‘Enough!’
The senior centurion raised his head at the sudden harshness in his superior’s tone, finding the prefect’s face set with an implacability equal to his own. He drew breath to speak, but the words were unformed when Scaurus moved from his place by the tent’s field table, putting his face uncomfortably close to the first spear’s, features set in a snarl of anger the match of his subordinate’s and more.
‘I said “enough”, and you’d better appreciate something that you might not have been faced with for a while, First Spear. I am your fucking superior OFFICER!’ Frontinius flinched at the sudden venom in his superior’s voice. ‘When I give you an order, you may seek to debate its merits, you may tell me that you don’t especially like it, but you will carry it out as completely and effectively as if it were you own idea. And for my part, while I will listen to your views, both seek and respect your opinions, I will eventually issue commands that I believe to be correct given my understanding of the overall situation. Which may well surpass yours. As for your questions, let me sum it up for you by answering just one of them: what does the governor think you are? The governor thinks you’re a soldier of Rome, sworn to follow the instructions of your superiors, no matter what you may think of those orders.’
His voice softened slightly.
‘The governor, Sextus Frontinius, believes you to be a professional, a career soldier with the ability to bury your distaste for this order and ensure that your people bury theirs alongside it. We’ve been chosen quite deliberately for this duty, First Spear, and it’s a responsibility I neither can nor would seek to avoid. What’s left of the Votadini warband marches with us when we leave here tomorrow, whether we like it or not.’
The Tungrians paraded the next morning with more than one man staring open mouthed at the motley collection of Votadini warriors drawn up in three rough lines alongside their prefect and first spear. Soldiers nudged each other in the ranks and shared whispered speculation as to the reasons why the survivors of the battle of the hill fort might be parading in front of them.
‘Perhaps we’re going to put them to the sword? You know, for White Strength?’
Morban turned a withering glare on the 8th Century’s trumpeter.
‘Do they look like they’re ready to be slaughtered, you prick? They’re all armed, for a start.’
A man in the century’s front rank spoke up in the silence that followed.
‘Perhaps they join cohort? Like us?’
Morban spluttered with poorly restrained mirth, his gaze fixed on the barbarians.
‘Oh, fuck me, that’s even better. Yes, that’s right, we’re going to take a pack of untrained murdering barbarian halfwits into an infantry cohort. Why didn’t I think of it sooner! Tell you what, Ahmad, or whatever your name is, I’ll give you twenty to one on that… no, fuck it, I’ll make that fifty.’
‘I take bet, Standard-bearer. One-denarius stake.’
‘Easy money.’
The trumpeter, still red faced from his earlier rebuff, opened his mouth to speak.
‘And no, you fucking can’t have some of that. Now shut it, Uncle Sextus is about to let us in on what’s going on.’
The Tungrian cohorts marched to the south-west along the line of the foothills for the first two hours after breaking camp and wading across the ford, a dozen message riders from the Petriana wing walking their horses alongside the marching soldiers. The Votadini warriors, almost two hundred and fifty men strong, walked to either side of the lead century, their leader silent and uncommunicative in their midst. The Tungrians and their new comrades eyed each other unhappily from time to time, neither side capable of trusting the other given their recent history. As the day wore on towards mid-morning the troops started to sweat under their heavy cloaks, and the order was given for both cloaks and helmets to be removed, and the latter to be hung around their necks.
‘Take your cloak off, boy, roll it up and put it in your pack. Let the wind get to your skin and you’ll soon be comfortable again.’
Lupus followed Antenoch’s example, watching as the clerk bundled his own cloak into his pack, ready to be hoisted on to his carrying pole once the rest stop was done.
‘Antenoch…?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why can’t I have a sword?’
‘You’ve got a sword. What’s that in your belt?’
The boy frowned.
‘Not a wooden sword. A real one.’
Glaring a warning at the nearest soldiers, Antenoch unsheathed his gladius and handed it to the child, handle first.
‘Take a grip of that. No, don’t wave the bloody thing around, just hold it for a moment… See, heavy, isn’t it?’
The boy shrugged, his eyes fixed on the weapon’s blade as it weaved unsteadily in his hand.
‘Not really. I could carry it. Everyone else has got one.’
‘Well…’
‘What if we’re attacked? How am I supposed to fight without a sword?’
The clerk looked to the sky, seeking inspiration that clearly wasn’t coming. An 8th Century soldier nudged him, quietly displaying a short dagger under the cover of his cloak and raising an eyebrow. Antenoch frowned, raised an eyebrow of his own and tilted his head to the child. The Hamian nodded encouragingly.
‘How much?’
‘To you, ten denarii. To the boy, is gift.’
Lupus watched the two men uncomprehendingly.
‘A gift?’ Antenoch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why. You fancy him or something?’
The other man laughed.
‘No, I do not like boys. Is simply gift. You were never boy, eh? You never wanted knife, shiny and sharp?’
Antenoch held his stare for a moment, then shouted up the length of the century’s column of relaxing men.
‘Morban!’
The standard-bearer stayed seated at the century’s head, raising his head.
‘What?’
‘You all right if Lupus has a knife?’
The answer took a split second’s thought.
‘How much?’
Antenoch rolled his eyes, muttering to himself.
‘Fuck me, not “do you think he’s old enough?”, but “how much?”. That’s our Morban… It’s a gift!’
‘’Course he can, if it’s free! Don’t ask stupid questions!’
Antenoch rolled his eyes at the Hamian, muttering a quiet insult.
‘Tight-arse.’
He turned back to the boy, who, having realised the subject of the discussion, was wide eyed with anticipation, the sword dangling forgotten in his hands.
‘I’ll tell you what, young Lupus, I’ll make you a deal… Here, give me that back.’
The child reluctantly held the gladius out, watching hungrily as it slid back into Antenoch’s scabbard.
‘Here’s the deal. You keep the centurion’s boots gleaming, no mud marks, and you polish his armour every night without fail, and you get to hold on to this.’
He took the dagger from the Hamian and held it up for the child to see. Sliding the small blade from its sheath, he put a finger gingerly to the blade’s silver line as it flashed in the morning’s brightness.
‘Cocidius, but it’s sharp!’
The weapon’s donor smiled happily.
‘No point in blunt knife. No point, see?’
The Briton raised both eyebrows in protest.
