Julius answered for the three of them.
‘Not really, Tribune. We were having a quiet look at our brother officer when we heard the prefect here hit the floor, and then the doctor called for help. He was as limp as a rag when we picked him up to put him on the table.’
‘You knew that he’d been relieved of command?’
‘Yes, sir, our first spear told us about it. We just thought the prefect might have seen the error of his ways and come to visit his wounded…’
‘Hmmm. And not a mark on him, eh, Doctor?’
Felicia looked him square in the eye.
‘Not that I could find, Tribune Licinius, not a cut, nor a bruise of any significance. You’re welcome to have a look yourself, if you like?’
Licinius’s eyes narrowed, and he sniffed the room’s air ostentatiously, raising an eyebrow at windows opened wide despite the night air’s chill.
‘No need, Doctor; you’re the expert here. But that’s a nasty bruise you’ve got coming up round your left eye.’
Felicia stared straight back at him, her eyes suddenly glassy with barely restrained tears and her answer delivered in a quavering voice.
‘A patient managed to get his arm free during surgery, Prefect. It happens sometimes, and he managed to catch me a nasty blow on the face before he could be restrained. I’ll live.’
The tribune’s face softened.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, if I’d known there was a risk of any such thing happening I would have made sure he was restrained more effectively. And you, gentlemen…’
The centurions waited stiffly, pondering their fate while the senior officer paced around the table to stand close to them, speaking in a low voice that was intended for their ears alone.
‘I have no idea how you managed to achieve this, but given what I am guessing has happened here, I’m mightily relieved that this is such an obvious case of death by natural causes.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Frontinius and Scaurus, waiting silently to one side. ‘And now, gentlemen, since we’re kept from our beds by this unfortunate occurrence, we might as well go and get a cup of wine. I’ll drink to your promotion and to this fool’s timely demise in equal measure.’
The two cohorts paraded at dawn that morning, fifteen hundred infantrymen cursing the thought of another long day’s hard marching. Morban nudged Qadir in the ribs, tipping his head towards the Petriana wing as they clattered past the parade ground, heading for the road north and their main task for the day, hunting for any barbarian ambush.
‘They won’t be sweating all bloody day like we will, they’ll be sat nice and comfy on their bloody horses giving the bushes an occasional poke with their spears.’
The Hamian shrugged, muttering his response so quietly that only Morban could hear it.
‘If you can’t take a joke, Standard-bearer, you should not have joined the army in the first place.’
Morban gave him a dirty look.
‘All you need to do is learn to swear and you’ll be nicely positioned for a vine stick when the next one dies…’
He withered under Marcus’s stare as the young centurion turned and glared at him. Qadir looked down his nose at him, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
‘Not so clever. Not with his friend still in the camp hospital.’
Morban nodded glumly, watching as Scaurus strode out on to the parade ground with Frontinius and Neuto flanking him to either side.
‘Tungrians, hear me! By the command of Ulpius Marcellus, governor of this province, I have been appointed to the command of both the First and Second Tungrian cohorts, with the rank of cohort tribune…’ The parade ground was suddenly deathly quiet, as the much-anticipated news became reality. Scaurus continued, walking slowly across the gravel with both hands on his hips. ‘For the time being nothing changes. Your officers before this announcement are still your officers now. I will, however, be reviewing the strengths and weaknesses of both cohorts, and making selective changes where I and my first spears feel they are required.’
The new tribune stopped speaking and stared across the ranks of his command, allowing time for the last sentence to sink in before speaking again.
‘We march north now to rejoin the legions, and I expect that once again we’ll have a front-row seat when the time comes to finish this war by finding and destroying the enemy. With that in mind, and given the price paid in blood by the First Cohort’s Eighth Century, I have decided to release the remainder of that century to serve with the First Hamian cohort, who are currently manning this fort. Centurion Corvus will command the Ninth Century while their officer is recovering from his wound, and the First Cohort will carry the Eighth as an empty century until sufficient reinforcements are received to reconstitute it. So, I call upon our Hamian brothers to come forward and accept your acclamation before we march north…’
Marcus walked from his place in front of the 8th to one end of their short line, beckoning Morban and the trumpeter to join him behind the archers. Extending an arm to Qadir, he shook his chosen man’s hand before pointing to the waiting tribune.
‘Just march them over to Tribune Scaurus. He’ll probably want to shake your hand, and then I’d imagine he’ll appoint you centurion before the Hamian prefect gets his hands on your men. I’d say you’ve earned it.’
The chosen man stared at him in amazement.
‘Centurion?’
Marcus nodded, a smile creasing his face.
‘Yes. If Scaurus appoints you now, then rather than your reverting to temporary status you’ll get to keep the position. No matter how many other good candidates the Hamian prefect might have queued up for the job. Once your wounded have recovered you’ll have a good-sized century to chase around the hills.’
Qadir’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
‘I do not…’
‘Know what to say? The words ‘thank you, Tribune’ will make a good start. And he’s still waiting for you, so I suggest you get your men out there and take what you’ve earned.’
The Hamian nodded, ordering his men to march forward to the spot where the tribune was waiting. Marcus watched as he stepped through their line and snapped off a smart salute to Scaurus, then took the offered hand and shook it, all the while apparently speaking to the tribune rather than allowing him a chance to say the words he had prepared for the occasion.
‘So, back to the Ninth again. It’ll be good to be in front of the lads with a statue again.’
Marcus raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise.
‘Who said you’d be the Ninth’s standard-bearer?’
‘But you…’
‘They haven’t got a centurion, but they’re not missing a standard-bearer…’ The centurion waited for a moment until the trumpeter smirked at Morban’s back before adding, ‘… or a trumpeter.’ He turned back to the 8th, noting that Scaurus was now speaking, the expression on his face earnest and yet not entirely displeased. ‘What in Hades is keeping them?’
Morban sniffed loudly, wounded pride dripping from his words.
‘Qadir’s probably turning down the chance to sit out the war here in peace and comfort and asking to be assigned to the Ninth with you, Centurion.’
Marcus glanced round at him with an incredulous look before returning his gaze to the scene playing out in front of the cohort.
‘Nobody, Standard-bearer, is that stupid.’
The older man’s face stayed perfectly straight, and he nudged the trumpeter with his foot, unseen by Marcus.
‘A small wager, Centurion? Say… ten denarii at five to one?’
Marcus answered without even turning round.
‘Done.’
The discussion seemed to have finished, but before Marcus had a chance to comment the newly appointed
