The First Spear shrugged unconcernedly.
‘I’m not convinced by all this “traitor” talk. You’ve heard the same stories I have, Julius, you know how this new emperor’s behaving and who pulls his strings. As far as I’m concerned our man’s guilt isn’t proven.’
‘Not your call, Sextus. If the empire says he’s a traitor, then he’s a traitor.’
‘And if it was you, old mate. What if you were unjustly accused?’
‘Then I’d run a thousand miles to avoid hurting my friends, and…’
‘And end up somewhere like here, dependent on strangers for justice. Not negotiable, Julius, I won’t hand over an innocent man to that kind of evil.’
‘And if they come for him? If they nail you and the prefect up and decimate the rest of us for hiding him?’
‘It won’t come to that. Besides, we’ll be at war in a few days. We could all be dead in a week, so some unlikely discovery by the empire doesn’t worry me overly right now. Next?’
‘He’s a snotnose. He’s never commanded so much as a tent party in action, and he’ll fall to bits the first time he sees a blue-nose warband.’
Frontinius snorted.
‘Rubbish. He killed on the road to Yew Grove, he fought again on the road here, he faced down that headcase Antenoch with his bare hands, and he seems to have faced you down well enough since then.’
Julius turned furiously, still walking.
‘That was Dubnus!’
Frontinius pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘Sorry, but that’s not how I heard it. The version that reached me was that he got right in your face and practically offered you the dance floor.’
‘I was half awake and unprepared…’
‘Rubbish, man. I’ve never known you not ready to fight, day or night. Admit it, there’s something in the young man’s eye that would make any of us step back and take guard. And I don’t mean the sword skills either. He’s lost something in the last few months, some carefully instilled self-control, an edge of civilisation that his father probably worked on all his life. What I see in him is a dangerous animal that’s been given every reason to want the taste of blood, and now those early disciplines have been stripped away there’s only cold calculation keeping that rage in check. The pair of us could take him on two on one with swords and boards and I’d have money on his opening us both up from chin to balls in under a minute.’
Julius lifted exasperated hands to the sky.
‘So he’s dangerous. Enraged. He’s a goat-fuck waiting to happen. Put him in combat and he’ll go berserk and take his century with him.’
Again the First Spear shook his head.
‘No he won’t. He’s the model of self-control. Think back to Antenoch, that first morning? Came at him with a knife and ended up with it tickling his own ear? Did you see a single drop of blood on the fool? Because I was there in seconds and I didn’t. No, Centurion Corvus will have iron control right up to the second where he chooses to let it go. Just don’t be on the wrong end of his sword when that happens.’
He took a deep breath as they marched on side by side.
‘You know as well as I do that you’re not competing for the honour of carrying the standard along the Wall to the games this year. What you’re looking for is the opportunity to fight off every blue-faced bastard between here and the River Tava who thinks it would look nice on the wall of his mud hut. Every century in this cohort is going to need strong leadership, and the Ninth isn’t any different from any of the other centuries in that respect.’
‘So give them to the Prince. He’ll give them strong leadership all right.’
‘You know my thoughts on that individual. He’s no more proven than young Corvus as far as I’m concerned.’
He took a deep breath.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’m just simply bored with pondering the whole thing, so I’m going to delegate the decision.’
‘Delegate it to…?’
‘You. But…’
He raised a hand to silence the astonished centurion.
‘Yes, I know, you already know the answer, except I’m really not sure either of us have actually seen what’s in Centurion Corvus’s heart yet. So, you can make the decision, but only when this day’s events are fully played out.’
Julius grunted his satisfaction.
‘My opinion won’t change, you can be sure of that.’
Sextus stared fixedly ahead as they marched on.
‘Perhaps it won’t. You feel betrayed and undermined by your old friend, the man you joined up with all those years ago. I’ve allowed an inexperienced outsider into our close circle of brothers, an action that might spell disaster for us all. On the other hand, oldest friend, Corvus might just have a pair of stones larger than either of us appreciates. So let’s wait and see, eh?’
The 5th made good time, taking their water on the march rather than stopping, and reached a position with a clear view of the Saddle by the middle of the day. Julius called a halt, sending a scout past the feature to make sure that the 9th were not about to hove into view just as he deployed his men into their positions for the ambush. The man ran back a few minutes later to confirm that the road was clear to the grassy horizon, provoking the first smile the 5th had seen grace their commander’s creased face all day.
‘Excellent! Even-numbered tent parties to the right-hand hill with the chosen man and into cover, odd numbers with me to the left. And remember, any man that shows himself before I give the signal loses a month’s pay!’
The century split quickly into two disciplined groups, hurrying down the slope from their vantage point and starting the climb up to the twin hills. Their equipment rattled and clattered noisily, while the soldiers talked among themselves about the afternoon’s entertainment, planning individual acts of revenge for real or imagined slights upon their century’s good name by members of the 9th. Thus it was, with nobody looking too carefully at the greenery that crowned their objectives, that it took a bellow of challenge from Dubnus to draw their attention to the previously well-hidden troops who had risen like forest spirits out of the undergrowth of the right-hand hill’s heavily wooded crown.
The 5th’s soldiers hesitated for a moment, caught between their orders and the shock of finding the Saddle already occupied, the short pause enough to cause a chorus of abuse to shower down upon them from the hills. The 9th had taken their objective first, and showed every sign of being in the mood to defend their ground. Julius stepped out in front of his men, drawing his sword and sweeping it over his head, ready to slash it down to point at the twin hills and issue the command to attack, ready to start a full-scale battle if it was the only way to restore his face. As the sword started to move in the downward arc, Sextus Frontinius stepped out of the century with his arms in the air.
‘Hold!’
Ignoring Julius’s red-faced fury, he turned to the Saddle’s hills, his voice bellowing out across the landscape.
‘Ninth Century, form ranks for parade here.’
The 9th’s troopers came out of the trees and streamed obediently down the hill, while Frontinius paced back a dozen steps, pushing soldiers aside without ceremony, and pointed to the ground again.
‘Fifth Century, form ranks for parade here.’
The 5th’s grumbling men pulled back, still reeling from the shock of their centurion being so comprehensively out-thought. Julius, restraining himself by an act of supreme willpower, stamped back down the hill to the designated place, bellowing at his subordinates to get the fucking century on parade. The two units lined up opposite each other, scowls and sneers along both opposing lines of men, while the First Spear paced equably between them and watched the clouds scudding along in a clean blue sky, enjoying the breeze’s cooling caress. When both centuries were lined up, and the harsh shouts of the chosen men and watch officers had died away to silence, he turned slowly to look at both centuries, taking in Julius’s set scowl and Marcus’s white face, ready to fight, his lips thin wit
h determination over a tight-set jaw.
‘In all my days I swear I never saw two sets of men who wanted so badly to kick the balls off each other. If I were to let you dogs loose now I’d end up with a dozen or more broken limbs, and as many men with the wits knocked out of them. Well, you mindless apes, let me remind you that there’s a great hairy-arsed tribal chief by the name of Calgus mustering a warband the size of five legions to the north. Whether it’s sunk into your thick skulls yet or not, we will most likely be at war within a few days. You need to learn to work together, side by side in the line, either century ready to perform whatever manoeuvre is needed to support the other. Even if it’ll cost lives. And the time that you need to learn to do this is now…’
He turned away from them and stared for a moment across the rolling countryside, taking a moment to enjoy the sunshine’s gentle touch on his bare scalp.
‘We do need a winner from this competition, if we’re to have a century to guard the cohort standard, but without spilt blood. The answer is single combat, with, before anyone jumps forward, combatants chosen by the person here best qualified to make that judgement. Which would be me.’
The silence became profound as he paused again, every man straining to hear his decision.
‘And I choose Centurions Julius and Corvus. Prepare for combat, exercise swords and shields.’
Marcus passed his vine stick to Dubnus, leaving the sword at his waist in its scabbard and taking the heavy wooden practice sword from his other hip. The Briton fussed at his helmet fastenings for a moment, leaning in close to look at the offending buckle, murmuring into Marcus’s ear.
‘He’s weaker on his left side, shield dependent. Don’t go in too close until he tires, though, or he’ll try to smother you with his strength. Stand off and use your skill, you can cut him to pieces easily enough…’
Frontinius walked over to face him, dismissing Dubnus with a pointed nod to the 5th’s ranks. The senior centurion stared away into the distance, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘I’m awarding your century three points for ambushing the Fifth, which puts you level with Julius before the result of this event. If you win, you’ll take first place, and carry the standard through the campaigning season. If you draw, and finish level on points, I’ll award the prize to the Fifth as the previous champions…’
He paused significantly, shooting Marcus a sudden glance.
‘I’ll give you no guidance, young man. This is an opportunity for you to exercise some judgement. I’ll simply remind of what I said to you this morning.’
Marcus nodded, moving his shield into a comfortable position on his arm before stepping out into the space between the two units. Julius stepped out to meet him, glowering from between the cheek-pieces of his helmet, its red crest riffling slightly in the breeze. Frontinius held them apart for a moment, speaking softly into the silence that had descended upon the hillside, as the opposing centuries waited for the spectacle to commence.
‘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.’
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 16
