office’s open window in the early morning light.
‘We know how it is, Centurion. You’re in possession of one of the most valuable resources for a hundred miles and more. It must be quite a temptation when you’re stuck here in this shitty little port with, what, five years left to serve? So when a senior officer turns up and offers you a combination of stick and carrot to sign him out a few dozen men, well, you find yourself wondering why you should end up with a load of grief when there’s money to be made, don’t you? This officer had a name, I presume?’
The transit officer watched Dubnus’s progress round the office with increasing trepidation.
‘He… ah… he signed as…’
He opened his record tablet with trembling fingers, scanning the words inscribed into the wax with a speed borne of fear.
‘… as Prefect Furius, Second Tungrian cohort.’
Julius’s scowl deepened.
‘The bloody Second Cohort. I should have known it. This new prefect of theirs must be keen. Uncle Sextus will shit a cow when he finds out.’
‘Found it!’
They turned to see Dubnus levering a loose floorboard away with his dagger. Throwing the wood to one side, he fished inside the cavity between floor and ground, pulling out a purse. He tossed it to Rufius, who hefted the small leather bag in his hand.
‘Nice and heavy. Must be a decent enough sum. You know what they say, though – only take a bribe if the sum involved will compensate for the punishment you’ll get for taking it. And in this case the punishment’s going to be quite severe.’
‘But I…’
Julius stepped forward, taking a handful of the wilting centurion’s tunic in one meaty fist.
‘No, I don’t think so. “But I…” isn’t going to be enough to get you out of this one. First off, you’ve pissed us off. We came here for two centuries to replace our losses from the battle of Lost Eagle. You heard about that one? You know, how one cohort was sent to take on the whole barbarian army. How that cohort held its line for an hour and more, and kept the blue-noses in place until the rest of the army turned up? Well?’
He prodded the centurion to get a response.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. And the bad news for you is that cohort was us. We all had good friends killed that day, and we’re not in much of a mood to be messed about. Ever noticed how the road officers tend not to take their usual liberties with men who’ve recently seen combat? Ever wondered why?’ He slapped the centurion twice, lazy blows that twisted the man’s head to the left and right. ‘Now you’re about to find out. Second, our prefect that morning now commands Sixth Legion. You’re still part of Sixth Legion, so when we report this balls-up to him, he’ll likely have you dismissed the service. He hates this sort of corrupt behaviour. Third, my first spear is a right nasty bastard. He’ll want to have you strangled with your own guts when he finds out he’s been done over for a century of men he badly needs, men whose absence could place the entire cohort in peril.’ He clenched his fist tighter, lifting the now terrified man on to his toes without any apparent effort. ‘So, first we’ll beat seven colours of shit out of you, take our one remaining century and leave, and in about a week or so you’ll be a civilian, with no citizenship and no pension. And some time later, some time you’ll never predict, the First Tungrian cohort will find you and leave you in a ditch with the life running out of you. It’s nothing personal, it’s just what you get for pissing off front-line troops. Dubnus, you can have this one.’
‘The Hamians!’
The centurion’s voice was little better than a squeak. Julius snorted his disdain.
‘What about the Hamians? Useless bow-waving women. All they’re good for is hunting game. There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed. We need infantrymen, big lads with spears and shields to strengthen our line. Archers are no bloody use in an infantry cohort.’
He raised his meaty fist.
‘No, mate, you’re going to get what’s coming your way.’
The other man gabbled desperately, staring helplessly at the poised fist.
‘There’s two centuries of them, two centuries. Take them and the Tungrians and that’s two hundred and fifty men.’
Marcus spoke, having stood quietly in the background so far.
‘So we could make a century of the best of them, dump the rest on the Second Cohort when we catch up with them and take back the century he sold them in return.’
Julius turned his head to look at the younger man, keeping the transit officer clamped in place with seemingly effortless strength.
‘Are you mad? There won’t be a decent man among them. They’ll be arse-poking, make-up-wearing faggots, the lot of them. All those easterners are, it’s in the blood. They’ll mince round the camp holding hands and tossing each other off in the bathhouse. Let’s just
…’
Marcus spoke over him with quiet assurance.
‘I’ll tell you what, Julius, Rufius gets the Tungrians and I’ll take the Hamians as a double-strength century and weed out the weaklings for dumping on the Second Cohort when next we meet. Or shall we just go back to The Hill still one hundred and seventy men light?’
Julius sighed deeply, then turned back to the transit officer.
‘It must be your lucky day. Here’s the deal. We take the Tungrians, the Hamians, both centuries, mind, and the money. You keep your place here, and perhaps, just perhaps, we don’t hunt you down and kill you. Deal?’
‘Yes!’
He pushed the terrified centurion away, hard enough to bounce him off the office’s wall.
‘Right, Two Knives, you’d better go and get your men ready to move. Let’s see just how bad this is going to be. Oh yes, and there’s this…’
He turned back quickly, jabbing a fist into the transit officer’s face and breaking his nose with an audible crack, then threw a right hook into the reeling man’s jaw which dropped him dazed to the wooden floor.
‘Prick.’
Marcus crossed from the transit office to the closest barrack and opened a door at random. Inside the barrack’s stone-built cell, packed in like sardines on a market stall and dimly lit by the single small window through which the dawn’s chill was seeping into the room, eight Hamians were waiting quietly, fully equipped and ready to march. Raising an intrigued eyebrow, he walked briskly up the line of eight-man rooms to the officers’ quarters, rapped once on the door and walked in. The three olive-skinned men waiting for him snapped to attention, the tallest of them making direct eye contact in a way he guessed was designed to communicate status. He was well built, with wide-set brown eyes above a strong nose and a broad jaw, black hair cropped close to his scalp. Making the instant appraisal of all first meetings, Marcus was struck by the apparent unassuming confidence in the man’s gaze, direct but without any challenge.
‘At ease, gentlemen. Who’s the ranking soldier here?’
The tall Hamian nodded briefly, keeping eye contact.
‘I am, Centurion.’
‘Your rank?’
‘I am Acting Centurion Qadir ibn Jibran ibn Mus’ab, Centurion. I currently command both this century and the other, barracked across the way.’
Marcus nodded, looking at the other two men with a raised eyebrow.
‘These men are my seconds, Hashim and Jibril, Centurion.’
‘I see. Very well, Acting Centurion, I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, your new centurion. Your two centuries are to join the First Tungrian cohort as an over-strength century, as replacement for our losses in recent battle. You shall be my chosen man, and these two men your watch officers. You’ll need two if you’re to manage that many men. Perhaps it would be better if you were to provide your men with their commands for the time being, until I have the measure of their command of Latin?’
The Hamian nodded with an impressive imperturbability.
‘Certainly, Centurion. Shall I parade the men? We are ready to march, as you may have seen.’
