He turned and stalked away. Dubnus raised an eyebrow in silent comment and turned to follow, leaving the 5th’s centurion for once lost for words. The next morning, after early parade, Prefect Equitius and the First Spear sat to judge Cyclops’s case, running through the facts with the offender standing to attention in front of them. With the bare facts of the case established, Frontinius asked Cyclops whether he wanted to make any comment before sentence was passed. The soldier’s response was mumbled at the floor, but no less of a surprise to officers used to the man’s customary stony silence at the punishment table.
‘Sir, I ask my centurion to speak for me.’
Prefect and First Spear exchanged glances.
‘Very well, Soldier Augustus. Centurion?’
Marcus stepped forward, helmet held under his arm, and snapped to attention.
‘Prefect. First Spear. My submission on this man’s behalf is simple. He claims provocation to fight, but that is beside the point. He has a worse record of indiscipline than any other man in the Ninth, and I’ve already told him that I won’t tolerate it. I believe that he can make an effective soldier, but only if he can learn to control himself. My recommendation therefore is this: no beating, no loss of training time, in fact nothing that will keep him out of training. Instead, take away as much of his pay as you see fit and as much of his free time as appropriate. If he offends again, dismiss him from the cohort — he’ll be no use to me or any other officer if he can’t control his temper.’
Frontinius mused for a moment before turning to the tribune.
‘I agree. I’ve seen enough of this man at this table for one lifetime. Soldier Augustus, you are hereby fined one month’s pay, deprived of one month’s free time with bathhouse duties as further punishment, and restricted to the fortress for three months unless on duty with your century. One more appearance here, for any reason, and I will accept your centurion’s recommendation without hesitation. Do you understand?’
Cyclops nodded curtly.
‘Very well. Dismissed.’
Outside the headquarters Dubnus collared Cyclops, poking a long finger into his chest for emphasis, lapsing into their shared native tongue to be sure he was understood.
‘That was the officers’ version. Here’s mine. The centurion put his balls on the table for you in there, made his prestige with the First Spear a matter of your behaving yourself in future. You make one more mistake, you won’t just embarrass my centurion, you might be the reason he gets kicked out of the cohort. So, if you do fail to change your ways it won’t just be you out of the service. If that happens I’ll boot your punchbag so fucking hard your balls will never come down again. Do. You. Understand. Me?’
The one-eyed soldier stared back at him with an expression Dubnus found hard to decipher.
‘I’ll be a good boy from now, but not for you, Dubnus, I’m not scared of you. I’ll do it for the young gentleman.’
He turned and walked away towards the baths to start the first day of his punishment work routine, leaving Dubnus standing, hands on hips, watching him with a thoughtful expression. With the beginning of the gradual change from winter into spring the cohort accelerated its training programme. Sextus Frontinius, listening to the reports of a slow flame of resentment burning steadily brighter in the northern tribes, was keen to get his men into the field and training towards peak fitness, ready for the campaign he made no secret of believing they would fight that year. Twenty-mile marches became a thrice-weekly event, rather than the freezing misery inflicted on the cohort once a fortnight.
Marcus’s and Rufius’s centuries, the former properly re-equipped and both suddenly the envy of the cohort, eating the best of rations and appropriately vigorous, responded to their commanders’ different styles of leadership well. Whether it was Marcus’s blend of humanity and purpose, or Rufius’s legion training methods, quietly imparted to Marcus in conversations long into the night when their duties allowed, both centuries grew quickly in fighting ability and self-confidence. The 9th were driven relentlessly by Dubnus and his two new watch officers, hand-picked older men who understood what would be required of the century if it did come to war. With the open backing of the influential Morban the 9th quickly coalesced from a collection of indifferent individuals into a tightly knit body of men, and set about rediscovering the pleasure of testing themselves alongside men they were coming to regard as brothers. Rufius had put the idea to his friend in the officer’s mess one evening after their day’s duties.
Otho and Brutus were playing a noisy game of Robbers in another corner of the room, on a black-and-white chequered board painted on to their table. ‘Lucky’ was failing to live up to his title, as the boxer chased his few remaining counters around the board. He was picking them off one by one and laughing hugely with each capture. Rufius tipped his head towards the two men, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
‘And let that be a warning to you. Our brother officer might be called Knuckles, but don’t ever think he might be punch drunk. That’s the fourth game in a row he’s taken off Brutus, and there’s no sign of the streak being broken. A good game for the military mind is Robbers, teaches you to think ahead all the time. The only mistake dear old Lucky’s making is to worry about where his counters will go next, not where he wants them in three moves’ time. He plays aggressively, pushes for the straddle, while Knuckles, he knows the art of steady play, how to gently ease the opponent’s counters into position for the attack. There are lessons for life in the simplest game, but some lessons are harder won…’
He took a mouthful of wine, savouring the taste for a moment with a sideways glance at his friend.
‘Which leads me to a subject I’ve been pondering the last few weeks, watching you and Dubnus turn your lads from a rabble to something more like infantrymen. I don’t doubt for a second that you’ll teach your boys enough about sword and board work to make each one of them an effective fighter, but I can tell you from grim experience that isn’t the key to fielding a century that will grind up anything thrown at them and come back for more.
‘Let me tell you what happens when we fight the blue-noses. Before the battle, when our men are trying to keep from soiling themselves with fear, the barbarians stop just outside spear-throw and start shouting the odds like vicus drunks, how they’re going to carve off our dicks and wave them at our women before they fuck them to death, how we’ll soon be staring at our own guts as they lie steaming on the turf, all that rubbish. However, take note of a man that’s been there — it works. There’s a natural reaction I’ve seen in many a century and cohort when the barbarians are baying for blood, and that’s for each man to sidle to his right just a little, looking to get just a little more protection from his mate’s shield. Before you know it the line’s half a mile farther to the right than the legatus wants it, and the fight’s half over before it begins, just from sheer fear…’
He drank again, signalling to the steward for a refill.
‘The secret to winning battles, my friend, isn’t fancy sword work, or how well your boys can sling a spear, important though those skills are. It’s actually much simpler than that, but harder to achieve. All you have to do is to make the lads love each other.’
He sat back, cocking a wry eyebrow at the Roman.
‘And no, before you laugh at me, I don’t mean all that arse-poking in Greek pornography, I mean the love a man has for his brother.’
He paused again, judging the moment.
‘There’s only one way to explain this to you, and I apologise for the necessity. You had a brother in Rome, right?’
Marcus nodded soberly, finding the memory painful, but less so than before.
‘Well, what you would have done had you been in a position to fight his killers?’