Called out in the early hours by the duty officer, he found the man slumped, bruised and still bleeding from his nostrils, in a headquarters holding cell. The duty centurion, with some good fortune Caelius, who, Rufius excepted, was still his only real friend among the officers, shook his head more in sorrow than anger.
‘He’s known for it, I’m afraid. All it takes is for someone to find the right lever to tug at, the right jibe to set him off, and he goes off like a siege catapult. He’s been warned, fined, beaten, put on punishment details for weeks… nothing works. If this goes to Uncle Sextus he’ll get another beating, a really bad one this time, perhaps dishonourable dismissal too…’
Marcus looked in through the thick bars, weighing up the man slumped before him. While he’d learned a few names, and the characters behind them, the man was no more than an imperfectly remembered face in the cohort’s second rank on parade.
‘And what was the lever this time?’
‘We don’t know. He won’t say, and the men that beat the snot out of him are sticking to a story that he jumped them in the street outside the tavern they’d been drinking in, without warning or reason. Which is probably at least half true. You might not be surprised to learn that they’re both Latrine’s men.’
‘Hmmm. Open the door and leave me with him.’
Caelius shot him a surprised look.
‘Are you sure? He broke a man’s arm the last time he was in this state.’
‘And you think I couldn’t handle him?’
A sheepish grin spread over the other man’s face. He took a lead-weighted rod from his belt, tapping the heavy head significantly against his palm.
‘No, well, when you put it that way… Just shout if he gets naughty, and I’ll come and reintroduce him to the night officer’s best friend.’
He opened the door, drawing no reaction from the prisoner. Marcus leant against the door frame, waiting until Caelius was out of earshot in his tiny cubicle. In the guardroom next to the office a dozen men were dozing, sitting up on their bench, packed in tight like peas in a pod. The building was quiet, eerily so when it was usually so vibrant with activity during the day.
‘Soldier Augustus?’
The words met with no reaction.
‘Cyclops!’
The soldier started at the name, looking up at his officer. He stared for a moment and snorted before putting his head down again.
‘How many times is this, soldier? Three? Four?’
‘Six.’
‘Six, Centurion. What punishments have you suffered as a consequence?’
The recitation was mechanical, the question often answered.
‘Ten strokes, twenty strokes, twenty-five strokes and two weeks’ pay, thirty strokes and two weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, fifty strokes and three weeks’ free time, fifty strokes, a month’s pay and a month’s free time… Centurion.’
His head came up while he recited the litany of punishment, his one eye, previously dulled by pain, seeming to regain some of its spark.
‘None of which has stopped you from fighting… So, then, Cyclops, why do you fight?’
The other man shrugged without expression, almost seeming not to comprehend the question.
‘I take no shit from no one.’
‘From what I’ve heard, you take “shit” from almost anyone. You let them get under your skin and goad you to the point of starting a fight, at which point you usually get both a beating and a place at the punishment table for starting the fight.’
Marcus shook his head in exasperation.
‘So what was it this time?’
Augustus’s eye clouded with pain again, and for a moment Marcus thought he was going to cry.
‘Phyllida.’
‘A woman?’
‘My woman. She left me, went to a soldier from the Fifth. Him and his mates took the piss out of me…’
‘Mainly because it gives them an excuse to batter you, I’d say. Did you give some back?’
‘I hit them a few times.’
‘Want to hurt them some more?’
Cyclops looked up at him again, suspicion in his good eye.
‘How?’
‘Simple. Just tell me who else witnessed these men baiting you.’
‘I won’t speak against them.’
‘I guessed that already. I’ll deal with this my way, unofficially, but I need a name to start with.’
Cyclops paused for thought, as much to consider the request as to recall any detail. At length he spoke.
‘Manius, of the Fourth, he was in the tavern. He’s from my village.’
Marcus went to wake up Dubnus, waiting until the man had splashed cold water on his face before detailing the problem. The Briton’s response was simple.
‘Leave him to rot. Let Uncle Sextus deal with him. The man’s a liability, bad for discipline.’
Marcus leant back against the small room’s wall, rubbing his stubble wearily.
‘No. Leaving him to the First Spear’s discipline says we have no ideas of our own. That we don’t look after our own. How well do you know this man “Cyclops”?’
‘Well enough. His heart is poisoned, full of anger.’
‘Is he a warrior?’
‘He’s fierce enough in a fight, but he lacks… self-control.’
‘So if we could make him behave, he’d make a good soldier?’
‘Ye-es.’
Marcus ignored the grudging tone of agreement.
‘Good. In that case I need your help. Let’s give him a real chance to change his ways this time.’
The Briton looked at him with a calculating expression.
‘You want to wake up Grandfather for this?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No, although I’d dearly love to have his advice. He has to be neutral in this, and if he knew about it he’d find it hard not to get involved in some way. This is a Ninth Century problem, and the Ninth will handle it. Our way.’
‘Which is?’
‘First we have to talk to a man in the Fourth. It’s a good thing Caelius is captain of the guard tonight, saves us waking him up too.’ Julius was woken from sleep by a hammering at his door, climbing bleary eyed from his bed to answer the insistent banging. His bad-tempered scowl became a snarl of distaste when he saw Marcus in the doorway, just recognisable in the night’s bright moonlight.
‘What do you want, puppy?’
Marcus gestured to an unseen person to his right and then stepped aside. Dubnus stepped into view, a semi-conscious soldier grasped firmly under each arm, his biceps bulging with the effort. One of his eyes was slightly closed, but otherwise he appeared undamaged. He dropped the men on the ground between them, making the centurion step back as they crumpled at his feet, and spoke for the first time.
‘I must be getting slow. A year ago neither of them would have laid a finger on me.’
Julius spluttered with fury, stepping out into the cold air without noticing its icy grip on his skin and squaring up to Dubnus.
‘What the fuck have you done?’
Marcus stepped in alongside his chosen man, his eyes narrowed with anger.
‘What he did, brother officer, was exact a very precise retribution on the men that beat up one of my troops earlier this evening. I have a witness who has sworn to me that Augustus was provoked, just as they knew he could be from happy experience. All we’ve done is even the account. If you attempt to take any further action on this matter he’s promised to come forward and tell his story.’
‘You’re bluffing! No man in this cohort would inform on another.’
‘Your choice. The only way to know is to try me. It can stop here, Julius, this quiet war on my century and your attempts to make them turn against me. From now, everything you start comes back to you twofold, no matter what it is. However many of my men suffer, twice as many of yours will receive the same punishment…’
The younger man stepped in closer, putting his face into Julius’s, the set of his jaw and flare of his nostrils rooting the older man to the spot.
‘… and if you want to make it a little more personal, I’ll see you on the practice ground for a little exercise, with or without weapons. If you have a problem with me, you can take it up with me!’