There were sniggers from behind Festus.
‘Iunge!’*[1] The squad shuffled into close order, doing the manoeuvre well enough.
‘Lungee!’ The second squad was no less proficient in spite of the order. Behind Festus a man laughed, louder than all the others. The centurion glanced and saw that it was a tall, good-looking young recruit.
‘Parati!’[2]
‘Rapatii!’
There were giggles now, and the youth was cackling, his face red. Festus glared at them and then at the closest instructor, who was not looking in his direction. With an effort, he stopped himself from interfering, but resolved to have a word with the instructors after the parade was over. This sort of behaviour would not do at all.
‘Mole!’[3] The first squad stepped forward as one, prompting a satisfied grunt from the centurion. Done well, Festus found drill a very moving, almost spiritual experience.
‘Mole!’ The second squad responded almost as well, although he could see some of the soldiers were grinning. Behind him there was more laughter, the boy closest to him barely able to control himself. Festus gripped his slim vine cane with both hands to stop himself from intervening. The squads were marching towards each other, until they were fifteen paces apart.
‘Sta!’[4] The first squad halted, stamping their feet as one, shields and javelins not jostling too much considering how little drill these men had received.
‘Tsss!’ The command was a piercing squeal. Grinning, and fully aware of what they were doing, the second squad ignored him and kept marching forward.
‘The daft bugger’s forgotten the order,’ someone said from the ranks behind him.
‘Quiet there!’ an instructor ordered, although he could not keep the amusement out of his own voice.
‘Transforma!’[5] The first squad wavered a little, transfixed by the sight of the other group bearing down on them, before managing a ragged about face.
‘Taaa!’ The second squad were no more than eight paces away, still marching. ‘Steeee!’ The man’s voice somehow managed to become even higher. All the men behind Festus were laughing.
‘Move!’ The first squad started marching away, although some of the men in the rear rank were turning their heads to see behind them.
Instead of trying to remember the order, the big man ran in front of his own squad, waving his arms to make them stop. They quickened the pace instead. Sensing or seeing this, the first squad also began to take longer strides, the ranks becoming ragged.
‘Oh, that fat mongrel!’ The boy closest to Festus managed to say before he could say no more for laughter, made worse as the second squad began to run, and everyone else ran to get out of their way.
Then the youth dropped his spear. It fell forward, the point close enough to twitch the hem of Festus’ cloak before it hit the ground. The centurion’s response was a reflex, as he spun around and swung his cane in his left hand, letting go with his right. If he was thinking at all, he probably meant to hit the soldier’s shield. Instead, the lad was already leaning forward, whether from laughter or to pick up his spear. Held wrong way up, the gnarled top of the centurion’s cane slammed into the youth’s mouth, so that he staggered back, blood coming from a split lip.
‘Stand to attention, man!’ Festus yelled. ‘And pick that up!’ He turned away, and his temper rose again because the parade was a shambles, the two squads mingled together, some running, some barging each other with their shields.
‘You!’ Festus almost screamed at the instructors. ‘Sort that disgrace out!’
There was a thud as the youth dropped his shield onto the grass and the scrape of a sword being drawn. Festus turned, frowning, small eyes staring and saw the youth coming at him, gladius held low, blood on his chin and growling. The centurion raised his cane, while his mouth opened to shout, but it was all so fast, so absurd. He was not wearing armour that day, because for much of the time he had supervised building work and had not wanted to be encumbered. Driven by rage, the triangular point of the gladius slid easily through his two tunics and undershirt into his stomach, angled up to thrust under his ribs. He grunted with the shock, as the boy made more animal noise and grabbed the centurion by the shoulder to pull him onto the blade. The cane fell from Festus’ hand and he gasped.
No one else had moved. There had been no warning and no time. The boy was screaming, trying to wrench his sword free and only then did other men drop their shields and spears and pull him away. Festus slumped, gave a long sigh and died.
‘Oh shit!’ the soldier standing next to the boy said.
The facts were simple, and Ferox understood what had happened very quickly; the boy, whose name was Andoco, had been struck by the centurion and had killed him in reply. Even so, he spoke in turn to all the instructors and all the Brigantes who had stood close enough to see and hear what had happened, and then to the medicus from the hospital who had examined the corpse and confirmed the obvious cause of death. Then he saw Sabinus, Dionysius and Cunicius, telling them all that he had learned in case they had anything to add. Cunicius testified that Andoco was a good soldier, too young to have been in the rebellion although sent by a family who had joined Aviragus’ rebels. So far his record was unblemished, and as a well-educated and intelligent lad, there was some expectation that in due course he would be promoted.
Sabinus added that he believed Festus was rather sensitive about his weight, fearing that middle age was turning muscle to fat, so that perhaps the boy’s comment about a fat mongrel provoked him more than usual. ‘Pity he spoke in decent Latin or all he might have got was an order to be quiet.’
‘Perhaps, but how often does Festus – did Festus – use his cane?’
‘Quite often,’ Sabinus admitted. That was common enough, especially in some legions and cohorts, and the only restriction imposed by regulation was that a centurion was not allowed to inflict serious injury without making a formal charge against a soldier.
‘I am sure that you recall my telling Festus how important it was never to strike one of the Brigantes.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sabinus conceded. ‘And I heard him repeat the instruction most forcibly to our men and up until this moment all obeyed.’ The centurion’s round face was worried, but determined. He took a deep breath. ‘Nevertheless…’
Ferox sighed. ‘Nevertheless.’
There was no easy way out, for a soldier could not simply fly into a rage and kill a centurion without being punished, and there was only one penalty for such a crime. An offence to personal honour was no excuse, and the only real question was how it was to be done.
Ferox went to see Andoco, his cell guarded by one of Vindex’s Carvetii and an auxiliary. The boy had chains around his wrists and ankles, and that was necessary, at least for the moment. With effort he stood when Ferox entered, as a proud warrior should in spite of his terror. Andoco had very pale, innocent eyes, adding to his childlike appearance, and Ferox knew from the records that he was eighteen.
‘I was angry, and struck in haste, but he should not have treated me that way,’ was all that he would say when Ferox asked him to explain what had happened.