‘Morning, Major.’
‘Mr Johnson.’
‘Enjoyed yourself?’
‘Oh, I think so.’ I grinned and he smiled back, one per cent off a smirk. Yeah, just like the primipilus.
‘You’ll find fresh food for your team in the mess tent.’
They’d reached the tent first while I’d been doing the nicely-nicely with Johnson. Livius beckoned me over to the table they were clustered around and he thrust a plate of some kind of brown meat stew, potatoes and vegetables toward me. I poked at it.
‘It’s all right, Bruna, it’s dead,’ Paula Servla said. ‘Quite tasty, in fact,’ and followed her words by loading a spoonful into her mouth. The others laughed at my expression, even Allia and Pelo who were very junior. My friend and comrade for nearly fifteen years, Paula had used my nom de guerre – Bruna – with ease as she teased me. But she was right, the stew was good.
Afterwards, I told them to go grab a few hours’ rest. I settled down to write my report. I was finishing the first draft when a shadow fell across the table.
‘Major Mitela.’
Crap.
‘Lieutenant Wilson.’ I looked up at him. He winced.
Damn. I’d used the American pronunciation. The Brits hated that.
‘Have you recovered?’ No harm being polite.
He snorted. ‘That was an illegal procedure and I intend to report it to my and your senior command.’
I shrugged. ‘Fine by me. Do it.’ I bent my head back down to my report. He had no choice but to go. I watched through my eyelashes as he stomped off to the command tent. Gods, some of them took it so badly. Tough. We trained like every exercise was a live operation, usually without any blood, and used all the techniques, equipment and training at our disposal. When it came to it, a live operation unfolded like an exercise, but sometimes included casualties. A hard way, but successful. Sometimes a little too robust for outsiders.
More of our teams drifted in through the afternoon and I went and spoke to them as they settled down to their food. Two had been brought in as captives, so commiserations to them. Overall, though, we’d acquitted ourselves well.
A joint senior staff mop-up meeting was held before the evening meal where I had the impression we’d won a few friends, one unfriend and a decent amount of respect. Nobody said a word about our unorthodox methodology.
*
Making my way over to the wash tent later, a tingle ran across the back of my neck. I whirled around but nobody stood behind me, nor anywhere in the clearing. I stood completely still and listened. But I knew somebody was watching, and purposefully. I pulled the outside flap aside slowly. Nobody. No sound of water falling. I checked all the canvas-sided cubicles. Only the smell of soap, and the sheen of wastewater with a few surviving bubbles in corners of the trays. But I still felt uneasy. After a few moments, I decided that I was being ridiculous. Maybe it was tiredness. I shrugged and chose one of the cubicles to the right.
As I dressed afterward, I glanced up at the sign ‘Female showers’. How had showers acquired gender? You didn’t get that ambiguity in Latin, even in the 21st century.
*
Early next morning, I went for a run with Flavius. Now a senior centurion, he and I had met fourteen years ago on an undercover operation. He was smart, aware and physically tough. He wasn’t a pretty boy like Livius; his light brown hair and mid-brown eyes together with the other standard features you got in a face made a pleasant, but not outstanding combination. This was a great asset for a spook as nobody remembered the average. But when he smiled his soul shone out from his eyes. He gave me balance, sometimes quite starkly, other times humorously. He was my comrade-in-arms, but above all a friend.
‘How do you think it’s going?’ I asked.
He grinned at me. ‘I heard you pulled one of your little tricks.’ He ducked my flying hand.
‘All perfectly routine,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but this lot play by the rules, generally. Rules of engagement, they call it.’
‘I bet they don’t when they’re in the middle of some covert op in the African mountains,’ I snorted.
‘Well, I gather we’re making a good impression, at least in comparison to the Americans and the Prussians.’
I showered and went for breakfast, getting waylaid in the mess tent by one of their captains, called Browning. His long sculptured face was lightened up by a charming smile. I had a penchant for blond hair, which in his case topped blue eyes and, curiously, a scattering of freckles over his nose.
‘Salve Carina Mitela,’ he began and went on, in slow but correct classic Latin. ‘Your forces fight well, with much courage and cunning.’
‘Thank you, tribune,’ I replied, trying my best to match his formality of voice. ‘I accept your praise on behalf of my troops. Your Latin is excellent, very cultured. May I enquire where you learnt to speak so well?’
‘Universitas Sancti Andreae.’ He smiled at my puzzled look and reverted to English. ‘It’s a university in Scotland. I tried it out on some of your people, but I quickly realised it hadn’t moved on since Augustus.’ He smiled ruefully and led me towards an empty table.
‘Hey, no problem,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to speak English – good to pick up on my native language.’
His turn to look confused.
‘I was raised in the Eastern States, you know, America. I lived there until I was twenty-four. My mother was Roma Novan so when I emigrated there, I re-joined her family. I became a member of the PGSF a little later.’
‘Fascinating! Do you go back much?’
‘Only twice in the past fourteen years, the last time a year ago. I found it quite weird – a lot had changed.’
Yeah, and apart from the cleanliness, not for the better. Or maybe it was me. Time to switch subjects.
‘Are you going to try out the Roman games later? I’d be happy to take you through some of them.’
‘I think I’ll watch first.’
I grinned, finished the mug of strong tea the Brits drank, piled my dirty plate on the service table and made my way back to our admin tent.
*
Flavius was designating teams for the games this afternoon. We were giving our hosts a demonstration just for fun, but he wanted it to be perfect and was choosing carefully.
‘Ah, Major,’ he caught my approach, cast his eye down at his el-pad and asked, ‘can I put you down for the link fight?’ His half-smile was a little too knowing.
The guards fidgeting in a cluster around him, eager to find out their assignments, stopped. The chatter dried up instantly and two dozen pairs of eyes focused on me.
He knew I was the most experienced link-fighter. He also knew I loved it. I’d been practising it with Daniel, now Colonel Daniel Stern and deputy legate, for years before it became legal. It had been an illicit pleasure we’d both relished but contests had been banned for years because of the lethally high casualty rate. I was knocking on the door of forty, for Juno’s sake, but if I said no, Flavius would needle me about it for months. Worse, I’d be letting the detachment down in front of foreigners. If I said yes, I’d have to win or lose face. Asking me in front of the troops meant I couldn’t refuse.
Crafty bastard.
‘Of course, Senior Centurion, I’d be devastated with delight. Now do tell me, who have you volunteered as my partner?’
He had the grace to look away, but after a second found a beaming smile to throw at me. ‘Your choice, ma’am. Centurion Livius is a possibility, or perhaps Pelo.’
Livius! The fittest soldier in the unit. He was raving. And Pelo was a younger version of him.
‘And yourself, Flavius?’ I smiled as sweetly as I could without causing a stampede for sick bags.
‘Oh, I think I’ll be needed to supervise everything. I must regretfully decline your invitation.’
I sighed. ‘Tell Livius to report to me and we’ll practise a few moves.’ I looked at my watch; we had four hours before lunch. I might get lucky and bre
ak my leg before the games started.
*
‘C’mon, Bruna, wake up!’
We’d been practising for fifteen minutes now and I wanted a break. My breath was rasping through my lungs in shorter and shorter gasps. Blood thrummed around my system as my superfit opponent exerted every gram of his formidable strength against me. I was more skilled and agile than him which was, thank the gods, more important.
‘Screw you, Livius.’ I jumped over the chain right into his field of contact and slashed at his arm. He nearly drew away in time. I left a short, red gash on his forearm which leaked slow droplets.
I brought my short sword around before he could recover, feinted right in his face, jerked the chain, thrusting my foot out at the same time and tripped him up. As he hit the ground, he found the tip of my sword pressed against his larynx. He dropped his weapon and opened his arms, laying them on the ground, the palms of his hands upwards in a signal of surrender. He grinned up at me as he lay there, his blond curls dishevelled but his pale eyes laughing. Even defeated, his good humour didn’t fail. No wonder women fell for him.
I sheathed my sword and held my right hand out to him. I saw the measuring look in his eye.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said. He sat up, studied the ground for a few seconds and chuckled to himself. He sprang to his feet, giving me my hand back, all in one graceful movement. His tall frame hadn’t filled out a millimetre since we’d met on that first training exercise fourteen years ago. He still towered over me and I knew how crazy I’d been to accept him as my opponent. Small wonder I was still trying to catch my breath.
*
Lined up after a light lunch and the gods knew how much water, we occupied two sides of a cleared area, ready to start our skills demonstration. I noticed a couple of empty chairs between the exercise commander and the Latin speaker, Browning. Were they expecting guests? I sighed. Sometimes I felt we were like a circus, parading our Roman-ness, satisfying some half-baked nostalgia based on epic movies. Some clown had even wanted us to stage a mock battle against one of the Roman re-enactment groups. They forgot that while we were proud of our history, we were a forward-looking 21st century country.
Flavius got it all underway, with pairs demonstrating sword skills. Not practised these days outside the professional games arena except by the military, training with a sharp, double-edged fifty centimetre carbon steel blade tended to concentrate the mind as well as honing reaction skills. Not mandatory – we used state of the art weaponry as normal – but all members of the unit were encouraged to become proficient with a gladius, if only to get used to close physical combat with an opponent. If you got cut, you got cut, then chewed out for being careless. Contrary to popular belief, the Roman short sword was more than fine for cutting and chopping motions as well as for thrusting. Not much had changed in shape since the Pompeii pattern used in the fourth century which had been spectacularly successful.
After a while, Flavius invited the Brits to come forward to try it out. His opposite number, Johnson, and around a dozen of them did well despite their unfamiliarity with the weapon. After watching for a few minutes, I nodded to Paula and we left them to it.
In my tent, I got kitted up with Paula’s help. I stripped off my fatigues jacket, leaving my black t-shirt and donned the thin leather undershirt, lined with Kevlar fabric. I changed into my studded leather arena boots, bound my plaited red-gold hair up on top of my head. Paula clipped a leather-and-mail protective band around my neck.
‘You okay, Bruna? You seem a bit quiet.’
‘Sorry, just thinking about a strange feeling I got this morning. I was outside the showers and I got a distinct feeling of being watched.’
‘Some perv wanting an eyeful?’ she smirked. Her brown eyes reflected cynical humour.
‘No,’ I smiled back, lifting my arms for the chain mail lorica she was slipping over my undershirt. ‘More than that. I got a definite tingle of danger.’
‘Not that young officer Allia stuck her needle into? He was pretty pissed about it.’
‘I don’t think so. No, something bigger.’ I shook my head to get rid of the thought as I buckled the wide leather belt she’d handed me. She fastened the leather Kevlar-lined lower arm guards and I was ready.
As we got back to the edge of the clearing, they’d just finished demonstrating the cuneum formate, a shock tactic in the form of a wedge. Like a treble-sized sabre-toothed tiger coming at you; incredibly scary if you were on the receiving end of it.
The next thing I saw was that the two empty chairs were now occupied; a slim junior officer, sitting upright and formal, and next to her, the legate.
What in Hades was he doing here? And why had he brought the ghastly Stella?
II
A sharp tug jolted my arm again. Livius was pulsing them to break my concentration. I doubled my guard as we circled again. The gravel crunched under the soles of my boots as I kept my feet dancing. At the other end of the two-metre chain, Livius caught me in a fixed stare, trying to unnerve me. I glared back. I feinted forward, letting the chain go slack, then yanked and slashed down with my blade. A thin ripple of blood appeared on his upper arm in the gap between arm guard and sleeve of his chain-mail lorica. It matched the one I’d given him this morning. He swore. Not a trace of good humour in his face now. I laughed at him. I was going to win. He looked as mad as Hades.
The leather cuff at the end of the chain binding my left wrist to Livius’s started to chafe. The sweatband underneath was saturated. The links clashed and groaned with the intensity of our pulling and straining. Sometimes I imagined a ripple of fierce, lethal energy running up and down the chain. All you wanted to do was destroy your opponent.
I heard cheering, shouting of bets placed, heckling, but filtered most of it out. I had to concentrate on Livius’s weapon slicing the air and jabbing at me. and his attempts to defeat me. I was used to the merciless force as the opponent pulled, but he was wearing me down. Sweat ran down my back and between my breasts with the effort of thrusting and dodging.
I must have been crazy to do this. I felt a rush of fear mixed with adrenalin as I leapt over the chain to avoid a vicious stab. Gods, he was furious now, his eyes as hard as stones. As I dodged faster and faster, I missed my step, he tripped me and I was on the ground. As I went down I grabbed the chain link near his wrist and pulled him to earth with me. As he fell, I used the momentum to throw him over my head while I rolled away. We both scrambled up, panting, measuring each other up.
The violence in his eyes, now tearing with the dust we’d raised, made me determined to finish this quickly. As we sprang up, I feinted to the right, distracting him, leapt into his now opened guard area. Using my whole body, I felled him and landed hard on his chest. Within nanoseconds I had jerked my elbow up to the grey sky, my arm and wrist folded in one downwards line, hand poised ready to thrust downwards. The tip of my sword grazed his throat.
For a few seconds I thought he was going to try something stupid like bringing his sword up from behind and slashing my unguarded flesh. His linked hand was trapped under his body, but his right hand was still free holding the lethal blade.
‘Drop it.’ I pushed the sword tip harder against the stretched tan skin of his throat, just nicking the surface. A tiny spot of red seeped out.
His eyes narrowed, making them darker. His mouth was still a single hard line. The shouting and heckling from the audience had died. Intense stares lapped at us, but nobody moved.
‘C’mon, Livius,’ I whispered. ‘Give it up. I’m dying for a drink.’
The rigid body under me seemed to harden. Suddenly, it relaxed and I was sitting on softening flesh. The fire in his eyes subsided and a ghost of a grin flitted across his lips. He uncurled his hand and released his blade.
I stood up and brandished mine in the air with a shout of ‘Victis’. Flavius came forward and, mildly pompous like any referee, declared it finished. I ignored the applause and exuberant shouting around us.
Unlacing my leather cuff, I glanced at Livius, doing the same. ‘Friends?’
‘Of course, Bruna.’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘But I can see why they banned it for so long. I wanted to destroy you.’
‘I know. That’s why I had to end it.’
We weren’t offering our hosts the chance to participate in this particular exercise.
We grasped forearms in the traditional way. His gaze was steady now.
‘You know what we have to do now, don’t you, Bruna?’ He raised an eyebrow as if expecting me to protest. ‘As the old man’s here,’ he looked me direct in the eyes.
‘I suppose so. Let’s get on with it, then.’
‘Don’t be so grouchy.’
‘Huh.’
We marched across the ten metres or so, he impeccably, me adequately, but in step. We stopped two metres away from the front rows of our hosts. Some were sitting in canvas field chairs, others on the ground. Swords still in our right hands, we raised them, swinging them around to the front in a wide arc to rest, blades vertical, flat side facing, our hands close to our faces, paused for three seconds, then slashed them down to the right. And waited.
The legate stood and assessed us with his hazel eyes, his face showing no sign of emotion, no reaction. Even the scar from his recent accident that ran along the hairline by his temple looked calm. He saluted back and we stood easy, but not relaxed.
‘A good demonstration,’ he said in English. ‘I commend you, Centurion Livius, for going up against the most experienced link-fighter of this generation.’
Was that a compliment?
‘Well done, Major.’ He smiled at me, his eyes crinkling, betraying a trace of mischief. Good thing his back was to our hosts. ‘I think you’ve frightened everybody sufficiently for one day.’
He dismissed us. We saluted again, turned smartly to the right and marched off. After a few steps, we relaxed into a normal walk and joined the others, milling around with some of the Brits. I looked back, searching for the legate, but he and other senior officers had vanished into the staff tent.
Successio Page 2