Dubnus raised a pained eyebrow.
‘This is me we’re talking about, Julius. Have you forgotten all that time when I was your chosen man?’
His friend nodded, remembering the casual brutality the muscular soldier had brought to the role as his deputy, in the days before his promotion to centurion.
‘I don’t doubt your ability to take a century by the balls and make them do whatever it is you tell them, but there isn’t a man in the Tenth that doesn’t have half a head’s height advantage on you. If you try to cow them into obedience they’ll most likely spit you out looking a good deal less pretty than you do now, and since that isn’t saying much I’m a good deal more concerned with the impact on discipline that would have than any damage you might sustain.’
Dubnus shrugged, flexing his meaty biceps and turning to look down the cohort’s column again.
‘I’d say we don’t have the luxury of discussion. Those men need someone to take a grip of their balls now, before they get any more time to brood on Titus’s death. And it has to be now, or they’ll get used to getting away with murder under their chosen and the problem will only be harder to deal with when we do confront it. And besides, what if we have to fight again?’
Julius sighed, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
‘Agreed. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The big man nodded, turning away and striding off down the column until he reached his own century, calling his chosen man to him. The former legionary stamped to attention and waited for his orders, his eyes widening as he heard what it was that his centurion had to say.
‘Well Titus, it’s your lucky day. I’m taking over the Tenth, now that the Bear’s gone to hunt with Cocidius. You’re in command of this shower until this is all over, so you’d better make a good enough job of it that I can recommend you get the crest across your helmet and a nice hard vine stick to beat your men with. Fuck it up and you’ll find yourself having to take orders from one of your mates, and I can assure you that that isn’t going to feel all that funny, no matter how much this lot will laugh at you behind your back. And don’t let them get away with any of that Habitus bullshit.’ He grinned broadly at the gaping chosen man, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Time for the truth. That story about old Centurion Habitus? It was just a story, something I dreamed up to make you lot feel guilty, and nothing more. So when the first of your mates that thinks he can use it to get an easier ride from you tries it on, you’d better ram it straight up his arse, or they’ll have you under their control rather than the other way around. Good luck!’
Leaving the other man staring at his back, he marched on down the cohort’s length until he reached the rearmost century, taking in the sight of the Tenth’s hulking axe men lounging in the grass to either side of the road with a disapproving frown.
‘Canus, to me!’
The chosen man appeared out of a group of soldiers, presenting himself with a look that told Dubnus everything that he needed to know about the man. He stepped in close to his new deputy and fixed him with a hard stare, couching his words in a matter-of-fact tone that left neither room nor opportunity for disagreement.
‘You can lose the attitude for a start. Give me one more look like that and I’ll rip your face off and wipe my arse with it! Got that?!’ The other man swallowed and nodded, and Dubnus knew in that second that he had the man. ‘Yes, I’m your new centurion. The Bear handed me the job, along with these …’ He raised Titus’s axe, allowing the dead centurion’s Cocidius amulet to swing on its bracelet of leather cord. ‘For some reason we’ll never know, he seemed to believe that you lot need the love and care that only a man with my reputation for handling his men softly can provide. So start getting used to it, and while you’re doing it gather my boys round and I’ll give them the good news.’
Canus turned away with a stony face, calling the century to gather round their new officer while the men of the Ninth Century who were just ahead of them in the cohort’s order of march watched curiously. Dubnus waited until they were arrayed about him in a half-circle before speaking.
‘How many men did we lose in the ambush, Chosen?’
The chosen man, still smarting from Dubnus’s brisk treatment, spoke up at once.
‘Five soldiers and the best centurion in the cohort, Centurion!’
The pioneers nodded at his words, their expressions still those of men deep in grief, their eyes for the most part fixed on the ground or the clouds above them, few of them meeting their new centurion’s eye. Dubnus stared about him with an undisguised look of disgust.
‘Look at you all! You look like men who’ve just buried a father who died in his sleep, rather than witnessed him being hacked to death by barbarians! There’s not one of you that has the look of a man who’s ready to shed blood in revenge!’
Every man in the century was glaring at him now, their faces hardening as the insult sank in, and one of the bigger soldiers started to climb to his feet with a look of indignant anger.
‘Sit down!’ The pioneer hesitated for a second at the note of command, and Dubnus stepped towards him with his knuckles white around the shaft of his vine stick, his face contorted with genuine anger that left the soldier nowhere to go other than down onto his backside or up onto his feet. ‘Sit the fuck down, before I put you on your arse!’
The big man sank slowly back down onto his haunches, and the centurion nodded his head slowly.
‘That’s better. I don’t want to be slapping my own men about, not when there are barbarians close to hand. Now, where was I?’
He turned away for a moment, deliberately turning his back on the fuming pioneers, knowing that they were restrained from attacking him only by their deeply ingrained discipline. When he spun on his heel to face them the century gathered around him was still frozen in place, a dangerous animal temporarily restrained from attacking purely by the force of his personality.
‘You look like a gathering of women in mourning.’ He paused, allowing the further insult to sink in. ‘Well I’ve got news for you, girls. We are soldiers, and soldiers die! When we lose a brother in battle we should rejoice in the manner of his falling, and the number of the enemy he takes with him! If we sit around weeping at our loss we only weaken ourselves for the next time that we face an enemy, and bring the moment of our own death racing towards us! You all worship Cocidius, right?’
He waved the amulet at them, drawing an angry growl of affirmation from several of the men facing him.
‘Well Cocidius doesn’t want you to piss and whine over Titus. Cocidius has Titus sitting at his feast table right now, with a mug of the good stuff in one hand, a roasted sheep’s leg in the other, his chin shining with grease, beer spilled down his best tunic and a pair of busty wenches under the table oiling up his cock and balls!’ A few faces creased into sad smiles at the memory of their former leader’s legendary ability to enter into the spirit of a celebratory feast. ‘And right now, brothers, Cocidius is lavishing the old bastard with praise for the glorious manner of his death! And so am I! The Bear lived like a man and died like a warrior, and if I make an equally glorious exit from this life then I’ll be more than content as the ferryman takes me across the river.’ The faces staring up at him were more thoughtful than angry now. ‘When we get back to civilisation I’ll be putting an altar to our fallen brother’s memory alongside the one that’s been purchased for that leathery old sod Scarface at Fort Habitus, an altar to his glorious death and the honour it did to our god!’
He paused again, watching the soldiers nodding their agreement, knowing that he almost had them. Almost.
‘Now some of you are thinking that I’m not the right man to lead you. Thinking that I’m not big enough …’ He paused and smiled wryly to be voicing such a sentiment. ‘You’ll be telling each other that I’m not hard enough to lead the Tenth, the biggest, ugliest men in the cohort. That I’m not fit to carry the Bear’s axe.’ He looked about him again, jutting out his jaw defiantly and raising the dead centurion’s weapon above his head. ‘Well tough fucking shit! The Bear himself handed it to me, and his amulet to Cocidius, and told me to lead you to glory in his name! So here’s how it is, girls! I’m your centurion, at least until we get back on the other side of the wall and we’re not being chased around the landscape by a gang of angry tribesmen. Once we’re safe again you can decide whether you want to risk putting me to the challenge, and perhaps we’ll find out how many of you it takes to put me on my back. Perhaps. But for now, we’re at war, so it’s wartime rules until that happy day. Which means that any man who wants to challenge my authority can expect to find himself subject to wartime discipline. My fucking discipline. And if you think the Bear could be harsh, just try those boots on for size!’