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!’
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
