Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

The battered face split into a happy grin.

‘While my good friend Julius already knows from your performance this morning that he’d have no more chance against you than I would.’

His good friend Julius snorted his disgust again, peering disdainfully down his nose.

‘Pretty swordsmen don’t necessarily make good officers. Especially when they have no idea about soldiering. He’ll give up soon enough, once the Ninth sees through him.’

He sized Rufius up with a swift up-and-down glance, nodding with some measure of respect.

‘I hear you’ve done your time with the legions — come and see me in my quarter if you’d like to talk soldier to soldier.’

He strode from the mess, slamming the door behind him. Marcus swallowed his anger, forcing himself to smile again.

‘This morning…? I was lucky that Antenoch was stupid enough give me a warning. I’m still rusty from too long on the road.’

The bristly-haired officer raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Still rusty, eh? In that case old Otho had best jump you while you’re still polishing up! I’m Caelius, by the way, centurion of the Fourth Century, although my men call me “Hedgehog” when they think I’m not listening…’ He paused and stroked his prickly scalp for effect. ‘… can’t imagine why! Otho here, also known as “Knuckles”, although you might have guessed that from the state of his face, has the Eighth. Julius, not unreasonably known as “Latrine” since he is, as you can see, built like the cohort shithouse, has the Fifth. Your chosen man was his chosen man until you arrived, hence his sulking demeanour. He’s having to work for a living now, instead of lounging around here and letting the Prince get on with doing the hard work for him.’

He waved an arm around the other centurions.

‘As for the rest of your colleagues, there’s Milo, or “Hungry”, since he’s forever eating and still skinny as a spear, he’s got the Second, and Clodius the “Badger”, both for his hair and his temper. He keeps the Third in a permanent state of terror.’

The centurion Marcus and Dubnus had encountered earlier on the road inclined his head in an impassive nod.

‘Brutus has the Seventh, and has seen more action than the rest of us put together with never a scratch on his baby-soft skin, which is why he answers to “Lucky”. Lastly there’s Titus, or “Bear”, he’s got the Tenth, which is our century of axemen. When we’re in the field they specialise in tree-felling and field defences, and they fight with their axes like barbarians, so they all have to be great big brutes like him. “Uncle Sextus” has the First Century, but you already know that. Anyway, introductions made, will you join us in a drink?’

Wine was procured by the steward, which Rufius tasted and instantly judged to have come off second best to the long journey from its birthplace.

‘Actually, it was wine I came to discuss with you, apart from making our introductions. You see, we made a deal with your deeply unpleasant storeman just now, included in which were a dozen large jars of a rather nice red from Hispania. Perhaps the mess could use them? As a gift from the new boys, you understand.’

Caelius smiled at them with renewed warmth, knocking back a large swig from his own beaker and wiping his moustache with the palm of his hand.

‘Well, after six months of drinking this issue filth, your gift would be as welcome as bread to a starving man. That slimy bastard Annius never even told us he had anything of the sort. Now, one good turn deserves another, so here’s a word of friendly advice for you, young Two Knives…’

He paused significantly.

‘If you want to keep the cold out up here, and look like an officer…’

He paused again portentously, making it clear that he was about to do his new colleague a great favour. Rufius raised a cautionary eyebrow over the man’s shoulder.

‘What you need to do is grow yourself a nice thick curly beard. You can grow a beard…?’

The cohort’s long stay in winter quarters began to draw to a close a fortnight after their arrival. The onset of warmer weather heralded the opening of spring’s campaign to revitalise the land. The change was much to the relief of officers at their wits’ end with containing the fallout of boredom and indiscipline that the winter’s long inactivity had bred in their troops. Marcus had already had one case to deal with from within the 9th, a tall, darkly surly, one-eyed soldier who went under the official name of Augustus and the unofficial title of ‘Cyclops’. It seemed that the name had as much to do with his poor temper as any more obvious reason.

Called out in the early hours by the duty officer, he found the man slumped, bruised and still bleeding from his nostrils, in a headquarters holding cell. The duty centurion, with some good fortune Caelius, who, Rufius excepted, was still his only real friend among the officers, shook his head more in sorrow than anger.

‘He’s known for it, I’m afraid. All it takes is for someone to find the right lever to tug at, the right jibe to set him off, and he goes off like a siege catapult. He’s been warned, fined, beaten, put on punishment details for weeks… nothing works. If this goes to Uncle Sextus he’ll get another beating, a really bad one this time, perhaps dishonourable dismissal too…’

Marcus looked in through the thick bars, weighing up the man slumped before him. While he’d learned a few names, and the characters behind them, the man was no more than an imperfectly remembered face in the cohort’s second rank on parade.

‘And what was the lever this time?’

‘We don’t know. He won’t say, and the men that beat the snot out of him are sticking to a story that he jumped them in the street outside the tavern they’d been drinking in, without warning or reason. Which is probably at least half true. You might not be surprised to learn that they’re both Latrine’s men.’

‘Hmmm. Open the door and leave me with him.’

Caelius shot him a surprised look.

‘Are you sure? He broke a man’s arm the last time he was in this state.’

‘And you think I couldn’t handle him?’

A sheepish grin spread over the other man’s face. He took a lead-weighted rod from his belt, tapping the heavy head significantly against his palm.

‘No, well, when you put it that way… Just shout if he gets naughty, and I’ll come and reintroduce him to the night officer’s best friend.’

He opened the door, drawing no reaction from the prisoner. Marcus leant against the door frame, waiting until Caelius was out of earshot in his tiny cubicle. In the guardroom next to the office a dozen men were dozing, sitting up on their bench, packed in tight like peas in a pod. The building was quiet, eerily so when it was usually so vibrant with activity during the day.

‘Soldier Augustus?’

The words met with no reaction.

‘Cyclops!’

The soldier started at the name, looking up at his officer. He stared for a moment and snorted before putting his head down again.

‘How many times is this, soldier? Three? Four?’

‘Six.’

‘Six, Centurion. What punishments have you suffered as a consequence?’

The recitation was mechanical, the question often answered.

‘Ten strokes, twenty strokes, twenty-five strokes and two weeks’ pay, thirty strokes and two weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, fifty strokes and three weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, a month’s pay and a month’s free time… Centurion.’

His head came up while he recited the litany of punishment, his one eye, previously dulled by pain, seeming to regain some of its spark.

‘None of which has stopped you from fighting… So, then, Cyclops, why do you fight?’