Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘No, I’m not here for a rematch. But we do need to talk…’

Marcus nodded, reaching for a flask of wine and two cups. Julius stayed silent while the wine was poured, tipping half the offered cup down his throat with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘Thanks. I should thank you for this afternoon’s performance as well. You could have put me down half a dozen times this morning. I knew it, I could tell that you were holding back from connecting with your attacks. You’re faster, and better trained than I am, and that’s all there is to it. You’re the better swordsman, although time will tell if you’re the better warrior when the shit really starts flying. You should have taken first place, and we both know it…’

He stared at Marcus until the younger man nodded slowly, letting out a sigh of release from his internal pressure.

‘Why? You earned that victory, built up your men to taking it from under my nose. Why didn’t you take it?’

Marcus frowned, starting to speak and closing his mouth again. After a moment he tried again.

‘You’ll laugh at me… I did it for the cohort. Uncle Sextus told me to think about what would be the best result for the cohort, and when I did, it was obvious that you had to win. If I’d beaten you, you’d be sitting in your quarter now, plotting revenge on me. As it is, you’re just puzzled. The cohort gets undivided leadership, Frontinius doesn’t have to deal with a series of running battles between our centuries… everyone wins.’

Julius looked at him for a moment without speaking.

‘Except you.’

‘Perhaps.’

The older man shook his head, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Except you. Frontinius gave me something this morning, something I’ve wanted since the day you arrived. He gave me the responsibility to decide your fate. Said he was tired of pondering whether you have what it takes or not. And if I say you’re gone, boy, just a fading stain on this cohort’s proud history, what then? If I tell you that where you go is of no concern to me, and that all that matters to me is that you leave, and don’t come back? What do you say to that, eh?’

Marcus gazed back at him for a long moment, then nodded his head, half turning away to speak woodenly at the room’s wall.

‘I’m not surprised. I’ve known deep down that you and your brothers wouldn’t be able to accept me. This cohort can’t operate with a rejected officer at its heart, and I’ve developed too much affection for this place to risk that rejection turning into casualties. As to where I go, don’t worry yourself. I’ll be in another place before dawn, and that’s all you’ll be wanting from me. I’d be grateful if you could find a way to overlook the last few months, and recommend Dubnus to command the Ninth?’

He gestured to the door.

‘And perhaps now you could leave me in peace. Let me get on with what I have to do.’

The burly officer stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head wryly.

‘I’ll have to apologise to Sextus. I told him I was going to come here and say those words to you, and he told me you’d bite on the leather the way you did.’

Marcus turned back to face him, his face hardening, his eyes flicking again to the sword lying on the bed alongside him.

‘If you think that I’m going to let you stand here and calmly discuss my personality traits now that you’ve had your way you’d better look to your blade, Centurion, because in about ten seconds you’re going to be getting a very close look at mine.’

Julius opened his hands again, backing away slightly and talking quickly.

‘Hold! It was your last test, to see if you cared enough for the cohort to accept the hardest decision. You’ll do for Sextus, and, while it’s hard to admit, you’ll do for me too. Quite how we’re going to keep a swarthy bugger like you any kind of secret when we march to war is beyond me, but Sextus gave me the decision and I’ve made it. You stay.’

Marcus’s eyes narrowed, and Julius realised with a shiver that his temper was fully alight.

‘And if I don’t accept your gracious offer after this last little test? If I take that sword and fillet you like an old bull, then spill my own blood?’

The other man smiled, holding his ground and keeping his sword hand rock steady six inches from the hilt of his weapon.

‘I don’t doubt that you could spill my guts, although we’d have some fun finding out within these four walls, without much space for fancy sword work. I probably deserve it too, the way I’ve been hounding you and your men. But you won’t. The other thing Sextus has you nailed for is iron self-control. And, given that you’re now the centurion of the cohort’s lead century, likely to be first into the shit and last out of it, you’re going to need it. Get some sleep, young Two Knives, you’ve a hard month in front of you. But before you do, fill me up with a little more of that dog-rough piss you’re drinking, I can’t drink a cup to your success if my cup’s empty.’

He passed his cup back for refilling. A hammering at the door made them both jump, Antenoch thrusting his head through the opening, breathlessly ignoring the frown on Marcus’s face. Clearly Julius’s presence was no surprise to him, and Marcus suspected he had been lurking close by, ready to come to his assistance if necessary.

‘Centurion Julius, you’ve an order to join the First Spear at the north gate. Something to do with a bonfire.’

Julius downed the wine in a swift gulp and turned to the door.

‘I’ll see you later… Centurion.’ In a woodland clearing well to the north of the Wall, beyond the reach of the units nervously manning the forts along the North Road, the leaders of Britannia’s remaining free tribes were gathered in their first war council. Seated around a crackling fire in the cool light of dusk, the half-dozen tribal chieftains eyed each other soberly as they waited for the arrival of their leader. Each of them was very well aware that they were about to step hard on the tail of a very dangerous animal. When Calgus, tribal leader of the Selgovae, made his entrance, it was without fanfare. He shrugged off a cloak of wolfskin and walked to the fire to warm his hands. He spoke without turning away from the heat, his voice a deep rumble.

‘Leaders of the northern tribes, our men are poised to attack down what our oppressors call the North Road, straining for release into battle like a hunting arrow bent and ready to fly. The Romans’ scouts have been put to flight by our horsemen, and there is nothing more substantial between here and their Wall than a few pitiful forts. One word from each of us, and our men will fall on Three Mountains and put it to the flame…’

He turned away from the fire, opening his arms to encompass the gathering.

‘It simply remains for us to make the decision to attack. But before we do so I want you all to be very clear about exactly what we’re committing ourselves to. You all know very well that I was educated in “Isurium Brigantium”, as the Romans have named that great tribe’s historic home, now trapped behind their Wall and made slave to their empire. You know that I speak Latin, and that I spent my childhood absorbing their history and culture, and I know for a fact that many of you still mistrust me as a result of that education. In truth you should thank Cocidius for my father’s insistence on that education, since it woke me to the danger to our tribes that has brought us all to this point of decision.

‘I was sent south by my father when I was in my eighth year, and I stayed in the south until my fifteenth summer, learning their language and their ways. I hated every waking moment, brothers, with a passion that grew stronger with every year, with every fresh lesson that taught me how they have spread their rule across the world in a restless search for new peoples to enslave. And with each year my eyes opened wider to the state of the Brigantian nation, once proud rulers from the mountains to the sea for a hundred miles to the north and south of “Isurium”, now castrated lapdogs to their rulers. So helpless that even their ancient capital has a Roman name. At fifteen I returned home for the summer and told my father that I wouldn’t go back and live among slaves for a single day more. I expected harsh words or a beating, but he simply smiled at me and told me that in that case my education had served its purpose. He’d sent me south in order to open my eyes to the Romans, and their lust for expansion. He’d sent me south to harden my heart against their insidious persuasion. He’d dedicated my childhood to opening my eyes to Roman deception, making me a fit successor to his rule.