess steward by his arm, propelling him towards the serving counter with a command for ‘two beers, and make them full to the brim this time’, before waddling across the room to plump himself into the chair facing Dubnus.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Right, lad, what’s your problem?’

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

  ‘You’ve not heard, then?’

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

  Dubnus took a drink, drawing the moment out.

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

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

  ‘I am.’

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

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

  His face became sly, sudden realisation dawning.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Second.’

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

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

  ‘That, Morban, is the bit I need your help with ...’

  Marcus woke at Dubnus’s rousing before dawn the next morning, blinking into the light of a small lamp placed next to his bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Morning, lad. Ready with your report?’

  Marcus showed him the tablet.

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

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

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

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

  ‘Unit reports, gentlemen! First Century?’

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

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

  ‘Second Century?’

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

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

  ‘Centurion Corvus!’

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

  ‘First Spear.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Win.’

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

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

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

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

  Rufius stole a sideways glance at the other man.

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

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

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

  Rufius lifted an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Rufius grinned at him in reply.

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

  The standard-bearer’s eyes narrowed.

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

  ‘And how’s the betting so far?’

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

  Rufius nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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