Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two

by Riches, Anthony

  Another man stepped out to face him, his face set in determination.

  ‘Good, you look keen; let’s see what you can do. Remember, keep that shield up.’

  Ten seconds later the Hamian was on his back, cursing at the pain in his right ankle while Antenoch reached down to pull him back to his feet.

  ‘That was better, but if an enemy sees that your shield is held too high he’s likely to try to go under it and cut your feet off. You need to keep your eyes open, and drop your shield to stop his attack if necessary. Let’s try that again.’

  Qadir leaned across to Marcus.

  ‘And if two men attack at the same time, one high and one low? Surely then the man is doomed?’

  Marcus smiled without taking his eyes off Antenoch’s demonstration.

  ‘Not if he’s in possession of the infantryman’s two most important assets.’

  The chosen man raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And those are …?’

  Marcus lifted the ornately decorated gladius bequeathed to him by Legatus Sollemnis halfway out of its scabbard, the razor-edged blade gleaming in the weak morning sun.

  ‘One of these, and those.’

  He pointed at the gathered Hamians as they watched Antenoch’s demonstration with wide eyes.

  ‘Soldiers?’

  Marcus shook his head.

  ‘Not soldiers, Qadir, brothers. And all in good time.’

  Calgus strolled out of his tent later that morning, having apparently spent the night there. In reality he had entered it less then five minutes before through an opening cut in the side facing the forest, having made the return journey through the forest by the light of torches carried by his bodyguard. His adviser Aed was waiting for him as summoned, and the old man looked up at his king with a calculating gaze, the slight wind ruffling his thin hair.

  ‘My lord. I trust your venture into the forest met with acceptable results?’

  Calgus nodded, looking out over the camp from their vantage point, the highest ground within the palisade wall.

  ‘Oh yes, very acceptable once their initial caution was out of the way. When the time is right, our trap will spring shut on the legions with a finality that will remove the print of their boots from our soil for good. We will slaughter Romans in numbers not seen since their great German massacre, and after that disaster they’ve never attempted to colonise the lands beyond the Rhenus in all the one hundred and fifty years that have followed. I will make these lands as great a source of terror to the Romans as ever the forests of Germania were, and drive them back into their fortresses far to the south of their wall, never to return.’

  The old man nodded, his soft voice expressing views intended for his king’s ears alone.

  ‘A glorious aim, my lord. Before that, however, you may have to consider dealing with King Brennus at some point in the near future. In your absence he has continued to spread discontent, and his defiance will inevitably encourage others to consider their obedience to you. Do we still need his people’s spears in our strength, given your apparent success in bringing fresh support to our cause?’

  Calgus nodded, looking down the slope to the Votadini section of the camp.

  ‘I suppose not, given their continual agitation against me. But I cannot send them back to their land, my own warriors would start to question the need for them to remain were that many spears to walk away, and as for the other kings …’

  Aed smiled thinly, his eyes bright with purpose.

  ‘Perhaps there is an opportunity here? Were the Votadini to be caught in the open by our enemies they would undoubtedly be massacred to the last man. That would leave their king alone and isolated here, and his kingdom open for … annexation. If only we could find someone within their number with sufficient ambition to allow himself to be lured into such a mistake, it is quite possible that our enemy would remove the problem without ever dreaming of the service they would be performing for you.’ He paused for a moment, his sly glance flicking to meet his king’s amused stare. ‘Perhaps you might cultivate King Brennus’s nephew, Martos? My friends in their camp tell me that he longs to lead the tribe into battle at their head, and cover his roof beams with Roman heads.’

  Calgus shook his head slowly, a smile spreading across his face as the audacity of the idea gripped his imagination.

  ‘Gods, Aed, but you’ll outdo me for ruthlessness any time you like. You advise me to send the Votadini to their deaths, murder their king and take his lands?’

  Aed shrugged, his expression neutral.

  ‘Sometimes large problems demand harsh solutions, my lord. The Votadini will be no worse off under your control than under Brennus, and there is no way you can trust the man. His behaviour shouts his defiance of your reign, and he has more men available than are camped here. If the warriors he has held back succeed in their search for the hostages, he will have us both at spear point five minutes after the news of their release reaches him. A change of leadership might bring some relief from his incessant complaining and scheming. I suspect that he is in contact with the Romans …’

  Calgus laughed.

  ‘I don’t doubt he’s in contact with them, or how could he have been so confident that my head would buy him peace with them? I don’t think his men will find their kinfolk in a year of searching, and I don’t believe that we can kill him and be sure that the act won’t have repercussions beyond our control … but I take your point. He’s a focus for discontent, and that can only get stronger once we join battle with the Romans and their lackeys. There is an idea I’ve been musing on these last few days, a way to bring the remaining legions north with a fury on them that will have their heads in our trap before they have the time to see it. Perhaps I might invite Brennus’s nephew along to share the spoils?

  The morning stayed dry, despite the gathering clouds threatening rain, and by the break for the midday ration Marcus reckoned that the Hamians had absorbed as much shield drill as they were going to for one day. Dubnus confirmed his view with a weary shake of his head.

  ‘Their heads have gone to cabbage, it’s all too much for them. I vote we get them out in the hills and get some air into their lungs.’

  The other officers agreed, and once the midday ration was consumed the 8th was formed into column of march and headed off into the land to the wall’s south. Initially setting a gentle pace, Marcus gradually increased his speed at the column’s head until the Hamians were covering ground at something like the rate required to keep up with the rest of the cohort on the march. He turned and walked backwards for a moment, assessing their sweating, strained faces and painful gaits before calling across to Morban.

  ‘Keep them moving, I’m going for a chat with Qadir.’

  The chosen man was halfway down the column, encouraging a flagging man to keep up his pace. Marcus waved to Dubnus, pointing at the struggling archer, and his friend ran up the column with a barked command to keep moving.

  ‘This man’s finding it hard, and I need to talk with the chosen man. Can you help him along for a few minutes?’

  Dubnus nodded, gesturing Qadir to surrender his place alongside the flagging archer, the man’s eyes now rolling with desperation. The chosen man moved aside and in a second the massively built centurion was in his place, his mouth close to the struggler’s ear.

  ‘Are you finding this difficult?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Would you like to stop?’

  The Hamian nodded eagerly, his face lightening with the promise of relief. Marcus winced, knowing what was coming next as Dubnus sucked in a lungful of air and bellowed his response into the flagging soldier’s ear.

  ‘Well, you fucking well can’t stop, because if you do I’ll put my boot up your arse to the third lace hole! You’re in the field, your century’s on the march, and you’ll stop for nothing and nobody unless your officer says so! It’s march or fucking die for you, sonny, and the rest of you, so forget that it hurts and focus on the man in front of you! If he can do it
, so can you! You in the next rank, stop your fucking smirking unless you want to come for a private run with me and see how long you last, you bow-twanging ration thief!’

  Marcus shrugged at Qadir’s raised eyebrows as they moved a few paces away from the marching column’s path.

  ‘He was my chosen man until recently, and he seems to have retained the non-commissioned officer’s approach to motivation.’

  Farther down the line Julius was giving another man the same treatment, his face contorted with apparent rage.

  ‘That pain you’re feeling is weakness leaving your body, so stop your snivelling and march, you maggot! If you fall out of the line of march I will beat you back into it with my vine stick, and if that breaks I’ll use the flat of my fucking sword! You can either march or choke, but whichever one it’s going to be, fucking get on with it!’

  Qadir looked back for a long moment, and then turned back to his centurion with evident distaste.

  ‘It is not my approach.’

  Marcus shrugged, more than a little embarrassed at his chosen man’s air of disappointment.

  ‘I know, but given the time we have to make these men battle ready we’re left with little alternative. You’re going to have to harden your heart a little, Chosen, or your men aren’t going to be ready when the time comes for them to march and fight with the rest of the cohort.’

  The other man nodded unhappily as Marcus continued.

  ‘Yesterday they finished a march that should have taken four hours in twice that time, and their feet were raw meat before they even started. If we take them into the field in this state they’ll be a liability to the cohort, incapable of either marching or fighting. So I’ve got two choices, I either get them fit at a reasonable pace and give them time for their feet to recover, or I push them through their pain and get quicker results. And you and I need quicker results. Their feet will turn to leather quickly enough. But I need your help, I need you alongside me while I’m pushing them, so that they can see there’s no way out of this nightmare except to give more of themselves than they knew they had in them.’

  Qadir looked at him, a hint of disbelief in his face.

  ‘And if they do not have any more of themselves to give?’

  Marcus’s smile was grim.

  ‘Oh, they’ve got it, we all do. It just has to be pulled out of them. My friend Dubnus has one method, Rufius, Julius and I are all a little different in style, but we’re all looking to get the same results. By the time we’ve finished with your men they’ll march thirty miles in a day and still be singing their hearts out for the last mile. They’ll stand in line and stop a barbarian charge with the rest of the cohort. I hope they’ll still be archers, but they will be infantrymen, I promise you that.’

  The century marched on for another twenty minutes until Marcus judged that they had reached the point he had agreed earlier with Julius. Morban gave the signal for the halt, reinforced by the century’s trumpeter blasting out a single note.

  ‘Rest break! Water only and leave your field rations alone!’

  The Hamians sagged exhausted to the ground for the most part, and Marcus allowed them a few minutes of rest before gaining their attention with three raps of his practice sword on a soldier’s shield.

  ‘Eighth Century, there is something wrong here. Can anyone tell me what it is? No? A silver sestertius to the man that can tell me. Not you, Morban, you already know the answer.’

  The Hamians stared at him and about them, searching with renewed interest.

  ‘Anyone? No? The answer isn’t out there, it’s right in front of me.’

  The Hamians stared at Marcus uncomprehendingly, as he hardened his voice with scorn.

  ‘The second I called the rest halt you soldiers were on your backs without a care in the world. No guards posted, no one worried about anything beyond getting a gutful of water, and no concern for what might be over the next hill. Or waiting for you in that wood.’

  He pointed at the treeline two hundred paces distant and blew his whistle in a shrill blast. Armed and armoured men emerged from the trees, forming into a battle line.

  ‘Lucky for you that’s only the Fifth Century, and not a blue-nose warband screaming for your blood. There are two lessons to be taken from this. One: you take your rest stops standing up from now on, and each tent party chooses a man to stand guard, with the specific duty of watching the ground around them for danger. Now, would anyone care to guess the second lesson?’ The Hamians stared at him blankly, and a feeling of near-despair made the young centurion shake his head. ‘The next lesson, gentlemen, is basic infantry fighting. In two minutes those soldiers are going to charge into our line in exactly the same way the blue-noses will once they get the chance. This is your chance to practice your shield drills from this morning. Form a line! Move!’

  * * *

  Later that evening, with the sun well beneath the horizon and the 8th Century nursing blisters and aches in their barrack, too tired on their return to the fort for there to be any point in archery practice, the centurions gathered for a cup of wine in The Hill’s officers’ mess. Marcus tipped his cup back and called for another with a speed that raised Rufius’s eyebrows. Julius and Dubnus exchanged knowing glances, and Rufius tipped the cup towards him, ostentatiously staring into its emptiness.

  ‘Anyone would think you’d had a hard day lad, rather than the gentle stroll round the hills that we enjoyed today. Or is there something on your mind, perhaps?’

  Marcus blew a long breath out through his lips.

  ‘What do you think? We march for Noisy Valley tomorrow, and we could be in action against the tribes a few days after that. How in Cocidius’s name are we going to turn them into soldiers before they have to fight for their lives against men that have spent most of their lives getting ready to kill them?’

  Julius shook his head, his scorn evident even through a mouthful of dried meat.

  ‘One day and you’re giving up? Just because my lads gave your boys a gentle spanking?’

  Marcus closed his eyes at the memory. Julius’s 5th Century had battered the 8th into submission in less than a minute despite being half their strength. The brutal simplicity of their assault had scattered the hapless Hamians like chaff, and their march back to The Hill had been a sombre plod conducted in resentful silence.

  Rufius shook his head on the other side of the table.

  ‘Our young friend’s dismay is simply the result of inexperience.’

  He put his cup down, placing both hands on the table’s scarred surface.

  ‘Marcus, have you ever taken a century of recruits from raw to trained? Your exploits with the Ninth don’t count. Your lads were already infantry trained, they just lacked the right leadership until you turned up. I don’t doubt your ability to lead experienced soldiers, I’m just asking if you’ve ever been part of turning a collection of farm boys into infantrymen?’

  Marcus shook his head slowly.

  ‘I wasn’t a guard officer for long enough …’

  ‘… and the praetorians tend to take in men who’ve already had the rough edges hammered off them. You see, taking stupid lazy kids and turning them into fighting men is a bit of an art.’

  Julius nodded sagely, and even Dubnus was giving the veteran centurion an approving look.

  ‘You get them on the parade ground on their first day and you’d swear they didn’t know left from right, much less which end of their new spear has the pointy iron thing attached. All you’ve got is eighty or so individuals, some stupid, some lazy, and all of them utterly clueless. As a legion centurion faced with that, all you’ve got to help you is a chosen man to push them around from behind and a watch officer who, if you’re lucky, has trained recruits before. That and a few simple rules learned from older and possibly wiser men down the years of your service.’

  Rufius raised an eyebrow to the other two, both of whom nodded sagely as he continued his lecture.

  ‘There are only three tricks that a centurio
n has to perform to turn the average bunch of teenage idiots into trained troops, ready to try their hand against the barbarians. Number one is obvious – he has to drill them in the use of shield, sword and spear in every spare moment, until every possible move, attack or defend, is as natural to them as breathing. That way they’ll do whatever he orders without even having to think about it. Number two, he has to get them fit, ready to run all day if that’s what’s needed, and he has to run alongside them every step of the way or lose their respect. But those are the easy bits, and without trick number three all you end up with is a bunch of fit idiots who know how to sling a spear but can’t see any reason why they should.’

  He paused for a drink, aware that every officer in the room was listening now, most of them with faint smiles. He gestured around the mess with his free hand.

  ‘See, both young Caelius and that battered old bastard Otho both know what I mean. Trick number three is the most delicate and difficult trick a centurion ever gets to try. It isn’t written down anywhere, because every one of us does it a different way, depending on our personal style and who we learned it from. For some officers it’s the most natural thing in the world, others find it so difficult that they can never really get their recruits to swallow it. I know that I can do it, and every other man in this room knows the same or he wouldn’t be here. I also know that your bow benders won’t learn even the most basic moves properly unless we apply it to them good and hard. I can teach you how to do it if you’ll let me …’

  He paused, giving his friend a long stare.

  ‘But?’

  ‘You’re a good man. Educated. Cultured. Yes, you’re a trained gladiator and you’ve killed on the battlefield enough times to show you’re a warrior. We all respect that, but …’

  Marcus put his cup down, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s simple enough. Trick number three is about being a bastard, that’s the top and bottom of it. Your recruits have to know that given the slightest excuse you’ll come down on them so hard they’ll be reaching up to wipe their arses. And Marcus, I’m just not sure you’ve got enough bastard in you to turn these boys around, given the amount of time we’ve got.’