Furius’s face took on a sly look.
‘You fought at the battle of the Lost Eagle, Centurion?’
‘Yes, sir,’
‘And that was where my cohort took the casualties for which we need these replacements?’
‘Yes sir,’
‘And, I’ve heard, it was only the intervention of the Second Cohort that saved the First from being overrun by barbarians?’
Tertius realised where the prefect was taking the discussion.
‘Absolutely true, Prefect, we saved their skins all right. One of their centurions said as much to me not an hour ago. Of course, it was the First Cohort that did most of the damage to the barb…’
Furius spread his hands and shrugged.
‘Well, there you are. We take a century’s worth of damage saving our sister cohort from the mess they’d managed to get into, and they get all the replacements. That can hardly be right, now, can it? Eh, Centurion?’
Tertius knew which side to be on in this discussion.
‘Of course not, sir. In which case we ought to be up and away no later than dawn, or run the risk of an unpleasant argument on the subject. I’ve met the officers who’re here to collect those men, and I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong end of their unhappiness.’
Furius smiled knowingly.
‘Yes, I guessed as much. The replacements’ centurion has promised to have our century paraded and ready to go at first light, so let’s get some sleep. Dismissed, gentlemen. Ah… one more question.’
The officers paused expectantly.
‘Another story I’ve heard a few times is that there’s a fugitive believed to be sheltering with one of the wall cohorts. Apparently this fellow is the last living member of a family that the emperor chose to liquidate, but his father sent him away to the northern frontier before the axe fell. There would be great imperial favour for the man that turned him in, perhaps a promotion. So spread the word, the man that identifies this traitor to me will be handsomely rewarded. Very handsomely.’
The First Tungrian officers rose early, and made the short walk to the transit barracks just as the sun was inching clear of the horizon. Expecting to find the barrack office empty, they were surprised to find the transit centurion already on duty. Rufius sized the man up with a swift glance, looking around the white-walled office with apparent indifference.
‘Greetings, Centurion. We’re here for two centuries of Tungrian infantry, reserved for collection by the First Tungrian cohort by order of Legatus Equitius, Sixth Imperial Legion. Point us at them and we’ll get them off your ration strength.’
The transit officer was a sparsely haired man of about forty, his uniform clearly legion issue. He rose from his chair with an apologetic expression and crossed the small room with two limping paces.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen; I have only the one century for you. There’s a lot of demand for replacements, as I’m sure you’ll be aware …’
He dried up under the stare of four suddenly very hostile men. Julius stepped in closer to him, raising a finger to silence his apology.
‘We were here last night, Centurion, probably long after you’d gone to hide in your quarters. And we saw two centuries of prime infantry ready for collection. So how, I wonder, does that become one century overnight?’
He raised an eyebrow and waited for a response. The other man spread his hands helplessly.
‘Another officer turned up an hour ago, a prefect with two centurions in tow. He gave me a direct order to sign him out a century of the Tungrians to replace battle losses, so I… I did.’
Rufius nudged Dubnus.
‘Go on, lad, you know the routine.’
The powerfully built young centurion stepped past the transit officer, looking carefully at the wooden floorboards. Rufius spoke conversationally, his attention apparently focused on the barrack dimly visible through the office’s open window in the early morning light.
‘We know how it is, Centurion. You’re in possession of one of the most valuable resources for a hundred miles and more. It must be quite a temptation when you’re stuck here in this shitty little port with, what, five years left to serve? So when a senior officer turns up and offers you a combination of stick and carrot to sign him out a few dozen men, well, you find yourself wondering why you should end up with a load of grief when there’s money to be made, don’t you? This officer had a name, I presume?’
The transit officer watched Dubnus’s progress round the office with increasing trepidation.
‘He… ah… he signed as…’
He opened his record tablet with trembling fingers, scanning the words inscribed into the wax with a speed borne of fear.
‘… as Prefect Furius, Second Tungrian cohort.’
Julius’s scowl deepened.
‘The bloody Second Cohort. I should have known it. This new prefect of theirs must be keen. Uncle Sextus will shit a cow when he finds out.’
‘Found it!’
They turned to see Dubnus levering a loose floorboard away with his dagger. Throwing the wood to one side, he fished inside the cavity between floor and ground, pulling out a purse. He tossed it to Rufius, who hefted the small leather bag in his hand.
‘Nice and heavy. Must be a decent enough sum. You know what they say, though — only take a bribe if the sum involved will compensate for the punishment you’ll get for taking it. And in this case the punishment’s going to be quite severe.’
‘But I…’
Julius stepped forward, taking a handful of the wilting centurion’s tunic in one meaty fist.
‘No, I don’t think so. “But I…” isn’t going to be enough to get you out of this one. First off, you’ve pissed us off. We came here for two centuries to replace our losses from the battle of Lost Eagle. You heard about that one? You know, how one cohort was sent to take on the whole barbarian army. How that cohort held its line for an hour and more, and kept the blue-noses in place until the rest of the army turned up? Well?’
He prodded the centurion to get a response.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. And the bad news for you is that cohort was us. We all had good friends killed that day, and we’re not in much of a mood to be messed about. Ever noticed how the road officers tend not to take their usual liberties with men who’ve recently seen combat? Ever wondered why?’ He slapped the centurion twice, lazy blows that twisted the man’s head to the left and right. ‘Now you’re about to find out. Second, our prefect that morning now commands Sixth Legion. You’re still part of Sixth Legion, so when we report this balls-up to him, he’ll likely have you dismissed the service. He hates this sort of corrupt behaviour. Third, my first spear is a right nasty bastard. He’ll want to have you strangled with your own guts when he finds out he’s been done over for a century of men he badly needs, men whose absence could place the entire cohort in peril.’ He clenched his fist tighter, lifting the now terrified man on to his toes without any apparent effort. ‘So, first we’ll beat seven colours of shit out of you, take our one remaining century and leave, and in about a week or so you’ll be a civilian, with no citizenship and no pension. And some time later, some time you’ll never predict, the First Tungrian cohort will find you and leave you in a ditch with the life running out of you. It’s nothing personal, it’s just what you get for pissing off front-line troops. Dubnus, you can have this one.’
‘The Hamians!’
The centurion’s voice was little better than a squeak. Julius snorted his disdain.
‘What about the Hamians? Useless bow-waving women. All they’re good for is hunting game. There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed. We need infantrymen, big lads with spears and shields to strengthen our line. Archers are no bloody use in an infantry cohort.’
He raised his meaty fist.
‘No, mate, you’re going to get what’s coming your way.’
The other man gabbled desperately, staring helplessly at the poised fist.
‘There’s two centuries o
f them, two centuries. Take them and the Tungrians and that’s two hundred and fifty men.’
Marcus spoke, having stood quietly in the background so far.
‘So we could make a century of the best of them, dump the rest on the Second Cohort when we catch up with them and take back the century he sold them in return.’
Julius turned his head to look at the younger man, keeping the transit officer clamped in place with seemingly effortless strength.
‘Are you mad? There won’t be a decent man among them. They’ll be arse-poking, make-up-wearing faggots, the lot of them. All those easterners are, it’s in the blood. They’ll mince round the camp holding hands and tossing each other off in the bathhouse. Let’s just …’
Marcus spoke over him with quiet assurance.
‘I’ll tell you what, Julius, Rufius gets the Tungrians and I’ll take the Hamians as a double-strength century and weed out the weaklings for dumping on the Second Cohort when next we meet. Or shall we just go back to The Hill still one hundred and seventy men light?’
Julius sighed deeply, then turned back to the transit officer.
‘It must be your lucky day. Here’s the deal. We take the Tungrians, the Hamians, both centuries, mind, and the money. You keep your place here, and perhaps, just perhaps, we don’t hunt you down and kill you. Deal?’
‘Yes!’
He pushed the terrified centurion away, hard enough to bounce him off the office’s wall.
‘Right, Two Knives, you’d better go and get your men ready to move. Let’s see just how bad this is going to be. Oh yes, and there’s this…’
He turned back quickly, jabbing a fist into the transit officer’s face and breaking his nose with an audible crack, then threw a right hook into the reeling man’s jaw which dropped him dazed to the wooden floor.
‘Prick.’
Marcus crossed from the transit office to the closest barrack and opened a door at random. Inside the barrack’s stone-built cell, packed in like sardines on a market stall and dimly lit by the single small window through which the dawn’s chill was seeping into the room, eight Hamians were waiting quietly, fully equipped and ready to march. Raising an intrigued eyebrow, he walked briskly up the line of eight-man rooms to the officers’ quarters, rapped once on the door and walked in. The three olive-skinned men waiting for him snapped to attention, the tallest of them making direct eye contact in a way he guessed was designed to communicate status. He was well built, with wide-set brown eyes above a strong nose and a broad jaw, black hair cropped close to his scalp. Making the instant appraisal of all first meetings, Marcus was struck by the apparent unassuming confidence in the man’s gaze, direct but without any challenge.
‘At ease, gentlemen. Who’s the ranking soldier here?’
The tall Hamian nodded briefly, keeping eye contact.
‘I am, Centurion.’
‘Your rank?’
‘I am Acting Centurion Qadir ibn Jibran ibn Mus’ab, Centurion. I currently command both this century and the other, barracked across the way.’
Marcus nodded, looking at the other two men with a raised eyebrow.
‘These men are my seconds, Hashim and Jibril, Centurion.’
‘I see. Very well, Acting Centurion, I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, your new centurion. Your two centuries are to join the First Tungrian cohort as an over-strength century, as replacement for our losses in recent battle. You shall be my chosen man, and these two men your watch officers. You’ll need two if you’re to manage that many men. Perhaps it would be better if you were to provide your men with their commands for the time being, until I have the measure of their command of Latin?’
The Hamian nodded with an impressive imperturbability.
‘Certainly, Centurion. Shall I parade the men? We are ready to march, as you may have seen.’
Marcus frowned.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, your name again?’
‘Please simply call me Qadir, Centurion.’
‘Thank you. And why… why are you ready for the road, I mean? I expected you all still to be sleeping.’
Qadir smiled, placing both hands behind his back and bowing minutely.
‘It was not hard to predict your arrival. The noise of the Tungrian century departing ensured that we were awake, and once it became clear to us that they had been bribed out of the transit officer it was easy enough to guess that we would be part of the compensation he would offer to you. I saw one of your colleagues checking the Tungrians last night, and he didn’t look like a man who would take disappointment quietly. We have been here for three weeks now, watching other centuries arrive and leave, but now the barrel is clearly empty.’
Marcus fought the urge to smile.
‘I see. Very well, Chosen Man Qadir, please parade the centuries for inspection.’
The big man nodded deferentially and spoke a few soft words to his comrades. They left the room in silence, leaving Marcus and Qadir alone in the quiet of the small room. The Hamian seemed content to wait for Marcus to speak first.
‘How long have you been acting centurion, Qadir?’
‘Six months, sir. And eight years before that as a soldier, watch officer and chosen man.’
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
‘Eight years from recruitment to centurion? They must make officers very quickly wherever it is that you’ve come from. Either that or you’re something special. I apologise for taking your command. You’ll get it back soon enough, once we catch up with our sister cohort.’
‘And exchange us for the men they stole this morning? I think that will take longer than you imagine, Centurion, and even when you do there will be another man posted to command my archers. Do not trouble yourself on my behalf. As long as I am with my people and have the strength to bend my bow I need nothing more.’
Marcus paced to the window, looking out into the grey dawn at the mustering Hamians.
‘Archers. I’m afraid that archers are not what’s needed now, not while there are barbarian warbands in the field.’
The other man appeared at his shoulder, his soft voice close to Marcus’s ear.
‘We had guessed as much. While we sat here and waited, centuries of men with heavy armour and spears were in and out in less than a day. It soon became clear enough to us that our having been sent here was a cruel mistake. Now that we are yours to command, it is my expectation that we will soon have heavier armour than this…’ He fingered the thin rings of his light mail vest, drawing Marcus’s attention to its insubstantial nature compared with his own mail, which was both longer and significantly heavier. ‘… and spears of our own.’
Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed in appraisal of the soldiers parading outside the window. They were wiry for the most part, a few simply skinny, more bone and sinew than muscle, though they shared the broad powerful shoulders that defined their skill at arms. Their mail looked too flimsy to resist a determined spear or sword-thrust, their conical helmets lacked cheek guards, and their impractically light shields were circular rather than being shaped to fully protect a soldier’s body. None of the equipment on show would act as adequate protection in a pitched battle.
‘Can your men run?’
‘If you mean over a distance, the answer is yes, Centurion. We are hunters, for the most part, used to covering ground in search of game. How they will perform weighed down with mail coats and heavy shields such as your men carry is another question. But I make one request of you, Centurion, and that is not to take their bows from them. To do so would be a grave mistake.’
Marcus turned to face the Hamian, his face creasing into a frown.
‘As soon as I can manage it they’ll be issued with a thigh-length coat of heavy ring mail capable of stopping a spear, a leather arming vest to wear underneath it and protect their skin from the mail’s rings when that spear-thrust arrives, an infantry gladius, two spears, an infantry helmet and a full-length shield. All of which weighs more than you might imagine until the first time you put it all on. Th
en they’ll have to march, or run, up to thirty miles a day once we’re on campaign. The additional burden of a bow isn’t going to help them cope with the load.’
Qadir spread his arms, palms upwards, and bowed, his eyes remaining fixed on Marcus’s.
‘I understand, Centurion, and I can see that you are right. And yet…’ He paused, searching for the right words to make his point without angering his new officer. ‘… Centurion, to take their bows will be to take their souls. Each man has grown close to his weapon, over long years of practice. He has fired thousands of arrows in practice, until he can put an iron head into a target the size of a man’s chest at one hundred paces, and can do this six times in one minute. The very core of what these men have learned over those years is that to hit the target time after time after time they must lose all awareness of themselves, simply focus on the centre of their target and become servant to the bow that seeks that target. These two centuries contain some of the best bowmen I have ever seen loose an arrow, capable of great accuracy with weapons they have come to love as dearly as their own children. And so I tell you, with very great respect to your rank and obvious character, that if these men lose their bows then they will also lose their hearts. And a century of men without heart…’
‘… would be of little use to anyone?’
‘Exactly so, Centurion. Exactly so. And now, with your forgiveness, perhaps I have embarrassed myself enough for one morning. Shall we review your new command, Centurion Corvus?’
Marcus inclined his head, gesturing for the Hamian to precede him through the quarters’ low doorway. Outside, in the early morning chill, the two centuries were paraded along the barrack’s frontage in a long double line. He walked along the length of both centuries, looking intently at the faces that stared fixedly to their front. Their eyes were bright enough, although their skin was sallow with lack of sunlight. Dubnus strode across from the transit office to join him, casting an unhappy glance down the line.
‘Maponus help us. Two centuries of underweight bath dodgers whose only skill is hunting game for the pot. Quite how we’re going to turn this lot into infantrymen is beyond me. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, you take the Tungrians and I’ll have these. I can…’
Arrows of Fury e-2 Page 6
