The other man just shrugged. Marcus smiled, giddy with relief at making the mental leap to see through the bluff soldier’s reserve.
‘And he’s told you you’ll never make it to centurion so many times that you’ve started to believe it. I can change that. You can be a centurion — if you want to…’
Dubnus stared into his eyes for a long moment, testing the sincerity of the words.
‘You’ll help me to become a centurion? Why?’
Marcus took a deep breath.
‘Dubnus, you’ve said it a dozen times in the last week. I was a praetorian officer, but I never saw action, so it was just a ceremonial job… looking good in uniform, knowing what to say to whom… I’m going to need you to help me be a real officer, a warrior leader. What else can I give you in return?’
‘I make you a warrior, you’ll make me a centurion?’
‘Not a warrior. I may yet surprise you in that respect. A warrior leader. It’s what I’ll have to achieve if I’m to survive here. Or die trying.’
‘Perhaps.’
Marcus noted that the Briton wasn’t smiling. The century’s barrack block was primitive in comparison with the facilities his men had enjoyed in Rome, but Marcus ignored the condition of his quarters as he got into his new uniform. The red tunic was savagely rough in comparison to the fine white cloth he’d worn as a Guard officer. Thick woollen leggings tickled his legs and made him sweat in the building’s shelter, although he guessed that their warmth would seem little enough on a cold winter morning. He bent to examine his armour and weapons, laid out across his bed, noting with dismay the patina of rust that dusted the mail coat’s rings. His helmet was slightly dented on one side. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, he peered closely at the blade.
‘Blunt.’
Dubnus nodded unhappily.
‘Annius keeps his best equipment for those willing to pay. You get second best.’
It was true. The clothing he’d been issued was, on closer inspection, well worn.
‘I see. First things first. Inspection.’
They marched into the first of the eight-man rooms, troops scattering with surprise from their game of dice.
‘Attention!’
The soldiers froze into ramrod-straight poses at Dubnus’s bellowed command, shuffling to make room for Marcus to walk into the cramped room. He looked slowly around, taking in the dirty straw scattered haphazardly across the barrack floor and the poorly stacked weapons and shields in the outer room. Noticing the squad’s food ration for the day, waiting next to the small oven in and on which all cooking was done for the eight men, he turned to shout through the open door.
‘Chosen!’
‘Sir!’
Dubnus stepped into the room, looking at the food to which Marcus was pointing with his vine stick. A couple of the men cast him sidelong glances of amazement. Nobody had warned them that they had new officers, never mind that one of them was the man they called ‘the Prince’ when they were sure he wasn’t listening.
‘Is that quality of food normal for this cohort?’
The salted fish looked green in parts, the fresh vegetables riddled with holes from the attentions of parasites. Only the bread, fresh from the fort’s oven, invited closer attention.
‘No, sir.’
‘I see. Chosen, what’s the normal size of tent party in this cohort?’
‘Eight.’
‘So why are there nine men in this barrack?’
Dubnus growled a question at the nearest soldier in his own language.
‘He says that one soldier has taken a whole room for himself. They’re all scared to fight him… including the acting centurion.’
Marcus stiffened with anger, as much at the acquiescence of so-called fighting men with this act of bullying as with the offence itself.
‘So a man has to sleep on the floor? Take me to that barrack.’
They marched down the line of doors, the frightened soldier pointing to the offending door. Dubnus put his long chosen man’s pole down on the floor, flexing his powerful hands and clenching them into fists. He spoke to Marcus without taking his eyes off the barrack’s door.
‘I’ll do this.’
It was a statement rather than a request, a baldly stated invitation for Marcus to step back from the physical side of his role, and it tempted him more than he had expected. It would be so easy to let the Briton pull this miscreant from his room and discipline him…
Shaking his head in refusal, Marcus pushed him gently but firmly aside, rapping on the door with his vine stick.
‘Inspection! Open this door!’
A clatter sounded from inside, the door bursting open to reveal a half-clad man wielding a wooden stave. Long hair hung lank across his shoulders, pale blue eyes staring insolently from a hatchet face.
‘You tosser, Trajan, I’ll… what?’
Surprised by the appearance of an unfamiliar officer at his door, he hesitated the crucial second that Marcus needed. Taking a quick step forward, he jabbed the stick’s blunt end forcefully into the Briton’s sternum, dropping him to the ground in writhing agony. Dubnus stepped forward, collecting the stave with a sideways glance of surprise at his new centurion before effortlessly lifting the soldier to his unsteady feet. Marcus tucked his stick under one arm, forcing himself to give off waves of confidence. With an audience of a dozen or so of his new command’s rank and file, he couldn’t afford to get this wrong.
‘Name?’
The soldier, his initial shock starting to wear off, glared at him from beneath heavy black eyebrows. Dubnus, still holding him up by one arm, flexed his fingers and squeezed the bicep hard, communicating without words.
‘Antenoch… ah! Centurion.’
‘Chosen, do you know this man?’
‘A good warrior, a poor soldier. He lacks discipline.’
The soldier sneered at his face, disregarding the pain in his gut.
‘What I lack, Dubnus, is any vestige of respect for your authority. And even more so his…’
He nodded in Marcus’s direction. The Roman raised a hand to Dubnus, preventing the explosion of rage he saw building on the big man’s face, keeping his voice dead level.
‘Like it or not, I’m your new centurion, soldier, so you’ll follow my instructions to the letter. Which begin with my telling you to return that barrack to the men you evicted to take possession, and return to your given tent party. If you don’t like taking orders from me, you can try to take it out on me on the practice field tomorrow morning, but until then, move your gear. Now.’
The other man locked eyes with him momentarily, found steel in their gaze, and shook his arm free, slouching off into the empty barrack.
‘Chosen, which of this disorganised rabble was responsible for discipline until our arrival?’
The Briton turned, pointing to one of the men gathered in silent amazement at the turn of events, his face blank with the shock.
‘Chosen Man Trajan. In temporary command of the century while there’s no officer available.’
Marcus swivelled to regard the man with a glare of contempt.
‘Trajan, step forward.’
‘Centurion.’
The man stepped white faced from the throng, coming to attention and pushing out his chest.
‘This century is a disgrace to the cohort. You are hereby reduced to the rank of soldier. Chosen, find this soldier a tent party. You might also want to discuss the matter of the quality of the century’s rations at some length, along with the possibility of a donation to the funeral club. Perhaps you could take him over the Wall for a short patrol in the forest… later. Now I want a full parade of the century, here.’
‘Centurion.’
Dubnus strode away, beating at each door in turn and shouting ‘Parade’ at the top of his voice. Men flew from each barrack, pulling at hastily donned items of clothing as they fell in to the rapidly swelling unit. Within a moment the parade was complete, the demoted Trajan pushed carelessly i
nto the line to more astonished glances while Marcus stood in front of the wide-eyed soldiers, biding his time. Several window shutters on the quarters facing the 9th’s barrack quietly opened just enough for their occupants to peer through the gaps but remain out of view, hidden from Dubnus’s searching eyes.
Once Dubnus had commanded the gathering to ‘shut your fucking mouths’ Marcus gave a cursory inspection, noting the poor repair of almost every man’s tunics and boots, and the generally unkempt and undernourished look that predominated. Returning to his place in front of the parade, he called to Dubnus.
‘Translate for me, Chosen, let’s make sure everyone understands.’
‘Centurion.’
‘Soldiers of the Ninth Century, I am your new centurion, Marcus Tribulus Corvus. From this moment I formally assume command of this century, and become responsible for every aspect of your well-being, discipline, training and readiness for war.’
He paused, looking to Dubnus, who drew a large breath and spat a stream of his native language at the troops.
‘One fucking smile, cough or fart from any one of you cock jockeys, and I’ll put my pole so far up that man’s shithole that it won’t even scrape on the floor. This is your new centurion and you will treat him with the appropriate degree of respect if you don’t want to lead short and very fucking interesting lives.’
He turned to Marcus and nodded, indicating that the Roman should continue.
‘I can see from the state of your uniforms that you’ve been neglected, a state of affairs that I intend to address very shortly. I have yet to see your readiness for battle, but I can assure you that you will be combat ready in the shortest possible time. I do not intend to command a century that I would imagine is regarded as the laughing stock of its unit for any longer than I have to…’
Dubnus cast a pitying sneer over the faces in front of him before speaking again, watching their faces lengthen with the understanding of his methods, passed by whispered word of mouth from his previous century.
‘You’re not soldiers, you’re a fucking waste of rations, a disgrace to the Tungrians! You look like shit, you smell like shit and you’re probably about as hard as shit! That will change! I will kick your lazy fucking arses up and down every hill in the country if I have to, but you will be real soldiers. I will make you ready to kill and die for the honour of this century, with spear or sword or your fucking teeth and nails if need be!’
Marcus cast a questioning look at him, half guessing that the chosen man was deviating from his script, but chose not to challenge his subordinate.
‘You’ll have better food, uniforms and equipment, and soon. Your retraining starts tomorrow morning, so prepare yourselves! Life in this century changes now!’
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.
‘Ve
ry 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…’
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 10
