He led Marcus back down through the fort, out of the massive southern gate and through its small collection of houses and shops. Women and children in the street stood respectfully as the officer passed, even a couple of hard-faced prostitutes favouring him with smiles.
‘They depend on us for their livelihood. If the prefect decided that the Hill would be more secure without the hangers-on, they would be destitute. Mind you, there are so many men with women and children in the town now that I suspect they form no risk to our security.’
They marched over a bridge spanning the massive ditch that separated the civilian and military zones, Marcus readjusting to the renewed pain in his feet. The road fell away steeply towards the parade ground’s expanse, across which several groups of men were training with swords and shields. The older man marched briskly past them, barking directions to individuals whose performance caught his eye.
‘You, yes, you, with the red hair, lift your shield higher! You’re supposed to be stopping blue-nose spears, not protecting your bloody ankles! Chosen Man, show him what I mean, he clearly can’t understand… Well done, that man, excellent sword work!’
They passed the final group and left the parade ground behind before he spoke to Marcus again, talking at the air in front of him rather than turning to face the younger man.
‘Recruits. In two months we’ll have knocked them into rough shape, and toughened them up enough to give them a good chance of surviving a battle, and in six they’ll be every bit as good as any legionary. We’ve got men serving with ten and twenty years with the cohort, some who fought in the last uprising. What I’m being asked to do is put you in command of eighty of those men, all of whom, since they grew up playing at soldiers in the woods and fields of this area, have more idea of real soldiering than you do. The very idea of it makes me feel sick. This is my cohort, my fort and my parade ground. I was passed the leadership of them all, every man that serves here, by my predecessor, and when I retire I’ll bring the best centurion in the cohort down to that parade ground. I’ll make him promise me, and the shrines of Cocidius, Jupiter, Mars and Victory, to maintain the traditions we live and die by. I’m responsible for those traditions now, and for making sure that my decisions are made in the best interests of the unit. My cohort.’
He turned his head to look at Marcus’s face for a moment, checking for any reaction. The road ran arrow straight up to the next fold in the land, making Marcus open his mouth to increase his air intake, but he kept his eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘The prefect knows very well what his role here is, and so do I. He’s here for two or three years, to represent Rome, and make decisions as to the course of action the cohort should follow in Rome’s service. I’ve been here for my entire adult life, and I’ll stay here until I retire, or die in combat. My word as to the ways in which those decisions are carried out is final, although since we respect each other’s judgement he will usually issue orders upon which we’ve agreed jointly. I also make all decisions as to who is allowed to enter service, based on what centurions tell me and on what I see with my own eyes. And from what I see and hear, you represent a good deal of trouble to both the prefect and this unit. If it were a simple “yes” or “no” on those grounds I wouldn’t even be taking this trouble to understand you better.’
He fell silent for a moment as they marched on side by side, and then spoke again.
‘The prefect, however, sees something in you that he encourages me to consider before making that decision. Your threat of suicide found a chink in his armour you may not have appreciated. His uncle fell on his own sword after losing most of a cohort just like this one in the German forests twenty years ago, but not before writing to tell his nephew why he was doing it. Prefect Equitius still has the tablet. Consequently, his sense of honour is his prime motivation when he considers your case. Would you do the same?’
Marcus blinked for a second at the unexpected question.
‘Yes, sir. I would have no other remaining choice.’
‘Very well.’
Frontinius stopped walking under the shadow of a lone tree growing by the roadside and drew his gladius with a swift movement, holding it towards Marcus with the hilt foremost. The sun eased one corner of its disc out from behind the cloud that had obscured it for much of the day, caressing the landscape with a slender strand of light.
‘Take the sword.’
Marcus did so with a sudden feeling of utter detachment, hefting the weapon with one hand, judging the weapon’s fine balance and razor-sharp blade.
‘It goes with the responsibilities I bear, passed from each First Spear to his successor. It’s an old weapon, forged in the Year of the Four Emperors over a hundred years ago, and it belonged to a prefect who rewarded an act of bravery in battle which saved his life with the gift of his personal weapon. The courage you’ve shown to get this far entitles you to fall on a blade whose honour is indisputable.’
He stood in silence on the empty road, watching Marcus intently, his body taut in its readiness for action, with one hand resting lightly on his dagger’s ornately decorated handle. Marcus looked at the weapon’s blade for a long moment before speaking. His senses sharpened perceptibly, the tiny sounds of bird calls and the breeze’s ruffling of his hair suddenly catching his attention, although the colours of grass and sky seemed to fade to dusty, washed-out shades.
‘Thank you, First Spear, for at least providing me with a dignified exit. I must now look to find revenge for these wrongs in the next life.’
Clamping his mouth firmly shut, he steeled himself for the act, placing the sword’s point firmly against his sternum, and taking a last deep breath before throwing himself forward. A strong arm whipped out and grabbed his rough shirt as he fell towards the ground, turning him in midair. He hit the road’s surface hard on his back, losing his hold on the sword’s hilt and letting it fall. Frontinius looked down at him, holding his hand out, with a new respect in his eyes.
‘You meant it. That’s something.’
Marcus reached up and took the hand offered by the officer, climbing back on to his feet. The officer’s sword was already back in its scabbard.
‘I’m sorry, that was deliberately cruel, but I had to know if you had the stomach for what you threatened.’
Frontinius was intrigued by the look he received in return for his apology, the dark eyes seeming to skewer his soul. Perhaps, if the man were trained to use that ability…
‘What would you have done if I had failed to use the sword, or turned it upon you?’
A laugh cracked Frontinius’s face, despite the gravity of the situation.
‘I’d have cut your throat with this.’
He pulled the dagger, cocked his wrist and threw the short blade, putting it cleanly into the centre of a truncated branch that projected a foot out from the tree’s trunk at head height, lopped off by a work gang when it had grown to obstruct the road. He reached to retrieve the knife, speaking over his shoulder.
‘They’re not made for throwing, but when you practise enough anything’s possible. As you may discover. Now march!’
They walked on along the road’s arrow-straight path, passing an eight-man detachment patrolling back towards the Hill.
‘Keep marching.’
The older man turned back for a hundred yards, marching alongside the detachment and studying each man’s uniform in turn before turning once more, calling over his shoulder to the tent party’s leader.