Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Normally we’ll start the morning by rotating the tent parties between sword, spear and shield training. Today, however, since I’m new to most of you, we’ll start with a demonstration of the kind of swordsmanship I’m going to expect from you. Do I have a volunteer to help me demonstrate?’

  Antenoch shouldered his way to the front rank, his long plaited hair matted by the falling drizzle. He stepped out in front of Marcus, his mouth set in an implacable white-lipped slash.

  ‘I volunteer for that privilege.’

  Marcus ignored the sneering note in the other man’s voice, taking his wooden practice sword from its place at his waist, then called for another, hefting the practice weapons as if testing their relative weights. His lips were suddenly cold in the chill air, and his fingers slightly numb, as they’d been that afternoon on the road to Yew Grove. And then, in the instant of settling the swords into their accustomed positions at his sides, ready to lift into the long-practised fighting stance, having the handle of a weapon in each hand was suddenly, mercifully, the most natural thing in the world. He felt an almost blissful return to the simple disciplines drummed into him during the thousands of sunny afternoons of his childhood, and a moment of simplicity in the heart of his personal confusion. I can do this, he suddenly thought to himself, and the spark of belief lit a cold fire that ignited in his belly, something deeper than anger, calmer than rage. Cold, rational, calculating purpose filled the place where doubt and confusion had circled each other, events slowing to a more relaxed pace as his brain adjusted to its unexpected confidence. I can do this, he told himself with surprise. I grew up doing this.

  Antenoch took his weapon and shield, wristing the sword in blurring arcs clearly calculated to impress the watching troops, dropping into a brief leg stretch before jumping back to his feet. Looking to his right, Marcus could see that half of the neighbouring century was watching with poorly disguised excitement. Antenoch threw him a mock gladiatorial salute, pulling his shield and sword into position.

  ‘Ready? You’d better find a shield, Centurion, or this will be even quicker than we’re all expecting.’

  Marcus stepped into sword reach, unconsciously adjusting the swords’ positions until the points of the practice weapons were aligned, rock steady, less than a foot from the Briton’s shield. The soldiers watching stirred at the sight, their first intimation that all was not quite as they had expected, and a ripple of whispered comments like wind through tall grass spread through their ranks. Marcus’s eyes, stone-like in their concentration, locked on to Antenoch’s the way he’d been taught, watching the eyes, not the weapon, for the first signs of an attack.

  ‘I’ll stick with the swords if it’s all the same to you. We don’t use body protection for sparring, I see?’

  Antenoch smiled sourly from behind his shield, half turning his head to share his ridicule with the ranks of silent soldiers.

  ‘No, sir, this isn’t Rome. This is a real fighting unit.’

  Marcus shrugged without visible emotion.

  ‘Oh, I’m not concerned for myself, I just don’t want to injure you too badly. Guard your chest ...’

  ‘What?!’

  The enraged Briton sprang in to the attack, swinging his sword in a brutal overhand chopping blow down on to Marcus’s quickly raised left-hand sword, the defending weapon’s edge splintering slightly at the blow. Marcus allowed the sword to give downwards with the blow, absorbing its force, and stepped back to further soften the impact, encouraging Antenoch to strike again rather than punching with the shield. Again the sword chopped down at Marcus’s raised defence, and again he retreated, lowering the sword slightly more this time, and once again Antenoch lifted his weapon to strike, sensing the Roman’s apparently feeble defence beginning to fail under his sword blows. As the sword reached the zenith of its attacking arc Marcus dropped his rear leg a little farther back, turning the foot to gain maximum purchase on the parade ground’s hard-packed surface, while the other sword stirred stealthily in his right hand, easing back into position for attack.

  Antenoch chopped down again, exerting his full strength in a blow intended to smash the left arm down and open Marcus’s defences. The Roman met the descending sword with a suddenly rigid defence, braced off his extended back leg to stop the blow dead. Simultaneously, he threw the other sword in backhanded, smashing aside Antenoch’s almost disregarded shield and opening the soldier’s body to attack. The momentary gap in his adversary’s defence was enough for Marcus to strike again with his right-hand weapon, chopping mercilessly at the other man’s right wrist and sending his weapon tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers on to the wet ground before hammering the left hand sword into the Briton’s ribs. The counter-attack left Antenoch clutching at bruised ribs while Marcus stepped back, keeping the twin swords raised. He watched Antenoch trying to both cradle his wrist and rub his stomach for a moment, calling softly to the Briton.

  ‘I told you to guard your chest. Enough?’

  The other man glared back at him, hefting his weapons back into their positions.

  ‘Fight!’

  Taking the initiative, Marcus stepped back into his opponent’s sword reach and went to work with clinical skill and speed, his swords a sudden whirl of blurring arcs as he attacked with pace and technique for which the Briton had no answer. Half a dozen swift strikes put the other man off balance, allowing Marcus to smash at his shield with each sword in turn until the third blow, delivered with his left-hand sword, wrenched the shield from Antenoch’s hand and left him unable to defend himself as the other wooden blade smacked across his back, dropping him to his knees with sudden agony in his kidneys. Marcus stepped away from the writhing figure and turned to address his troops, noting that more than a few were watching the squirming Briton with the slack-jawed look of men who were finding it hard to believe what they saw. Dubnus stared over their heads, one eyebrow raised in silent comment. Farther down the line he could see Rufius out in front of his 6th Century, his fist held clenched below a smile of congratulation.

  ‘Disappointing, gentlemen, if that’s the best we have. You evidently need a great deal of training. Speed and technique will disarm the strongest and bravest of opponents. You will have noted that the use of the shield in attack is as important as the sword. You will learn to fight this way, as well as in the standard formations and drills. You will be the best century in this cohort with your personal weapons, or I and my chosen man will want to know why.’ He dropped the practice weapons to the ground, reaching to collect his vine stick.

  ‘Bastarrrrrd!’

  Marcus swung quickly to face the shout, taking in a split-second image of Antenoch, his face distorted by rage, charging at him with a flat dagger held out towards him, held ready to strike. Holding his ground, he waited until the last possible second before sidestepping the blade, pivoting on his left foot to swing his body away from the thrust. At the same time, he lifted his left arm, bent double, to point the elbow at Antenoch, gripping his left fist in his right hand as he leant back to avoid the knife’s point. As the blow went past his neck he stepped smartly back in, jabbing his elbow into his onrushing assailant’s face and stopping his charge dead, following up with a viciously powerful side-fisted hammer blow that spun the reeling Briton on to his back, his eyes glazed. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the First Spear moving from his position at the far end of the line of centuries at a dead run, his clerk trailing in his wake. He crouched close to the other man’s head, bending over to whisper urgently into his dazed face.

  ‘Stupid, with the First Spear watching. Now, decide, do you want to live?’

  ‘Eh ... ?’

  The Briton’s eyes struggled to focus, and for a second Marcus was afraid he’d done too good a job of stopping the attack, and left Antenoch without the ability to save his own life.

  ‘Everyone dies. You have the opportunity to cross the river this morning, or stay a while longer. Decide which you want, now.’


  He prised the dagger from Antenoch’s unresisting hand and stood up to meet the First Spear as he arrived on the scene, allowing the weapon to dangle casually at his side. Frontinius looked livid, his eyes wide with shock and anger.

  ‘I was watching from the review stand, Centurion, and I clearly saw this man attempt to strike you while you were disarmed.’

  He pointed down at the prostrate Antenoch, whose wits were returning as the threat he was under became clear.

  ‘Sir ...’

  ‘Shut your mouth! I’ll have your head on a pole above the main gate for this, you scum! Attempting to strike a superior officer carries the death penalty, which I ...’

  ‘First Spear, with respect?’

  Frontinius turned on Marcus, his eyes narrowed with premonition.

  ‘Centurion?’

  ‘Sir, I asked Soldier Antenoch to attempt a surprise attack upon myself, to show the rest of my men the standard of ability and speed I’ll be expecting from them.’

  ‘And why did he call you a bastard at the top of his voice while doing so?’

  ‘Enthusiasm, I’d expect, sir.’

  ‘Enthusiasm. Very likely, Centurion, he felt enthusiastic about the idea of putting a knife between your ribs. An illegal weapon too, I’d say, not our standard issue, although no doubt you lent it to him. You’re defending this man from a charge of assault upon you?’

  The watching soldiers tensed visibly, waiting for the answer.

  ‘Yes, sir. I believe that Soldier Antenoch is a valuable member of the century. He’s agreed only this morning to act as my orderly and clerk, and to provide advice as to the best way of getting things done in this cohort. Isn’t that right, Antenoch ... ?’

  The Briton started up open mouthed at his officer, realising with sudden resignation that he’d been backed into a corner that had only two exits, acceptance or death.

  ‘Yes ... Centurion ...’

  Frontinius smiled then, without mirth, his eyes locking with Antenoch’s.

  ‘Good. Very good. I shall look forward to hearing reports on your progress, Soldier Antenoch. Let us hope that you demonstrate your abilities sufficiently well that I forget all about this interesting episode. In the meantime, I’ll keep a pole sharpened above the gate ...’

  He turned to return to his place, brushing close to Marcus in the process and hissing a whispered comment at him.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Centurion ...’

  Marcus turned back to his men, squaring his shoulders and glaring across the lines of suddenly fixed faces.

  ‘Very well, Antenoch, back into rank. We can discuss your new duties after morning exercise. Now, let’s examine what happened there. There are a couple of basic techniques for close combat that I want us to practise this morning ...’

  Morban smirked up at the lanky soldier standing next to him, enjoying the sick look on his face.

  ‘I believe that’s fifty you owe me, sonny. Did I forget to mention that our new centurion was a member of the imperial bodyguard before he asked the emperor if he could come and see the blue-noses at first hand? Never mind, since you’d only have spent it on whores at least it’ll end up in the same purse. Even if they’ll have a harder time earning it!’

  Off parade, Dubnus drew Antenoch into Marcus’s quarters with irresistible force, pushing the defeated soldier into the room in front of him. Marcus, waiting in his chair with his sword unsheathed across his knee, nodded to the chosen man, who pushed the soldier into the middle of the room. With the shutters closed against the rain and cold, and the room only dimly lit by a pair of oil lamps, the young centurion’s face looked brooding, lit with menace. Antenoch turned and glared at him, putting his hands on his hips in carefully calculated insult. The big chosen man bared his teeth in a half-snarl, half-sneer, pulling the dagger from his belt.

  ‘I’ll go and sharpen the stake over the main gate. It’ll be waiting for you.’

  He looked over at Marcus as he turned to leave, shaking his head.

  ‘Do not trust him. Keep your sword ready.’

  When the door was closed, Marcus reached into his tunic, holding out the other man’s knife. Antenoch took it from his outstretched hand, looking closely at the blade for a long moment, staring past it at Marcus.

  ‘Wondering if it’d be worth another try at planting that thing between my ribs?’

  The Briton said nothing for another moment, pursing his lips as he slipped the weapon back into its familiar resting place.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because I spared you even after you tried to kill me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Because I don’t think I’d get close enough ... They’ve got a nickname for you, those cattle out there, they always do with officers. It was going to be Wetnose, until this morning. Now it’s Two Knives!’

  He spat the words out. Marcus smiled levelly.

  ‘Two Knives? Like the gladiator? It could be worse, for a man in my situation.’

  Antenoch’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘The rumours are that you’re the son of a rich man, just stupid enough to want to slum it with us for a while.’

  ‘Rumours you’ll encourage if you want to be my clerk ...’

  The Briton bristled at the suggestion.

  ‘Want to be your clerk? Fuck you!’

  Marcus sat back, laughing gently at the incensed soldier, tapping the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Sit down, Antenoch, and think for a moment.’

  He waited until the other man had slumped gloomily on to his bed before continuing.

  ‘You’re obviously an educated man, well spoken in a language which is not your native tongue. You should be an administrator to some local official, or a trader, not a common soldier on the Wall, miles from anywhere with decent food and women you don’t have to pay for. What happened?’

  ‘Mind your own fucking business!’

  ‘Come on, man, what can it hurt to tell me? I won’t be sharing the story with anyone else.’

  ‘You’ll tell Dubnus, and he’ll tell Morban, and he’ll ...’

  ‘You have my word. I’ve little else of value, so it should be of some note.’

  The quiet response silenced Antenoch far more effectively than a bellowed command might have. Strangely, his face softened as if with repressed memories.

  ‘I was adopted by a merchant in the wool trade when I was young, after my mother died, and raised as his son, alongside his own boy. I never knew my father, although I often wondered if I was actually the merchant’s bastard child. Taught to read and write, and to speak well. I imagined that I would find some place in his business, until my “brother” took it into his head that I was supplanting him in his father’s affections. He poisoned the old man against me, slowly but surely, and I ended up on the street with a handful of coins and their “best wishes”. So ... I decided to earn the one thing they never could buy, for all their money, and become a Roman citizen. I planned to go back to them after my twenty-five, as an officer, of course, and snap my fingers at them as second-class citizens in their own country. Cocidius help me, I was so stupid!’

  ‘And now you’re stuck here.’

  Antenoch looked up, his eyes red.

  ‘And you’re so clever? The only difference between us seems to be one of rank, Centurion, since you apparently have nowhere better to go than the arse-end of your own empire!’

  Again Marcus’s response was instinctively gentle, defusing the Briton’s anger.

  ‘And that should make us more likely allies than enemies. Will you work with me or against me? You’d make a first-class centurion’s clerk, and with a little polish you could be one of the best swordsmen in the cohort. Besides, I could do with someone to watch my back ...’

  He tailed off, his persuasive skills exhausted, and wisely waited in the unnerving silence rather than spout nonsense to fill the silence. Antenoch levelled his stare, his face set hard.

  ‘And if I won’t, you’ll set that ba
stard Frontinius on me. What choice do I have?’

  Marcus shook his head emphatically.

  ‘No, the choice has to be yours. Besides, nobody does my dirty work for me any more. Look, I need a man I can trust behind me in a knife fight, not one waiting for the chance to carve my shoulder blades apart. What do you need?’

  The response was slow and measured, the Briton thinking through his position aloud.

  ‘I need a chance to be something other than the wild man those fools have labelled me ... I’d like to learn some of those fancy tricks you pulled on me this morning. I want that bastard Dubnus to speak to me with a little respect, rather than looking at me as if I were something he scraped off the bottom of his boot.’

  He looked up at Marcus, calculation written across his face.

  ‘What’s the pay?’

  ‘Standard pay, but I’ll make you an immune. You’ll never have to shovel shit away from the latrines again, just as long as you’re my man.’

  Antenoch pulled a face and nodded.

  ‘Very well, we have a deal ... but you should beware one small fact, Centurion Two Knives.’

  Marcus grimaced in his turn.

  ‘And that is ... ?’

  ‘I promise always to be honest with you. Always to speak my mind, whatever my opinion. Whatever the likely effect. You may find my views hard to accept, but I won’t spare you them.’

  ‘And your view as of this moment?’

  ‘You look too young for credibility with men who don’t happen to be looking down the length of your sword. Put into Frontinius for permission to grow a beard. You can grow a beard?’

  5

  Rufius came through the storehouse door first, impaling the clerk with a fierce glare and gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. The soldier, remembering his close encounter with the veteran officer’s dagger the previous day, made for the door, finding himself restrained by a muscular arm, as the centurion bent to whisper in his ear.