Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two

by Riches, Anthony

  The big man nodded deferentially and spoke a few soft words to his comrades. They left the room in silence, leaving Marcus and Qadir alone in the quiet of the small room. The Hamian seemed content to wait for Marcus to speak first.

  ‘How long have you been acting centurion, Qadir?’

  ‘Six months, sir. And eight years before that as a soldier, watch officer and chosen man.’

  Marcus raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Eight years from recruitment to centurion? They must make officers very quickly wherever it is that you’ve come from. Either that or you’re something special. I apologise for taking your command. You’ll get it back soon enough, once we catch up with our sister cohort.’

  ‘And exchange us for the men they stole this morning? I think that will take longer than you imagine, Centurion, and even when you do there will be another man posted to command my archers. Do not trouble yourself on my behalf. As long as I am with my people and have the strength to bend my bow I need nothing more.’

  Marcus paced to the window, looking out into the grey dawn at the mustering Hamians.

  ‘Archers. I’m afraid that archers are not what’s needed now, not while there are barbarian warbands in the field.’

  The other man appeared at his shoulder, his soft voice close to Marcus’s ear.

  ‘We had guessed as much. While we sat here and waited, centuries of men with heavy armour and spears were in and out in less than a day. It soon became clear enough to us that our having been sent here was a cruel mistake. Now that we are yours to command, it is my expectation that we will soon have heavier armour than this …’ He fingered the thin rings of his light mail vest, drawing Marcus’s attention to its insubstantial nature compared with his own mail, which was both longer and significantly heavier. ‘… and spears of our own.’

  Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed in appraisal of the soldiers parading outside the window. They were wiry for the most part, a few simply skinny, more bone and sinew than muscle, though they shared the broad powerful shoulders that defined their skill at arms. Their mail looked too flimsy to resist a determined spear or sword-thrust, their conical helmets lacked cheek guards, and their impractically light shields were circular rather than being shaped to fully protect a soldier’s body. None of the equipment on show would act as adequate protection in a pitched battle.

  ‘Can your men run?’

  ‘If you mean over a distance, the answer is yes, Centurion. We are hunters, for the most part, used to covering ground in search of game. How they will perform weighed down with mail coats and heavy shields such as your men carry is another question. But I make one request of you, Centurion, and that is not to take their bows from them. To do so would be a grave mistake.’

  Marcus turned to face the Hamian, his face creasing into a frown.

  ‘As soon as I can manage it they’ll be issued with a thigh-length coat of heavy ring mail capable of stopping a spear, a leather arming vest to wear underneath it and protect their skin from the mail’s rings when that spear-thrust arrives, an infantry gladius, two spears, an infantry helmet and a full-length shield. All of which weighs more than you might imagine until the first time you put it all on. Then they’ll have to march, or run, up to thirty miles a day once we’re on campaign. The additional burden of a bow isn’t going to help them cope with the load.’

  Qadir spread his arms, palms upwards, and bowed, his eyes remaining fixed on Marcus’s.

  ‘I understand, Centurion, and I can see that you are right. And yet …’ He paused, searching for the right words to make his point without angering his new officer. ‘… Centurion, to take their bows will be to take their souls. Each man has grown close to his weapon, over long years of practice. He has fired thousands of arrows in practice, until he can put an iron head into a target the size of a man’s chest at one hundred paces, and can do this six times in one minute. The very core of what these men have learned over those years is that to hit the target time after time after time they must lose all awareness of themselves, simply focus on the centre of their target and become servant to the bow that seeks that target. These two centuries contain some of the best bowmen I have ever seen loose an arrow, capable of great accuracy with weapons they have come to love as dearly as their own children. And so I tell you, with very great respect to your rank and obvious character, that if these men lose their bows then they will also lose their hearts. And a century of men without heart …’

  ‘… would be of little use to anyone?’

  ‘Exactly so, Centurion. Exactly so. And now, with your forgiveness, perhaps I have embarrassed myself enough for one morning. Shall we review your new command, Centurion Corvus?’

  Marcus inclined his head, gesturing for the Hamian to precede him through the quarters’ low doorway. Outside, in the early morning chill, the two centuries were paraded along the barrack’s frontage in a long double line. He walked along the length of both centuries, looking intently at the faces that stared fixedly to their front. Their eyes were bright enough, although their skin was sallow with lack of sunlight. Dubnus strode across from the transit office to join him, casting an unhappy glance down the line.

  ‘Maponus help us. Two centuries of underweight bath dodgers whose only skill is hunting game for the pot. Quite how we’re going to turn this lot into infantrymen is beyond me. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, you take the Tungrians and I’ll have these. I can …’

  He stopped talking as a smile spread across Marcus’s face.

  ‘Dubnus. Brother. I wouldn’t have amounted to anything better than a rotting corpse in a ditch on the road south from Yew Grove without your help over the last few months. Nor can I pretend that I was responsible for turning the Ninth from a waste of rations to a fighting century, that was mostly you too. But trust me when I tell you this, these men will not respond to your style of leadership. They are lonely, frightened, but worst of all they feel worthless. They’ve sat here for the last month watching Gaulish farm boys in armour get snapped up like the last cake in the bakery while they, with all their abilities, are demeaned as incapable of fighting our war.’

  His friend rolled his eyes.

  ‘But they are! What are this lot going to do when a warband comes howling out of the forest? Run like fuck, I’d say!’

  ‘I know. But there’s something here I think we can use. Call it determination; call it desperation if you like. Whatever you call it, I think we can make a fighting unit from them. Quite what kind of fighting is still open to question …’

  Dubnus gave him a long stare.

  ‘They carry shields made out of wicker. They wear armour made with rings so thin it wouldn’t stop a half-decent spear-thrust, no spears, no helmets to speak of, and a decent wind would carry half of them away. Just equipping them is going to be difficult enough, never mind what’ll happen the first time they try to carry all that weight more than a few hundred paces. They could be a real problem in the field.’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘Worse than not having a hundred and fifty replacements? Worse than not having two more centuries of men following our standard?’

  Dubnus shook his head in weary resignation.

  ‘I know better than to argue with you. Though I don’t think your standard-bearer’s going to see the funny side of this.’

  Dubnus’s and Julius’s centuries were arrayed on the Arab Town parade ground, the soldiers’ breath steaming in the grey dawn’s chill as they waited for the command to head away down the road towards The Stronghold, five miles to the west. Morban and Antenoch, respectively the 8th Century’s standard-bearer and Marcus’s personal clerk, waited with equal impatience a small distance from Dubnus’s 9th Century. Morban cast occasional dirty looks at the 9th’s standard-bearer, and more particularly the standard held proudly in the younger man’s hands.

  ‘He isn’t keeping that statue clean, the lazy bastard. I’ve got a good mind to go and take the bloody thing away from him.’

  Antenoch gave the 9th Cen
tury’s standard a sideways glance and shot the alleged offender a sympathetic glance, raising an eyebrow in commiseration and drawing a hurt rebuke from his friend.

  ‘I saw that.’

  The clerk shrugged his indifference, huddling deeper into his cloak.

  ‘It looks fine to me. Anyway, leave the man alone, you grumpy bastard. I don’t remember you cleaning it all that often either. You should worry more about helping Two Knives get a brand-new century ready to fight, and leave the Ninth to Dubnus now that he’s their centurion. Hang on, here they come …’

  The first of the replacement centuries appeared around the corner of Arab Town’s bathhouse, its soldiers stepping out strongly under the close scrutiny of Tiberius Rufius and his newly acquired chosen man and watch officer. Morban’s face split into a beaming smile.

  ‘Yes! Look at that! Eighty sides of prime Tungrian beef. Look at the muscles on those boys! The Bear’ll be after slipping a few of those lads into the Tenth to replace the axemen who fell at Lost Eagle.’

  Antenoch nodded, keeping his eyes on the advancing century.

  ‘Yes … Grandfather looks happy enough with his new men, doesn’t he?’

  Morban squinted at the advancing Rufius’s grinning face, seeing the smile turn into a laugh as the veteran officer found him among the waiting soldiers.

  ‘That isn’t happy, that’s pure piss-take. Look, he’s pointing back down the road. What’s he on about …?’

  Antenoch craned his neck to see over the marching troops.

  ‘There’s Two Knives, I can see his helmet’s crest, but where the hell are his men? Hold on a moment …’

  Realisation dawned upon him with a sickening thud.

  ‘I can see their helmets, but only just. It’s a century of fucking dwarves!’

  Morban stood rooted to the ground as the first century marched past them and the second came into full view, his eyes widening with genuine horror. Rufius stopped alongside the staring pair, his face distorted with laughter.

  ‘Oh, Morban … if only … you could see … your face!’

  He staggered away, clutching his sides. A grim-faced Julius, marching alongside Marcus, gave him a dirty look as the front rank of the Hamians drew level with them and halted at Marcus’s shouted command. He shook his head in disgust at the older man’s uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘I thought age blessed a man with wisdom as it took away his strength, but clearly not in your case, Tiberius Rufius. And what’s your problem, Standard-bearer?’

  Morban came to sudden indignant life.

  ‘Rufius gets a century full of big strong lads, and we get a gang of … of … underfed Arab bow benders? What use are they going to be when the blue-noses come hammering at our shields? I …’

  Marcus stepped between Julius and Morban, then bent to put his face an inch from the indignant standard-bearer’s, his finger dimpling his mailed chest to emphasise his point. His voice was low but insistent, his face dark with anger.

  ‘Be quiet and listen, Statue Waver. We’ve been bilked of a century by the bloody Second Cohort, who bribed them out from under our noses this morning. These men are the only troops left in the port, and probably the only ownerless soldiers in the whole of Britannia, so these are the troops we’re taking home with us. We’ll swap them with the Second at the first opportunity, you can be assured of that, but in the meantime you will treat them with the consideration due to the poor bastards. What’s more, these “underfed bow benders” speak Latin just as well as you do, in fact probably with a good deal more eloquence and a lot less profanity, and I doubt they’re all that happy with your reaction. It isn’t their fault they’re stuck here, and if they’re going to be a part of our cohort we’d better make them feel just a tiny bit welcomed. If you don’t like that you can always go back to the Ninth, and I’ll ask Dubnus for his new boy in return.’

  Morban’s indignation melted to anxious disbelief in a second.

  ‘Not fair, Centurion, not fair at all. You know young Lupus ties me to you.’

  Marcus kept his face stony, tipping his head towards the waiting Hamians with arched eyebrows.

  ‘In which case you’d better get your head out of your backside and greet your new century. Chosen Man Qadir, allow me to introduce the Eighth Century’s standard-bearer, Morban. He’s a good man, if a little overfond of drink and whoring. Not to mention the occasional wager. In fact, if Morban offers you odds on anything, the sun coming up in the morning, rain being wet, just anything, consider very carefully before putting your money down.’

  Morban smirked just a little, his dignity sufficiently restored by his officer’s carefully chosen insults, and stuck out a meaty paw to the tall Hamian chosen man.

  ‘Welcome to the Eighth Century, Chosen.’

  Qadir took the hand carefully, looking about him in mock incomprehension.

  ‘My thanks, Standard-bearer, although I see only one other man besides yourself. Perhaps it would be more fitting if the Eighth Century were to welcome you?’

  Rufius, having recovered from his earlier fit of laughter, slapped the stocky standard-bearer on the shoulder.

  ‘He’s got a point, Morban. If Antenoch’s your century you’d best go and join these lads. I’m sure they’ll follow your standard round if you’re nice to them.’

  Marcus nodded agreement.

  ‘And if you want them to regard it as something more than your personal badge of office, perhaps you’d better give them a bit of education?’

  The standard-bearer nodded, squared his shoulders and stepped out in front of the Hamians. The voice of Rufius’s man was already ringing through the still morning air as he addressed the new 6th Century. He cleared his throat before shaking the century’s standard at the wide-eyed archers.

  ‘Eighth Century! I am your standard-bearer, Morban, and this is your standard. I am entrusted with carrying this symbol of our century, and with keeping it safe from any threat at the cost of my own life if all else fails … which means if you’re all dead. You are collectively charged with a sacred duty to guard the standard, which is the heart and soul of our century, and to protect it during battle at any cost.’

  He ignored Antenoch, who was making cross-eyed faces at him from behind Marcus.

  ‘You will follow the instructions of our centurion, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, which I will repeat through movements of the standard for those of you who do not understand them. If I lean the standard to the left, we’re turning left. To the right, we’re turning right. If I dip the standard, we’re starting the march, if I raise it we’re stopping. If I dip it two times we’re marching at the double, and if I reverse it we’re retreating. My mate here …’ He nodded to the trumpeter alongside him, who promptly blushed scarlet. ‘… will sound his horn when I’m about to issue an order with the standard, so pay attention and you’ll always know what we’re about to do.’

  He paused for breath and stared at the men closest to him with a fierce intensity.

  ‘In battle, this standard is your rallying point. If we advance, the standard will be close to the front of the century, and if we advance to the rear it will be with the century’s rearmost troops. Where the shit flies the thickest, you will find me and this statue right behind you. And you will make us proud. Just don’t let us down. Centurion?’

  Marcus stepped out in front of the Hamians, nodding to Morban as the standard-bearer waddled back to join Antenoch.

  ‘Soldiers, you may not be Tungrians, you may be what our esteemed standard-bearer calls “bow benders”, and I guarantee you that getting you ready for life in an infantry cohort is going to be a challenge for us all. However, and listen to me very carefully when I tell you this, because it means a lot to your new brothers-in-arms, all those difficulties mean nothing to me because you are now Tungrians. Let me say that again. You are now Tungrians.’

  He paused, staring across the silent men, aware that Julius was standing just behind him and glaring at the wide-eyed Hamians with equal intensity
.

  ‘At the moment that means little enough to you. I’m just another officer spouting off about his cohort. But you will learn what it means to be one of us. And when you understand that, you will be one step closer to reaching the standards we will be expecting of you. Now, make ready to move. We’re marching to Noisy Valley, and that’s a marching distance of twenty-six miles, which at four miles an hour will take us about eight hours including rest stops. Easy enough work for a fully fit soldier carrying the light equipment you’ve been issued with. This is our first chance to see how you men measure up to our standards.’

  Prefect Furius rode into The Rock’s temporary camp in the middle of the afternoon with three centuries of soldiers marching easily at his back. Forewarned by a tent party of men sent running ahead for the last mile by Centurion Tertius, the cohort’s first spear was waiting at the camp’s entrance with his officers, ready to formally greet their new commander. He bellowed an order as the prefect’s horse drew level with their small group, snapping the cohort’s officers to attention. Furius dismounted, and a soldier assigned to the task ran forward and led the horse away.

  The prefect looked about him, taking in the stone shell of the burned-out fort huddled under the wall’s unbroken defence. The turf-walled camp alongside it was a picture of order, the lines of tents perfectly aligned and the men set to guard the turf walls alert and crisp in their movements. Finding nothing to excite comment, he turned to address the gathered officers.

  ‘First Spear …?’

  ‘Neuto, sir.’

  ‘A local name, First Spear?’

  ‘A Tungrian name, Prefect. I was born in Gallia Belgica.’

  Furius nodded.

  ‘I rode through your capital, Tungrorum, on my way here. You must miss it.’

  The first spear inclined his head.

  ‘I do, sir, although it’s a very long time since I saw the old place.’

  ‘There are some men behind me who have seen your settlement somewhat more recently. I have reinforcements for you from Tungria, a full century of freshly trained men.’