Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

The watching soldiers tensed visibly, waiting for the answer.

‘Yes, sir. I believe that Soldier Antenoch is a valuable member of the century. He’s agreed only this morning to act as my orderly and clerk, and to provide advice as to the best way of getting things done in this cohort. Isn’t that right, Antenoch…?’

The Briton started up open mouthed at his officer, realising with sudden resignation that he’d been backed into a corner that had only two exits, acceptance or death.

‘Yes… Centurion…’

Frontinius smiled then, without mirth, his eyes locking with Antenoch’s.

‘Good. Very good. I shall look forward to hearing reports on your progress, Soldier Antenoch. Let us hope that you demonstrate your abilities sufficiently well that I forget all about this interesting episode. In the meantime, I’ll keep a pole sharpened above the gate…’

He turned to return to his place, brushing close to Marcus in the process and hissing a whispered comment at him.

‘Don’t push your luck, Centurion…’

Marcus turned back to his men, squaring his shoulders and glaring across the lines of suddenly fixed faces.

‘Very well, Antenoch, back into rank. We can discuss your new duties after morning exercise. Now, let’s examine what happened there. There are a couple of basic techniques for close combat that I want us to practise this morning…’

Morban smirked up at the lanky soldier standing next to him, enjoying the sick look on his face.

‘I believe that’s fifty you owe me, sonny. Did I forget to mention that our new centurion was a member of the imperial bodyguard before he asked the emperor if he could come and see the blue-noses at first hand? Never mind, since you’d only have spent it on whores at least it’ll end up in the same purse. Even if they’ll have a harder time earning it!’

Off parade, Dubnus drew Antenoch into Marcus’s quarters with irresistible force, pushing the defeated soldier into the room in front of him. Marcus, waiting in his chair with his sword unsheathed across his knee, nodded to the chosen man, who pushed the soldier into the middle of the room. With the shutters closed against the rain and cold, and the room only dimly lit by a pair of oil lamps, the young centurion’s face looked brooding, lit with menace. Antenoch turned and glared at him, putting his hands on his hips in carefully calculated insult. The big chosen man bared his teeth in a half-snarl, half-sneer, pulling the dagger from his belt.

‘I’ll go and sharpen the stake over the main gate. It’ll be waiting for you.’

He looked over at Marcus as he turned to leave, shaking his head.

‘Do not trust him. Keep your sword ready.’

When the door was closed, Marcus reached into his tunic, holding out the other man’s knife. Antenoch took it from his outstretched hand, looking closely at the blade for a long moment, staring past it at Marcus.

‘Wondering if it’d be worth another try at planting that thing between my ribs?’

The Briton said nothing for another moment, pursing his lips as he slipped the weapon back into its familiar resting place.

‘No.’

‘Because I spared you even after you tried to kill me?’

‘No.’

‘Then why?’

‘Because I don’t think I’d get close enough… They’ve got a nickname for you, those cattle out there, they always do with officers. It was going to be Wetnose, until this morning. Now it’s Two Knives!’

He spat the words out. Marcus smiled levelly.

‘Two Knives? Like the gladiator? It could be worse, for a man in my situation.’

Antenoch’s eyes narrowed.

‘The rumours are that you’re the son of a rich man, just stupid enough to want to slum it with us for a while.’

‘Rumours you’ll encourage if you want to be my clerk…’

The Briton bristled at the suggestion.

‘Want to be your clerk? Fuck you!’

Marcus sat back, laughing gently at the incensed soldier, tapping the hilt of his sword.

‘Sit down, Antenoch, and think for a moment.’

He waited until the other man had slumped gloomily on to his bed before continuing.

‘You’re obviously an educated man, well spoken in a language which is not your native tongue. You should be an administrator to some local official, or a trader, not a common soldier on the Wall, miles from anywhere with decent food and women you don’t have to pay for. What happened?’

‘Mind your own fucking business!’

‘Come on, man, what can it hurt to tell me? I won’t be sharing the story with anyone else.’

‘You’ll tell Dubnus, and he’ll tell Morban, and he’ll…’

‘You have my word. I’ve little else of value, so it should be of some note.’

The quiet response silenced Antenoch far more effectively than a bellowed command might have. Strangely, his face softened as if with repressed memories.

‘I was adopted by a merchant in the wool trade when I was young, after my mother died, and raised as his son, alongside his own boy. I never knew my father, although I often wondered if I was actually the merchant’s bastard child. Taught to read and write, and to speak well. I imagined that I would find some place in his business, until my “brother” took it into his head that I was supplanting him in his father’s affections. He poisoned the old man against me, slowly but surely, and I ended up on the street with a handful of coins and their “best wishes”. So… I decided to earn the one thing they never could buy, for all their money, and become a Roman citizen. I planned to go back to them after my twenty-five, as an officer, of course, and snap my fingers at them as second-class citizens in their own country. Cocidius help me, I was so stupid!’

‘And now you’re stuck here.’

Antenoch looked up, his eyes red.

‘And you’re so clever? The only difference between us seems to be one of rank, Centurion, since you apparently have nowhere better to go than the arse-end of your own empire!’

Again Marcus’s response was instinctively gentle, defusing the Briton’s anger.

‘And that should make us more likely allies than enemies. Will you work with me or against me? You’d make a first-class centurion’s clerk, and with a little polish you could be one of the best swordsmen in the cohort. Besides, I could do with someone to watch my back…’

He tailed off, his persuasive skills exhausted, and wisely waited in the unnerving silence rather than spout nonsense to fill the silence. Antenoch levelled his stare, his face set hard.

‘And if I won’t, you’ll set that bastard Frontinius on me. What choice do I have?’

Marcus shook his head emphatically.

‘No, the choice has to be yours. Besides, nobody does my dirty work for me any more. Look, I need a man I can trust behind me in a knife fight, not one waiting for the chance to carve my shoulder blades apart. What do you need?’

The response was slow and measured, the Briton thinking through his position aloud.

‘I need a chance to be something other than the wild man those fools have labelled me… I’d like to learn some of those fancy tricks you pulled on me this morning. I want that bastard Dubnus to speak to me with a little respect, rather than looking at me as if I were something he scraped off the bottom of his boot.’

He looked up at Marcus, calculation written across his face.

‘What’s the pay?’

‘Standard pay, but I’ll make you an immune. You’ll never have to shovel shit away from the latrines again, just as long as you’re my man.’

Antenoch pulled a face and nodded.

‘Very well, we have a deal… but you should beware one small fact, Centurion Two Knives.’

Marcus grimaced in his turn.

‘And that is…?’