Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Ninth Century, prepare to change pace! At the run ... Run!’

  The soldiers lengthened their stride together, long accustomed to hauling their bodies and equipment across the undulating countryside at a fast jog. They went south at a fast pace for another two miles before dropping back to rest at a fast march for a mile, then stepped up the pace again. The troops were sweating heavily now with the effort of running in armour with full campaign kit, each man humping his armour, sword, shield, two spears and his pack, with only the pointed wooden stakes made to be lashed together into obstacle defences missing from their loads. They were working to a timetable known only to Marcus and his triumvirate of advisers, Dubnus, Morban and Antenoch, who had planned the day over a jug of wine the previous evening. While Dubnus still lacked any trust in Antenoch, he remained polite enough to the other man’s face, and had tolerated Marcus’s insistence on his being involved in their preparation.

  The wind dropped, allowing the day’s heat to get to work on bodies that were tiring and starting to dry out, but still they ground on, Dubnus relentlessly driving them on with shouts of encouragement and threats of a faster pace if any man flagged. Five miles out from the Hill, Marcus pointed to the roadside.

  ‘Ten-minute rest and briefing. Get your water bottles and drink, but do it quietly if you want to know what we’re about to do!’

  Breathing hard, his men forwent the usual playful push and shove of the rest stop, drinking eagerly from their bottles while their centurion explained what they were about to attempt. His command of the British language had progressed a long way in the time available, but he spoke in Latin now, pausing for Dubnus’s translation, to ensure complete understanding.

  ‘The usual way of things in this event is for the marching century to concentrate on getting around the course as quickly as possible, to win points for ground covered before the ambush. When they are ambushed, as they always are, a practice battle results. A few minutes’ fighting, one of the two centuries is declared the winner, and then they finish the march together, all good friends again ...’

  A few heads nodded knowingly. This was the speed march they had come to expect.

  ‘Not this time. Not this century.’

  They stared back at him, eyes widening at the heresy.

  ‘How many of you would knowingly walk into an ambush, or even the risk of one? We’ve trained to march fast because we’ll use that speed in the field to avoid ambushes, or to put ourselves into the best positions before an enemy can reach them.’

  He paused, allowing Dubnus to translate, although he could see from their faces that the majority had understood his words.

  ‘This one’s real as far as I’m concerned. What about you, Chosen?’

  Dubnus nodded grimly, staring dispassionately at his men, daring anyone to disagree. Marcus continued.

  ‘Julius wants to teach me a lesson, take me down a peg, and he wants to do this at the expense of your pride. That, and your reputation as soldiers. You might not have noticed it ...’ He knew they knew all too well, were basking in the glory of their meteoric rise. ‘... but we’re second in the standings. The century everyone wrote off as useless. You want to keep that reputation? Be second best?’

  A few heads shook slowly. Morban roared at them, his challenge lifting the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck as he shook the standard indignantly at them.

  ‘I’m not taking second place to any bastard without a fight! You’re either in this or you can turn round and fuck off back to the Hill and apply for a new century. One that takes losers.’

  Marcus watched their reaction carefully, gauging their sudden enthusiasm as men turned to their neighbours to see the excitement reflected in their eyes. The standard-bearer grinned proudly at Marcus, tipping his head in salute to hand the century back to his centurion.

  ‘So shut the fuck up and let the centurion tell you how we’re going to pull Latrine’s beard for him.’

  7

  Julius lengthened his stride, eager to reach his chosen ambush site. Alongside him, moving with an easy grace that belied his age, Sextus Frontinius matched him step for step. The centurion would have avoided taking the First Spear out on the ambush march if he could have found a way, but his superior was all too well aware of the potential for the event he had staged-managed to get out of control. He had made a point of politely requesting his permission to accompany the 5th Century, a courtesy Julius had no choice but to return through gritted teeth.

  ‘So you’ve decided to attack them at the Saddle, eh, Julius?’

  Julius, tempted to ignore the question but with enough sense to avoid the pitfall of failing to acknowledge the innocent enquiry, nevertheless waited a full five seconds, taking his response to the margins of insolence, before answering.

  ‘Yes, First Spear.’

  Sextus Frontinius smiled inwardly, keeping his face a mask of indifference.

  ‘A little early in the march, isn’t it? His men will still be relatively fresh. I’m surprised you’re not going to wait for them farther into the route. What’s wrong with the usual places?’

  Stung by the implied criticism, Julius wiped sweat from his eyebrows, shaking his head in irritation at the unusual warmth.

  ‘I’m not allowing any rest stops until we get there, so we’ll get there first. The Ninth will never suspect a thing until we’re down the slope and on top of them.’

  ‘If I didn’t know you better I’d have to say you’re taking all this a bit too personally.’

  The centurion spat into the roadside dust to clear his throat.

  ‘And, First Spear, if I didn’t know you better I’d have to say that you’ve rolled over for this Roman with the rest of them.’

  Frontinius glared at the soldier marching alongside him, who redoubled his efforts to be seen not listening.

  ‘March out front with me, Centurion, let’s show these nosy bastards of yours how to cover ground.’

  He waited until they were ten yards clear of the marching century before speaking again.

  ‘I think it’s time we discussed this properly. Our rules, not First Spear and centurion. Just Sextus and Julius.’

  The other man glanced over at him.

  ‘And if I don’t want to discuss it?’

  ‘But you do, Julius, you’ve been quacking away about it ever since he got here. Come on, man, let it out!’

  ‘Our rules?’

  ‘Absolutely. The same as the day we joined.’

  ‘Don’t say you haven’t asked for it. He’s a traitor. An enemy of the man who rules the world, and of the empire you swore to serve. And yet you’ve gone out of your way to make him welcome.’

  The First Spear shrugged unconcernedly.

  ‘I’m not convinced by all this “traitor” talk. You’ve heard the same stories I have, Julius, you know how this new emperor’s behaving and who pulls his strings. As far as I’m concerned our man’s guilt isn’t proven.’

  ‘Not your call, Sextus. If the empire says he’s a traitor, then he’s a traitor.’

  ‘And if it was you, old mate. What if you were unjustly accused?’

  ‘Then I’d run a thousand miles to avoid hurting my friends, and ...’

  ‘And end up somewhere like here, dependent on strangers for justice. Not negotiable, Julius, I won’t hand over an innocent man to that kind of evil.’

  ‘And if they come for him? If they nail you and the prefect up and decimate the rest of us for hiding him?’

  ‘It won’t come to that. Besides, we’ll be at war in a few days. We could all be dead in a week, so some unlikely discovery by the empire doesn’t worry me overly right now. Next?’

  ‘He’s a snotnose. He’s never commanded so much as a tent party in action, and he’ll fall to bits the first time he sees a blue-nose warband.’

  Frontinius snorted.

  ‘Rubbish. He killed on the road to Yew Grove, he fought again on the road here, he faced down that headcase Antenoch with his bare hands, and he s
eems to have faced you down well enough since then.’

  Julius turned furiously, still walking.

  ‘That was Dubnus!’

  Frontinius pursed his lips and shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, but that’s not how I heard it. The version that reached me was that he got right in your face and practically offered you the dance floor.’

  ‘I was half awake and unprepared ...’

  ‘Rubbish, man. I’ve never known you not ready to fight, day or night. Admit it, there’s something in the young man’s eye that would make any of us step back and take guard. And I don’t mean the sword skills either. He’s lost something in the last few months, some carefully instilled self-control, an edge of civilisation that his father probably worked on all his life. What I see in him is a dangerous animal that’s been given every reason to want the taste of blood, and now those early disciplines have been stripped away there’s only cold calculation keeping that rage in check. The pair of us could take him on two on one with swords and boards and I’d have money on his opening us both up from chin to balls in under a minute.’

  Julius lifted exasperated hands to the sky.

  ‘So he’s dangerous. Enraged. He’s a goat-fuck waiting to happen. Put him in combat and he’ll go berserk and take his century with him.’

  Again the First Spear shook his head.

  ‘No he won’t. He’s the model of self-control. Think back to Antenoch, that first morning? Came at him with a knife and ended up with it tickling his own ear? Did you see a single drop of blood on the fool? Because I was there in seconds and I didn’t. No, Centurion Corvus will have iron control right up to the second where he chooses to let it go. Just don’t be on the wrong end of his sword when that happens.’

  He took a deep breath as they marched on side by side.

  ‘You know as well as I do that you’re not competing for the honour of carrying the standard along the Wall to the games this year. What you’re looking for is the opportunity to fight off every blue-faced bastard between here and the River Tava who thinks it would look nice on the wall of his mud hut. Every century in this cohort is going to need strong leadership, and the Ninth isn’t any different from any of the other centuries in that respect.’

  ‘So give them to the Prince. He’ll give them strong leadership all right.’

  ‘You know my thoughts on that individual. He’s no more proven than young Corvus as far as I’m concerned.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, I’m just simply bored with pondering the whole thing, so I’m going to delegate the decision.’

  ‘Delegate it to ... ?’

  ‘You. But ...’

  He raised a hand to silence the astonished centurion.

  ‘Yes, I know, you already know the answer, except I’m really not sure either of us have actually seen what’s in Centurion Corvus’s heart yet. So, you can make the decision, but only when this day’s events are fully played out.’

  Julius grunted his satisfaction.

  ‘My opinion won’t change, you can be sure of that.’

  Sextus stared fixedly ahead as they marched on.

  ‘Perhaps it won’t. You feel betrayed and undermined by your old friend, the man you joined up with all those years ago. I’ve allowed an inexperienced outsider into our close circle of brothers, an action that might spell disaster for us all. On the other hand, oldest friend, Corvus might just have a pair of stones larger than either of us appreciates. So let’s wait and see, eh?’

  The 5th made good time, taking their water on the march rather than stopping, and reached a position with a clear view of the Saddle by the middle of the day. Julius called a halt, sending a scout past the feature to make sure that the 9th were not about to hove into view just as he deployed his men into their positions for the ambush. The man ran back a few minutes later to confirm that the road was clear to the grassy horizon, provoking the first smile the 5th had seen grace their commander’s creased face all day.

  ‘Excellent! Even-numbered tent parties to the right-hand hill with the chosen man and into cover, odd numbers with me to the left. And remember, any man that shows himself before I give the signal loses a month’s pay!’

  The century split quickly into two disciplined groups, hurrying down the slope from their vantage point and starting the climb up to the twin hills. Their equipment rattled and clattered noisily, while the soldiers talked among themselves about the afternoon’s entertainment, planning individual acts of revenge for real or imagined slights upon their century’s good name by members of the 9th. Thus it was, with nobody looking too carefully at the greenery that crowned their objectives, that it took a bellow of challenge from Dubnus to draw their attention to the previously well-hidden troops who had risen like forest spirits out of the undergrowth of the right-hand hill’s heavily wooded crown.

  The 5th’s soldiers hesitated for a moment, caught between their orders and the shock of finding the Saddle already occupied, the short pause enough to cause a chorus of abuse to shower down upon them from the hills. The 9th had taken their objective first, and showed every sign of being in the mood to defend their ground. Julius stepped out in front of his men, drawing his sword and sweeping it over his head, ready to slash it down to point at the twin hills and issue the command to attack, ready to start a full-scale battle if it was the only way to restore his face. As the sword started to move in the downward arc, Sextus Frontinius stepped out of the century with his arms in the air.

  ‘Hold!’

  Ignoring Julius’s red-faced fury, he turned to the Saddle’s hills, his voice bellowing out across the landscape.

  ‘Ninth Century, form ranks for parade here.’

  The 9th’s troopers came out of the trees and streamed obediently down the hill, while Frontinius paced back a dozen steps, pushing soldiers aside without ceremony, and pointed to the ground again.

  ‘Fifth Century, form ranks for parade here.’

  The 5th’s grumbling men pulled back, still reeling from the shock of their centurion being so comprehensively out-thought. Julius, restraining himself by an act of supreme willpower, stamped back down the hill to the designated place, bellowing at his subordinates to get the fucking century on parade. The two units lined up opposite each other, scowls and sneers along both opposing lines of men, while the First Spear paced equably between them and watched the clouds scudding along in a clean blue sky, enjoying the breeze’s cooling caress. When both centuries were lined up, and the harsh shouts of the chosen men and watch officers had died away to silence, he turned slowly to look at both centuries, taking in Julius’s set scowl and Marcus’s white face, ready to fight, his lips thin with determination over a tight-set jaw.

  ‘In all my days I swear I never saw two sets of men who wanted so badly to kick the balls off each other. If I were to let you dogs loose now I’d end up with a dozen or more broken limbs, and as many men with the wits knocked out of them. Well, you mindless apes, let me remind you that there’s a great hairy-arsed tribal chief by the name of Calgus mustering a warband the size of five legions to the north. Whether it’s sunk into your thick skulls yet or not, we will most likely be at war within a few days. You need to learn to work together, side by side in the line, either century ready to perform whatever manoeuvre is needed to support the other. Even if it’ll cost lives. And the time that you need to learn to do this is now ...’

  He turned away from them and stared for a moment across the rolling countryside, taking a moment to enjoy the sunshine’s gentle touch on his bare scalp.

  ‘We do need a winner from this competition, if we’re to have a century to guard the cohort standard, but without spilt blood. The answer is single combat, with, before anyone jumps forward, combatants chosen by the person here best qualified to make that judgement. Which would be me.’

  The silence became profound as he paused again, every man straining to hear his decision.

  ‘And I choose Centurions Julius and Corvus. Pre
pare for combat, exercise swords and shields.’

  Marcus passed his vine stick to Dubnus, leaving the sword at his waist in its scabbard and taking the heavy wooden practice sword from his other hip. The Briton fussed at his helmet fastenings for a moment, leaning in close to look at the offending buckle, murmuring into Marcus’s ear.

  ‘He’s weaker on his left side, shield dependent. Don’t go in too close until he tires, though, or he’ll try to smother you with his strength. Stand off and use your skill, you can cut him to pieces easily enough ...’

  Frontinius walked over to face him, dismissing Dubnus with a pointed nod to the 5th’s ranks. The senior centurion stared away into the distance, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘I’m awarding your century three points for ambushing the Fifth, which puts you level with Julius before the result of this event. If you win, you’ll take first place, and carry the standard through the campaigning season. If you draw, and finish level on points, I’ll award the prize to the Fifth as the previous champions ...’

  He paused significantly, shooting Marcus a sudden glance.

  ‘I’ll give you no guidance, young man. This is an opportunity for you to exercise some judgement. I’ll simply remind of what I said to you this morning.’

  Marcus nodded, moving his shield into a comfortable position on his arm before stepping out into the space between the two units. Julius stepped out to meet him, glowering from between the cheek-pieces of his helmet, its red crest riffling slightly in the breeze. Frontinius held them apart for a moment, speaking softly into the silence that had descended upon the hillside, as the opposing centuries waited for the spectacle to commence.