Marcus paused in his shave, cocking an eyebrow at his friend.
‘And when none of them respect me, seeing me hide behind your strength? What then? I have to do this, and I have to win if I’m to command here. All of the other centurions rose from the ranks, took their beatings and gave them back with interest, Frontinius made that perfectly clear to me yesterday. I have to prove that I can control my men by my own efforts, not simply through yours. But thank you…’
Dubnus shrugged, slapping a writing tablet into Marcus’s hand.
‘Your choice. Now, get dressed, tunic, armour and weapons, and go to the principia. Make your report. I’ll wake the century.’
Outside the cold dawn air was freckled with drizzle, a swirling curtain of wind-blown moisture soothing the heat in his recently shaved face. The headquarters building was quiet, a pair of soldiers standing guard at the entrance beneath the usual reliefs of Mars and Victory. Inside, at the far end of the basilica, stood another pair keeping the eternal vigil over the cohort’s inner sanctum, the Chapel of the Standards. Behind their swords lay not only the cohort’s battle standards, its very soul, but the unit’s pay and savings chests, heavy with the accumulated coin of the soldiers’ spending money and burial funds. Following the sound of voices, Marcus found the space outside the prefect’s office crowded with uniformed officers, bearded faces turning briefly to regard him with combinations of indifference and hostility, probably noting the threadbare nature of his tunic and the poor condition of his mail coat, before turning pointedly to ignore his presence.
Rufius emerged from the group, clearly already at ease among men whom he would naturally consider his equals, and walked across to Marcus’s side.
‘Morning, lad. Ready with your report?’
Marcus showed him the tablet.
‘Good. Speak up nice and loud, don’t let this lot put you off. You can’t expect them to accept you overnight… Now, I hear that you’re intending to demonstrate some of those “few things” again this morning?’
Marcus nodded, glum faced, making the veteran officer smile despite himself.
‘Don’t look so worried. All you’ve got to do is imagine that he’s a blue-nose looking at you down three feet of iron and I’m sure that the rest will come to you easily enough. Just remember, keep it simple. No fancy stuff, mind you, just put your toy sword into his ribs nice and hard and teach the stupid Brit some respect.’
He smiled encouragement before sidling back towards the group of centurions, nodding at some comment Marcus was unable to make out. One man, his hair and beard equally bristly in appearance, favoured him with a tight smile, and seemed about to open his mouth to speak when Sextus Frontinius stepped out of his office and called the gathering to attention.
‘Unit reports, gentlemen! First Century?’
One of the throng considered his writing tablet, solemnly intoning his report.
‘First Spear! First Century reports seventy-seven spears, three men on annual leave, nine men detached for duties beyond the Wall, two men sick and sixty-three men ready for duty.’
‘Second Century?’
‘First Spear! Second Century reports seventy-nine spears, five men on annual leave, one man sick and seventy-three men ready for duty.’
With the exception of the 6th Century, which had a detachment of fifty men escorting a delivery of weapons in from the main depot at Noisy Valley on the North Road, fifteen miles to the east, the reports were much the same. Marcus managed to stammer out his report when the time came, attracting more hostile glares from the other officers, then waited with burning cheeks for the session to end and allow him to escape. When it did the centurions milled about in idle conversation in the few minutes before the morning parade, leaving him to stand awkwardly to one side like the proverbial spare guest at a wedding for a moment before walking quietly away from the gathering. Whatever he’d expected, a friendly welcome did not seem to be on the agenda, and Rufius had clearly decided that he must find his way into the group without any obvious help.
‘Centurion Corvus!’
He stopped and turned back, coming to attention as he recognised the First Spear’s booming voice.
‘First Spear.’
The other man walked up to him, ignoring the curious stares of the other officers, standing almost toe to toe in order to speak in quiet but fierce tones.
‘I hear that you’ve invited an enlisted man to try his luck this morning?’
Marcus swallowed, more afraid of the other man than of the morning’s coming events.
‘Yes, sir, a troublemaker called Antenoch. He’ll get his chance to see what his new officer’s made of.’
Frontinius stared at him without expression, gauging his new centurion’s composure.
‘As will we all… It was bound to happen, of course, since they’ve no way to measure you against their own standards. I wasn’t expecting it quite so soon, though…’
He turned away, leaving Marcus uncertain as to whether he should wait or walk away. Frontinius turned back, nodding his head slightly.
‘At least you had the sense to call his bluff. One piece of advice, though, Centurion…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Win.’ Half an hour later the cohort’s centuries marched out into the dawn’s growing light, down through the tight little township that clung to the fort’s skirts. Dressed in their training rig of tunics, leggings and boots, they carried shields and wooden swords in readiness for the morning’s training exercises. A few windows opened to allow curious children to peer out at the marching men, searching for the men their mothers had pointed out to them on other occasions. The drizzle was still falling, whipped into misty curtains of tiny silver droplets by the eddying wind, making the air both cold and damp. Rufius strolled alongside his century, conversing with his standard-bearer with a carefully calculated indifference.
‘I hear that there’s a score being settled on parade this morning?’
The muscular standard-bearer nodded quickly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly to his front.
‘So we all hear, Centurion. Apparently the other new officer has decided to let one of his men try to take him down with sword and shield.’
Rufius stole a sideways glance at the other man.
‘Really? And who is this soldier that’s so keen to test my colleague?’
A snorted laugh gave him a clue as to the man’s likely loyalties.
‘Test? Antenoch will break his ribs and send the boy packing back to Mummy in under a minute. The man’s a lunatic, except he doesn’t need the full moon to release his madness half the time. Your young friend had better know what he’s getting into!’
Rufius lifted an eyebrow.
‘My young friend? All I did was arrive here at the same time he did. Besides, if he can’t look after himself…’
The standard-bearer nodded approvingly at the sentiment, and Rufius pressed on with his gambit.
‘I also hear that a man can place a wager with you and expect the bet to be honoured?’
The other man looked at him warily, taking his eyes of the road for the first time.
‘No, man, I’m not about to interfere with your business, far from it. I just wondered what odds you’re offering this morning?’
The standard-bearer frowned at him, almost tripping over a loose cobble in the road.
‘Odds? You want to place a bet on another officer getting a beating?’
Rufius grinned at him in reply.
‘I think you’ll find, Standard-bearer, that I’m a little more financially aware than the average officer. Now, odds! Unless you want to find your opportunities to fleece your fellow soldiers somewhat more restricted than they are now…’
The standard-bearer’s eyes narrowed.
‘I’m offering five to four on the lunatic, five to one the centurion.’
‘And how’s the betting so far?’
‘Heavy on Antenoch, which is no surprise, and not a single coin on the boy.’