Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘There are two types of successful officer, those that do the right thing, and those that are born with Cocidius’s favour. The latter can take audacious risks and get far better odds than just following the field manual. You’re lucky, Centurion. Keep it that way.’ Antenoch woke Marcus before dawn, shaking insistently at his shoulder until the centurion stirred, swinging his feet from the camp bed and on to the floor.

‘Dawn, centurion, and time you were dressed for the day. Here, drink this.

A beaker of warm honey, diluted by a substantial quantity of wine, opened Marcus’s eyes well enough. The tent’s interior, lit by a single lamp, was dark and oppressive, while a steady drumming on the tent’s oiled leather roof puzzled his senses for a moment.

‘Pissing down. A great day for serving out your penalty. The night watch took great delight in pointing out that it’ll probably rain until midday at this rate when they woke me up. Fucking 2nd century.’

Marcus groaned softly, struggling to his feet. A swift wash in the bowl of water Antenoch had brought in with him enlivened his senses, while the rest of the honey drink warmed his stomach sufficiently to make the task of getting into uniform a welcome distraction from dwelling on the conditions outside. Antenoch helped him into his cloak, and then went to look out of the tent flap while Marcus took a final deep breath, resigned to being soaked to the skin within ten minutes of stepping out into the downpour.

‘Your escort’s here.’

Puzzled, he went to look through the flap. Outside, grinning happily through the rainswept grey morning, were four of the 9th’s soldiers wrapped in their own cloaks, each man holding a wooden pole attached to some kind of hastily improvised wooden framework, across which was strung what looked suspiciously like the remains of a ten-man tent. The scout they had rescued the previous day was closest to the tent door, solemnly gesturing him under the shelter of their portable roof. Antenoch shook his head in amused wonder.

‘Stupid bastards, spent half the night putting the bloody thing together. I told them that standing about in the rain all day might make you think twice about taking on five times our number of enemy horse next time the chance presents itself, but they insisted…’

Marcus walked out under the sheltering leather, shaking his head with speechless wonder. Cyclops, the one-eyed miscreant, freed one hand to salute.

‘Where to, sir?’

Stirring himself, Marcus found his voice.

‘To the headquarters tent… gentlemen, I really don’t…’

Another of the soldiers, a gaunt-faced man with a heavy facial scar down one cheek, spoke up gruffly, holding up his right hand to contain Marcus’s protest.

‘The entire century wanted this, sir, so don’t be worrying about us. There’ll be another four men along in a while so’s we can go and have a warm. Now, lads, on the command march, to the head shed, march!’

They paraded through the camp’s empty streets, drawing amazed stares from the guards mounted at each century’s section of the camp, men huddled together against the rain peering incredulously in the growing light, until they reached the headquarters tent. Frontinius peered through the tent door, stepping out into the rain with his eyes wide. The four soldiers stared resolutely at the lightening sky, while Marcus squirmed uneasily at the prospect of his superior’s opinion. Having walked around the contraption once in complete silence, his immaculate boots beading with rain drops, the First Spear turned to address a nervous Marcus.

‘I have to say that for the first time in twenty-two years of service I am quite genuinely amazed. You, Scarface, what’s the meaning of this?’

‘The Ninth Century cares for its own, sir. We won’t be letting our young gentleman catch his death of cold…’

And he shut up, his face red with the pressure of having answered the cohort’s senior soldier back.

‘I see…’

Centurion and men waited with bated breath for the law to be stated.

‘Nothing in the manual specifically states that an officer on administrative punishment can’t be sheltered from heavy rain by four soldiers with a tent lashed to a wooden frame. Even if at least one of the soldiers concerned is famous throughout his cohort for holding the opinion that most officers aren’t fit to scrape out the latrines after him…’

‘Scarface’ went an even deeper shade of red.

‘… so, is there room for another under there?’

Marcus gestured to the space next to him. Ignoring the indignant eyes of the roof-bearers, Frontinius stepped in from the rain, taking his helmet off and shaking the drops from its bedraggled crest. He regarded Marcus with a sideways glance, sweeping a hand across his pale scalp to catch the odd raindrops gleaming there.

‘And now, Centurion Two Knives, since you have me as a captive audience, you may tell me all about your exploits of yesterday.’

When Prefect Licinius appeared after breakfast, he too came up short at the sight of the rain cover. What put the honey in that particular cake, Morban later confided to Dubnus, was the fact that custody of the four poles was in the process of being transferred from one four-man group to another. The cavalryman had watched, speechless, while the eight men transferred the cover from one group to another with the precision of a legion parading its eagle. When the handover was finished, and the outgoing men had completed the effect by marching smartly around the corner of the headquarters tent before collapsing in stifled laughter, the prefect approached, taking in the silent centurion and his First Spear. The latter was happily chatting away about the fighting habits of their enemy, and affecting not to have noticed the senior officer.

‘… whereas the warband, you see, is usually a one-shot weapon. The tribal leader points them in the right direction, whips them up into a frenzy, and then lets them run wild. Which can be a problem if they need to be turned around for any reason, since you can’t just…’

He snapped to attention, shouting to Marcus and the roof-bearers to follow his example. Licinius, having thus been formally recognised, strolled forward, nodding to Frontinius and staring with visible envy at the mobile roof while rain beat at his oiled leather cape.

‘At ease, First Spear.’

Frontinius relaxed, throwing the tribune an impeccable salute.

‘Prefect Licinius, sir, welcome to the First Tungrian camp.’

The prefect returned the salute with casual ease, stepping close enough to gain some shelter from the incessant rain.

‘First Spear Frontinius. Might one ask the purpose of this…?’

He waved an arm vaguely at the scene, raising an eyebrow at the sober-faced Frontinius.

‘Prefect this centurion is under administrative punishment, one day’s parade in full uniform and withdrawal of speech. For exceeding the remit of written orders specified by Prefect Equitius in that he took his century over the Wall to rescue one of his men and ended up having to be rescued by you.’

‘And the prefect himself?’

‘Out with four centuries, sir, patrolling down towards the North Road.’

‘And this?’

He gestured again at the rain cover, its roof sagging slightly with the weight of water soaked into the oiled leather.

‘Simple, sir. It would appear that this young officer has instilled sufficient pride in his men that they regard the punishment of one as a collective duty.’

The other man smiled gently, recognising the deflection of any comment he might have regarding the shelter’s legal irregularity.

‘I see. Very well, First Spear, please inform the centurion that I’m sorry to have missed the chance to meet him properly. The Petriana is ordered to conduct a reconnaissance in force to the west, to discover the exact dispositions of our blue-nosed friends. Doubtless we’ll get another chance, though. Quite amazing…’