‘I want you both in fighting condition when this is finished. I’ll deal with the man that injures the other personally ...’
They stepped apart, saluted formally with their practice swords before moving together again, each eyeing the other over the edges of their shields. Julius crabbed around to his left, searching for a weakness in the younger man’s defence, striking without warning in a powerful lunge, his sword hammering on Marcus’s shield as his opponent stepped away from the strike, his studded groin apron whipping about with the movement. The Roman moved in low, swinging his weapon in an arc that whipped past Julius’s forward leg with a fingernail’s width to spare, and then drew back as quickly, looking for another opportunity to strike. The fight lasted the length of a five-minute sandglass, each man alternately attacking and defending, seeking to land one disabling strike on the other. The soldiers watching made Marcus the better of the two but unable to land the killing blow, several times just a split second too late to press his advantage on an overextended and tiring Julius. At length Frontinius raised his hand, stopping the bout and declaring a tie. The two men stepped apart, both breathing hard from their exertions. Frontinius ushered them back to the ranks of their centuries, waiting for them to take their places before speaking again.
Antenoch, in his customary place next to the centurion, spoke from the corner of his mouth.
‘Well, Centurion, I had no idea you were a politician.’
Marcus ignored him as the senior centurion started to speak again.
‘We started the day with the Fifth Century leading the Ninth by three points. I have decided to award the Ninth three points for a successful ambush on the Fifth, which places both units level. These scores will be officially confirmed, and awards made, on formal parade, but since I’m the final judge of the competition, you can take this pronouncement as final. Since both units finish level, last year’s champion century, the Fifth ...’
Julius’s century erupted into cheers and roars of delight, men punching the air with the joy of their victory. Only their centurion seemed subdued, standing in front of his unit to a rigid attention.
‘Silence!’
The harsh command, combined with Frontinius’s furious body language, was enough to promptly silence the Fifth’s celebration.
‘... will retain their position as cohort standard-holders, unless of course there’s any repeat of that undisciplined outburst.’
He paused to allow time for the threat to sink in before continuing.
‘In recognition of their achievement in tying the contest, and their improvement on what was until recently a very poor standard of performance, I also award the Ninth Century the task of lead century for the season. The standard will be carried in its wartime position in the column’s centre this season, rather than at the front, which means that I need a good century to lead the cohort. Let us hope that none of you have cause to regret winning these positions of merit, which will leave you all holding the bloody end of the spear if we go to war with the tribes this summer ...’
They marched back to the fort at a steady pace, Frontinius keeping their minds busy by ordering both centuries to belt out their lewdest marching songs in unison until they tramped over the final hill and drew up on the parade ground. The senior centurion walked down their ranks, taking the measure of his tired but erect men before calling them to attention.
‘Soldiers, you represent the cream of this cohort’s fighting skills. I’ve nothing better in my armoury than the one-hundred-and-sixty-odd warriors mustered on this parade ground. You are trained and disciplined fighting men, every one of you ready to stand in line and shed blood for the cohort. Now I suspect that there are a few scores waiting to be settled in these ranks, things that have been said and done that can hardly wait to be avenged. It’ll start with fists and boots, some fool will pull a knife, and I’ll have my two best assets at war with each other ...’
He paused significantly.
‘And that is not going to happen. I will not allow it to happen. So here are the rules for these two centuries. Any man brought in front of me for fighting a member of the other century will suffer the maximum penalty I can apply under the circumstances. Up to and including dishonourable dismissal without citizenship. No excuses, no leniency, and no exceptions. So you choose.’
He strolled away across the parade ground for a few paces before turning back with a sly look on his face.
‘Of course, the situation might be different to that I imagined. You might march back into the fort as the two best damned centuries in the cohort, both so good I can’t separate you. You might take pride in your shared excellence. You might even take the attitude that it’s the others that take second place to you, not either of you to the other. Whatever you decide, collectively you are my best weapon. And I make a point of keeping my weapons razor sharp. Don’t test me. Centurions, take your units back to barracks. Dismissed.’
Marcus marched his men back into the fort, left Dubnus to chivvy them down to the bathhouse, and went to wash the dust from his feet, musing on the day. Antenoch had vanished, and for once the centurion was happy to be spared his presence, knowing that his clerk had already guessed the truth behind the result of his contest with Julius. The sound of his quarter’s door opening made him turn swiftly, as Julius came in without waiting for an invitation. He looked to the bed, where his belt gear and sword lay discarded, wondering whether he could reach the weapon if the older officer intended him harm. In the enclosed space of the quarter he doubted that he could resist a determined attack by the larger man without being forced to try to disable or even kill him. Julius held up his hands, seeing the swift glance.
‘No, I’m not here for a rematch. But we do need to talk ...’
Marcus nodded, reaching for a flask of wine and two cups. Julius stayed silent while the wine was poured, tipping half the offered cup down his throat with a sigh of satisfaction.
‘Thanks. I should thank you for this afternoon’s performance as well. You could have put me down half a dozen times this morning. I knew it, I could tell that you were holding back from connecting with your attacks. You’re faster, and better trained than I am, and that’s all there is to it. You’re the better swordsman, although time will tell if you’re the better warrior when the shit really starts flying. You should have taken first place, and we both know it ...’
He stared at Marcus until the younger man nodded slowly, letting out a sigh of release from his internal pressure.
‘Why? You earned that victory, built up your men to taking it from under my nose. Why didn’t you take it?’
Marcus frowned, starting to speak and closing his mouth again. After a moment he tried again.
‘You’ll laugh at me ... I did it for the cohort. Uncle Sextus told me to think about what would be the best result for the cohort, and when I did, it was obvious that you had to win. If I’d beaten you, you’d be sitting in your quarter now, plotting revenge on me. As it is, you’re just puzzled. The cohort gets undivided leadership, Frontinius doesn’t have to deal with a series of running battles between our centuries ... everyone wins.’
Julius looked at him for a moment without speaking.
‘Except you.’
‘Perhaps.’
The older man shook his head, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Except you. Frontinius gave me something this morning, something I’ve wanted since the day you arrived. He gave me the responsibility to decide your fate. Said he was tired of pondering whether you have what it takes or not. And if I say you’re gone, boy, just a fading stain on this cohort’s proud history, what then? If I tell you that where you go is of no concern to me, and that all that matters to me is that you leave, and don’t come back? What do you say to that, eh?’
Marcus gazed back at him for a long moment, then nodded his head, half turning away to speak woodenly at the room’s wall.
‘I’m not surprised. I’ve known deep down that you and your brother
s wouldn’t be able to accept me. This cohort can’t operate with a rejected officer at its heart, and I’ve developed too much affection for this place to risk that rejection turning into casualties. As to where I go, don’t worry yourself. I’ll be in another place before dawn, and that’s all you’ll be wanting from me. I’d be grateful if you could find a way to overlook the last few months, and recommend Dubnus to command the Ninth?’
He gestured to the door.
‘And perhaps now you could leave me in peace. Let me get on with what I have to do.’
The burly officer stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head wryly.
‘I’ll have to apologise to Sextus. I told him I was going to come here and say those words to you, and he told me you’d bite on the leather the way you did.’
Marcus turned back to face him, his face hardening, his eyes flicking again to the sword lying on the bed alongside him.
‘If you think that I’m going to let you stand here and calmly discuss my personality traits now that you’ve had your way you’d better look to your blade, Centurion, because in about ten seconds you’re going to be getting a very close look at mine.’
Julius opened his hands again, backing away slightly and talking quickly.
‘Hold! It was your last test, to see if you cared enough for the cohort to accept the hardest decision. You’ll do for Sextus, and, while it’s hard to admit, you’ll do for me too. Quite how we’re going to keep a swarthy bugger like you any kind of secret when we march to war is beyond me, but Sextus gave me the decision and I’ve made it. You stay.’
Marcus’s eyes narrowed, and Julius realised with a shiver that his temper was fully alight.
‘And if I don’t accept your gracious offer after this last little test? If I take that sword and fillet you like an old bull, then spill my own blood?’
The other man smiled, holding his ground and keeping his sword hand rock steady six inches from the hilt of his weapon.
‘I don’t doubt that you could spill my guts, although we’d have some fun finding out within these four walls, without much space for fancy sword work. I probably deserve it too, the way I’ve been hounding you and your men. But you won’t. The other thing Sextus has you nailed for is iron self-control. And, given that you’re now the centurion of the cohort’s lead century, likely to be first into the shit and last out of it, you’re going to need it. Get some sleep, young Two Knives, you’ve a hard month in front of you. But before you do, fill me up with a little more of that dog-rough piss you’re drinking, I can’t drink a cup to your success if my cup’s empty.’
He passed his cup back for refilling. A hammering at the door made them both jump, Antenoch thrusting his head through the opening, breathlessly ignoring the frown on Marcus’s face. Clearly Julius’s presence was no surprise to him, and Marcus suspected he had been lurking close by, ready to come to his assistance if necessary.
‘Centurion Julius, you’ve an order to join the First Spear at the north gate. Something to do with a bonfire.’
Julius downed the wine in a swift gulp and turned to the door.
‘I’ll see you later ... Centurion.’
In a woodland clearing well to the north of the Wall, beyond the reach of the units nervously manning the forts along the North Road, the leaders of Britannia’s remaining free tribes were gathered in their first war council. Seated around a crackling fire in the cool light of dusk, the half-dozen tribal chieftains eyed each other soberly as they waited for the arrival of their leader. Each of them was very well aware that they were about to step hard on the tail of a very dangerous animal. When Calgus, tribal leader of the Selgovae, made his entrance, it was without fanfare. He shrugged off a cloak of wolfskin and walked to the fire to warm his hands. He spoke without turning away from the heat, his voice a deep rumble.
‘Leaders of the northern tribes, our men are poised to attack down what our oppressors call the North Road, straining for release into battle like a hunting arrow bent and ready to fly. The Romans’ scouts have been put to flight by our horsemen, and there is nothing more substantial between here and their Wall than a few pitiful forts. One word from each of us, and our men will fall on Three Mountains and put it to the flame ...’
He turned away from the fire, opening his arms to encompass the gathering.
‘It simply remains for us to make the decision to attack. But before we do so I want you all to be very clear about exactly what we’re committing ourselves to. You all know very well that I was educated in “Isurium Brigantium”, as the Romans have named that great tribe’s historic home, now trapped behind their Wall and made slave to their empire. You know that I speak Latin, and that I spent my childhood absorbing their history and culture, and I know for a fact that many of you still mistrust me as a result of that education. In truth you should thank Cocidius for my father’s insistence on that education, since it woke me to the danger to our tribes that has brought us all to this point of decision.
‘I was sent south by my father when I was in my eighth year, and I stayed in the south until my fifteenth summer, learning their language and their ways. I hated every waking moment, brothers, with a passion that grew stronger with every year, with every fresh lesson that taught me how they have spread their rule across the world in a restless search for new peoples to enslave. And with each year my eyes opened wider to the state of the Brigantian nation, once proud rulers from the mountains to the sea for a hundred miles to the north and south of “Isurium”, now castrated lapdogs to their rulers. So helpless that even their ancient capital has a Roman name. At fifteen I returned home for the summer and told my father that I wouldn’t go back and live among slaves for a single day more. I expected harsh words or a beating, but he simply smiled at me and told me that in that case my education had served its purpose. He’d sent me south in order to open my eyes to the Romans, and their lust for expansion. He’d sent me south to harden my heart against their insidious persuasion. He’d dedicated my childhood to opening my eyes to Roman deception, making me a fit successor to his rule.
‘So, brothers, let me outline our alternatives. We face a stark and simple choice: either we try to live in peace alongside their rule, and suffer eventual defeat and enslavement, or we fight now and push them off our lands. We can still gain a lasting peace on our own terms, but the Romans will only ever respect strength. Offer them weakness and we will all be in chains inside five summers.’
He fell silent, watching the faces in front of him. After a moment the chief of the Votadini, an elderly man whose eldest son stood behind him to steady his arm, spoke out softly.
‘You give us convincing words, Calgus. We all know of the Romans’ desire to take our lands, we all lost sons and brothers the last time they tried to pen us up like cattle. We all wish to avoid this, and we would be willing to fight in response to your summons even were we not bound to follow you into battle. But still I fear their legions. Three generations before us have failed to defeat them in open battle, even with the advantage of superior numbers. Our victory in forcing them from the northern wall was the result of many attacks on small detachments of their soldiers, a war of striking and hiding and having the strength to ignore their reprisals. It was a victory, but it was not won on any field of battle. How will our warriors deal with their way of fighting if we take the field against them now?’
Calgus inclined his head with respect for the wisdom of the question.
‘By dealing with their strength one unit at a time, Brennus. First we’ll smash their forts along the North Road, and bring the Wall cohorts to battle by attacking the wall itself.’
The old man tilted his head.
‘And if they decline to fight us? If they choose to keep us at arm’s length, and wait for their reinforcements?’
Calgus laughed sharply.
‘Exactly what we must expect them to do. Only a fool would throw a single legion and their auxiliary rabble into battle against our great forest of spears. Which is why
I have formed a plan to ensure that they have no choice but to engage us, and most likely in groups of less than their full strength. A plan, my brothers, of the utmost simplicity. Yes, a swift strike down the North Road by our eastern warband, burning out their forts all the way down to Noisy Valley. By destroying Noisy Valley we deprive them of supplies, we keep them on the back foot, and we strengthen our arms with whatever we can take. While they dither as to our next move, we’ll split the warband to left and right, burn out the forts to east and west, then pull back into the north, taking what plunder we can carry. We can trust in our unexpected retreat to drag them along behind us, hot for vengeance. At the same time our second warband, and our main strength in horsemen, will strike at their undefended forts in the west. They will burn out Fort Cocidius and cross the Wall to destroy the Hill and Fair Meadow. This threat in their rear will fix the auxiliaries and prevent them joining with the legion. Brothers, we must put them off balance and keep them that way, continually rushing their forces to the newest point of danger. And when the opportunities present themselves, as they will, we will strike hard and destroy their cohorts piecemeal.’
Another of the tribal kings spoke out, stepping into the firelight.
‘We agree, Calgus, although I still say that this is a strange kind of war to fight ...’
‘I understand. In past days we would have gone straight for their throats, dashed ourselves against their shield wall as we have a dozen times before, and lost warriors by the thousand in futile battles that could only end one way. We know their legions are meat grinders, made to fight in one way and only one way, in a battle line where they slaughter our warbands from behind their shields. They will never choose to fight man to man, because man to man they know they can only lose.
‘This way we avoid confronting their legions face to face until the moment is right, when we’ve bled them a dozen times, razed their forts to the ground and made them charge round the land in search of us. We strike where they are weak and we avoid their strength until we’re ready to deal with them, when they march into a trap of our patient making. Then, my friends, we will take so many heads that we’ll make mountains of their skulls. After that there will be no choice for them but to negotiate a settlement. Their southern legions will be needed in their own areas soon enough, or the entire country will go up in flames. Victory, and peace on our terms – I trust that would meet with your approval?’
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 17
