Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two

by Riches, Anthony

  ‘And all of you saw this?’

  Julius answered for the three of them.

  ‘Not really, Tribune. We were having a quiet look at our brother officer when we heard the prefect here hit the floor, and then the doctor called for help. He was as limp as a rag when we picked him up to put him on the table.’

  ‘You knew that he’d been relieved of command?’

  ‘Yes, sir, our first spear told us about it. We just thought the prefect might have seen the error of his ways and come to visit his wounded …’

  ‘Hmmm. And not a mark on him, eh, Doctor?’

  Felicia looked him square in the eye.

  ‘Not that I could find, Tribune Licinius, not a cut, nor a bruise of any significance. You’re welcome to have a look yourself, if you like?’

  Licinius’s eyes narrowed, and he sniffed the room’s air ostentatiously, raising an eyebrow at windows opened wide despite the night air’s chill.

  ‘No need, Doctor; you’re the expert here. But that’s a nasty bruise you’ve got coming up round your left eye.’

  Felicia stared straight back at him, her eyes suddenly glassy with barely restrained tears and her answer delivered in a quavering voice.

  ‘A patient managed to get his arm free during surgery, Prefect. It happens sometimes, and he managed to catch me a nasty blow on the face before he could be restrained. I’ll live.’

  The tribune’s face softened.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear, if I’d known there was a risk of any such thing happening I would have made sure he was restrained more effectively. And you, gentlemen …’

  The centurions waited stiffly, pondering their fate while the senior officer paced around the table to stand close to them, speaking in a low voice that was intended for their ears alone.

  ‘I have no idea how you managed to achieve this, but given what I am guessing has happened here, I’m mightily relieved that this is such an obvious case of death by natural causes.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Frontinius and Scaurus, waiting silently to one side. ‘And now, gentlemen, since we’re kept from our beds by this unfortunate occurrence, we might as well go and get a cup of wine. I’ll drink to your promotion and to this fool’s timely demise in equal measure.’

  The two cohorts paraded at dawn that morning, fifteen hundred infantrymen cursing the thought of another long day’s hard marching. Morban nudged Qadir in the ribs, tipping his head towards the Petriana wing as they clattered past the parade ground, heading for the road north and their main task for the day, hunting for any barbarian ambush.

  ‘They won’t be sweating all bloody day like we will, they’ll be sat nice and comfy on their bloody horses giving the bushes an occasional poke with their spears.’

  The Hamian shrugged, muttering his response so quietly that only Morban could hear it.

  ‘If you can’t take a joke, Standard-bearer, you should not have joined the army in the first place.’

  Morban gave him a dirty look.

  ‘All you need to do is learn to swear and you’ll be nicely positioned for a vine stick when the next one dies …’

  He withered under Marcus’s stare as the young centurion turned and glared at him. Qadir looked down his nose at him, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Not so clever. Not with his friend still in the camp hospital.’

  Morban nodded glumly, watching as Scaurus strode out on to the parade ground with Frontinius and Neuto flanking him to either side.

  ‘Tungrians, hear me! By the command of Ulpius Marcellus, governor of this province, I have been appointed to the command of both the First and Second Tungrian cohorts, with the rank of cohort tribune …’ The parade ground was suddenly deathly quiet, as the much-anticipated news became reality. Scaurus continued, walking slowly across the gravel with both hands on his hips. ‘For the time being nothing changes. Your officers before this announcement are still your officers now. I will, however, be reviewing the strengths and weaknesses of both cohorts, and making selective changes where I and my first spears feel they are required.’

  The new tribune stopped speaking and stared across the ranks of his command, allowing time for the last sentence to sink in before speaking again.

  ‘We march north now to rejoin the legions, and I expect that once again we’ll have a front-row seat when the time comes to finish this war by finding and destroying the enemy. With that in mind, and given the price paid in blood by the First Cohort’s Eighth Century, I have decided to release the remainder of that century to serve with the First Hamian cohort, who are currently manning this fort. Centurion Corvus will command the Ninth Century while their officer is recovering from his wound, and the First Cohort will carry the Eighth as an empty century until sufficient reinforcements are received to reconstitute it. So, I call upon our Hamian brothers to come forward and accept your acclamation before we march north …’

  Marcus walked from his place in front of the 8th to one end of their short line, beckoning Morban and the trumpeter to join him behind the archers. Extending an arm to Qadir, he shook his chosen man’s hand before pointing to the waiting tribune.

  ‘Just march them over to Tribune Scaurus. He’ll probably want to shake your hand, and then I’d imagine he’ll appoint you centurion before the Hamian prefect gets his hands on your men. I’d say you’ve earned it.’

  The chosen man stared at him in amazement.

  ‘Centurion?’

  Marcus nodded, a smile creasing his face.

  ‘Yes. If Scaurus appoints you now, then rather than your reverting to temporary status you’ll get to keep the position. No matter how many other good candidates the Hamian prefect might have queued up for the job. Once your wounded have recovered you’ll have a good-sized century to chase around the hills.’

  Qadir’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

  ‘I do not …’

  ‘Know what to say? The words ‘thank you, Tribune’ will make a good start. And he’s still waiting for you, so I suggest you get your men out there and take what you’ve earned.’

  The Hamian nodded, ordering his men to march forward to the spot where the tribune was waiting. Marcus watched as he stepped through their line and snapped off a smart salute to Scaurus, then took the offered hand and shook it, all the while apparently speaking to the tribune rather than allowing him a chance to say the words he had prepared for the occasion.

  ‘So, back to the Ninth again. It’ll be good to be in front of the lads with a statue again.’

  Marcus raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise.

  ‘Who said you’d be the Ninth’s standard-bearer?’

  ‘But you …’

  ‘They haven’t got a centurion, but they’re not missing a standard-bearer …’ The centurion waited for a moment until the trumpeter smirked at Morban’s back before adding, ‘… or a trumpeter.’ He turned back to the 8th, noting that Scaurus was now speaking, the expression on his face earnest and yet not entirely displeased. ‘What in Hades is keeping them?’

  Morban sniffed loudly, wounded pride dripping from his words.

  ‘Qadir’s probably turning down the chance to sit out the war here in peace and comfort and asking to be assigned to the Ninth with you, Centurion.’

  Marcus glanced round at him with an incredulous look before returning his gaze to the scene playing out in front of the cohort.

  ‘Nobody, Standard-bearer, is that stupid.’

  The older man’s face stayed perfectly straight, and he nudged the trumpeter with his foot, unseen by Marcus.

  ‘A small wager, Centurion? Say … ten denarii at five to one?’

  Marcus answered without even turning round.

  ‘Done.’

  The discussion seemed to have finished, but before Marcus had a chance to comment the newly appointed tribune beckoned to him with a raised hand.

  ‘Centurion Corvus, join us, please.’

  He walked across the parade ground with a sinking feeling, snapping off a crisp salute and
waiting for the tribune to speak. Scaurus’s face was a picture of irritated bemusement.

  ‘It seems that your former chosen man doesn’t want to accept the position of centurion I’ve offered him. He seems to prefer serving with you in the Ninth Century, even if that means accepting a lower rank. Several of his men are of the same opinion, it seems. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, while the position’s still on the table?’

  Qadir turned to face him, his face set obdurately.

  ‘Qadir, as a centurion you’ll have …’

  ‘… everything I could possibly desire, my friend, except the knowledge that I am part of the best infantry cohort in the province. A month ago I would have accepted the tribune’s offer with joy for my men’s future safety. Today I cannot accept that safety while I know that you and my other brothers will face such risk again, not while there is a fight waiting for us over the horizon. I’m sorry to throw this offer back in your faces, but I cannot accept it and remain my own man. And I am not the only one who feels this way.’

  The tribune spoke up, his voice no longer employing tones of persuasion but now harsh with his authority.

  ‘Very well. It seems the Eighth-Century do not all wish to join the Hamian cohort. Those men that wish to leave us, and serve with their own people, step forward three paces.’

  Of the seventy-odd men remaining in the 8th, roughly two-thirds stepped forward, some with sad glances back at Qadir and their remaining comrades.

  ‘Those men that wish to remain with the First Tungrian cohort, step back three paces.’

  Marcus watched the remaining men as they made the three fateful steps, noting that for the most part they were the men who had made tolerable swordsmen and had coped best under the burden of their weapons and armour. He turned to Scaurus, raising a hand.

  ‘If I might speak with these men for a moment, Tribune?’

  Scaurus nodded, and the young centurion walked out in front of the soldiers who had stepped back to rejoin the Tungrians, clearing his throat and addressing his comments not just to the Hamians before him but to the entire cohort, his voice raised to a parade-ground-spanning bark.

  ‘Hamians, you wish to remain with the Tungrians with whom you have made your home this last few weeks! You have proved your bravery in the battle at the Red River, where you saved every man here from near-certain ruin and death! But now you seek admission to a brotherhood of arms that can make no further allowances for you! When we march at the forced march you will either cope with that pace or you will fall out of the line of march and take your chances! You will be expected to carry two spears, and to sling them into a man-sized target at twenty paces! Any weaknesses or failings will no longer be tolerated as understandable, given your previous training; they will be run, and practised, and if need be beaten out of you! You will become Tungrians, with everything that implies! Can you accept those terms to your remaining with us?!’

  The men in front of him answered in ones and twos, their abashed faces staring at the ground.

  ‘Not good enough, not if you want to be Tungrians! Can you accept those terms? If you can, the only answer is “Yes, Centurion!”’

  The response wasn’t perfect, delivered as a rolling chorus rather than as one crisp response, but it was good enough.

  ‘Yes, Centurion!’

  ‘Very well, under those terms I am happy to recommend to the tribune that we retain you on the cohort’s strength and give you a chance to meet our standards. One more thing, though … your bows …’

  Inwardly amused, he kept his expression utterly neutral as their faces lengthened, only Qadir gazing at him quizzically as if he already knew what was coming.

  ‘You’d best keep them, and make sure you have a good supply of arrows. You might be needing them.’

  With the Hamians back in their place the prefect dismissed the cohorts to their preparations for the march, the centurions and their chosen men busying themselves checking that their men had all their kit and were ready for the imminent command to move. In the middle of the bustle of getting the 9th Century, now back to full strength with the addition of the Hamians, ready for the day’s marching, Marcus felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find First Spear Neuto standing behind him at a respectful distance, and saluted smartly.

  ‘Can I help you, First Spear?’

  The older man held out a small cloth-wrapped package to him.

  ‘I found this in Prefect Furius’s kit last night, while I was sorting out his personal effects to send to his family once all this is done with. I thought you ought to have it, given what’s inside it.’

  Marcus lifted the cloth covering, and the gold cloak pin underneath it winked at him in the morning sunlight.

  ‘Ah. I wondered where that had got to. Thank you, sir.’

  Neuto inclined his head gravely.

  ‘It was accompanied by a scroll detailing some rather colourful allegations against you and your brother officers. I took the liberty of putting it into the night guard’s brazier.’ He looked around himself for a moment before speaking again. ‘The men that fought with you down at the riverbank told me you gave Centurion Appius his dignity in death, and that you helped them to face the blue-noses when all seemed lost. All things considered I’d say your place is here, not being carted off to Rome to make some bastard in a purple toga feel better about himself.’ He nodded and turned to go, then turned back with a final thought. ‘One thing, though. You might find it a good idea to scratch off that inscription …’

  Marcus saluted, returning the first spear’s level gaze.

  ‘Yes, First Spear. I might.’

  Also by Anthony Riches

  Wounds of Honour

  Anthony Riches began his lifelong interest in war and soldiers when he first heard his father’s stories about World War II. This led to a degree in Military Studies at Manchester University. He began writing the story that would become Wounds of Honour after a visit to Housesteads Roman fort in 1996. He lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and three children.