Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘I’m sorry. I mean ... I read your tablet ... and he told me that ...’

  ‘I know. I hated the man for the last year of our marriage, and his death has freed me to do whatever I want, within reason, but I still feel guilty about what happened.’

  Marcus leaned back against the wall, looking closely at her face.

  ‘I’m ... I ...’

  ‘Yes, Centurion?’

  ‘I would prefer it if you would call me Marcus. And I’d like to think, given time, of course, that we might ...’

  ‘Be together? Yes, I thought so too. I think I still do. But I do need time to let all this work itself out. Come and see me next time you’re in camp. I won’t be going anywhere in the meanwhile.’

  He nodded his understanding, turning for the door.

  ‘Centurion ... Marcus?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Firstly you could stop calling me “ma’am” as if I were some Roman matron. You know my forename ...’

  He managed a smile in return.

  ‘Yes, Clodia Drusilla. But, if you’ll forgive me, I won’t use it until I know whether we’re to be friends or something more. Call it superstition. And secondly, ma’am?’

  ‘You could hold me for a moment. Remind me what male affection feels like.’

  He took her in his arms, holding her slim body against his armour and stroking her hair with his right hand. After a long moment she pulled away, smiling again.

  ‘Next time we do that, I’ll make a point of your not being dressed in twenty pounds of chain mail. We don’t all have a compulsion for men in uniform. Now, off with you, I’ve got work to do.’

  Marcus ran the gauntlet of the wounded Tungrians, all of whom had stupid smiles on their faces and some of whom went so far as to wink and nod vigorously at him, pulling his helmet on as he walked out past the guards to cover up his own stupid smile. From the knowing looks and sideways glances he got from the men waiting for him outside the principia, he guessed that the wounded had found some way of passing the news to their colleagues. Thinking what he would have to put up with from Antenoch, he shook his head, only making his men smile more widely behind their hands.

  When Equitius emerged from the building half an hour later, the look on his face was neutral, neither happy nor troubled.

  ‘I’m in command for the rest of the summer, at least, and then we’ll see what happens. There’s still the small matter of a lost eagle to be dealt with, of course. Entire legions have been cashiered for losing their standards, broken up for reinforcements, so who knows what’ll happen when the news reaches Rome . . .Twentieth and Second Legions are going to camp here for three weeks, since the barbarians will be too busy getting the harvest in to worry much about fighting us for the rest of the month. I’m taking the Sixth south to Yew Grove, to collect three cohorts of reinforcements that are expected there from Gaul within the week. So, you can head west to the Hill and rejoin the cohort. Give Uncle Sextus my thanks for the loan of your men, and tell him that I’ll have a couple of centuries of replacements put to one side for him for when he brings his people back to Noisy Valley. That should get him back to full strength. There’s a troop convoy expected into Arab Town soon with initial reinforcements, real Tungrians from northern Gaul, apparently.’

  One more surprise awaited Marcus before he turned his men west. Rounding a corner on his way to the stores, he bumped into a squat man in uniform, his hair cropped short in the military style.

  ‘Young Marcus!’

  ‘Quintus!’

  They embraced with delight, Rufius standing back to look his friend up and down.

  ‘A bit thinner, a bit more muscle ... and a scar or two, I’d bet. Not to mention an attachment to a rather attractive and recently widowed lady doctor, from what I’ve heard.’

  Marcus shook his head in mock anger.

  ‘Isn’t there anyone in this bloody camp that can mind their own business? But why are you here, and not at the Hill?’

  ‘I asked Sextus for some leave, and a chance to sort out some of my business affairs. It’s amazing, you go missing for a month or two and suddenly you have to get the money people owe you at the point of a sword. Anyway, tell me what you’ve been up to in the hills since we turned south, you young puppy.’

  The older man backed away as Marcus prodded him playfully in the belly with his vine stick.

  ‘Not so much of the puppy, Centurion, I’ve done a good deal of growing up since we met on the road to Yew Grove.’

  Rufius inclined his head gravely.

  ‘Indeed you have. Do you have time for a drink and a natter?’

  They repaired to the officers’ mess and drank local beer while Marcus related what had happened since their parting after the Battle of the Lost Eagle. At length Rufius sat back, nodding his head sagely.

  ‘You have been busy. At least all this excitement has taken everyone’s mind off looking for a young man called Marcus Valerius Aquila for a while. Let’s hope that bastard Perennis and his Asturian cronies were the only people that knew enough about you to be dangerous. You know that Annius died soon after the Battle of the Lost Eagle? Apparently he was found with an issue spear stuck right through him. Somebody strong must have taken a dislike to him ... Anyway, you’re safe now.’

  ‘That’s to be seen. I hardly look like one of the locals, do I?’

  ‘True, but you’re among friends. Anyway, I must go. I’m due back on the Hill by nightfall tomorrow, and there’s still a nasty little shopkeeper that owes me three months’ rent on his premises.’

  He stood to go, offering his hand to Marcus.

  ‘One question, Rufius.’

  ‘If I can answer it.’

  ‘You were Legatus Sollemnis’s man. Why would he leave me this?’

  He tapped the sword’s hilt, raising an eyebrow in question. Rufius looked at him with calculation.

  ‘Lad, the legatus was a good friend of your father. Think of the risk he took to look after you the way he did. Surely that’s enough reason? Don’t go looking for what isn’t there to be found ...’

  From the thoughtful look in Marcus’s eye, he wasn’t sure that his bluff had succeeded.

  The next day, eager to see the Hill again, the 9th took their leave of the legion and headed west along the road behind the Wall, a day’s easy march bringing them to the fort. Marcus dismissed his men to their barracks and a well-earned rest, and went in search of Frontinius. He found the prefect enjoying a moment of quiet relaxation in the cohort’s bathhouse, sitting quietly in the deserted steam room in the quiet of the evening. His wounded knee had healed well enough, although he was careful to hold it out straight in front of him, occasionally flexing the joint experimentally.

  ‘Well, Centurion, it’s good to see you back from the wilds! How did the Sixth fare after we parted company? Sit down for a sweat and tell me your story. Are you back with us to stay?’

  ‘The Ninth Century is detached from service with the Sixth Legion, Prefect, with forty-nine effectives and five men still in the Noisy Valley base hospital. Legatus Equitius wants us all back at the Valley by the end of the month, for reinforcement and in case the barbarians decide to have another try. As to our story, there’s nothing much to tell really. We marched round the mountains of the north chasing shadows and lies for a month, and hardly saw a man of fighting age.’

  ‘All hidden away from reprisals, no doubt. How are your men?’

  ‘Tired and homesick. Most of them just need a few days’ rest: twelve hours’ sleep a day and no parades ...’

  ‘What about Morban?’

  ‘He’s still in pieces. His son’s death seems to have robbed him of the will to live.’

  ‘Hmmm. You might want to get yourself down into the vicus in that case. His son’s woman died suddenly a few days ago, and I hear her mother’s come to collect her grandchild. If Morban’s been knocked sideways by his lad’s death I’d imagine he’ll be devastated when he finds he’s about to lose his grandson as well ...
’

  Marcus took his leave, dressed hurriedly and headed down to the south gate, stopping a retired soldier in the vicus’s street to ask for directions. At the door to the small house indicated he stopped, hearing voices from within.

  ‘No, Morban, the boy has to come with me. Who’s going to look after him if he stays here? You won’t be around most of the time, and what sort of example will you set to the boy. By all accounts you drink, you whore and I know for a fact that you swear all the time. He comes with me!’

  ‘But the lad ...’

  ‘Will be well cared for. What’s your alternative?’

  Marcus knocked respectfully at the door, standing back and taking off his helmet. It opened, an older woman, wiping at tear-filled eyes with the hem of her sleeve, standing in the opening.

  ‘Centurion?’

  ‘Ma’am. I’m Morban’s officer and I heard he might be here. Could I come in for a moment?’

  She ushered him in, the four of them practically filling the room. Morban’s grandson crouched in a corner, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head buried between them. Marcus squatted down to his level, putting out a hand to touch the boy’s face, lifting it with one finger under his chin. Guessing the boy’s age to be nine or ten, he looked into his wet eyes and felt the loss and loneliness he was suffering. Memories of another little boy of the same age flooded over him, reminding him of a past happiness he hadn’t given thought to for many days. He stood up again, turning to the woman with a small bow.

  ‘Ma’am, so that you can understand my position regarding this unhappy situation, my parents were both killed earlier this year, as were my older sisters and younger brother. If anyone in this room has an understanding of what that boy’s going through, it would be me.’

  The woman’s face softened a little with the words.

  ‘You both think you’ve got a claim on the boy, one through blood, the other through an ability to provide the upbringing he needs. Now, I could simply enforce the law and tell you that the cohort has first claim on the lad, simple as that. And, ma’am, there would be nothing you could do to stop me. However ...’

  He put a hand up to quell the rising concern he saw in her face, shaking his head at Morban as his mouth started to open.

  ‘However ... from my unique perspective, I happen to believe that there’s only one person in this room that can make the decision as to what should be done with him. I also think you should both stop to consider the effect your argument is having on that person.’

  Morban turned his head to look at the wall, a single tear running down his face. Marcus squatted down again.

  ‘What’s your name, young man?’

  The boy lifted his tear-streaked face, his voice quavering.

  ‘My mother called me Corban. Dad used to call me Lupus for a nickname ...’

  ‘Very well, little wolf, you have a choice to make. It isn’t an easy one, but nobody else can make it for you, no matter how good their intentions might be. You grandmother wants you to go home with her, and live in her village. There’ll be other boys of your age to play with, and you’ll be able to learn a trade of some kind as you get older. Your grandfather wants you to stay here on the Hill, and grow up to be a soldier like him and your father, but you can’t join until you’ve seen fourteen summers, which is still a long time away, and you can’t stay here without anyone to look after you. Before you choose, I’ll give you a third choice. I’ll take you on as my servant, which will mean that you have to keep my clothes clean and polish my boots and armour every day. I’ll have you taught to read and write and, when you’re old enough, you’ll be able to choose whether you want to become a soldier or not. Also, I’ll make sure that you go and see your grandmother twice a year. So, which do you choose?’

  The boy thought for a moment.

  ‘I want to be a soldier like my dad.’

  ‘Well, you can’t, not yet. You’re too young for one thing, and I don’t think we have any armour in your size. You can either take my offer or go back to your grandmother’s village. Either way you can volunteer for service when you’re old enough.’

  ‘I’ll work for you.’

  ‘Centurion.’

  ‘I’ll work for you, Centurion.’

  Marcus stood up, turning to face Morban and the old woman.

  ‘He’s made his decision. You, Morban, will be responsible for his good behaviour, and for ensuring that he isn’t corrupted by bad language and poor behaviour. You will also be responsible for making sure that he spends time with his grandmother as promised, when the cohort isn’t on campaign. And you, ma’am, should be aware that he’s now effectively on imperial service, albeit as a civilian. I guarantee that he’ll be educated by the time he’s old enough to volunteer for the military, and that he’ll have the best possible start in life we can give him. I’ve got at least one man in the century that has more learning than I do, and we’ll make sure he pays attention.’

  Morban turned to face her, putting a hand out to hold hers.

  ‘He’ll have fifty parents in the Ninth. I swear he’ll come to no harm.’

  She thought for a long moment, and then nodded with resignation.

  Marcus looked her in the eyes, feeling tears of his own distorting his vision.

  ‘If there’s one thing I understand, ma’am, it’s how that youngster’s feeling right now. I’ll be his big brother for as long as he needs me. After what these people have done for me, it’s my chance to repay some of my debt.’

  He bent to the boy, putting a hand out while the other wiped his eyes dry.

  ‘Come on, then, wolf cub, let’s be about our business. We’ve got a century to get into shape.’

  The pair walked out of the door hand in hand, turning up the street towards the main gate, drawing surprised glances from a pair of passing soldiers. They turned to make a ribald comment from the security of the shadows, saw the look on Morban’s face as he emerged behind them, and immediately thought better of it. The standard-bearer watched his officer and his grandson from the doorway as they progressed up the hill, losing sight of them as they passed the soldiers on guard. He turned to follow them up the road, muttering quietly under his breath to himself with a determination he hadn’t felt for many days.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Centurion, my lads are going to follow you any fucking place you command. Or I’ll know the reason why.’

  EMPIRE

  The story began in

  WOUNDS of HONOUR

  It continues in

  ARROWS of FURY

  1

  September, AD 182

  The Tungrian centurions gathered round their leader in the warm afternoon sunshine, sharing a last moment of quiet before the fight to come. Marcus Tribulus Corvus winked at his friend and former chosen man Dubnus, now centurion of the 9th Century, which Marcus had previously commanded, then nudged the older man standing next to him, his attention fixed on the ranks of soldiers arrayed on the hillside behind them.

  ‘Stop mooning after these legionaries, Rufius, you’re a Tungrian now whether you like it or not.’

  Rufius caught his sly smile and tip of the head to Julius, the detachment’s senior centurion, and picked up the thread.

  ‘I can’t help it, Marcus. Just seeing all those professional soldiers standing waiting for battle takes me back to the days when I stood in front of them with a vine stick. And that’s my old cohort too...’

  Julius turned from his scrutiny of their objective and scowled at the two men with an exasperation that was only partly feigned. Rufius nudged Marcus back, shaking his head solemnly.

  ‘Now, brother, let’s be fair to our colleague and give him some peace. It’s not his fault that it’s taken all morning and half the afternoon to get two thousand men and a few bolt throwers into position. Even if my guts are growling like a shithouse dog and there’s enough sweat running down my legs to make my boots squelch for a week.’

  Dubnus leaned over and tapped the veteran centurion on th
e shoulder.

  ‘I think you’ll find we call that wet stuff “piss” in this cohort, Grandfather.’

  The older man smiled tolerantly.

  ‘Very good, Dubnus. Just you concentrate on taking your lads into action as their centurion for the first time, and I’ll worry about whether I’ll be able to hold my bladder in a fight for the fiftieth time. Youth, eh, Julius?’

  Julius, having turned back to his study of the defences looming before them, replied in a tired tone of voice that betrayed his growing frustration with their prolonged wait in front of the tribal hill fort they would shortly be attempting to storm.

  ‘Might I suggest that you all shut the fuck up, given that it looks like we’ll actually be attacking soon? Just as soon as those idiots have been cleared from the top of their wall that’ll be us on the march, and ready for our starring role in Tribune Antonius’s great victory over the Carvetii tribe. When I send you back to your centuries you get your men ready to advance, you repeat our orders to them all one last time, and remember to keep your bloody heads down once we’re on the move.’

  Julius cast a disparaging glance at the batteries of bolt throwers ranged alongside his four centuries, their sweating crews toiling at the weapons’ hand winches as they ratcheted the heavy bowstrings back ready to fire. He tugged at the strap of his helmet, the crosswise crest that marked him as a centurion ruffled by the breeze as he turned back to stare at the wooden walled fort to their front.

  ‘I don’t trust those lazy bastards not to underwind and drop the occasional bolt short. And when we do attack, let me remind you one last time that our objective is to break in and take the first rampart. Just that, and only that. Tribune Antonius has been crystal clear on the subject.’

  Marcus managed to keep a straight face despite Rufius’s knowing smile. It was an open secret among the officers of the 6th Legion’s expedition against the rebellious Carvetii tribe that the legion’s senatorial tribune, the legatus’s second-in-command, was desperate to prove his readiness to command a legion of his own before his short tenure in the position ended to make way for another aspiring general.