Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

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…’

Dubnus cast a pitying sneer over the faces in front of him before speaking again, watching their faces lengthen with the understanding of his methods, passed by whispered word of mouth from his previous century.

‘You’re not soldiers, you’re a fucking waste of rations, a disgrace to the Tungrians! You look like shit, you smell like shit and you’re probably about as hard as shit! That will change! I will kick your lazy fucking arses up and down every hill in the country if I have to, but you will be real soldiers. I will make you ready to kill and die for the honour of this century, with spear or sword or your fucking teeth and nails if need be!’

Marcus cast a questioning look at him, half guessing that the chosen man was deviating from his script, but chose not to challenge his subordinate.

‘You’ll have better food, uniforms and equipment, and soon. Your retraining starts tomorrow morning, so prepare yourselves! Life in this century changes now!’

Dubnus smiled broadly, showing his teeth with pleasure.

‘Your hairy white arses are mine from this second. Get ready to grab your ankles.’

Marcus turned to Dubnus.

‘Once you’ve had a conversation with Soldier Trajan, you are to ensure that all barracks are cleaned out, fresh flooring is distributed, and that all men have practice equipment ready for morning exercises. I’ll see you on parade in the morning. Dismissed.’

‘Sir.’

Dubnus turned on his troops, spitting a stream of orders in all directions. Marcus walked away towards his quarter, only a tremor at the corner of one eye evidencing the exhaustion washing through his body. Sweeping the equipment off his bed, he collapsed gratefully on to the lumpy mattress, closed his eyes, and slept. Later that night, as Equitius settled into bed alongside his wife, he replayed the day’s events in his mind. A rueful shake of his head caught her attention.

‘Well then, you’ve been in a world of your own all evening. What is it?’

‘Eh? Oh… nothing. I received a replacement officer this morning… well, two, although one of them is a nineteen-year-old aristocrat fresh from the Grove. A gift from our good friend Gaius Calidius Sollemnis.’

‘Really? Did they bring news of the legatus and his family?’

Paccia was a close friend of the legatus’s wife and missed her visits to Yew Grove, recently made impractical by the growing enmity of the local Brigantians. Equitius was already wondering whether he shouldn’t pack her off down the North Road to the fortress and its relative safety from the border area’s uncertainties.

‘Again, of a sort… look, these new arrivals aren’t good news, not for Sollemnis and not for us. He sent them to us as a means of hiding a fugitive from the emperor.’

His wife propped herself up on one elbow, her forehead furrowed.

‘But why!? That’s treason, Septimus!’

‘Exactly. The lad’s his son, and that’s a pretty good reason for Sollemnis not to want him delivered for justice, plus he’s the adopted son of a Roman senator who was unjustly accused and executed by Commodus’s cronies as a means of appropriating his land and wealth.’

‘And therefore the son of a declared traitor. And you’ve agreed to harbour him inside this fort?’

‘I’ve made him a centurion, actually…’

Paccia sat up in bed, her eyes wide with fear and anger. He raised a hand to forestall her outburst.

‘Listen to me, Paccia, and listen well. I’ve served the empire in a succession of commands in places that neither of us really wanted. Do you remember Syria? That heat? The sand that got absolutely everywhere? The rain in Germania, and the cold? No man can accuse me of ever stinting in my loyalty to the throne, even when I could just have walked away to relax as a civilian. The boy is an innocent victim of imperial greed, and the gods know that should be enough for us. He is also the son of a man to whom I have a sworn debt of honour. He’s also a trained officer, praetorian in fact, and he brought an experienced legionary centurion here with him as well. That could be invaluable in the next few months.’

‘Septimus, I…’

‘No, Paccia, and I’ve never done this to you before, but no. The decision is made. When men in authority turn a blind eye to the iniquities of a misguided ruler all hope will be lost for the empire. He stays.’

He turned away on his side, setting his face obdurately against any further protest. And prayed to his gods that this was not a decision for which he would pay with both their lives. In the non-commissioned officers’ mess, Dubnus was sitting in a dark corner, nursing a leather cup less than a quarter full of the thick, sweet local beer. Morban, the 9th Century’s standard-bearer and in both age and rank his superior, came through the door, his squat frame filling the frame for a moment while he searched out his friend. Finding his man, he raised an arm in salute, grasping the passing mess steward by his arm, propelling him towards the serving counter with a command for ‘two beers, and make them full to the brim this time’, before waddling across the room to plump himself into the chair facing Dubnus.