‘How much did you pay to have it polished up that well?’
The standard bearer opened his mouth to protest, but a familiar voice from behind him pre-empted his complaint.
‘Two denarii, Centurion.’
The young centurion shook his head in bemusement at Sanga’s interruption.
‘Which you doubtless recouped handsomely with a wager on that unexpected display of extemporisation?’
‘Extemp …?’
Marcus spoke over his shoulder, an acerbic note in his voice.
‘Extemporisation, Soldier Sanga. It means making it up under pressure, an ability to which I believe you’re no stranger given some of the legendary excuses you’ve offered up for your misdemeanours during the short time I’ve been your centurion.’
Morban shook his head, stiffening his back as Julius called the cohort to attention and speaking out of the side of his mouth.
‘Didn’t make as much as a sestertius. None of these cowards would gamble on the outcome.’
Marcus shrugged.
‘You can’t blame them, there were two of them against one of me.’
Sanga’s voice grated out again.
‘It weren’t that, Two Knives-’
‘Call the fucking Centurion “Centurion” Sanga, or I’ll put another fucking dent in your helmet!’
Marcus heard the soldier mutter an obscenity under his breath before shouting out the answer that he knew Quintus was waiting to hear.
‘Yes, Chosen Man!’
‘That’s better! Carry on with your little story …’
‘Morban was trying to get us to bet against you, and none of us was having any.’
Marcus frowned, unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed.
‘Really?’
‘Yes sir. No bugger here’s going to bet against you in a sword fight, not given what a mad bastard you are once your temper’s lit, beggin’ your pard-’
A sharp rap of brass on iron silenced the soldier in mid-sentence, and a moment later the command was given for the cohort’s seven hundred men to turn to their right. Lifting spears and shields from their resting places the soldiers swivelled into the line of march, ignoring the sniggers of the Votadini warriors who had accompanied them all the way to Dacia and back. Morban scowled at them, shaking his head in disgust.
‘I don’t know what that lot are laughing at, they look like a right bunch of mongrels.’
The Votadini warriors were clad in and equipped with a widely varied assortment of Roman and Sarmatae armour and weapons, equipment taken from dead friend and foe according to need and circumstance. ‘Legion plate armour, barbarian dog caps, and of course they’re all wearing our hobnailed boots. Poor old Uncle Sextus would have been ripping his hair out, if he’d had any …’
Marcus frowned down at him.
‘They do have a rather informal appearance, I’ll give you that, and yes, perhaps our last First Spear, the gods grant ease to his departed spirit, would have found their mixture of kit a little challenging. Should I point out that harsh truth to Martos on your behalf, do you think?’
A warrior of fearsome countenance who had lost an eye in the liberation of his tribe’s fortress city from Calgus’s men two years before, the Votadini prince had long since settled into a state of contentment with his place in the cohort as an ally, but still kept his men apart from the centuries and guarded both their independence and their reputation jealously. Morban recoiled visibly, shaking his head vigorously.
‘There’s no need for that Centurion, I was just saying …’
Marcus ignored the standard bearer’s grumbling and raised his hand in salute to Martos.
‘You’re whining because they get to go home while we have to march north.’
If the Roman had expected that stating the obvious would silence Morban’s complaints, he was to be disappointed.
‘It don’t seem all that fair, now that you raise the matter, sir. How come they get to wander off to enjoy themselves while we’re straight off to the north without even the chance to put our noses round the door at the Hill?’
‘Because, Standard Bearer, as you might be reminded by the prince’s missing eye, their home was ravaged by Calgus’s Selgovae and left under Roman control once we recaptured it. He’s going to make sure that none of the tribal elders have had any clever ideas about taking the throne from his nephew, and to make an offering at the shrine to his wife and son. And besides, it’s not your nose you want to put round the door at our old fort, is it?’
‘You’re right, Centurion, it ain’t his nose! Not that his old chap would reach round a door! It can barely poke its head out of his bush unless he gives it a good old tugging!’
Sanga’s gruff voice and the answering laughs of the soldiers around them were lost in a sudden bray of trumpets as Julius decided that the cohort was ready to march. Knowing that the soldiers would be quietly seething at having their return home snatched away from them so suddenly, the first spear only waited long enough for the last century to be clear of the fort before ordering his trumpeter to sound the signal for the double march. The ferocious pace soon quelled the unhappy mutterings of his troops as they threw back their heads to gulp down the cold morning air. After an hour or so the harsh pace started to tell on men whose previous few days had been characterised by the forced inactivity of waiting around in barracks for the transport convoy to assemble, followed by the cramped circumstances of the crossing itself. Marcus and Morban, marching at the Fifth Century’s head, exchanged knowing glances as the Fourth Century’s chosen man stalked down the line of his men looking for strugglers, pouncing on one soldier who was marching with a slight limp.
The hard-faced chosen man had been deliberately selected by Julius to pair up with his centurion, Caelius, as a means of counterbalancing the officer’s quiet and reasonable demeanour in any other circumstance than the chaos of battle, where he was transformed into a warrior leader of legendary ferocity. His chosen man’s reputation for driving his men along with an assortment of well-used jibes and threats was widely known and well founded, and the panting soldiers in the Fifth Century’s front rank cocked their ears expectantly as he bellowed a challenge at the labouring man, his face inches from the hapless struggler’s ear.
‘Having a hard time of it, are you sonny?!’
Whatever it was that the soldier said was inaudible to the men marching behind, but his inquisitor quickly satisfied their curiosity.
‘Blister?! A fucking blister?! You’ll just have to march through it, won’t you boy?! I don’t care if your boots fill up with blood until they squelch like a whore’s cunt on pay day, you’ll keep marching until the tribune decides it’s time to stop!’
Marcus shared a glance with Morban.
‘That’s come depressingly early in the day. This is clearly going to be a long and painful march …’
With the usual turf-walled marching fort constructed, nestled beneath the walls of Fort Habitus on the road that speared north from the wall built at the command of the Emperor Hadrian sixty years before, Marcus turned away from his supervisory duties to find two of his soldiers standing to attention, both men saluting neatly and waiting for their centurion to speak.
‘Ah yes, Sanga, and Saratos isn’t it? Chosen Man Quintus told me the pair of you had requested permission to see me. What can I do for the pair of you?’
Sanga spoke for both men, his voice nervous at dealing directly with the centurion.
‘This is the settlement where my mate Scarface was born and raised, Centurion sir. Me and Saratos here thought it might be nice to pay the local mason to carve him an altar, and when we come back this way we can make an offering to his memory. He was a daft sod, begging your pardon, sir, but the lads in our tent party wanted to find a way of remembering him.’