Again, Rufinus nodded. ‘What’s first?’ he asked.
Cassius frowned. ‘You know your legionary training, yes?’
‘Well, I went through it, but it was a while ago, and I don’t know where you are with it all.’
Cassius tapped the vitis again, rhythmically. Rufinus wondered how long it took a centurion to pick up habits like that.
‘They have marching down reasonably well. We have them doing a run every morning and afternoon, a complete circuit of the camp. Each century’s fastest man gets an extra wine ration that night. Each century’s slowest gets to clean the latrine. It’s a good incentive. We’ve been getting them jumping from the rampart’s earth bank in armour. They’re not so good at that, but I intend to have them ready to jump from the parapet by the end of the week, so you might want to concentrate on that physically. We do swimming in shifts. The currents of the Danuvius are far too dangerous for swimming, but there’s a small tributary river a mile east of here, and that’s fine for it. We’re at varying degrees of success there and in a perfect world I would have them all swimming before we moved, though it’s a lesser concern since we’ll be faced with mountains and forests more than rivers.’
He gestured with his vine stick at Rufinus’ sword, hanging beneath his right armpit.
‘That, by the way, is on the wrong side. You’re still thinking like a legionary, but you won’t be issued with a shield. Get the sword on your left so you can draw it quickly. As for weapons training, we’re making good progress there. Many of these men were drawn from the Scordici and have a history of fighting the Iazyges across the river. Most of them could already handle a sword. Some are good archers and a few can use a sling. They can throw spears pretty well. We’re just working on giving them better judgement of the three vital targets, the use of a stabbing weapon, and breaking them of a lot of bad habits. We’ve tried pila many times, and they’re getting better, but they still all throw like individuals. They seem resistant to the idea of throwing together, so that’s probably your best martial focus this week.’
Cassius rubbed his neck and waved his vitis in a sweep. ‘Other than that we’re not bothering with too much. Things like entrenching and engineering can wait. I just want them fit and working as a unit, able to fight like one and unlikely to break in the face of the enemy. Has the tribune told you what we have in store?’
‘Yes. Clearing some minor pockets of resistance on the way north.’
Cassius’s lip curled. ‘Minor pockets. The master of understatement. Try not to be overconfident. There may be rebellious Dacian peoples here, but I doubt it’s them that we’ll face. What we will definitely be dealing with are Sarmatians who have found something good enough to cling to that it’s worth fighting for and not going home. They will be hard men, and determined. And be careful not to lump all tribes in together. I know you are a veteran of the Marcomannic Wars, and there was a tendency to see all non-Romans as the same people then. Try to avoid that here. Not all Dacians are the same, and none of them are the same as the Iazyges or the other Sarmatians. They are a proud people and easy to offend. And they have not always been best-treated by their governors.’
‘You sound as though you respect them.’
‘I do,’ Cassius replied. ‘If you’re here long enough, you will too. Dacia is not some backwater hole. It’s not swamps and forests like the northern lands or choking sands like the south. It is a beautiful province full of wonders.’
Rufinus frowned. ‘Who are the Roxolani?’
‘What?’
‘You said your dog died in campaign against the Roxolani. I’ve not heard of them.’
Cassius tapped the vitis on his greave again. ‘The Roxolani are a people on the steppe and the plains east of Dacia, between the province and the Euxine Sea. They’re part of the confederation we know as the Sarmatians, but with Dacian influence. For a few years parts of their land were nominally Roman territory, but Hadrian let it go back to the Roxolani. We have occasional issues with them, but for the most part they are quiet neighbours, despite being more or less Sarmatians. Still, given the current Sarmatian trouble, the emperor had a new series of forts built along the eastern border recently just in case.’
‘I have some trouble with all this. When we left Rome I had heard of Sarmatians invading Dacia, and I’ve heard of them before, of course, but I always thought of them as a tribe. Now it seems that the Sarmatians are more than just a tribe.’
‘Think of Rome,’ Cassius said. ‘Even in Italia, while everyone is Roman, some are Sabine, some are Samnite, some Oscan, and so on. And then Italia is just one region in the empire full of Romans, which also includes Gaul and others. You see? The Sarmatians is just a name for all the steppe peoples, including the Roxolani and the Iazyges, and the Costoboci and the Carpi to the north. There are others too. And each of those tribes is really a name for a dozen smaller tribes under one king.’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘So who was it who invaded and started this current problem?’
Cassius pursed his lips. ‘The Costoboci came south across the border. They do it regularly in small raiding groups, but this time they came in force. Couldn’t tell you why, but the Iazyges had either made a deal with them to join in the fun, or took advantage of our distraction, and they came east from their flatlands at the same time. The Thirteenth drove the Iazyges back across the border, barring the few groups we’re now facing. I presume Niger and his Fifth Macedonica have secured the north against the Costoboci. Fortunately, we’d just had to kick seven shades of crap out of the Roxolani for causing trouble, so they wisely stayed out of it this time.’
Rufinus nodded, now uncertain that he would know a Sarmatian if they came up and bit him. ‘Shall we?’
‘I shall leave you to your men, Rufinus. I have to oversee two other centuries at swimming lessons. You can take your lads to the river in the afternoon.’
With that, Cassius turned and was gone. Rufinus returned to his quarters for a moment, replacing his silver spear and transferring his sword to the left. It felt odd there and would take some getting used to. Soon, he emerged once more and marched out onto the via praetoria. Eighty sullen looking men in red tunics awaited him, with optio Daizus standing to one side, looking superior with the butt of his long staff of office dug into the dust.
‘Third Century, attention!’ snapped Daizus as Rufinus appeared, and the men straightened almost in unison.
Rufinus strode across to stand in front of them and gripped his vitis in both hands.
‘I am Centurion Rufinus, your new commander. Centurion Cassius Proculeianus has updated me on your position with training. This morning we are going to concentrate on weapons practice. This afternoon we will be swimming and I shall lead an eight mile march in full kit. I see you each have your gladius. We shall start with sword training, then, and collect the pila for missile drill thereafter.’
Sounded good, he thought. Confident.
‘Optio Daizus, where is the parade ground?’
‘Out of the east gate, sir, but the Fifth and Sixth centuries are using it now.’
Rufinus sucked on his teeth. ‘Is the amphitheatre free?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘Good. Collect ten palus stakes and a mallet and assemble the century in the amphitheatre for sword practice.’
Daizus glowered at him, then turned and detailed men to collect the equipment. Rufinus left them to it and marched to the west gate. There he gave the daily password and exited onto a surprisingly busy scene. Carts and animals were crossing the great bridge already and the town was bursting into life. Rufinus strolled across to the amphitheatre. Three of the gates were shut and locked up and he had to almost circle the place to find the one open entrance. A man in a brown tunic with a solid-looking club stood just inside.
‘I need to requisition the arena for legionary training,’ he told the man.
‘Fair enough, Centurion. But the lanista has training sessions on too.’
‘He w
ill have to desist for a while,’ Rufinus said firmly, wondering silently whether the legion had priority or whether the lanista might have first call. Confidence. It was all about confidence. He strode past the man and along the tunnel, past various side-passages and stairways, and out into the arena itself. It was a small amphitheatre, especially for a man who had spent time in Rome’s great venue, but would be adequate for training eighty men.
Or at least it would be when the lanista went away.
Over at the far side of the oval space, a man with a long stick was shouting commands at four big, heavy men. Two were armed with sword and shield and were attempting to find openings in their opponents’ moves to strike, while the other two fought and struggled unarmed, fists bound in bandages. Rufinus smiled and wandered over toward them, tapping his vine stick absently on his greave as he went and chuckling at the realisation that he was doing it already. He came to a halt near the trainer.
‘Your one with the dark hair is going to lose,’ he said to the doctor – the trainer of gladiators.
The man turned a quizzical look on Rufinus. ‘With respect, centurion, this is no legionary fight. This is boxing.’
Rufinus laughed. ‘He’s going to lose. He’s got a weak left hook and the bald one has noticed. He keeps edging round to get on that side.’
The trainer frowned. ‘You might be right.’
‘I am.’
‘Think you know boxing, Centurion?’ called a gruff voice. Rufinus turned at the sound and felt slightly deflated to see optio Daizus striding toward him across the grimy sand. The men of the Third Century were emerging from the tunnel behind him, carrying stakes.
‘I do know boxing, yes, Optio.
‘Many an officer thinks he knows things and proves to be less than capable in the event,’ Daizus said insolently, though Rufinus was grateful he’d said it quietly and the men had not heard.
‘That’s dangerously close to insubordination, Daizus.’
‘I heard you came from the praetorians,’ the optio said, almost sneering. ‘All shiny armour and posh food. Overpaid and undertrained. Wouldn’t take one of your praetorians over him,’ he said, gesturing at the black-haired boxer.
‘He is about to lose,’ Rufinus said confidently.
‘Maybe. If I were him I’d be forcing the bald one back to the right.’
Rufinus eyed his second in command. ‘You are a boxer?’
‘Damn right, Centurion. And if it were you and me there, I’d show you a bloody thing or two.’
Dignity. Confidence. Command at all times. I am a centurion.
‘Be grateful that my rank prevents me from taking you up on that, Daizus.’
Dignity. Confidence. Command at all times.
‘Likewise, Centurion. An officer sat on his arse and licking a split lip looks poor.’
Rufinus could feel himself starting to get riled. Dignity. Confidence.
‘I have half a mind to knock that insolence out of you, Daizus.’
Dignity…
The legionaries had all entered the arena now and were lining up, watching their two officers with interest. Damn it. Both his and the optio’s voices had risen in anger. Had the soldiers heard much of the exchange?
‘Frankly, Centurion, I would wipe the arena floor with your pretty, white, praetorian arse.’
Dignity…
Rufinus realised he was tapping the stick on his greave so hard and fast now it sounded like a drum roll. Damnit, but the optio was getting to him.
‘If I were a…’ his voice tailed off. ‘Fuck it.’ A moment later he was undoing the cloak and draping it over his arm while he removed his helmet. Handing them to the surprised gladiator trainer, he removed his sword and belt, peeled off his chain shirt with some difficulty and dropped it to the sand. He then removed his subarmalis and tunic and placed them on the chain shirt to keep them clean, retrieving his helmet and cloak and adding them to the pile. By the time he straightened and turned, Daizus was similarly stripped to the waist, just breeches and boots.
Something odd passed through the optio’s expression and Rufinus was suddenly acutely aware of the scars he bore and the fact that they were displayed now for all to see. Burns and scratches, lines and patches of shiny skin. Nails missing. Brand marks. Scars from the ‘emperor’s largesse’. His back was marked with white lines that carried their own tale of insubordination and punishment. At least the brand marks were no longer legible. Those that could have been identified, he had long since taken a hot knife to, making them illegible.
He could hear several of his legionaries whistling through their teeth, though whether in derision or respect, he couldn’t tell. In accepting the challenge and stripping down he had ruined all hope of dignity and professionalism, the respect of his rank. But confidence, he did not lack. And if he could not instil authority with his voice, then he’d damn well do it with his hands.
‘You were beaten,’ Daizus noted, rather unnecessarily. ‘Fell asleep on duty?’
‘Killed a man,’ replied Rufinus in dead tones. The legionaries went silent. Even the gladiators had stopped sparring, their trainer standing back and watching the two officers.
‘How do you want to end this?’ the optio spat, ‘On your back or on your face?’
‘Do your fists work as much as your mouth?’ Rufinus replied and stepped out into the open space, away from his pile of clothes and armour.
Daizus came for him quickly. Rufinus was impressed with the speed and power of the attack. The optio kept his head low and stormed forward, both arms jabbing with a slight swing as though he were restricted in space, both aimed for Rufinus’ solar plexus. The centurion dropped his arms just in time, taking the flurry of blows on his forearms as he gave ground. Then, in a move he had used time and again, he took an extra-large step back and danced to a halt as his attacker almost fell forward, deprived of his target. Rufinus swung, once.
His fist, bunched and hard, connected with Daizus’s cheek and sent him sprawling out to the side. The optio recovered quickly, but Rufinus was dancing from foot to foot, waiting, anticipating. With a sudden roar, Daizus was coming again, this time with his arms up and ready. Rufinus put all his weight on his left foot and readied himself. The optio came at him and made to swipe, but Rufinus had pivoted on his left and simply swung out of the way with the grace of a dancer. As Daizus lurched past, Rufinus gave him two neat jabs to the side.
The optio staggered to a halt, shaking his head.
‘You’re strong, Daizus, but you’re slow. And predictable.’
The optio turned and started to advance once more, this time slowly and with care. Rufinus watched him come. There was no sport in this. The only question in Rufinus’ head was whether to be professional and end this quickly, or to draw it out and hurt Daizus to make the point. No. Dignity. He could regain that in the way he ended this.
‘Stand down and accept defeat and I’ll let you walk away with some self-respect.’
Daizus made to jab with his left hand and Rufinus almost fell for it. His feet were automatically positioning to duck him to the left, away from the blow, but he could see the muscles bunching in the man’s right arm, too. He’d told the optio he was too predictable, and Daizus had taken that to heart. In trying to be unpredictable in response, however, he was simply being predictable again. The jab and the cross was a common combination in legionary boxing, though Daizus had clearly learned to fight in the civilian world. Rooting his feet instead of moving out of the way, Rufinus knocked aside the jab with his right wrist, feeling the sharp pain of the blow but hearing the snap of one of Daizus’ fingers in the process. Even as the man’s right cross came, Rufinus’ left arm had come up to block, taking the painful blow on the forearm.
He gave Daizus no chance to recover. Without even taking the time to draw back his arm, he jabbed with his right fist and punched the optio square between the eyes. There was an odd, almost comical moment of complete silence and stillness, and then Daizus toppled backward, stunned. The
optio collapsed onto his backside, shaking his head. Rufinus knew the effect of such a blow well, as both deliverer and recipient. The fight was over, and all he had to show for it would be a few bruises that would come up on his arms later in the day. But it would be some time before Daizus recovered his wits enough to stand.
Rufinus left the man sat in the sand and crossed to his equipment, dressing himself once more. He was aware that eighty five men were watching him in silent surprise, and he nodded at the trainer once he’d shrugged into his chain shirt and begun to settle it correctly. ‘Tell your black-haired one to strengthen his left.’
The trainer nodded, eyes wide, then waved his charges away, sending them toward one of the doorways out of the arena. Rufinus finished dressing himself, pinning his cloak in place with some difficulty. The men of the Third Century were still watching him in silence.
‘Alright, you lot. Get those stakes into the ground, evenly spaced, one palus to each tent party. Then you have one hour of sword practice.’
Once the first stake was in place, Rufinus produced a piece of chalk from his pouch and drew three lines on it. ‘Groin, armpit and neck: the three kill points you can reasonably go for even with an armoured opponent. Every man makes all three blows and then moves to the back of the line and makes room for the next, and so on. The contubernium cycles through the training for one hour. How fast or slow you are is up to you, but I will give you added incentive. The stake with the most accurate damage at the end of the hour earns that tent party an extra denarius each in their pay this month. The one with the least damage earns an extra shift of night guard duty. Get to it.’
He stepped back and let the legionaries get to work, his eyes straying across to Daizus, who still sat, slumped. There was a very good chance he had ruined any hope of a good working relationship with his second in command, but he’d had to put the man in his place, and at least that had surely gained him the respect of the rest of the century.
Eagles of Dacia Page 6