He stopped talking as a smile spread across Marcus’s face.
‘Dubnus. Brother. I wouldn’t have amounted to anything better than a rotting corpse in a ditch on the road south from Yew Grove without your help over the last few months. Nor can I pretend that I was responsible for turning the Ninth from a waste of rations to a fighting century, that was mostly you too. But trust me when
I tell you this, these men will not respond to your style of leadership. They are lonely, frightened, but worst of all they feel worthless. They’ve sat here for the last month watching Gaulish farm boys in armour get snapped up like the last cake in the bakery while they, with all their abilities, are demeaned as incapable of fighting our war.’
His friend rolled his eyes.
‘But they are! What are this lot going to do when a warband comes howling out of the forest? Run like fuck, I’d say!’
‘I know. But there’s something here I think we can use. Call it determination; call it desperation if you like. Whatever you call it, I think we can make a fighting unit from them. Quite what kind of fighting is still open to question…’
Dubnus gave him a long stare.
‘They carry shields made out of wicker. They wear armour made with rings so thin it wouldn’t stop a half-decent spear-thrust, no spears, no helmets to speak of, and a decent wind would carry half of them away. Just equipping them is going to be difficult enough, never mind what’ll happen the first time they try to carry all that weight more than a few hundred paces. They could be a real problem in the field.’
Marcus nodded.
‘Worse than not having a hundred and fifty replacements? Worse than not having two more centuries of men following our standard?’
Dubnus shook his head in weary resignation.
‘I know better than to argue with you. Though I don’t think your standard-bearer’s going to see the funny side of this.’
Dubnus’s and Julius’s centuries were arrayed on the Arab Town parade ground, the soldiers’ breath steaming in the grey dawn’s chill as they waited for the command to head away down the road towards The Stronghold, five miles to the west. Morban and Antenoch, respectively the 8th Century’s standard-bearer and Marcus’s personal clerk, waited with equal impatience a small distance from Dubnus’s 9th Century. Morban cast occasional dirty looks at the 9th’s standard-bearer, and more particularly the standard held proudly in the younger man’s hands.
‘He isn’t keeping that statue clean, the lazy bastard. I’ve got a good mind to go and take the bloody thing away from him.’
Antenoch gave the 9th Century’s standard a sideways glance and shot the alleged offender a sympathetic glance, raising an eyebrow in commiseration and drawing a hurt rebuke from his friend.
‘I saw that.’
The clerk shrugged his indifference, huddling deeper into his cloak.
‘It looks fine to me. Anyway, leave the man alone, you grumpy bastard. I don’t remember you cleaning it all that often either. You should worry more about helping Two Knives get a brand-new century ready to fight, and leave the Ninth to Dubnus now that he’s their centurion. Hang on, here they come…’
The first of the replacement centuries appeared around the corner of Arab Town’s bathhouse, its soldiers stepping out strongly under the close scrutiny of Tiberius Rufius and his newly acquired chosen man and watch officer. Morban’s face split into a beaming smile.
‘Yes! Look at that! Eighty sides of prime Tungrian beef. Look at the muscles on those boys! The Bear’ll be after slipping a few of those lads into the Tenth to replace the axemen who fell at Lost Eagle.’
Antenoch nodded, keeping his eyes on the advancing century.
‘Yes… Grandfather looks happy enough with his new men, doesn’t he?’
Morban squinted at the advancing Rufius’s grinning face, seeing the smile turn into a laugh as the veteran officer found him among the waiting soldiers.
‘That isn’t happy, that’s pure piss-take. Look, he’s pointing back down the road. What’s he on about…?’
Antenoch craned his neck to see over the marching troops.
‘There’s Two Knives, I can see his helmet’s crest, but where the hell are his men? Hold on a moment…’
Realisation dawned upon him with a sickening thud.
‘I can see their helmets, but only just. It’s a century of fucking dwarves!’
Morban stood rooted to the ground as the first century marched past them and the second came into full view, his eyes widening with genuine horror. Rufius stopped alongside the staring pair, his face distorted with laughter.
‘Oh, Morban… if only… you could see… your face!’
He staggered away, clutching his sides. A grim-faced Julius, marching alongside Marcus, gave him a dirty look as the front rank of the Hamians drew level with them and halted at Marcus’s shouted command. He shook his head in disgust at the older man’s uncontrollable laughter.
‘I thought age blessed a man with wisdom as it took away his strength, but clearly not in your case, Tiberius Rufius. And what’s your problem, Standard-bearer?’
Morban came to sudden indignant life.
‘Rufius gets a century full of big strong lads, and we get a gang of… of… underfed Arab bow benders? What use are they going to be when the blue-noses come hammering at our shields? I…’
Marcus stepped between Julius and Morban, then bent to put his face an inch from the indignant standard-bearer’s, his finger dimpling his mailed chest to emphasise his point. His voice was low but insistent, his face dark with anger.
‘Be quiet and listen, Statue Waver. We’ve been bilked of a century by the bloody Second Cohort, who bribed them out from under our noses this morning. These men are the only troops left in the port, and probably the only ownerless soldiers in the whole of Britannia, so these are the troops we’re taking home with us. We’ll swap them with the Second at the first opportunity, you can be assured of that, but in the meantime you will treat them with the consideration due to the poor bastards. What’s more, these “underfed bow benders” speak Latin just as well as you do, in fact probably with a good deal more eloquence and a lot less profanity, and I doubt they’re all that happy with your reaction. It isn’t their fault they’re stuck here, and if they’re going to be a part of our cohort we’d better make them feel just a tiny bit welcomed. If you don’t like that you can always go back to the Ninth, and I’ll ask Dubnus for his new boy in return.’
Morban’s indignation melted to anxious disbelief in a second.
‘Not fair, Centurion, not fair at all. You know young Lupus ties me to you.’
Marcus kept his face stony, tipping his head towards the waiting Hamians with arched eyebrows.
‘In which case you’d better get your head out of your backside and greet your new century. Chosen Man Qadir, allow me to introduce the Eighth Century’s standard-bearer, Morban. He’s a good man, if a little overfond of drink and whoring. Not to mention the occasional wager. In fact, if Morban offers you odds on anything, the sun coming up in the morning, rain being wet, just anything, consider very carefully before putting your money down.’
Morban smirked just a little, his dignity sufficiently restored by his officer’s carefully chosen insults, and stuck out a meaty paw to the tall Hamian chosen man.
‘Welcome to the Eighth Century, Chosen.’
Qadir took the hand carefully, looking about him in mock incomprehension.
‘My thanks, Standard-bearer, although I see only one other man besides yourself. Perhaps it would be more fitting if the Eighth Century were to welcome you?’
Rufius, having recovered from his earlier fit of laughter, slapped the stocky standard-bearer on the shoulder.
‘He’s got a point, Morban. If Antenoch’s your century you’d best go and join these lads. I’m sure they’ll follow your standard round if you’re nice to them.’
Marcus nodded agreement.
‘And if you want them to regard it as something more than
your personal badge of office, perhaps you’d better give them a bit of education?’
The standard-bearer nodded, squared his shoulders and stepped out in front of the Hamians. The voice of Rufius’s man was already ringing through the still morning air as he addressed the new 6th
Century. He cleared his throat before shaking the century’s standard at the wide-eyed archers.
‘Eighth Century! I am your standard-bearer, Morban, and this is your standard. I am entrusted with carrying this symbol of our century, and with keeping it safe from any threat at the cost of my own life if all else fails… which means if you’re all dead. You are collectively charged with a sacred duty to guard the standard, which is the heart and soul of our century, and to protect it during battle at any cost.’
He ignored Antenoch, who was making cross-eyed faces at him from behind Marcus.
‘You will follow the instructions of our centurion, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, which I will repeat through movements of the standard for those of you who do not understand them. If I lean the standard to the left, we’re turning left. To the right, we’re turning right. If I dip the standard, we’re starting the march, if I raise it we’re stopping. If I dip it two times we’re marching at the double, and if I reverse it we’re retreating. My mate here…’ He nodded to the trumpeter alongside him, who promptly blushed scarlet. ‘… will sound his horn when I’m about to issue an order with the standard, so pay attention and you’ll always know what we’re about to do.’
He paused for breath and stared at the men closest to him with a fierce intensity.
‘In battle, this standard is your rallying point. If we advance, the standard will be close to the front of the century, and if we advance to the rear it will be with the century’s rearmost troops. Where the shit flies the thickest, you will find me and this statue right behind you. And you will make us proud. Just don’t let us down. Centurion?’
Marcus stepped out in front of the Hamians, nodding to Morban as the standard-bearer waddled back to join Antenoch.
‘Soldiers, you may not be Tungrians, you may be what our esteemed standard-bearer calls “bow benders”, and I guarantee you that getting you ready for life in an infantry cohort is going to be a challenge for us all. However, and listen to me very carefully when I tell you this, because it means a lot to your new brothers-in-arms, all those difficulties mean nothing to me because you are now Tungrians. Let me say that again. You are now Tungrians.’
He paused, staring across the silent men, aware that Julius was standing just behind him and glaring at the wide-eyed Hamians with equal intensity.
‘At the moment that means little enough to you. I’m just another officer spouting off about his cohort. But you will learn what it means to be one of us. And when you understand that, you will be one step closer to reaching the standards we will be expecting of you. Now, make ready to move. We’re marching to Noisy Valley, and that’s a marching distance of twenty-six miles, which at four miles an hour will take us about eight hours including rest stops. Easy enough work for a fully fit soldier carrying the light equipment you’ve been issued with. This is our first chance to see how you men measure up to our standards.’
Prefect Furius rode into The Rock’s temporary camp in the middle of the afternoon with three centuries of soldiers marching easily at his back. Forewarned by a tent party of men sent running ahead for the last mile by Centurion Tertius, the cohort’s first spear was waiting at the camp’s entrance with his officers, ready to formally greet their new commander. He bellowed an order as the prefect’s horse drew level with their small group, snapping the cohort’s officers to attention. Furius dismounted, and a soldier assigned to the task ran forward and led the horse away.
The prefect looked about him, taking in the stone shell of the burned-out fort huddled under the wall’s unbroken defence. The turf-walled camp alongside it was a picture of order, the lines of tents perfectly aligned and the men set to guard the turf walls alert and crisp in their movements. Finding nothing to excite comment, he turned to address the gathered officers.
‘First Spear…?’
‘Neuto, sir.’
‘A local name, First Spear?’
‘A Tungrian name, Prefect. I was born in Gallia Belgica.’
Furius nodded.
‘I rode through your capital, Tungrorum, on my way here. You must miss it.’
The first spear inclined his head.
‘I do, sir, although it’s a very long time since I saw the old place.’
‘There are some men behind me who have seen your settlement somewhat more recently. I have reinforcements for you from Tungria, a full century of freshly trained men.’
The first spear smiled thinly.
‘So I see, Prefect. I must admit that I wasn’t expecting such a welcome addition to our strength. Reinforcements have been hard to come by with six full legion cohorts needing replacement.’
The prefect smiled broadly, either ignoring or simply missing the slightly disapproving note in his senior centurion’s voice, and spread his hands like a conjuror soliciting applause for his latest trick.
‘Then it’s a good thing for our cohort that I happened to be in the right place at the right time and with the right, ah… influence, shall we say? I suggest that we get these three centuries into quarters, and you and I can have a discussion as to how we’re going to demonstrate some old-fashioned Roman military justice to this cohort. There’s an officer-killer at large in this cohort, and we’re going to find him and make him pay for his crime with his blood.’
He smiled into Neuto’s suddenly expressionless face before turning to the men unloading his effects from the wagon behind them.
‘And now, let’s get my kit off that wagon and safely into my tent, shall we? Be careful with that jar, it contains enough naphtha to burn down a legion fortress!’
The Tungrians reached Noisy Valley shortly before dark that evening. Passing The Rock an hour before, Julius had shot a hard scowl at the smirking 2nd Tungrian soldiers standing guard at the entrance to their earth-walled marching camp. Pausing for a moment to allow Tiberius Rufius to catch up with him, he’d tipped his helmeted head to the 2nd Cohort men, his face sour with disgust.
‘Look at those smug bastards. There’s nothing those thieving arse bandits like better than to get one over on us, and there they are with a century that belongs to us happily camped fifty paces the other side of their turf wall.’ He spat on the ground, his face hardening as the sentries nudged each other, clearly barely restraining themselves from hysterics as the Hamians hove into view. ‘I’ll fucking…’
Rufius restrained him with a hand on his arm, shaking his head in gentle admonishment.
‘You’ll only regret it. Their first spear will be forced to send you packing, and from what I’ve heard he’s a good enough sort. And his prefect will probably send a complaint to Frontinius and make it all our fault…’
Julius shrugged off the older man’s hand, but to the veteran centurion’s relief simply stood and stared at the sentries until they decided that discretion was the better part of valour in the face of his obvious anger and slunk off behind the section of turf wall that masked the fort’s entrance. Marcus strode past alongside his struggling men, a jaundiced glance at the fort’s walls the only sign of his disgust.
‘See, young Marcus has it right. Save your anger for a time when it can be put to good use.’
The big man grunted, shaking his head as he turned back to the march.
‘I’ll have blood for this. Just not today…’
The 6th Legion’s temporary headquarters was a sea of tents clustered around the partially rebuilt ruins of the northern command’s Noisy Valley supply depot. Rufius, having strolled back down the marching column to walk a while with Marcus and Qadir, wrinkled his nose. ‘This place still stinks of burnt wood, even now they’ve cleared away most of the wreckage. At least the Sixth is getting on with putting it back to the way it was.’
Desp
ite the hour, the warm late summer air was filled with the sounds of hammering and sawing, as the legion’s troops laboured to restore the camp to its former magnificence from the burned-out shells of armouries and supply sheds torched to prevent their being looted by the triumphant barbarians three months before. The wooden bridge at the foot of the quarter-mile slope from the camp to the river had already been completely rebuilt, and the valley’s slopes on both sides of the fast-flowing River Tinea had been stripped of most of their remaining trees to supply wood for the reconstruction. The result was a bare landscape studded with tree stumps, their removal a low priority compared with the work of reconstruction, and across which half a dozen bonfires etched their sooty stains into the late afternoon sky as conscripted Brigantian labour collected and burned the unwanted debris left behind after the trees had been felled and cut up into usable sections by the legions’ artisans. Marcus nodded distractedly, his attention focused on his men. The replacement Tungrians marching in front of them under Dubnus’s command, accustomed to marching from their recent training, were still relatively fresh. By contrast, most of his Hamians looked fit to drop. They had taken almost all of the day to cover the distance from Arab Town, and the centurions’ faces had grown darker by the hour as the archers struggled to maintain even the standard marching pace.
‘Their feet must be as soft as babies’ arses. Look, that poor bastard’s got blood leaking out of his boots.’ Julius pointed to a man in the front rank as they paraded the replacements on the Noisy Valley parade ground. Both of the archer’s feet were visibly bleeding, the raw flesh visible between his boots’ leather straps. ‘This lot are going to need some serious sorting out before they can get back on the road. You go and chat up the legatus for any equipment he can spare; I’ll get them into quarters and boots off.’
Marcus nodded unhappily, ordering Qadir to stay with his men and follow Julius’s instructions. He presented himself in front of the rebuilt headquarters, one of the few buildings already completed by the repair gangs, greeting the duty centurion with the appropriate degree of respect the man would consider his due from an auxiliary centurion.
Arrows of Fury e-2 Page 7