‘Is that quality of food normal for this cohort?’
The salted fish looked green in parts, the fresh vegetables riddled with holes from the attentions of parasites. Only the bread, fresh from the fort’s oven, invited closer attention.
‘No, sir.’
‘I see. Chosen, what’s the normal size of tent party in this cohort?’
‘Eight.’
‘So why are there nine men in this barrack?’
Dubnus growled a question at the nearest soldier in his own language.
‘He says that one soldier has taken a whole room for himself. They’re all scared to fight him… including the acting centurion.’
Marcus stiffened with anger, as much at the acquiescence of so-called fighting men with this act of bullying as with the offence itself.
‘So a man has to sleep on the floor? Take me to that barrack.’
They marched down the line of doors, the frightened soldier pointing to the offending door. Dubnus put his long chosen man’s pole down on the floor, flexing his powerful hands and clenching them into fists. He spoke to Marcus without taking his eyes off the barrack’s door.
‘I’ll do this.’
It was a statement rather than a request, a baldly stated invitation for Marcus to step back from the physical side of his role, and it tempted him more than he had expected. It would be so easy to let the Briton pull this miscreant from his room and discipline him…
Shaking his head in refusal, Marcus pushed him gently but firmly aside, rapping on the door with his vine stick.
‘Inspection! Open this door!’
A clatter sounded from inside, the door bursting open to reveal a half-clad man wielding a wooden stave. Long hair hung lank across his shoulders, pale blue eyes staring insolently from a hatchet face.
‘You tosser, Trajan, I’ll… what?’
Surprised by the appearance of an unfamiliar officer at his door, he hesitated the crucial second that Marcus needed. Taking a quick step forward, he jabbed the stick’s blunt end forcefully into the Briton’s sternum, dropping him to the ground in writhing agony. Dubnus stepped forward, collecting the stave with a sideways glance of surprise at his new centurion before effortlessly lifting the soldier to his unsteady feet. Marcus tucked his stick under one arm, forcing himself to give off waves of confidence. With an audience of a dozen or so of his new command’s rank and file, he couldn’t afford to get this wrong.
‘Name?’
The soldier, his initial shock starting to wear off, glared at him from beneath heavy black eyebrows. Dubnus, still holding him up by one arm, flexed his fingers and squeezed the bicep hard, communicating without words.
‘Antenoch… ah! Centurion.’
‘Chosen, do you know this man?’
‘A good warrior, a poor soldier. He lacks discipline.’
The soldier sneered at his face, disregarding the pain in his gut.
‘What I lack, Dubnus, is any vestige of respect for your authority. And even more so his…’
He nodded in Marcus’s direction. The Roman raised a hand to Dubnus, preventing the explosion of rage he saw building on the big man’s face, keeping his voice dead level.
‘Like it or not, I’m your new centurion, soldier, so you’ll follow my instructions to the letter. Which begin with my telling you to return that barrack to the men you evicted to take possession, and return to your given tent party. If you don’t like taking orders from me, you can try to take it out on me on the practice field tomorrow morning, but until then, move your gear. Now.’
The other man locked eyes with him momentarily, found steel in their gaze, and shook his arm free, slouching off into the empty barrack.
‘Chosen, which of this disorganised rabble was responsible for discipline until our arrival?’
The Briton turned, pointing to one of the men gathered in silent amazement at the turn of events, his face blank with the shock.
‘Chosen Man Trajan. In temporary command of the century while there’s no officer available.’
Marcus swivelled to regard the man with a glare of contempt.
‘Trajan, step forward.’
‘Centurion.’
The man stepped white faced from the throng, coming to attention and pushing out his chest.
‘This century is a disgrace to the cohort. You are hereby reduced to the rank of soldier. Chosen, find this soldier a tent party. You might also want to discuss the matter of the quality of the century’s rations at some length, along with the possibility of a donation to the funeral club. Perhaps you could take him over the Wall for a short patrol in the forest… later. Now I want a full parade of the century, here.’
‘Centurion.’
Dubnus strode away, beating at each door in turn and shouting ‘Parade’ at the top of his voice. Men flew from each barrack, pulling at hastily donned items of clothing as they fell in to the rapidly swelling unit. Within a moment the parade was complete, the demoted Trajan pushed carelessly into the line to more astonished glances while Marcus stood in front of the wide-eyed soldiers, biding his time. Several window shutters on the quarters facing the 9th’s barrack quietly opened just enough for their occupants to peer through the gaps but remain out of view, hidden from Dubnus’s searching eyes.
Once Dubnus had commanded the gathering to ‘shut your fucking mouths’ Marcus gave a cursory inspection, noting the poor repair of almost every man’s tunics and boots, and the generally unkempt and undernourished look that predominated. Returning to his place in front of the parade, he called to Dubnus.
‘Translate for me, Chosen, let’s make sure everyone understands.’
‘Centurion.’
‘Soldiers of the Ninth Century, I am your new centurion, Marcus Tribulus Corvus. From this moment I formally assume command of this century, and become responsible for every aspect of your well-being, discipline, training and readiness for war.’
He paused, looking to Dubnus, who drew a large breath and spat a stream of his native language at the troops.
‘One fucking smile, cough or fart from any one of you cock jockeys, and I’ll put my pole so far up that man’s shithole that it won’t even scrape on the floor. This is your new centurion and you will treat him with the appropriate degree of respect if you don’t want to lead short and very fucking interesting lives.’
He turned to Marcus and nodded, indicating that the Roman should continue.
‘I can see from the state of your uniforms that you’ve been neglected, a state of affairs that I intend to address very shortly. I have yet to see your readiness for battle, but I can assure you that you will be combat ready in the shortest possible time. I do not intend to command a century that I would imagine is regarded as the laughing stock of its unit for any longer than I have to…’
Dubnus cast a pitying sneer over the faces in front of him before speaking again, watching their faces lengthen with the understanding of his methods, passed by whispered word of mouth from his previous century.
‘You’re not soldiers, you’re a fucking waste of rations, a disgrace to the Tungrians! You look like shit, you smell like shit and you’re probably about as hard as shit! That will change! I will kick your lazy fucking arses up and down every hill in the country if I have to, but you will be real soldiers. I will make you ready to kill and die for the honour of this century, with spear or sword or your fucking teeth and nails if need be!’
Marcus cast a questioning look at him, half guessing that the chosen man was deviating from his script, but chose not to challenge his subordinate.
‘You’ll have better food, uniforms and equipment, and soon. Your retraining starts tomorrow morning, so prepare yourselves! Life in this century changes now!’
Dubnus smiled broadly, showing his teeth with pleasure.