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 st
andard-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.
‘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 d
efence 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!’
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 11
