to turn my nose up at. Perhaps we need to allow Centurion Corvus the benefit of the doubt for a little while. Parade them properly.’
Julius spun away, bellowing for the four centuries to come to attention, and the two men waited for a long moment for the soldiers to settle down into immobility under the spirited goading of their watch officers. The Hamians, Frontinius noted, for all their obvious exhaustion, settled first and with a minimum of fuss. Nodding his satisfaction, the prefect paced out towards the Tungrian replacements and walked the front rank with questioning eyes. ‘They still make big lads in Tungria, I see. Nice tidy equipment… you, air your iron.’
The soldier obediently unsheathed his sword, presenting the weapon’s hilt to the officer.
‘Clean, sharp, nice quality too. A good result, I’d say. This is your century, Centurion Rufius? Yes? You’re a lucky man, although
I’m not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. Now, let’s have a look at our archers…’
He walked along the 8th Century’s front rank, assessing their tired but erect stance. ‘Nice armour. New swords and spears too. Well done, Centurion Corvus, good use of initiative to have Sixth Legion re-equip your men, although quite how you got equipment this tidy out of their stores is something of a mystery to me.’
Marcus met his questioning stare. ‘I had a little help from Centurion Rufius, First Spear. Local knowledge still counts, apparently…’
‘Good. Well done, Rufius, I’ll buy you a cup of wine later on for saving our young colleague the trouble of going through that whole “do you know who I am?” routine. This is your new chosen man, I presume, Centurion?’
‘Chosen man Qadir, First Spear.’
‘Thank you. Chosen, might I take a look at that bow?’
Qadir saluted smartly and handed him the weapon. Frontinius tested the bow’s draw, grunting quietly with the effort, then handed it back.
‘I hear that you killed half a dozen men with this earlier today?’
The chosen man nodded.
‘Yes, First Spear.’
Frontinius handed the weapon back to him with a look of respect, then stepped up to address the century, raising his voice to be heard clearly. ‘Soldiers of the Eighth Century, you may have been born and trained in Syria, but you are now part of the proudest and most respected auxiliary cohort on the northern frontier. The First Tungrians have faced battle in these hills many times and always come out on top. Always. We win, gentlemen, no matter the odds. We win, we bury our dead, we mourn and we move on. You will find your comrades hard bitten… uncompromising… and this may be offputting to you, but you will adapt to our way of going about our business. I suggest that you start adapting now, for I fear that your time to do so will be shorter than might have been ideal. Welcome to the war.’
The sun was close to the western horizon by the time the 2nd Cohort delivered forth Prefect Bassus’s murderers. Respectfully summoned by First Spear Neuto, Furius strode out on to the parade ground, where the cohort had stood for most of the day. The soldiers were standing to attention, their faces fixed and sullen. Two soldiers stood out in front of the cohort’s third century, half a dozen of the cohort’s officers arrayed around them. Furius strolled up to the group, eyeing the pair carefully. Both men fixed their gazes on him, both wide eyed and pale with the gravity of their situation. The prefect turned to First Spear Neuto, gesturing to the men. ‘So these are Prefect Bassus’s murderers?’
Neuto nodded grimly.
‘Yes, Prefect. Centurion Tertius commands their century. Centurion?’
Tertius stepped forward and saluted briskly.
‘Soldiers Secundus and Aulus, Prefect. They have admitted to killing the prefect.’
Furius walked up to the pair, looking both men in the eyes for several seconds before speaking again. ‘You both admit to the crime of murdering your commanding officer?’
Aulus said nothing, simply turning his bruised face away. Secundus nodded, his face a mask of contempt. ‘I done the most of it. Put my spear through his bronze and his spine in one go and dropped the bastard face down. All he did…’ jerking his head towards the man standing alongside him ‘… was take his iron to him once he was down. You want to take your revenge, you take it from me.’
‘Why?’ The soldier spat on the ground in front of the prefect’s feet, sneering into his face. ‘He wasn’t an officer, nor a gentleman, he was just a right bastard. Punishments for this and punishments for that. Never a nice word for a good job, never a day off for the lads when we made him look good. I did it, but there was plenty more that wished they had. I never had to buy a drink for weeks that followed, not until they all started to worry about how revenge might be taken.’
Furius looked to Tertius with a raised eyebrow. The officer shook his head, never taking his eyes off the man in front of them as he spoke. ‘Soldier Secundus is an inveterate waster, Prefect. He drinks, he idles whenever he can, he whores. He’s a good fighter, but he lacks discipline.’
‘I see. And this one?’
Aulus’s face was turned away from his officers, and his eyes turned to the ground as if to deny the weight of events now pressing down hard on him. Furius pulled his sword from its scabbard, putting the blade’s point under the silent soldier’s chin and forcing it round until they were face to face. The blade’s tip dug into the soft flesh, starting a trickle of blood down the terrified man’s neck. ‘Why? Why attack your prefect when he was already dying?’
There was silence for a long moment before the soldier found his voice, quavering with desperation. ‘I hated him. He had me flogged…’
Furius looked to Tertius for confirmation.
‘Twice, Prefect. Ten lashes the first time, and twenty-five the second. Soldier Aulus is good for nothing, slovenly, lazy, not even a decent fighter. Prefect Bassus had hoped to knock some sense into him.’
Furius nodded, scowling into the soldier’s face.
‘And then there he was, helpless on the ground and you with a sword in your hand and your blood up from chasing barbarians, eh? What did you do?’
Aulus’s eyes closed with the memory. ‘I stabbed him in the neck. Just once. He didn’t move, so I didn’t do it again.’
Tears ran down his cheeks, provoking a weary sigh and a sad shake of the head from his centurion. ‘You see the problem with the man, Prefect, he can’t even make his confession like a man.’
Furius nodded decisively, then lunged forward without warning, burying the sword’s point deep into the weeping soldier’s throat, angling the blade upwards under the man’s jaw. The man crumpled nervelessly, his blood spraying across both the officers’ polished armour. Furius stepped back from the falling corpse, swinging the bloody blade back to point at the other man. ‘I made it easy for your comrade here, because he was misguided and ineffectual in his complicity with your crime. You are the real murderer here, and for that you will pay a little more dearly than this simpleton did. Tie his hands!’ He stepped back, the blooded sword still clamped in one hand. ‘Second Tungrians! Hear my words…’ The cohort stood in absolute silence, every man straining to hear whatever their new officer was about to proclaim, their former disdain suddenly fascinated attention. The prefect pointed to the horizon, where the sun was dipping to almost touch the hills to their south and west. ‘You have given your comrades up to justice in time to save yourselves two months’ pay. This man’s crime…’ he pointed to the corpse huddled on the ground in front of him ‘… was to be weak, and to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This man, on the other hand…’ he pointed the bloodied blade at Secundus ‘… deserves the heaviest penalty I can award against him. Tomorrow morning he will be scourged, fifty lashes to be administered by the cohort’s centurions. And then
…’ He paused, smiling slightly with a clear relish for the sentence he was about to pass. ‘… once the scourging has been completed to my satisfaction he will be crucified, and the cohort will parade past him to receive an example of the punishment to be expected for a crime of this severity. His legs will not be broken, since he does not deserve anything other than a slow and painful death.’
At the mention of crucifixion the cohort started visibly, and even Neuto’s eyes widened as he stood behind his
