Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

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.’