She climbed out of the water and dressed quickly, strapping the sheath back around her thigh beneath her tunic’s thick wool. ‘He didn’t restrict his outrages to me, to judge from the little I heard about his behaviour towards the men who served under him. He was killed by one of them on the battlefield a few months ago, and I expect it was no more than he deserved.’ Pulling on her stola as the centurion turned back to face her, she smiled wanly and nodded her thanks. The corn officer’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he digested the fact that her husband was dead.
‘Was he a wealthy man?’
Felicia shrugged dismissively, adjusting her clothes.
‘He had a modest estate in Rome, I believe.’
‘And you’re not interested in how you might benefit?’
She shook her head, her hands spreading in a dismissive gesture.
‘I have no entitlement, you know that well enough. And I don’t want to touch anything of his ever again.’
‘But the money…’
‘I want nothing from him. I have all I want for this life.’
‘And when we’ve killed young Aquila? What will you have then? Surely you’d be better off returning to Rome and taking your husband’s property than staying here in poverty? I could help you, for a consideration.’
She turned hard eyes on him, understanding for the first time the depth of his cynicism.
‘I’m sure you could. You could strong-arm my husband’s family from their home, or worse, and then install me there as your creature, forever on your hook as the woman that consorted with a traitor, just a betrayal away from disgrace and even execution. But you’re forgetting one thing, Centurion, in all your schemes of another man’s money.’
Excingus smiled wryly back into her anger.
‘And that would be what, exactly?’
She straightened her back, holding the stare with which she had him fixed.
‘You haven’t found Marcus yet, and you haven’t faced him with swords in his hands. Be careful what you wish for, Centurion, because you might not like what happens when you get it.’
*
Dubnus stretched his stiff body, cursing the suspicion that had driven him to pad his bedroll with clothes until it looked to the casual eye like a sleeping man, preparation for a vigil that had stretched through the night with his sword drawn for the attack he felt would be inevitable now that the half-century had seen his wounds. With his endurance stretched to the point of exhaustion, and his body craving sleep more than at any time he could recall, he had stayed ready to kill the first man through the tent’s flap if there were any sign that foul play was planned. Now, with the dawn’s onset, his eyelids were red-rimmed slits in a face grey with fatigue. He’d heard the soldiers talking into the late evening until the authoritative tones of their watch officer had sent them to their blankets and silence had fallen, and suspected that their talk had mainly been a discussion of just how vulnerable their new centurion suddenly seemed. And yet no attack had materialised, making his night-long vigil seem an act of folly given the temptation to surrender to sleep. He closed his eyes and saw Marcus’s face, willing himself to be strong for his friend and the woman to whom he would soon be married and remembering why he’d taken such a risk in coming north before his wound was fully healed.
The tent flap flicked open, light flooding the small space’s interior, and the dozing centurion snapped awake, cursing his weakness even as he tried to work out how long he might have slept. Lifting the sword’s point to strike, his stared bleary eyed at the doorway, waiting for the first of them to come through and die on his blade. A figure darkened the tent’s interior as it blocked out the light, and Dubnus’s poised sword-hand drew back six inches as the exhausted centurion prepared for the lunge that would put his gladius clean through the other man’s guts and out of his back.
‘Centurion?’
The sword stopped a hand-span from Titus’s defenceless stomach, and Dubnus closed his eyes and blew out a compressed breath at the thought of how close he’d come to killing his subordinate. The other man stepped into the tent, brushing aside the weapon and staring wide eyed at him.
‘I came to invite you to speak with the men. They’ve been talking
…’
Dubnus smiled weakly.
‘I heard them…’
The watch officer shook his head in amazement.
‘And you assumed that since they’d seen your wound it would only be a matter of time before they decided to do away with you in the night. So you sat up all night waiting for them with a drawn sword? No disrespect, Centurion, but you need to get your head straight. My lads have spent half the night telling each other how big your balls are while you’ve been sat here sweating like a legionary’s foreskin on payday. I suggest that you take a moment to get into the right frame of mind to listen to what they have to say without taking your iron to the first man that opens his mouth… sir. Come on, I’ll help you get into your armour.’
An abashed Dubnus stepped out of his tent a few minutes later and walked slowly across to face the forty men standing waiting for him. Titus snapped out the order, and the detachment stood to attention with a precision that raised his eyebrows. He turned to the watch officer and gestured with an open hand for him to say his piece.
‘Centurion, the soldiers of this detachment have given consideration to the things that you’ve said to us since taking command. We couldn’t fail to notice that you’ve matched us stride for stride with a hole in your side barely healed over. You’ve made us consider how we want to be regarded by our brother soldiers, since you’ve left us in no doubt as to how we’re seen at the moment. We don’t consider ourselves to be cowards, but we can see how our actions on the road to Sailors’ Town make us look like exactly that. So the men have decided to take you at your word, and to put everything we can into proving that we can fight like men and regain our reputation.’
He shut his mouth and stood in silence, waiting for the centurion to react to his men’s declaration of intent, but before Dubnus could make any response a soldier in the front rank stepped smartly forward, stamped to attention and then spoke out, his face reddening as he plunged into what was evidently a rare public display.
‘We want to prove that we mean what the watch officer’s said to you, Centurion. We can all see that you’re a fighting man, out in the field again, and you with a wound not right yet, and it makes us feel ashamed of what we’ve come to. We want to take a detachment name, something that means something to all of us and reminds us of our promise to do better every time you give us an order.’
Dubnus nodded, resisting the temptation to smile at the man’s blushing discomfort.
‘And that name would be?’
‘Habitus, Centurion. We’d like to use the old centurion’s name to make us strong again, and to remind us what we’re promising you.’
Dubnus smiled gently, but in respect of the sentiment rather than the manner of its delivery.
‘Detachment Habitus? The old boy would probably be proud to have his name used for inspiration like that. You realise that you risk tarnishing his honour if you go looking for a fight and then fail to stand firm when you find it? Wherever he is now, you can’t risk bringing shame to his name by doing this thing lightly.’ He looked across the ranks with his eyes suddenly hard with conviction. ‘I won’t accept any man running from battle if you go through with the idea, in fact I’ll be behind you waiting to cut down any man that runs in the face of the enemy.’
The soldier looked at Titus, and the watch officer stepped forward to speak again.
‘We understand that, Centurion. You can kill any man that runs from a fight while we serve under Centurion Habitus’s name, we’re all agreed on that.’
Dubnus shrugged, turning away to his tent to hide the twitching of his mouth that was threatening to break into a smile.
‘Very well, in that case we’d best be putting some more miles under our feet. We’re not going to find you a fight sitting on our arses here. Get these tents struck and your boots on the road, Detachment Habitus.’
*
Drust watched with satisfaction as the last of the cavalry cohort that had pursued his men north crested the ridge to the fort’s west and vanished from view.
‘A sensible decision by their tribune, I’d say. No point sitting here and watching us scratch our arses for the
