centurion who had guided him to their barrack and called them on to parade to meet their new officer.
‘What the fuck happened to this lot? They look like they couldn’t fight their way out of a whorehouse, never mind take their iron to the blue-noses.’
The legion officer looked down his nose at the remains of what had clearly been a century at some point.
‘That, friend, used to be our Third Century. Our genius of a tribune decided that it would be a good idea to send a century south to scout the road to Sailors’ Town.’ He shook his head, raising an eyebrow at his auxiliary colleague that encompassed the idiocy of senior officers across the empire. ‘Eighty men sent marching south straight into a tribal revolt. I wouldn’t have fancied my chances of getting to Sailors’ Town with anything less than a full cohort. They got about ten miles south before the local nutters decided that enough was enough and jumped them in strength. Their centurion, a decent enough officer and a friend of mine, as it happens, seems to have realised that they’d bitten off far more than they could chew, but that they’d all be chopped to ribbons if they ran. So he rallied them, and led the front rank into the fight with their shields up and their swords drawn. It seems the rear rank weren’t quite so keen…’
‘And this is the rear rank?’
‘Right in one. Bastards. The last thing they saw as they ran for it, or so their watch officer told Tribune Paulus, was their centurion’s head being waved around. This lot are good for nothing more than scraping the latrines out, in my opinion, so if you’re relying on them to put up a fight for you once you’re north of the Wall… well, I’d be thinking very carefully before depending on any of them. And look out for the watch officer, he’s a damage case. He got knocked about by one of his men once they were back in camp, and it’s not done him any good.’
Dubnus nodded his thanks, watching the other man walk away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Turning back to face the ragged lines of soldiers, few of whom were managing to meet his level gaze, he folded his arms, biceps bulging against his mail armour, and looked up and down their ranks with a look of undisguised contempt.
‘So you’re what’s left of the Third Century, are you? You’re the men that abandoned your mates in battle and legged it home with your tails between your legs, or so the story goes. Anybody want to tell me otherwise?’ He waited for a slow count of ten, running his eyes slowly over each man’s face in turn and looking for any sign of dissent. ‘No takers, it seems. So, you really are the lowest of the low, men that not only turned their backs on a fight but who left their officer, chosen man and forty good men to the bluenoses.’
He walked slowly, deliberately, across the open space to the first rank, his face twisted with disgust.
‘If this were my cohort you’d already have drawn lots to choose which four men would get beaten to death by the rest of you, and then you’d have been sent out again in the company of real soldiers in search of another fight. The legions must be getting soft, allowing men like you to fester in your barracks rather than set a nasty bastard of a centurion on to you, with orders to clear out the rot.’ He went face to face with the watch officer, his nose less than six inches from the other man’s bruised features. ‘Well, gentlemen, and fortunately for the army, I am that nasty bastard of a centurion. Life’s about to get interesting for you men, and not in any sort of way you’re going to enjoy.’
Turning away, he held his vine stick up for every man to see.
‘Now some of you will already be thinking that I’m not a legion centurion, which means that I have no power over you. And you’d be right…’ He waited for a precisely judged moment before continuing again. ‘… and yet so horribly wrong.’ Turning back to face them, he slapped the stick into his calloused palm with a smack that made more than one man twitch involuntarily. ‘You see, it’s true, I’m not a legion officer, which gives me no formal power over you. And yet since I’m not part of your legion, I can do whatever I like to any or all of you tunic-lifting cowards and get away with it. Anything. I. Like. So, and here’s where we see who’s got any balls about them, do any of you useless ration thieves want to take me on, man to man? If any man can put me down I’ll walk away and leave you to stew here in your filth. Come on, there must be one man out there that fancies taking me on. No? All right, then, any two of you. Any two men that think they could put me on my back. Come on!’
The century stood in silence, some of the soldiers shivering under his angry gaze, but not a man moved a muscle. Dubnus glared back at them, his mask of anger fading slowly to a sneer.
‘No? The offer stands, gentlemen. If any two of you can put me on my back I’ll leave you all in peace. Just one warning, though, in case one or two of the smarter among you wonder if it still counts if you try to hit me from behind. The answer is yes. It still counts. But if you decide to try it, make sure your first punch is a good one. Because if you don’t put me out of the fight with that first punch, I’ll break one or even both arms of every man involved, depending what sort of mood I’m in. And now, gentlemen, you’ve got a count of five hundred to fetch your marching gear and present yourselves in formation on the parade ground, ready to march north. Full armour, shields, spears, swords and your packs. Whoever looks after the century’s cart had better be quick, because I want it loaded with your tents and ready to move inside another five hundred. Any man not on parade by the time I’ve strolled up to meet you will soon be getting used to the feel of my vine stick on his back. Move!’
After the lunchtime meal the volunteer squadron turned east, away from the road’s course towards the east coast and down a long shallow valley that ran north-west for miles, down to a river plain lost in the misty haze. Double-Pay Silus looked down the valley’s long slope and smiled happily, turning back to Marcus and pointing to the palm of his right hand.
‘Well, Centurion, this is my ground now. I’ve ridden these hills a dozen times or more over the years, and I know it as well as I know this skin. The road runs almost to the coast, where the Tuidius meets the sea, but we’re going to ease down this nice little valley and leave the stone path to the mules…’ He glanced quickly up at Marcus, but found his officer’s face set in a wry smile. ‘… if you take my meaning. They’ll follow the road until it finishes close to the river late this afternoon, given that they’re forced-marching, and camp out of sight of the ford tonight. Tomorrow morning they’ll turn west to find the ford and they’ll probably be crossing by mid-morning, ready to climb the hills on the far side of the valley. All of which will allow plenty of time for anyone set to watch for their approach to get a warning back to the Dinpaladyr, after which any idea of taking them by surprise goes out of the window.’ He raised an eyebrow to Marcus, his face alive with the prospect of a hunt. ‘And there’s our opportunity. Anyone who’s been set to watch for any sign of Romans is going to watch the road, since that’s the way they know our infantry to make their approach. We, on the other hand, can sneak quietly down this nice little valley as far as the edge of the river’s plain, cross it unseen when it’s misty, early tomorrow morning, and then turn east and flush out any watchers in the hills on the far side before they even know we’re there. And if we can deal with the watchers before they ever get sight of the infantry, then they can make their approach to the fortress of the spears with the advantage of surprise. And your improbable plan for getting inside without starting a massacre might just get a chance to work, eh, Centurion?’
By late afternoon the exhausted soldiers of Dubnus’s temporary command were marching on little more than willpower, and the fear that whatever momentary relief might be gained from falling out of the line of march would be far outweighed by the punishment that their tormentor would bring down on them in the event that any man flagged. The auxiliary centurion had marched alongside them without any sign of discomfort since the half-century had marched through the Noisy Valley gates, despite the rumour that he had discharged himself from the fortress’s hospital with a spear wound not yet completely healed.
‘It’s a right bastard, this road, don’t you men think?’ Dubnus’s voice rang out along the small column as steady as if he were standing at ease, not marching along beside them at the standard pace. ‘I’ve never liked it. The bloody thing goes up and down like a whore’s skirts, so that one moment your calves are burning with the climb, and then the front of your legs feel like they’re being caned with the pain of stopping them from running away with you in the dips. Whichever idiot engineer laid this one out straight needed his head examined.’
He looked up and down the detachment’s length with a grim smile.
‘On the other hand, it does provide you ladies with something a bit more testing than lazing around your barrack waiting for the tribune to decide what to do with a half-century of cowards.’ A man in the file closest to him allowed a hint of a scowl to show on his face, and the auxiliary centurion bore down on him, putting his mouth six inches from the soldier’s ear before speaking loudly enough for the entire detachment to hear him. ‘Ah, so at least one of you doesn’t like being called a coward. A pity that he’s stuck with the rest of you, then, isn’t it?’
The unit was breasting yet another crest, revealing the shape of a burned-out fort at the summit of the next hill. Dubnus turned and walked backwards, pointing his left arm at the shattered ruin coming into view.
‘That, soldiers, is our home for the night. Fort Habitus, named after a legion centurion who served here soon after the Wall was first built.’ He turned back to the line of march and strode alongside the detachment’s front rank.
