tribune beckoned to him with a raised hand.
‘Centurion Corvus, join us, please.’
He walked across the parade ground with a sinking feeling, snapping off a crisp salute and waiting for the tribune to speak. Scaurus’s face was a picture of irritated bemusement.
‘It seems that your former chosen man doesn’t want to accept the position of centurion I’ve offered him. He seems to prefer serving with you in the Ninth Century, even if that means accepting a lower rank. Several of his men are of the same opinion, it seems. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, while the position’s still on the table?’
Qadir turned to face him, his face set obdurately.
‘Qadir, as a centurion you’ll have…’
‘… everything I could possibly desire, my friend, except the knowledge that I am part of the best infantry cohort in the province. A month ago I would have accepted the tribune’s offer with joy for my men’s future safety. Today I cannot accept that safety while I know that you and my other brothers will face such risk again, not while there is a fight waiting for us over the horizon. I’m sorry to throw this offer back in your faces, but I cannot accept it and remain my own man. And I am not the only one who feels this way.’
The tribune spoke up, his voice no longer employing tones of persuasion but now harsh with his authority.
‘Very well. It seems the Eighth-Century do not all wish to join the Hamian cohort. Those men that wish to leave us, and serve with their own people, step forward three paces.’
Of the seventy-odd men remaining in the 8th, roughly two-thirds stepped forward, some with sad glances back at Qadir and their remaining comrades.
‘Those men that wish to remain with the First Tungrian cohort, step back three paces.’
Marcus watched the remaining men as they made the three fateful steps, noting that for the most part they were the men who had made tolerable swordsmen and had coped best under the burden of their weapons and armour. He turned to Scaurus, raising a hand.
‘If I might speak with these men for a moment, Tribune?’
Scaurus nodded, and the young centurion walked out in front of the soldiers who had stepped back to rejoin the Tungrians, clearing his throat and addressing his comments not just to the Hamians before him but to the entire cohort, his voice raised to a parade-ground-spanning bark.
‘Hamians, you wish to remain with the Tungrians with whom you have made your home this last few weeks! You have proved your bravery in the battle at the Red River, where you saved every man here from near-certain ruin and death! But now you seek admission to a brotherhood of arms that can make no further allowances for you! When we march at the forced march you will either cope with that pace or you will fall out of the line of march and take your chances! You will be expected to carry two spears, and to sling them into a man-sized target at twenty paces! Any weaknesses or failings will no longer be tolerated as understandable, given your previous training; they will be run, and practised, and if need be beaten out of you! You will become Tungrians, with everything that implies! Can you accept those terms to your remaining with us?!’
The men in front of him answered in ones and twos, their abashed faces staring at the ground.
‘Not good enough, not if you want to be Tungrians! Can you accept those terms? If you can, the only answer is “Yes, Centurion!”’
The response wasn’t perfect, delivered as a rolling chorus rather than as one crisp response, but it was good enough.
‘Yes, Centurion!’
‘Very well, under those terms I am happy to recommend to the tribune that we retain you on the cohort’s strength and give you a chance to meet our standards. One more thing, though… your bows…’
Inwardly amused, he kept his expression utterly neutral as their faces lengthened, only Qadir gazing at him quizzically as if he already knew what was coming.
‘You’d best keep them, and make sure you have a good supply of arrows. You might be needing them.’
With the Hamians back in their place the prefect dismissed the cohorts to their preparations for the march, the centurions and their chosen men busying themselves checking that their men had all their kit and were ready for the imminent command to move. In the middle of the bustle of getting the 9th Century, now back to full strength with the addition of the Hamians, ready for the day’s marching, Marcus felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find First Spear Neuto standing behind him at a respectful distance, and saluted smartly.
‘Can I help you, First Spear?’
The older man held out a small cloth-wrapped package to him.
‘I found this in Prefect Furius’s kit last night, while I was sorting out his personal effects to send to his family once all this is done with. I thought you ought to have it, given what’s inside it.’
Marcus lifted the cloth covering, and the gold cloak pin underneath it winked at him in the morning sunlight.
‘Ah. I wondered where that had got to. Thank you, sir.’
Neuto inclined his head gravely.
‘It was accompanied by a scroll detailing some rather colourful allegations against you and your brother officers. I took the liberty of putting it into the night guard’s brazier.’ He looked around himself for a moment before speaking again. ‘The men that fought with you down at the riverbank told me you gave Centurion Appius his dignity in death, and that you helped them to face the blue-noses when all seemed lost. All things considered I’d say your place is here, not being carted off to Rome to make some bastard in a purple toga feel better about himself.’ He nodded and turned to go, then turned back with a final thought. ‘One thing, though. You might find it a good idea to scratch off that inscription…’
Marcus saluted, returning the first spear’s level gaze.
‘Yes, First Spear. I might.’
