Marcus frowned.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, your name again?’
‘Please simply call me Qadir, Centurion.’
‘Thank you. And why… why are you ready for the road, I mean? I expected you all still to be sleeping.’
Qadir smiled, placing both hands behind his back and bowing minutely.
‘It was not hard to predict your arrival. The noise of the Tungrian century departing ensured that we were awake, and once it became clear to us that they had been bribed out of the transit officer it was easy enough to guess that we would be part of the compensation he would offer to you. I saw one of your colleagues checking the Tungrians last night, and he didn’t look like a man who would take disappointment quietly. We have been here for three weeks now, watching other centuries arrive and leave, but now the barrel is clearly empty.’
Marcus fought the urge to smile.
‘I see. Very well, Chosen Man Qadir, please parade the centuries for inspection.’
The big man nodded deferentially and spoke a few soft words to his comrades. They left the room in silence, leaving Marcus and Qadir alone in the quiet of the small room. The Hamian seemed content to wait for Marcus to speak first.
‘How long have you been acting centurion, Qadir?’
‘Six months, sir. And eight years before that as a soldier, watch officer and chosen man.’
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
‘Eight years from recruitment to centurion? They must make officers very quickly wherever it is that you’ve come from. Either that or you’re something special. I apologise for taking your command. You’ll get it back soon enough, once we catch up with our sister cohort.’
‘And exchange us for the men they stole this morning? I think that will take longer than you imagine, Centurion, and even when you do there will be another man posted to command my archers. Do not trouble yourself on my behalf. As long as I am with my people and have the strength to bend my bow I need nothing more.’
Marcus paced to the window, looking out into the grey dawn at the mustering Hamians.
‘Archers. I’m afraid that archers are not what’s needed now, not while there are barbarian warbands in the field.’
The other man appeared at his shoulder, his soft voice close to Marcus’s ear.
‘We had guessed as much. While we sat here and waited, centuries of men with heavy armour and spears were in and out in less than a day. It soon became clear enough to us that our having been sent here was a cruel mistake. Now that we are yours to command, it is my expectation that we will soon have heavier armour than this…’ He fingered the thin rings of his light mail vest, drawing Marcus’s attention to its insubstantial nature compared with his own mail, which was both longer and significantly heavier. ‘… and spears of our own.’
Marcus nodded, his eyes fixed in appraisal of the soldiers parading outside the window. They were wiry for the most part, a few simply skinny, more bone and sinew than muscle, though they shared the broad powerful shoulders that defined their skill at arms. Their mail looked too flimsy to resist a determined spear or sword-thrust, their conical helmets lacked cheek guards, and their impractically light shields were circular rather than being shaped to fully protect a soldier’s body. None of the equipment on show would act as adequate protection in a pitched battle.
‘Can your men run?’
‘If you mean over a distance, the answer is yes, Centurion. We are hunters, for the most part, used to covering ground in search of game. How they will perform weighed down with mail coats and heavy shields such as your men carry is another question. But I make one request of you, Centurion, and that is not to take their bows from them. To do so would be a grave mistake.’
Marcus turned to face the Hamian, his face creasing into a frown.
‘As soon as I can manage it they’ll be issued with a thigh-length coat of heavy ring mail capable of stopping a spear, a leather arming vest to wear underneath it and protect their skin from the mail’s rings when that spear- thrust arrives, an infantry gladius, two spears, an infantry helmet and a full-length shield. All of which weighs more than you might imagine until the first time you put it all on. Then they’ll have to march, or run, up to thirty miles a day once we’re on campaign. The additional burden of a bow isn’t going to help them cope with the load.’
Qadir spread his arms, palms upwards, and bowed, his eyes remaining fixed on Marcus’s.
‘I understand, Centurion, and I can see that you are right. And yet…’ He paused, searching for the right words to make his point without angering his new officer. ‘… Centurion, to take their bows will be to take their souls. Each man has grown close to his weapon, over long years of practice. He has fired thousands of arrows in practice, until he can put an iron head into a target the size of a man’s chest at one hundred paces, and can do this six times in one minute. The very core of what these men have learned over those years is that to hit the target time after time after time they must lose all awareness of themselves, simply focus on the centre of their target and become servant to the bow that seeks that target. These two centuries contain some of the best bowmen I have ever seen loose an arrow, capable of great accuracy with weapons they have come to love as dearly as their own children. And so I tell you, with very great respect to your rank and obvious character, that if these men lose their bows then they will also lose their hearts. And a century of men without heart…’
‘… would be of little use to anyone?’
‘Exactly so, Centurion. Exactly so. And now, with your forgiveness, perhaps I have embarrassed myself enough for one morning. Shall we review your new command, Centurion Corvus?’
Marcus inclined his head, gesturing for the Hamian to precede him through the quarters’ low doorway. Outside, in the early morning chill, the two centuries were paraded along the barrack’s frontage in a long double line. He walked along the length of both centuries, looking intently at the faces that stared fixedly to their front. Their eyes were bright enough, although their skin was sallow with lack of sunlight. Dubnus strode across from the transit office to join him, casting an unhappy glance down the line.
‘Maponus help us. Two centuries of underweight bath dodgers whose only skill is hunting game for the pot. Quite how we’re going to turn this lot into infantrymen is beyond me. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, you take the Tungrians and I’ll have these. I can…’
He stopped talking as a smile spread across Marcus’s face.
‘Dubnus. Brother. I wouldn’t have amounted to anything better than a rotting corpse in a ditch on the road south from Yew Grove without your help over the last few months. Nor can I pretend that I was responsible for turning the Ninth from a waste of rations to a fighting century, that was mostly you too. But trust me when
I tell you this, these men will not respond to your style of leadership. They are lonely, frightened, but worst of all they feel worthless. They’ve sat here for the last month watching Gaulish farm boys in armour get snapped up like the last cake in the bakery while they, with all their abilities, are demeaned as incapable of fighting our war.’
His friend rolled his eyes.
‘But they are! What are this lot going to do when a warband comes howling out of the forest? Run like fuck, I’d say!’
‘I know. But there’s something here I think we can use. Call it determination; call it desperation if you like. Whatever you call it, I think we can make a fighting unit from them. Quite what kind of fighting is still open to question…’
Dubnus gave him a long stare.
‘They carry shields made out of wicker. They wear armour made with rings so thin it wouldn’t stop a half- decent spear-thrust, no spears, no helmets to speak of, and a decent wind would carry half of them away. Just equipping them is going to be difficult enough, never mind what’ll happen the first time they try to carry all that weight more than a few hundred paces. They could be a real problem in the field.’
Marcus nodded.
‘Worse than not having a hundred and fifty replacements? Worse than not having two more centuries of men following our standard?’
Dubnus shook his head in weary resignation.
‘I know better than to argue with you. Though I don’t think your standard-bearer’s going to see the funny side of this.’
Dubnus’s and Julius’s centuries were arrayed on the Arab Town parade ground, the soldiers’ breath steaming in the grey dawn’s chill as they waited for the command to head away down the road towards The Stronghold, five
