Wounds of Honour: Empire I (13 page)

Marcus nodded, his anger fading to a sad resignation. Rufius gave a faraway look, his eyes seeing something other than the storehouse walls.

‘My worst day … it wasn’t the first one, at the recruiting camp in Gaul where I joined up, where they cut off all my hair and my new centurion chased us round the parade ground until we puked our guts up. It wasn’t the day when my century was ambushed in the Tava valley, and seventy-seven men became fifty-three and a collection of dying men and corpses in less than ten minutes. Brigantia forgive me, it wasn’t even the day that my wife died before her time, taken from me by the cold and the damp, although it’s a close-run race …’

He took a deep breath.

‘No, my very worst day in all that time was the very last one, when I had to hand my vine stick back to my legatus. It was a misty day, and the entire legion was on parade, centuries stretching away into the grey until they were invisible. All I had to do was march up the line of my cohort, take their salute, march to the legatus, hand him my vine stick, salute, about-face and watch the legion parade off. It seemed to take for ever, and yet it was over in the blink of an eye. I stood there beside him as the legion stamped off the parade ground, watching my cohort under the command of another man, a friend that I’d been grooming for the job for years, chosen from among my centurions. It was like watching your wife on another man’s arm …’

He turned from the memory, fixing Marcus with a serious stare.

‘So,
Centurion
, when Sextus Frontinius smiles at you, and you know full well that he’s thinking that he’s got an experienced officer at the expense of your troubling him for just as long as it takes to find a reason to declare you a failure, here’s what you say to yourself – Quintus Tiberius Rufius is as happy as a pig in the deepest shit he can find. And you, my lad, are not going to fail. Not with me here to keep you straight. Got that?’

Marcus nodded, blowing out a pent-up breath.

‘Got it.’

‘Good. Now, have they told you who your chosen man’s going to be? I only ask because Frontinius made a special point of telling me on the way down here. He seemed to think it was quite funny.’

Marcus nodded again, his lips pursed with foreboding.

‘So would I, if I didn’t think it was going to be
so
damned difficult …’

To the Roman’s huge surprise Dubnus took the news of Marcus’s appointment as centurion to the cohort’s 9th Century, with himself as the new chosen man, with perfect equanimity. He waited until they were alone in his centurion’s quarters before tackling the subject head on. Dubnus looked at him without any obvious emotion, shrugging his shoulders.

‘You’re worried that I’m angry about this, but you don’t need to be. I’m not angry, and I don’t want to talk about it. Now get into uniform and let’s go and look at what we’ve got here.’

Marcus persisted, not willing to believe it could be that simple from the big Briton’s perspective.

‘We
need
to talk, Dubnus, and it won’t wait. I …’

‘You’re a centurion. I’m a chosen man. I’ll do as you command. This is not a problem.’

‘But you’re a warrior, a true soldier. I walk into your fort, already owing you a life, and get promoted to centurion just like
that
? You should want to put your fist through my face! How can you take this so easily?’

‘Perhaps you’ll be a real centurion. I content myself with being the best chosen man in the cohort instead, better than half of the officers, and they know it. But I’ll never be a centurion, I’ve already been told as much.’

Marcus realised in a flash what was holding the man back, stunned both by the insight and the way the other man had been held from his potential.

‘You’ve been told that you won’t be an officer so many times, you’ve stopped even trying. What my father used to call a “self-fulfilling prophecy”. Look, the First Spear told me all about your father, and how he was deposed from his throne when you were still a boy, how he sent you here when he was dying. He told me that he doesn’t believe you’ll fight your own people when the time comes, that he believes you’re the best soldier in the cohort to satisfy your wounded pride, not because you want to serve. He doubts your commitment, Dubnus, not your abilities …’

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 into 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 …’