permanent state of terror.’
The centurion Marcus and Dubnus had encountered earlier on the road inclined his head in an impassive nod.
‘Brutus has the Seventh, and has seen more action than the rest of us put together with never a scratch on his baby-soft skin, which is why he answers to “Lucky”. Lastly there’s Titus, or “Bear”, he’s got the Tenth, which is our century of axemen. When we’re in the field they specialise in tree-felling and field defences, and they fight with their axes like barbarians, so they all have to be great big brutes like him. “Uncle Sextus” has the First Century, but you already know that. Anyway, introductions made, will you join us in a drink?’
Wine was procured by the steward, which Rufius tasted and instantly judged to have come off second best to the long journey from its birthplace.
‘Actually, it was wine I came to discuss with you, apart from making our introductions. You see, we made a deal with your deeply unpleasant storeman just now, included in which were a dozen large jars of a rather nice red from Hispania. Perhaps the mess could use them? As a gift from the new boys, you understand.’
Caelius smiled at them with renewed warmth, knocking back a large swig from his own beaker and wiping his moustache with the palm of his hand.
‘Well, after six months of drinking this issue filth, your gift would be as welcome as bread to a starving man. That slimy bastard Annius never even told us he had anything of the sort. Now, one good turn deserves another, so here’s a word of friendly advice for you, young Two Knives…’
He paused significantly.
‘If you want to keep the cold out up here, and look like an officer…’
He paused again portentously, making it clear that he was about to do his new colleague a great favour. Rufius raised a cautionary eyebrow over the man’s shoulder.
‘What you need to do is grow yourself a nice thick curly beard. You can grow a beard…?’
6
The cohort’s long stay in winter quarters began to draw to a close a fortnight after their arrival. The onset of warmer weather heralded the opening of spring’s campaign to revitalise the land. The change was much to the relief of officers at their wits’ end with containing the fallout of boredom and indiscipline that the winter’s long inactivity had bred in their troops. Marcus had already had one case to deal with from within the 9th, a tall, darkly surly, one-eyed soldier who went under the official name of Augustus and the unofficial title of ‘Cyclops’. It seemed that the name had as much to do with his poor temper as any more obvious reason.
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.’
