Marcus frowned his lack of understanding.
‘But why? Surely you’ve earned an easier time after twenty-five years of service?’
Rufius reached into the pile of his new kit, pulling from it his vine stick, the twisted wood shiny from years of use.
‘See this? A simple piece of wood with no more value than kindling for a fire, until I pick it up. In my hands, however, it becomes the symbol of my authority. For fifteen years I carried another, very much like this, all over this country, until it was like part of my body. It was the first thing I reached for in the morning, and the last thing I put down at night, and let me tell you, I loved that life. And do you want to know the worst day of my twenty-five years under the eagle?’
Marcus nodded, his anger fading to a sad resignation. Rufius gave a faraway look, his eyes seeing something other than the storehouse walls.
‘My worst day… it wasn’t the first one, at the recruiting camp in Gaul where I joined up, where they cut off all my hair and my new centurion chased us round the parade ground until we puked our guts up. It wasn’t the day when my century was ambushed in the Tava valley, and seventy-seven men became fifty-three and a collection of dying men and corpses in less than ten minutes. Brigantia forgive me, it wasn’t even the day that my wife died before her time, taken from me by the cold and the damp, although it’s a close-run race…’
He took a deep breath.
‘No, my very worst day in all that time was the very last one, when I had to hand my vine stick back to my legatus. It was a misty day, and the entire legion was on parade, centuries stretching away into the grey until they were invisible. All I had to do was march up the line of my cohort, take their salute, march to the legatus, hand him my vine stick, salute, about-face and watch the legion parade off. It seemed to take for ever, and yet it was over in the blink of an eye. I stood there beside him as the legion stamped off the parade ground, watching my cohort under the command of another man, a friend that I’d been grooming for the job for years, chosen from among my centurions. It was like watching your wife on another man’s arm…’
He turned from the memory, fixing Marcus with a serious stare.
‘So, Centurion, when Sextus Frontinius smiles at you, and you know full well that he’s thinking that he’s got an experienced officer at the expense of your troubling him for just as long as it takes to find a reason to declare you a failure, here’s what you say to yourself — Quintus Tiberius Rufius is as happy as a pig in the deepest shit he can find. And you, my lad, are not going to fail. Not with me here to keep you straight. Got that?’
Marcus nodded, blowing out a pent-up breath.
‘Got it.’
‘Good. Now, have they told you who your chosen man’s going to be? I only ask because Frontinius made a special point of telling me on the way down here. He seemed to think it was quite funny.’
Marcus nodded again, his lips pursed with foreboding.
‘So would I, if I didn’t think it was going to be so damned difficult…’ To the Roman’s huge surprise Dubnus took the news of Marcus’s appointment as centurion to the cohort’s 9th Century, with himself as the new chosen man, with perfect equanimity. He waited until they were alone in his centurion’s quarters before tackling the subject head on. Dubnus looked at him without any obvious emotion, shrugging his shoulders.
‘You’re worried that I’m angry about this, but you don’t need to be. I’m not angry, and I don’t want to talk about it. Now get into uniform and let’s go and look at what we’ve got here.’
Marcus persisted, not willing to believe it could be that simple from the big Briton’s perspective.
‘We need to talk, Dubnus, and it won’t wait. I…’
‘You’re a centurion. I’m a chosen man. I’ll do as you command. This is not a problem.’
‘But you’re a warrior, a true soldier. I walk into your fort, already owing you a life, and get promoted to centurion just like that? You should want to put your fist through my face! How can you take this so easily?’
‘Perhaps you’ll be a real centurion. I content myself with being the best chosen man in the cohort instead, better than half of the officers, and they know it. But I’ll never be a centurion, I’ve already been told as much.’
Marcus realised in a flash what was holding the man back, stunned both by the insight and the way the other man had been held from his potential.
‘You’ve been told that you won’t be an officer so many times, you’ve stopped even trying. What my father used to call a “self-fulfilling prophecy”. Look, the First Spear told me all about your father, and how he was deposed from his throne when you were still a boy, how he sent you here when he was dying. He told me that he doesn’t believe you’ll fight your own people when the time comes, that he believes you’re the best soldier in the cohort to satisfy your wounded pride, not because you want to serve. He doubts your commitment, Dubnus, not your abilities…’
The other man just shrugged. Marcus smiled, giddy with relief at making the mental leap to see through the bluff soldier’s reserve.
‘And he’s told you you’ll never make it to centurion so many times that you’ve started to believe it. I can change that. You can be a centurion — if you want to…’
Dubnus stared into his eyes for a long moment, testing the sincerity of the words.
‘You’ll help me to become a centurion? Why?’
Marcus took a deep breath.
‘Dubnus, you’ve said it a dozen times in the last week. I was a praetorian officer, but I never saw action, so it was just a ceremonial job… looking good in uniform, knowing what to say to whom… I’m going to need you to help me be a real officer, a warrior leader. What else can I give you in return?’
‘I make you a warrior, you’ll make me a centurion?’
‘Not a warrior. I may yet surprise you in that respect. A warrior leader. It’s what I’ll have to achieve if I’m to survive here. Or die trying.’
‘Perhaps.’
Marcus noted that the Briton wasn’t smiling. The century’s barrack block was primitive in comparison with the facilities his men had enjoyed in Rome, but Marcus ignored the condition of his quarters as he got into his new uniform. The red tunic was savagely rough in comparison to the fine white cloth he’d worn as a Guard officer. Thick woollen leggings tickled his legs and made him sweat in the building’s shelter, although he guessed that their warmth would seem little enough on a cold winter morning. He bent to examine his armour and weapons, laid out across his bed, noting with dismay the patina of rust that dusted the mail coat’s rings. His helmet was slightly dented on one side. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, he peered closely at the blade.
‘Blunt.’
Dubnus nodded unhappily.
‘Annius keeps his best equipment for those willing to pay. You get second best.’
It was true. The clothing he’d been issued was, on closer inspection, well worn.
‘I see. First things first. Inspection.’
They marched into the first of the eight-man rooms, troops scattering with surprise from their game of dice.
‘Attention!’
The soldiers froze into ramrod-straight poses at Dubnus’s bellowed command, shuffling to make room for Marcus to walk into the cramped room. He looked slowly around, taking in the dirty straw scattered haphazardly across the barrack floor and the poorly stacked weapons and shields in the outer room. Noticing the squad’s food ration for the day, waiting next to the small oven in and on which all cooking was done for the eight men, he turned to shout through the open door.
‘Chosen!’
‘Sir!’
Dubnus stepped into the room, looking at the food to which Marcus was pointing with his vine stick. A couple of the men cast him sidelong glances of amazement. Nobody had warned them that they had new officers, never mind that one of them was the man they called ‘the Prince’ when they were sure he wasn’t listening.