Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

Equitius’s eyes widened with genuine surprise.

‘Yes. He’s being issued with his equipment now.’

The prefect smiled quietly.

‘Thank you. You’ve allowed me to discharge a debt to Sollemnis.’

The senior centurion grimaced.

‘We’ll see. All I’ve agreed to is to give him a chance. One I fully expect him to fail to grasp. In return I get two centurions for the price of one. Or, more likely, one very good centurion and a corpse for quiet burial…’

Equitius stared at him questioningly. His First Spear smiled grimly in return.

‘Well, you didn’t think I was going to let a fully trained legion centurion slip through my fingers, did you? I had a quiet chat with Tiberius Rufius earlier today and he made me an interesting proposition, given our current dearth of trained centurions. It’s a deal I resolved to accept only if there was a hint of talent in young Corvus — which, to be fair, there is. Your friend the legatus gets a hiding place for his son, and in return I get the use of his man Rufius until the first snowfall of next winter. Sounds like fair barter to me.’

Marcus didn’t realise how his place with the Tungrians had been secured until the soldier ordered to take him to the fort’s stores for equipping pointed him through the door into their twilight world. Quintus Tiberius Rufius stood waiting for him beside the long wooden counter, a pile of equipment and clothing stacked next to him. Marcus paused in the doorway for a moment, adjusting to both the gloom and his own surprise.

‘Quintus, what are you…’

The older man grinned sheepishly, clearly torn between his pleasure at being back in uniform and what his presence said for the provenance of his friend’s recruitment.

‘I’ve taken the salt again, lad, accepted the offer of a centurion’s berth for a year, or more if it works out well.’

Marcus made the connection, and his face creased with sudden anger.

‘So I get a chance to make a new start at the cost of your service? Well, it isn’t going to…’

He stopped speaking, brought to a halt by Rufius’s raised hand.

‘Just a moment, lad. You! Come here!’

The store’s clerk detached himself from the rack of spears behind which he’d been lurking, and unwillingly presented himself at the counter’s far side. Rufius shot out an arm, grasping him firmly by one ear and dragging his head across the broad expanse of age-polished wood.

‘Interesting, was it, our conversation?’

The head shook vigorously, or as much as possible with one ear pinned to the counter. Rufius drew his dagger, and slid the point under the pinned ear’s flesh, allowing the steel to caress its curve.

‘Good. Let’s be clear, if I hear anything about the last minute of my private conversation with my friend here repeated I’ll have this ear off your head within the hour. You might be an immune, but it won’t protect you from my blade. Got it?’

The head nodded frantically.

‘Good. Now go and hide in the back of this shed, and don’t come back out until I tell you to.’

The clerk vanished into the gloom without a backward glance. Rufius turned back to his friend with a wry smile.

‘One thing you learn early on, everything you say in a cohort’s stores is public property, just as sure as the stores officer is the richest man in the fort if he has an ounce of wit about him. Now, you were in the middle of telling me how you weren’t going to tolerate such treatment, my being blackmailed to serve with the cohort in return for your safety?’

‘I…’

Rufius raised his hands again, silencing the other man.

‘One moment. Before you say any more, I think I should make my position clear. When Sollemnis asked me to bring you here, he warned me that Prefect Equitius is desperately short of experienced officers. He cautioned me that Equitius, or more likely his First Spear, might try to induce me to serve here. And do you know, when he told me that my heart fairly leapt in my chest. You think I’m being blackmailed, and yes, Frontinius thinks that he’s extorted a bargain from me that serves him well, but the real winner here is me.’

Marcus frowned his lack of understanding.

‘But why? Surely you’ve earned an easier time after twenty-five years of service?’

Rufius reached into the pile of his new kit, pulling from it his vine stick, the twisted wood shiny from years of use.

‘See this? A simple piece of wood with no more value than kindling for a fire, until I pick it up. In my hands, however, it becomes the symbol of my authority. For fifteen years I carried another, very much like this, all over this country, until it was like part of my body. It was the first thing I reached for in the morning, and the last thing I put down at night, and let me tell you, I loved that life. And do you want to know the worst day of my twenty-five years under the eagle?’

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.’