Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

Together they represented the 9th’s heart and soul. Morban, as the century’s standard-bearer, was also the treasurer of the funeral club that ensured each man a decent burial, whether serving or retired. Squat and muscular, ugly, balding and approaching the ripe age of forty, with twenty-two years in the cohort, Morban was at the same time the 9th’s greatest cynic and the fiercest protector of its currently flimsy reputation among the other centuries. More than one soldier had found his head locked under Morban’s thick arm while the big man went to work at a brief but effective facial rearrangement.

‘Dubnus, you great oaf, good to see you back. Not so good, however, after a long day locked away in an audit of the funeral club records, to find that spotty little oik of a trumpeter waiting as I came off duty. What’s so urgent that I didn’t even have the time to nip over and see my lad on guard duty? Not that I mind the chance to put a beaker or two away…’

The steward ambled up with full beakers, managing to spill a good splash down Morban’s tunic in the process of handing them over. The standard-bearer gripped him by the front of his own tunic, pulling him down to face level, almost bent double.

‘Very fucking funny. These just became free beers, or you can clean my tunic with your tongue.’

The retired soldier scuttled away, cursing under his breath. Morban scowled after him to reinforce the point, tipping his beaker back for long enough to put half its contents down his throat.

‘Right, lad, what’s your problem?’

Dubnus drank from his own measure, setting the beaker down and staring at his friend for a moment before he spoke in his own language.

‘You’ve not heard, then?’

‘Heard what? I told you, I’ve been knee deep in records scrolls all day.’

Dubnus took a drink, drawing the moment out.

‘You’ve got new officers, Morban, a chosen man and a centurion.’

‘Chosen man and centurion? Who’s the chosen?’

‘I am.’

The burly standard-bearer’s face lit up with pleasure as he leaned over the table and slapped Dubnus’s shoulder in congratulation.

‘Excellent, best news I’ve had all day. Be good to have a real soldier stood behind the Ninth for a change…’

His face became sly, sudden realisation dawning.

‘And I presume this means that halfwit Trajan got his marching orders?’

Dubnus smiled evilly, dropping a bag of coins on to the table.

‘Soldier Trajan has declared his eagerness to make a donation to the funeral club, as atonement for all the money he fleeced from the Ninth’s rations budget in league with that greasy storeman Annius. Our new centurion actually ordered me to take him over the Wall on patrol and give him the choice, cough up the cash or take the consequences, at which point he coughed up quickly enough. A pity really, I would’ve enjoyed cracking his nuts…’

Morban drained his beaker, waving imperiously to the sulking steward for a refill.

‘Well, Dubnus, lad, you as our chosen, Trajan back in a tent party… which one, by the way?’

‘Second.’

‘The Second! Perfect! I imagine he’s biting on the leather strap even as we speak! Now, make my day complete, Chosen, and tell me who our new centurion might be, eh?’

Dubnus drank deeply again, eyeing the other man speculatively over the rim of his beaker, then put the drink down and took a deep breath.

‘That, Morban, is the bit I need your help with…’ Marcus woke at Dubnus’s rousing before dawn the next morning, blinking into the light of a small lamp placed next to his bed.

‘You report to the First Spear at dawn with all the other centurions. I’ve got your report here for you.’

The Briton watched while he washed in a bowl of cold water in the lamp’s tiny bubble of light, dragging a sharp knife across his stubble to reduce the growth to a tolerable shadow.

‘You don’t have to fight Antenoch. I’ll talk to him, tell him it wouldn’t be… wise. He’ll see reason soon enough…’

Marcus paused in his shave, cocking an eyebrow at his friend.

‘And when none of them respect me, seeing me hide behind your strength? What then? I have to do this, and I have to win if I’m to command here. All of the other centurions rose from the ranks, took their beatings and gave them back with interest, Frontinius made that perfectly clear to me yesterday. I have to prove that I can control my men by my own efforts, not simply through yours. But thank you…’

Dubnus shrugged, slapping a writing tablet into Marcus’s hand.

‘Your choice. Now, get dressed, tunic, armour and weapons, and go to the principia. Make your report. I’ll wake the century.’

Outside the cold dawn air was freckled with drizzle, a swirling curtain of wind-blown moisture soothing the heat in his recently shaved face. The headquarters building was quiet, a pair of soldiers standing guard at the entrance beneath the usual reliefs of Mars and Victory. Inside, at the far end of the basilica, stood another pair keeping the eternal vigil over the cohort’s inner sanctum, the Chapel of the Standards. Behind their swords lay not only the cohort’s battle standards, its very soul, but the unit’s pay and savings chests, heavy with the accumulated coin of the soldiers’ spending money and burial funds. Following the sound of voices, Marcus found the space outside the prefect’s office crowded with uniformed officers, bearded faces turning briefly to regard him with combinations of indifference and hostility, probably noting the threadbare nature of his tunic and the poor condition of his mail coat, before turning pointedly to ignore his presence.

Rufius emerged from the group, clearly already at ease among men whom he would naturally consider his equals, and walked across to Marcus’s side.

‘Morning, lad. Ready with your report?’

Marcus showed him the tablet.

‘Good. Speak up nice and loud, don’t let this lot put you off. You can’t expect them to accept you overnight… Now, I hear that you’re intending to demonstrate some of those “few things” again this morning?’

Marcus nodded, glum faced, making the veteran officer smile despite himself.

‘Don’t look so worried. All you’ve got to do is imagine that he’s a blue-nose looking at you down three feet of iron and I’m sure that the rest will come to you easily enough. Just remember, keep it simple. No fancy stuff, mind you, just put your toy sword into his ribs nice and hard and teach the stupid Brit some respect.’

He smiled encouragement before sidling back towards the group of centurions, nodding at some comment Marcus was unable to make out. One man, his hair and beard equally bristly in appearance, favoured him with a tight smile, and seemed about to open his mouth to speak when Sextus Frontinius stepped out of his office and called the gathering to attention.

‘Unit reports, gentlemen! First Century?’

One of the throng considered his writing tablet, solemnly intoning his report.

‘First Spear! First Century reports seventy-seven spears, three men on annual leave, nine men detached for duties beyond the Wall, two men sick and sixty-three men ready for duty.’

‘Second Century?’

‘First Spear! Second Century reports seventy-nine spears, five men on annual leave, one man sick and seventy-three men ready for duty.’

With the exception of the 6th Century, which had a detachment of fifty men escorting a delivery of weapons in from the main depot at Noisy Valley on the North Road, fifteen miles to the east, the reports were much the same. Marcus managed to stammer out his report when the time came, attracting more hostile glares from the other officers, then waited with burning cheeks for the session to end and allow him to escape. When it did the centurions milled about in idle conversation in the few minutes before the morning parade, leaving him to stand awkwardly to one side like the proverbial spare guest at a wedding for a moment before walking quietly away from the gathering. Whatever he’d expected, a friendly welcome did not seem to be on the agenda, and Rufius had clearly decided that he must find his way into the group without any obvious help.