he’s held previously, which wouldn’t worry me too much if his career wasn’t quite so unusual.’
Julius glanced across at him.
‘Unusual?’
‘It didn’t occur to me at first, but people like him, members of the equestrian class, they follow set paths through their lives. He was prefect of an auxiliary cohort over ten years ago by my reckoning, which would have made him about twenty-five, and that’s younger than is usual for a first command. They’re supposed to do a few years of public service to knock the rougher edges off them before they’re let loose on the army. After that he was a tribune with Twelfth Thunderbolt during the war against the Quadi, and then again with the Fifth Macedonica fighting the Marcomanni. I reckon he would have completed that last stint a couple of years ago.’
‘And after that…?’
‘Exactly. Nothing at all until he pops up here as an auxiliary prefect again. It’s all wrong, Julius, he should have gone on from his tribunate to command a five-hundred-strong cavalry wing, and by now he should be commanding a full-strength wing like our old friend Licinius, either that or be retired to public service. Instead of which he seems to be going backwards. There are two good-sized questions about our new prefect that I’d like to hear the answers to – for a start, why has he been demoted from his last declared position back to command of an infantry cohort?’
Julius nodded his agreement.
‘And what’s he been doing for the last two years?’
‘Exactly. Something doesn’t add up here, and until I know the answers to those questions I’m not going to turn my back on the man.’
Julius grunted his agreement, then raised a crafty eyebrow.
‘I meant to ask, have you had anyone in front of you asking for permission to marry since we got back from Arab Town?’
The first spear’s face brightened.
‘Funny you should ask, there was a young centurion in to see me only last night. Bright young lad, seems to have found a good woman, a widow, but young enough and with some skills that would make her a valuable person to have around the cohort. He made a persuasive case, for all that we’re only days away from marching back into blue-nose territory and he might be dead in a week. Yes, we had a good chat on the subject.’
‘And?’
Frontinius turned to face him, a mocking smile on his face.
‘Our rules? Just Sextus and Julius, old mates that enlisted on the same day and have always reserved the right to ignore rank and speak our minds to one another.’
Julius nodded.
‘Well, under normal conditions I would, as first spear, be forced to tell you that I must respect the confidential nature of the conversation. Under our rules, however, I can tell you…’
He paused for a moment, drawing out the silence as the 10th century marched past them.
‘Yes?’
‘To mind your own business, you nosy bugger!’
He stalked on to the parade ground with a grim smile at the weather and called for his centurions to brief their troops on the day’s march to Noisy Valley. Marcus turned to face the Hamians, already looking bedraggled in the persistent drifting rain, and found that, unlike on the previous day, he was the sole object of their attention. One hundred and sixty pairs of eyes were fixed on him, their message a combination of anger and misery, and he paused for a long moment before speaking.
‘Good morning, Eighth Century…’ He paused and smiled into their resentment. ‘Today you see Britannia in all its true glory. We get weather like this roughly one day in every five, you’ll be pleased to hear. Today we will be making the march to Noisy Valley, which will get you warmed up soon enough, but before we do let’s consider yesterday. We marched fifteen miles at the standard campaign pace and nobody failed to finish… even if some of you needed some encouragement along the way.’
He waited for one of the sea of stony faces to crack. Nothing.
‘Halfway through the march we conducted a surprise attack, which, unsurprisingly, didn’t go very well. You were assaulted by a century of battle-hardened soldiers and you lost. Painfully. Some of you have bruises to show for that defeat, and you’ve all got sore feet. It’s raining, you’re cold, you’re wet and you’d like nothing better than for me and my brother officers to drop dead on the spot. If you could stand here and look at yourselves with my eyes you’d see unhappy men, some of you angry, most of you just sullen. And let me tell you, let me guarantee you, it’s going to get worse. Today we march to war.’
He glanced up the line, and saw that most of the cohort’s centuries were already on the move back up the hill to the fort. Nodding to Qadir, he gestured for the 8th century to follow.
‘Chosen, get them moving! Get some breakfast into them and make sure they’re ready to march straight afterwards.’
Once the century was climbing back up the hill’s steep slope he dropped back to Qadir’s place at the column’s rear.
‘Good morning, Chosen.’
The big man inclined his head.
‘Good morning, Centurion.’
‘How does the day find our men?’
‘Truthfully, Centurion?’
‘Anything else would be to the detriment of us both.’
‘Then truthfully, Centurion, they are tired, footsore and they long for anywhere other than this living hell.’
Marcus nodded, recalling Rufius’s advice of the previous evening.
‘Exactly as I would expect. And it’s going to get worse for them before it gets better, I’m afraid. But I have only two choices, Chosen, one being to drive them through this hell while the other is to allow them to surrender to their pain and misery. No choice at all, really. They have to reach the infantryman’s sad understanding of his plight since time began.’
‘Which is, Centurion?’
‘That there’s something worse than pounding on down the road when your feet hurt, when the rain’s bucketing down and there are still twenty miles to go before stopping to build a camp for the night. They have to understand that keeping going is much better than what will happen to them if they stop.’
Qadir marched on in silence for a moment before responding.
‘And if you gain a century of infantrymen while losing their skills with the bow? We did not practise yesterday, and now we must march for most of the day.’
Marcus took a long moment to answer.
‘In all truth, Qadir, I would take what this cohort so badly needs and count the loss as an acceptable price.’
‘Acceptable for you. And for these men?’
‘I would expect the loss to be devastating to them…’
‘And you would be right.’
Marcus paused again, taking stock of the moment.
‘Qadir, my brother officers tell me that in their experience we must take this century to its limits to find their motivation, and that without motivation they will never be ready for what awaits them to the north in time. If that happens then you and I might as well cut each of our men’s throats now, and save the barbarians the trouble. If I’m going to make them into soldiers fit to march north past the wall and into enemy territory, then you and I must both be as one in our approach to their training.’
Qadir looked away from the line of their march for a moment, beads of water falling from his helmet as he strode along beside the 8th’s last rank.
‘I do not like the thought of descending to behaviour as base as that I have seen from your brother officers. I feel that it demeans these men, who have joined your army under such different circumstances to be used so… roughly, and in a cause for which they are simply not prepared. And yet…’
Marcus held his breath while the Hamian paused as if lost in thought.
