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The 5th’s soldiers hesitated for a moment, caught between their orders and the shock of finding the Saddle already occupied, the short pause enough to cause a chorus of abuse to shower down upon them from the hills. The 9th had taken their objective first, and showed every sign of being in the mood to defend their ground. Julius stepped out in front of his men, drawing his sword and sweeping it over his head, ready to slash it down to point at the twin hills and issue the command to attack, ready to start a full-scale battle if it was the only way to restore his face. As the sword started to move in the downward arc, Sextus Frontinius stepped out of the century with his arms in the air.

‘Hold!’

Ignoring Julius’s red-faced fury, he turned to the Saddle’s hills, his voice bellowing out across the landscape.

‘Ninth Century, form ranks for parade here.’

The 9th’s troopers came out of the trees and streamed obediently down the hill, while Frontinius paced back a dozen steps, pushing soldiers aside without ceremony, and pointed to the ground again.

‘Fifth Century, form ranks for parade here.’

The 5th’s grumbling men pulled back, still reeling from the shock of their centurion being so comprehensively out-thought. Julius, restraining himself by an act of supreme willpower, stamped back down the hill to the designated place, bellowing at his subordinates to get the fucking century on parade. The two units lined up opposite each other, scowls and sneers along both opposing lines of men, while the First Spear paced equably between them and watched the clouds scudding along in a clean blue sky, enjoying the breeze’s cooling caress. When both centuries were lined up, and the harsh shouts of the chosen men and watch officers had died away to silence, he turned slowly to look at both centuries, taking in Julius’s set scowl and Marcus’s white face, ready to fight, his lips thin with determination over a tight-set jaw.

‘In all my days I swear I never saw two sets of men who wanted so badly to kick the balls off each other. If I were to let you dogs loose now I’d end up with a dozen or more broken limbs, and as many men with the wits knocked out of them. Well, you mindless apes, let me remind you that there’s a great hairy-arsed tribal chief by the name of Calgus mustering a warband the size of five legions to the north. Whether it’s sunk into your thick skulls yet or not, we will most likely be at war within a few days. You need to learn to work together, side by side in the line, either century ready to perform whatever manoeuvre is needed to support the other. Even if it’ll cost lives. And the time that you need to learn to do this is now…’

He turned away from them and stared for a moment across the rolling countryside, taking a moment to enjoy the sunshine’s gentle touch on his bare scalp.

‘We do need a winner from this competition, if we’re to have a century to guard the cohort standard, but without spilt blood. The answer is single combat, with, before anyone jumps forward, combatants chosen by the person here best qualified to make that judgement. Which would be me.’

The silence became profound as he paused again, every man straining to hear his decision.

‘And I choose Centurions Julius and Corvus. Prepare for combat, exercise swords and shields.’

Marcus passed his vine stick to Dubnus, leaving the sword at his waist in its scabbard and taking the heavy wooden practice sword from his other hip. The Briton fussed at his helmet fastenings for a moment, leaning in close to look at the offending buckle, murmuring into Marcus’s ear.

‘He’s weaker on his left side, shield dependent. Don’t go in too close until he tires, though, or he’ll try to smother you with his strength. Stand off and use your skill, you can cut him to pieces easily enough…’

Frontinius walked over to face him, dismissing Dubnus with a pointed nod to the 5th’s ranks. The senior centurion stared away into the distance, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘I’m awarding your century three points for ambushing the Fifth, which puts you level with Julius before the result of this event. If you win, you’ll take first place, and carry the standard through the campaigning season. If you draw, and finish level on points, I’ll award the prize to the Fifth as the previous champions…’

He paused significantly, shooting Marcus a sudden glance.

‘I’ll give you no guidance, young man. This is an opportunity for you to exercise some judgement. I’ll simply remind of what I said to you this morning.’

Marcus nodded, moving his shield into a comfortable position on his arm before stepping out into the space between the two units. Julius stepped out to meet him, glowering from between the cheek-pieces of his helmet, its red crest riffling slightly in the breeze. Frontinius held them apart for a moment, speaking softly into the silence that had descended upon the hillside, as the opposing centuries waited for the spectacle to commence.

‘I want you both in fighting condition when this is finished. I’ll deal with the man that injures the other personally…’

They stepped apart, saluted formally with their practice swords before moving together again, each eyeing the other over the edges of their shields. Julius crabbed around to his left, searching for a weakness in the younger man’s defence, striking without warning in a powerful lunge, his sword hammering on Marcus’s shield as his opponent stepped away from the strike, his studded groin apron whipping about with the movement. The Roman moved in low, swinging his weapon in an arc that whipped past Julius’s forward leg with a fingernail’s width to spare, and then drew back as quickly, looking for another opportunity to strike. The fight lasted the length of a five-minute sandglass, each man alternately attacking and defending, seeking to land one disabling strike on the other. The soldiers watching made Marcus the better of the two but unable to land the killing blow, several times just a split second too late to press his advantage on an overextended and tiring Julius. At length Frontinius raised his hand, stopping the bout and declaring a tie. The two men stepped apart, both breathing hard from their exertions. Frontinius ushered them back to the ranks of their centuries, waiting for them to take their places before speaking again.

Antenoch, in his customary place next to the centurion, spoke from the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, Centurion, I had no idea you were a politician.’

Marcus ignored him as the senior centurion started to speak again.

‘We started the day with the Fifth Century leading the Ninth by three points. I have decided to award the Ninth three points for a successful ambush on the Fifth, which places both units level. These scores will be officially confirmed, and awards made, on formal parade, but since I’m the final judge of the competition, you can take this pronouncement as final. Since both units finish level, last year’s champion century, the Fifth…’

Julius’s century erupted into cheers and roars of delight, men punching the air with the joy of their victory. Only their centurion seemed subdued, standing in front of his unit to a rigid attention.

‘Silence!’

The harsh command, combined with Frontinius’s furious body language, was enough to promptly silence the Fifth’s celebration.

‘… will retain their position as cohort standard-holders, unless of course there’s any repeat of that undisciplined outburst.’

He paused to allow time for the threat to sink in before continuing.

‘In recognition of their achievement in tying the contest, and their improvement on what was until recently a very poor standard of performance, I also award the Ninth Century the task of lead century for the season. The standard will be carried in its wartime position in the column’s centre this season, rather than at the front, which means that I need a good century to lead the cohort. Let us hope that none of you have cause to regret winning these positions of merit, which will leave you all holding the bloody end of the spear if we go to war with the tribes this summer…’