Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘Centurion Corvus!’

He stopped and turned back, coming to attention as he recognised the First Spear’s booming voice.

‘First Spear.’

The other man walked up to him, ignoring the curious stares of the other officers, standing almost toe to toe in order to speak in quiet but fierce tones.

‘I hear that you’ve invited an enlisted man to try his luck this morning?’

Marcus swallowed, more afraid of the other man than of the morning’s coming events.

‘Yes, sir, a troublemaker called Antenoch. He’ll get his chance to see what his new officer’s made of.’

Frontinius stared at him without expression, gauging his new centurion’s composure.

‘As will we all… It was bound to happen, of course, since they’ve no way to measure you against their own standards. I wasn’t expecting it quite so soon, though…’

He turned away, leaving Marcus uncertain as to whether he should wait or walk away. Frontinius turned back, nodding his head slightly.

‘At least you had the sense to call his bluff. One piece of advice, though, Centurion…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Win.’ Half an hour later the cohort’s centuries marched out into the dawn’s growing light, down through the tight little township that clung to the fort’s skirts. Dressed in their training rig of tunics, leggings and boots, they carried shields and wooden swords in readiness for the morning’s training exercises. A few windows opened to allow curious children to peer out at the marching men, searching for the men their mothers had pointed out to them on other occasions. The drizzle was still falling, whipped into misty curtains of tiny silver droplets by the eddying wind, making the air both cold and damp. Rufius strolled alongside his century, conversing with his standard-bearer with a carefully calculated indifference.

‘I hear that there’s a score being settled on parade this morning?’

The muscular standard-bearer nodded quickly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly to his front.

‘So we all hear, Centurion. Apparently the other new officer has decided to let one of his men try to take him down with sword and shield.’

Rufius stole a sideways glance at the other man.

‘Really? And who is this soldier that’s so keen to test my colleague?’

A snorted laugh gave him a clue as to the man’s likely loyalties.

‘Test? Antenoch will break his ribs and send the boy packing back to Mummy in under a minute. The man’s a lunatic, except he doesn’t need the full moon to release his madness half the time. Your young friend had better know what he’s getting into!’

Rufius lifted an eyebrow.

‘My young friend? All I did was arrive here at the same time he did. Besides, if he can’t look after himself…’

The standard-bearer nodded approvingly at the sentiment, and Rufius pressed on with his gambit.

‘I also hear that a man can place a wager with you and expect the bet to be honoured?’

The other man looked at him warily, taking his eyes of the road for the first time.

‘No, man, I’m not about to interfere with your business, far from it. I just wondered what odds you’re offering this morning?’

The standard-bearer frowned at him, almost tripping over a loose cobble in the road.

‘Odds? You want to place a bet on another officer getting a beating?’

Rufius grinned at him in reply.

‘I think you’ll find, Standard-bearer, that I’m a little more financially aware than the average officer. Now, odds! Unless you want to find your opportunities to fleece your fellow soldiers somewhat more restricted than they are now…’

The standard-bearer’s eyes narrowed.

‘I’m offering five to four on the lunatic, five to one the centurion.’

‘And how’s the betting so far?’

‘Heavy on Antenoch, which is no surprise, and not a single coin on the boy.’

Rufius nodded.

‘No surprise at all. I think I ought to have a small sum on my colleague, show my solidarity… shall we say a nice discreet twenty-five denarii on the officer…?’

The standard-bearer’s eyes widened, and Rufius stared back at him levelly.

‘And, before you blurt out anything we might both regret, the deal is this. You don’t tell anyone I wagered with you, to avoid spoiling my reputation, while I keep my bet strictly between us, to avoid spoiling your odds. You still make a nice profit, you keep your business intact, and I might just make some money. It might be an idea to ease the centurion’s odds in a little, though, just in case he should actually be quicker with a sword than you’ve given him credit for… And smile, man. If I’m right I’ll be the only person you pay out to today.’

Marcus’s 9th Century was at the rear of the column, under the watchful eye of the First Spear, who marched this morning alongside Dubnus, in the chosen man’s place at the century’s rear. Marcus winced inwardly as the Briton cursed his way down the hill, sufficiently enraged by the poor standard of marching discipline to dive into the ranks and pull one offender out to walk alongside him, slapping the miscreant with every misplaced step.

Reaching the parade ground, spread across the floor of the valley below the steep approach to the fort, the cohort broke into century-sized groups, as the centurions and their senior soldiers marshalled the troops into their parade positions. Marcus stepped out in front of his century, suddenly calm in the moment of decision. Turning, he found Dubnus’s face looming over the century in his accustomed place to the rear of the ranks of soldiers, his long brass-knotted chosen man’s pole shining dimly in the early morning’s pale light, and took strength from its stolid set.

A shouted command floated down the ranks of men, ordering the unit to commence the set routine of warm-up exercises that would prepare them for their morning training session. Grateful for the distraction, Marcus watched the centurions to either side carefully, copying each new bend and stretch, taking pleasure in the physical exercise. His new command, he noticed, were less enthusiastic. After fifteen minutes the order to commence training was passed down the line. Marcus braced himself and stepped forward, closing to within a few paces of his front rank, meeting the suspicious and hostile gazes of those of his men that he could see with a careful mask of indifference.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. Normally we’ll start the morning by rotating the tent parties between sword, spear and shield training. Today, however, since I’m new to most of you, we’ll start with a demonstration of the kind of swordsmanship I’m going to expect from you. Do I have a volunteer to help me demonstrate?’

Antenoch shouldered his way to the front rank, his long plaited hair matted by the falling drizzle. He stepped out in front of Marcus, his mouth set in an implacable white-lipped slash.

‘I volunteer for that privilege.’

Marcus ignored the sneering note in the other man’s voice, taking his wooden practice sword from its place at his waist, then called for another, hefting the practice weapons as if testing their relative weights. His lips were suddenly cold in the chill air, and his fingers slightly numb, as they’d been that afternoon on the road to Yew Grove. And then, in the instant of settling the swords into their accustomed positions at his sides, ready to lift into the long-practised fighting stance, having the handle of a weapon in each hand was suddenly, mercifully, the most natural thing in the world. He felt an almost blissful return to the simple disciplines drummed into him during the thousands of sunny afternoons of his childhood, and a moment of simplicity in the heart of his personal confusion. I can do this, he suddenly thought to himself, and the spark of belief lit a cold fire that ignited in his belly, something deeper than anger, calmer than rage. Cold, rational, calculating purpose filled the place where doubt and confusion had circled each other, events slowing to a more relaxed pace as his brain adjusted to its unexpected confidence. I can do this, he told himself with surprise. I grew up doing this.