Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘Ninth Century, prepare to change pace! At the run… Run!’

The soldiers lengthened their stride together, long accustomed to hauling their bodies and equipment across the undulating countryside at a fast jog. They went south at a fast pace for another two miles before dropping back to rest at a fast march for a mile, then stepped up the pace again. The troops were sweating heavily now with the effort of running in armour with full campaign kit, each man humping his armour, sword, shield, two spears and his pack, with only the pointed wooden stakes made to be lashed together into obstacle defences missing from their loads. They were working to a timetable known only to Marcus and his triumvirate of advisers, Dubnus, Morban and Antenoch, who had planned the day over a jug of wine the previous evening. While Dubnus still lacked any trust in Antenoch, he remained polite enough to the other man’s face, and had tolerated Marcus’s insistence on his being involved in their preparation.

The wind dropped, allowing the day’s heat to get to work on bodies that were tiring and starting to dry out, but still they ground on, Dubnus relentlessly driving them on with shouts of encouragement and threats of a faster pace if any man flagged. Five miles out from the Hill, Marcus pointed to the roadside.

‘Ten-minute rest and briefing. Get your water bottles and drink, but do it quietly if you want to know what we’re about to do!’

Breathing hard, his men forwent the usual playful push and shove of the rest stop, drinking eagerly from their bottles while their centurion explained what they were about to attempt. His command of the British language had progressed a long way in the time available, but he spoke in Latin now, pausing for Dubnus’s translation, to ensure complete understanding.

‘The usual way of things in this event is for the marching century to concentrate on getting around the course as quickly as possible, to win points for ground covered before the ambush. When they are ambushed, as they always are, a practice battle results. A few minutes’ fighting, one of the two centuries is declared the winner, and then they finish the march together, all good friends again…’

A few heads nodded knowingly. This was the speed march they had come to expect.

‘Not this time. Not this century.’

They stared back at him, eyes widening at the heresy.

‘How many of you would knowingly walk into an ambush, or even the risk of one? We’ve trained to march fast because we’ll use that speed in the field to avoid ambushes, or to put ourselves into the best positions before an enemy can reach them.’

He paused, allowing Dubnus to translate, although he could see from their faces that the majority had understood his words.

‘This one’s real as far as I’m concerned. What about you, Chosen?’

Dubnus nodded grimly, staring dispassionately at his men, daring anyone to disagree. Marcus continued.

‘Julius wants to teach me a lesson, take me down a peg, and he wants to do this at the expense of your pride. That, and your reputation as soldiers. You might not have noticed it…’ He knew they knew all too well, were basking in the glory of their meteoric rise. ‘… but we’re second in the standings. The century everyone wrote off as useless. You want to keep that reputation? Be second best?’

A few heads shook slowly. Morban roared at them, his challenge lifting the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck as he shook the standard indignantly at them.

‘I’m not taking second place to any bastard without a fight! You’re either in this or you can turn round and fuck off back to the Hill and apply for a new century. One that takes losers.’

Marcus watched their reaction carefully, gauging their sudden enthusiasm as men turned to their neighbours to see the excitement reflected in their eyes. The standard-bearer grinned proudly at Marcus, tipping his head in salute to hand the century back to his centurion.

‘So shut the fuck up and let the centurion tell you how we’re going to pull Latrine’s beard for him.’

Julius lengthened his stride, eager to reach his chosen ambush site. Alongside him, moving with an easy grace that belied his age, Sextus Frontinius matched him step for step. The centurion would have avoided taking the First Spear out on the ambush march if he could have found a way, but his superior was all too well aware of the potential for the event he had staged-managed to get out of control. He had made a point of politely requesting his permission to accompany the 5th Century, a courtesy Julius had no choice but to return through gritted teeth.

‘So you’ve decided to attack them at the Saddle, eh, Julius?’

Julius, tempted to ignore the question but with enough sense to avoid the pitfall of failing to acknowledge the innocent enquiry, nevertheless waited a full five seconds, taking his response to the margins of insolence, before answering.

‘Yes, First Spear.’

Sextus Frontinius smiled inwardly, keeping his face a mask of indifference.

‘A little early in the march, isn’t it? His men will still be relatively fresh. I’m surprised you’re not going to wait for them farther into the route. What’s wrong with the usual places?’

Stung by the implied criticism, Julius wiped sweat from his eyebrows, shaking his head in irritation at the unusual warmth.

‘I’m not allowing any rest stops until we get there, so we’ll get there first. The Ninth will never suspect a thing until we’re down the slope and on top of them.’

‘If I didn’t know you better I’d have to say you’re taking all this a bit too personally.’

The centurion spat into the roadside dust to clear his throat.

‘And, First Spear, if I didn’t know you better I’d have to say that you’ve rolled over for this Roman with the rest of them.’

Frontinius glared at the soldier marching alongside him, who redoubled his efforts to be seen not listening.

‘March out front with me, Centurion, let’s show these nosy bastards of yours how to cover ground.’

He waited until they were ten yards clear of the marching century before speaking again.

‘I think it’s time we discussed this properly. Our rules, not First Spear and centurion. Just Sextus and Julius.’

The other man glanced over at him.

‘And if I don’t want to discuss it?’

‘But you do, Julius, you’ve been quacking away about it ever since he got here. Come on, man, let it out!’

‘Our rules?’

‘Absolutely. The same as the day we joined.’

‘Don’t say you haven’t asked for it. He’s a traitor. An enemy of the man who rules the world, and of the empire you swore to serve. And yet you’ve gone out of your way to make him welcome.’

The First Spear shrugged unconcernedly.

‘I’m not convinced by all this “traitor” talk. You’ve heard the same stories I have, Julius, you know how this new emperor’s behaving and who pulls his strings. As far as I’m concerned our man’s guilt isn’t proven.’

‘Not your call, Sextus. If the empire says he’s a traitor, then he’s a traitor.’

‘And if it was you, old mate. What if you were unjustly accused?’

‘Then I’d run a thousand miles to avoid hurting my friends, and…’

‘And end up somewhere like here, dependent on strangers for justice. Not negotiable, Julius, I won’t hand over an innocent man to that kind of evil.’

‘And if they come for him? If they nail you and the prefect up and decimate the rest of us for hiding him?’

‘It won’t come to that. Besides, we’ll be at war in a few days. We could all be dead in a week, so some unlikely discovery by the empire doesn’t worry me overly right now. Next?’