Caelius smiled at them with renewed warmth, knocking back a large swig from his own beaker and wiping his moustache with the palm of his hand.
‘Well, after six months of drinking this issue filth, your gift would be as welcome as bread to a starving man. That slimy bastard Annius never even told us he had anything of the sort. Now, one good turn deserves another, so here’s a word of friendly advice for you, young Two Knives ...’
He paused significantly.
‘If you want to keep the cold out up here, and look like an officer ...’
He paused again portentously, making it clear that he was about to do his new colleague a great favour. Rufius raised a cautionary eyebrow over the man’s shoulder.
‘What you need to do is grow yourself a nice thick curly beard. You can grow a beard ... ?’
6
The cohort’s long stay in winter quarters began to draw to a close a fortnight after their arrival. The onset of warmer weather heralded the opening of spring’s campaign to revitalise the land. The change was much to the relief of officers at their wits’ end with containing the fallout of boredom and indiscipline that the winter’s long inactivity had bred in their troops. Marcus had already had one case to deal with from within the 9th, a tall, darkly surly, one-eyed soldier who went under the official name of Augustus and the unofficial title of ‘Cyclops’. It seemed that the name had as much to do with his poor temper as any more obvious reason.
Called out in the early hours by the duty officer, he found the man slumped, bruised and still bleeding from his nostrils, in a headquarters holding cell. The duty centurion, with some good fortune Caelius, who, Rufius excepted, was still his only real friend among the officers, shook his head more in sorrow than anger.
‘He’s known for it, I’m afraid. All it takes is for someone to find the right lever to tug at, the right jibe to set him off, and he goes off like a siege catapult. He’s been warned, fined, beaten, put on punishment details for weeks ... nothing works. If this goes to Uncle Sextus he’ll get another beating, a really bad one this time, perhaps dishonourable dismissal too ...’
Marcus looked in through the thick bars, weighing up the man slumped before him. While he’d learned a few names, and the characters behind them, the man was no more than an imperfectly remembered face in the cohort’s second rank on parade.
‘And what was the lever this time?’
‘We don’t know. He won’t say, and the men that beat the snot out of him are sticking to a story that he jumped them in the street outside the tavern they’d been drinking in, without warning or reason. Which is probably at least half true. You might not be surprised to learn that they’re both Latrine’s men.’
‘Hmmm. Open the door and leave me with him.’
Caelius shot him a surprised look.
‘Are you sure? He broke a man’s arm the last time he was in this state.’
‘And you think I couldn’t handle him?’
A sheepish grin spread over the other man’s face. He took a lead-weighted rod from his belt, tapping the heavy head significantly against his palm.
‘No, well, when you put it that way ... Just shout if he gets naughty, and I’ll come and reintroduce him to the night officer’s best friend.’
He opened the door, drawing no reaction from the prisoner. Marcus leant against the door frame, waiting until Caelius was out of earshot in his tiny cubicle. In the guardroom next to the office a dozen men were dozing, sitting up on their bench, packed in tight like peas in a pod. The building was quiet, eerily so when it was usually so vibrant with activity during the day.
‘Soldier Augustus?’
The words met with no reaction.
‘Cyclops!’
The soldier started at the name, looking up at his officer. He stared for a moment and snorted before putting his head down again.
‘How many times is this, soldier? Three? Four?’
‘Six.’
‘Six, Centurion. What punishments have you suffered as a consequence?’
The recitation was mechanical, the question often answered.
‘Ten strokes, twenty strokes, twenty-five strokes and two weeks’ pay, thirty strokes and two weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, fifty strokes and three weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, a month’s pay and a month’s free time ... Centurion.’
His head came up while he recited the litany of punishment, his one eye, previously dulled by pain, seeming to regain some of its spark.
‘None of which has stopped you from fighting ... So, then, Cyclops, why do you fight?’
The other man shrugged without expression, almost seeming not to comprehend the question.
‘I take no shit from no one.’
‘From what I’ve heard, you take “shit” from almost anyone. You let them get under your skin and goad you to the point of starting a fight, at which point you usually get both a beating and a place at the punishment table for starting the fight.’
Marcus shook his head in exasperation.
‘So what was it this time?’
Augustus’s eye clouded with pain again, and for a moment Marcus thought he was going to cry.
‘Phyllida.’
‘A woman?’
‘My woman. She left me, went to a soldier from the Fifth. Him and his mates took the piss out of me ...’
‘Mainly because it gives them an excuse to batter you, I’d say. Did you give some back?’
‘I hit them a few times.’
‘Want to hurt them some more?’
Cyclops looked up at him again, suspicion in his good eye.
‘How?’
‘Simple. Just tell me who else witnessed these men baiting you.’
‘I won’t speak against them.’
‘I guessed that already. I’ll deal with this my way, unofficially, but I need a name to start with.’
Cyclops paused for thought, as much to consider the request as to recall any detail. At length he spoke.
‘Manius, of the Fourth, he was in the tavern. He’s from my village.’
Marcus went to wake up Dubnus, waiting until the man had splashed cold water on his face before detailing the problem. The Briton’s response was simple.
‘Leave him to rot. Let Uncle Sextus deal with him. The man’s a liability, bad for discipline.’
Marcus leant back against the small room’s wall, rubbing his stubble wearily.
‘No. Leaving him to the First Spear’s discipline says we have no ideas of our own. That we don’t look after our own. How well do you know this man “Cyclops”?’
‘Well enough. His heart is poisoned, full of anger.’
‘Is he a warrior?’
‘He’s fierce enough in a fight, but he lacks ... self-control.’
‘So if we could make him behave, he’d make a good soldier?’
‘Ye-es.’
Marcus ignored the grudging tone of agreement.
‘Good. In that case I need your help. Let’s give him a real chance to change his ways this time.’
The Briton looked at him with a calculating expression.
‘You want to wake up Grandfather for this?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No, although I’d dearly love to have his advice. He has to be neutral in this, and if he knew about it he’d find it hard not to get involved in some way. This is a Ninth Century problem, and the Ninth will handle it. Our way.’
‘Which is?’
‘First we have to talk to a man in the Fourth. It’s a good thing Caelius is captain of the guard tonight, saves us waking him up too.’
Julius was woken from sleep by a hammering at his door, climbing bleary eyed from his bed to answer the insistent banging. His bad-tempered scowl became a snarl of distaste when he saw Marcus in the doorway, just recognisable in the night’s bright moonlight.
‘What do you want, puppy?’
Marcus gestured to an unseen person to his right and then stepped aside. Dubnus stepped into view, a semi-c
onscious soldier grasped firmly under each arm, his biceps bulging with the effort. One of his eyes was slightly closed, but otherwise he appeared undamaged. He dropped the men on the ground between them, making the centurion step back as they crumpled at his feet, and spoke for the first time.
‘I must be getting slow. A year ago neither of them would have laid a finger on me.’
Julius spluttered with fury, stepping out into the cold air without noticing its icy grip on his skin and squaring up to Dubnus.
‘What the fuck have you done?’
Marcus stepped in alongside his chosen man, his eyes narrowed with anger.
‘What he did, brother officer, was exact a very precise retribution on the men that beat up one of my troops earlier this evening. I have a witness who has sworn to me that Augustus was provoked, just as they knew he could be from happy experience. All we’ve done is even the account. If you attempt to take any further action on this matter he’s promised to come forward and tell his story.’
‘You’re bluffing! No man in this cohort would inform on another.’
‘Your choice. The only way to know is to try me. It can stop here, Julius, this quiet war on my century and your attempts to make them turn against me. From now, everything you start comes back to you twofold, no matter what it is. However many of my men suffer, twice as many of yours will receive the same punishment ...’
The younger man stepped in closer, putting his face into Julius’s, the set of his jaw and flare of his nostrils rooting the older man to the spot.
‘... and if you want to make it a little more personal, I’ll see you on the practice ground for a little exercise, with or without weapons. If you have a problem with me, you can take it up with me!’
He turned and stalked away. Dubnus raised an eyebrow in silent comment and turned to follow, leaving the 5th’s centurion for once lost for words.
The next morning, after early parade, Prefect Equitius and the First Spear sat to judge Cyclops’s case, running through the facts with the offender standing to attention in front of them. With the bare facts of the case established, Frontinius asked Cyclops whether he wanted to make any comment before sentence was passed. The soldier’s response was mumbled at the floor, but no less of a surprise to officers used to the man’s customary stony silence at the punishment table.
‘Sir, I ask my centurion to speak for me.’
Prefect and First Spear exchanged glances.
‘Very well, Soldier Augustus. Centurion?’
Marcus stepped forward, helmet held under his arm, and snapped to attention.
‘Prefect. First Spear. My submission on this man’s behalf is simple. He claims provocation to fight, but that is beside the point. He has a worse record of indiscipline than any other man in the Ninth, and I’ve already told him that I won’t tolerate it. I believe that he can make an effective soldier, but only if he can learn to control himself. My recommendation therefore is this: no beating, no loss of training time, in fact nothing that will keep him out of training. Instead, take away as much of his pay as you see fit and as much of his free time as appropriate. If he offends again, dismiss him from the cohort – he’ll be no use to me or any other officer if he can’t control his temper.’
Frontinius mused for a moment before turning to the tribune.
‘I agree. I’ve seen enough of this man at this table for one lifetime. Soldier Augustus, you are hereby fined one month’s pay, deprived of one month’s free time with bathhouse duties as further punishment, and restricted to the fortress for three months unless on duty with your century. One more appearance here, for any reason, and I will accept your centurion’s recommendation without hesitation. Do you understand?’
Cyclops nodded curtly.
‘Very well. Dismissed.’
Outside the headquarters Dubnus collared Cyclops, poking a long finger into his chest for emphasis, lapsing into their shared native tongue to be sure he was understood.
‘That was the officers’ version. Here’s mine. The centurion put his balls on the table for you in there, made his prestige with the First Spear a matter of your behaving yourself in future. You make one more mistake, you won’t just embarrass my centurion, you might be the reason he gets kicked out of the cohort. So, if you do fail to change your ways it won’t just be you out of the service. If that happens I’ll boot your punchbag so fucking hard your balls will never come down again. Do. You. Understand. Me?’
The one-eyed soldier stared back at him with an expression Dubnus found hard to decipher.
‘I’ll be a good boy from now, but not for you, Dubnus, I’m not scared of you. I’ll do it for the young gentleman.’
He turned and walked away towards the baths to start the first day of his punishment work routine, leaving Dubnus standing, hands on hips, watching him with a thoughtful expression.
With the beginning of the gradual change from winter into spring the cohort accelerated its training programme. Sextus Frontinius, listening to the reports of a slow flame of resentment burning steadily brighter in the northern tribes, was keen to get his men into the field and training towards peak fitness, ready for the campaign he made no secret of believing they would fight that year. Twenty-mile marches became a thrice-weekly event, rather than the freezing misery inflicted on the cohort once a fortnight.
Marcus’s and Rufius’s centuries, the former properly re-equipped and both suddenly the envy of the cohort, eating the best of rations and appropriately vigorous, responded to their commanders’ different styles of leadership well. Whether it was Marcus’s blend of humanity and purpose, or Rufius’s legion training methods, quietly imparted to Marcus in conversations long into the night when their duties allowed, both centuries grew quickly in fighting ability and self-confidence. The 9th were driven relentlessly by Dubnus and his two new watch officers, hand-picked older men who understood what would be required of the century if it did come to war. With the open backing of the influential Morban the 9th quickly coalesced from a collection of indifferent individuals into a tightly knit body of men, and set about rediscovering the pleasure of testing themselves alongside men they were coming to regard as brothers. Rufius had put the idea to his friend in the officer’s mess one evening after their day’s duties.
Otho and Brutus were playing a noisy game of Robbers in another corner of the room, on a black-and-white chequered board painted on to their table. ‘Lucky’ was failing to live up to his title, as the boxer chased his few remaining counters around the board. He was picking them off one by one and laughing hugely with each capture. Rufius tipped his head towards the two men, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
‘And let that be a warning to you. Our brother officer might be called Knuckles, but don’t ever think he might be punch drunk. That’s the fourth game in a row he’s taken off Brutus, and there’s no sign of the streak being broken. A good game for the military mind is Robbers, teaches you to think ahead all the time. The only mistake dear old Lucky’s making is to worry about where his counters will go next, not where he wants them in three moves’ time. He plays aggressively, pushes for the straddle, while Knuckles, he knows the art of steady play, how to gently ease the opponent’s counters into position for the attack. There are lessons for life in the simplest game, but some lessons are harder won ...’
He took a mouthful of wine, savouring the taste for a moment with a sideways glance at his friend.
‘Which leads me to a subject I’ve been pondering the last few weeks, watching you and Dubnus turn your lads from a rabble to something more like infantrymen. I don’t doubt for a second that you’ll teach your boys enough about sword and board work to make each one of them an effective fighter, but I can tell you from grim experience that isn’t the key to fielding a century that will grind up anything thrown at them and come back for more.
‘Let me tell you what happens when we fight the blue-noses. Before the battle, when our men are trying to keep from soiling themselves with fear, the barbarians
stop just outside spear-throw and start shouting the odds like vicus drunks, how they’re going to carve off our dicks and wave them at our women before they fuck them to death, how we’ll soon be staring at our own guts as they lie steaming on the turf, all that rubbish. However, take note of a man that’s been there – it works. There’s a natural reaction I’ve seen in many a century and cohort when the barbarians are baying for blood, and that’s for each man to sidle to his right just a little, looking to get just a little more protection from his mate’s shield. Before you know it the line’s half a mile farther to the right than the legatus wants it, and the fight’s half over before it begins, just from sheer fear ...’
He drank again, signalling to the steward for a refill.
‘The secret to winning battles, my friend, isn’t fancy sword work, or how well your boys can sling a spear, important though those skills are. It’s actually much simpler than that, but harder to achieve. All you have to do is to make the lads love each other.’
He sat back, cocking a wry eyebrow at the Roman.
‘And no, before you laugh at me, I don’t mean all that arse-poking in Greek pornography, I mean the love a man has for his brother.’
He paused again, judging the moment.
‘There’s only one way to explain this to you, and I apologise for the necessity. You had a brother in Rome, right?’
Marcus nodded soberly, finding the memory painful, but less so than before.
‘Well, what you would have done had you been in a position to fight his killers?’
The younger man’s nostrils flared with remembered anger.
‘I would probably have died with a bloody sword in my hand, and a carpet of dead and dying men around me.’
‘Exactly. And that, friend Marcus, is the love we need to get into the hearts of our lads. When one of your tent parties is in trouble, whether it’s a punch-up in a vicus beer shop or a desperate fight against hordes of blue-nosed bastards, their mates to either side have a choice, to look to their front and ignore their mates’ peril, or to dive in to the rescue. Orders don’t make that happen, and you can’t teach it on the parade ground, but if you get them to love each other, they do the rest for you, without even thinking about it. When you get it right a man will use his shield to protect the man next to him when he falls, and ignore the risk he runs in doing so, knowing with complete certainty that his mate would do the same for him without a second’s thought.’
Wounds of Honour: Empire I Page 14